“Brother,” says he, “you’ve done well. If I can help yuh out in any way, I’d be plumb willin’. I’m a preacher of the gospel, but there is times when a good cuss word does come in handy.”
“Are yuh through?” asks Sillman meek-like.
“No, I ain’t!” snaps Hashknife. “I’ve got to think of somethin’ new to call yuh. Ain’t there nothin’ I can say that will make yuh mad? Ain’t yuh got enough decency left to accept a insult?”
“Mebbe,” says Sol Vane, “mebbe you’ll find out—later.”
“Thanks,” says Hashknife dry-like. “I’m glad to have somethin’ to look forward to. I had a open, runnin’ shot at you once, Sol, and I was fool enough to shoot low. Next time I’m goin’ to cut you off above the collar.”
“You cain’t threaten me, Hartley!”
“I ain’t threatenin’ yuh. No, you buzzard, I’m statin’ a fact.”
“There’s fifty men on Willer Crick,” states another one of the bunch.
“Pass the word,” says Hashknife. “There’s just that much difference between us and you. Me and Sleepy are square shooters and we’d love to have yuh come and bring all your friends. Only twenty-five apiece. Sleepy, there don’t seem to be much chance for us to get action here.”
“Who’s goin’ to take the kid?” I asks.