The lawyer motioned Tex into the office and closed the door. He sat down at his desk, filled his pipe carefully, scratched a match on the sole of his shoe, and puffed explosively. Then he sagged back in his chair and looked at Tex with an approving grin.
“I’ll give you credit for a clean job, Tex,” he said, lowering his voice confidentially. “A —— clean job.”
“Yeah?” Tex scratched his chin. “Just what is it, Lee?”
“What is it?” The lawyer leaned forward, the smoke curling lazily from his nostrils. “Oh, now, Tex! We’re friends, you know.”
“All right,” grinned Tex. “And what am I supposed to say?”
“It isn’t what you say—it’s what you do. My mouth is shut tight, except between us, Tex. And don’t forget that I was the one who told you where to get it.”
The big cowboy studied Lee Barnhardt, a puzzled frown between his brows.
“Go ahead and talk about it, Lee,” he said.
Barnhardt’s shrewd eyes appraised the foreman of the X Bar 6. He knew Tex was not a man you could scare or drive. He would have to go easy, at least until he knew just what Tex meant to do. Then—
“You owe me eight thousand dollars, Tex,” he said.