Butch shrugged his shoulders again. “Pick yore own spot to throw a fit,” he grinned. “I’ve warned yuh. Della is salty enough to stick for a good pot; and if she don’t git it⸺”
“What’ll she do?” quickly. “Go ahead—what she do?”
“Yuh couldn’t hardly expect her to tell me what she’d do, Marsh; but I’d pay her, if I was in yore shoes.”
“You would, eh?” Marsh poured himself a drink, downed it at one gulp and grimaced shudderingly. “And how much does she want?”
Butch grinned widely.
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Don’t be a damn’ fool!”
“Go and ask her yourself, if yuh don’t believe it.”
“Does she think I’m crazy enough to—oh, that’s ridiculous! She didn’t tell you that.”
“Gospel truth. One thing yuh can say about her—she ain’t cheap.”