“No?” Hashknife looked pityingly at Butch. “Listen to me, pardner. You’re close to fifty, ain’t yuh? They’ll give yuh close to twenty-five years for this job. Twenty-five years in the penitentiary is a long time. You’ll be an awful old man when yuh come out. The money won’t help yuh none. Mebby we can find it ourselves. But if yuh give it all up and tell the prosecutor the truth about the whole deal, yuh might cut that sentence down to where you’ll still be worth killin’ when yuh get out.”
Butch laughed harshly, shaking his head.
“What would I get off?” asked Glover.
“They’d only hang you once.”
“That’s a hell of a lot.”
“You ought to be hung once a week,” growled Butch. Then he sobered suddenly and looked at Slim.
“I’ve got to have more than the word of that Hashknife bloodhound, Slim.”
“I can’t promise anythin’,” said Slim. “You’ll have to make yore deal with Merkle.”
Slim went after the horses, and came back leading three. The tall gray horse nuzzled Hashknife violently, and acted as if he’d found a long-lost friend.
“Damn that horse!” snorted Kid Glover. “If I’d left it alone, everythin’ would have been all right.”