“Assault with a deadly weapon means a stretch in the big house,” smiled Fox. “Crossing Luther Fox, you may find, is even a worse crime.”
“Yuh mean you’ll railroad us, eh?” said Tad evenly. He seemed to be musing aloud. “Yeah, I reckon yuh could. Me’n my li’l’ pard is strangers in a strange land and plumb broke. Yeah, reckon yuh could do it, mister. Now supposin’ we take yuh up on the other proposition? Jest what kind uh work do yuh aim that me and Shorty should do tuh earn our pay? I might as well tell yuh now, Fox, our guns ain’t fer hire, if that’s yore game.”
“The job I have in mind for you two is legitimate and within the law,” said Fox. “A rancher named Hank Basset owes me money. I hold his note for ten thousand dollars which falls due next week. It will be your job to ride to his ranch and collect that ten thousand dollars, in cash or steers. Since the man is broke, the payment will be made by turning over to me five hundred head of steers at twenty dollars per head.”
“Mighty cheap cattle,” grunted Shorty. Fox shrugged.
“Mebbeso. That’s beside the question. I am waiting for your answer and it ain’t healthy, as a rule, to keep Luther Fox waiting.”
Fox fished a long stogie from his pocket, repaired its broken wrapper with a cigaret paper and set fire to it. His little eyes surveyed them through the haze of blue smoke. Tad turned to Shorty.
“Supposin’ we leave it to the sheriff to decide fer us, pardner?”
“Suits me, Tad.”
Luther Fox’s eyes became pin-points of glittering gray through the smoke haze. His head thrust forward on a skinny neck, he peered at the two punchers. A sinister, hate-lined face, unchanging in expression. Behind his back, the long, bony fingers intertwined until the joints cracked.
“—— old buzzard,” was Shorty’s inward comment.