Without a word, Fox turned and strode to the door. He swung it open and shoved his head outside.
“Come in here, Kipp,” he snapped. “You’re wanted.”
Kipp, a stub of cigaret sticking from the corner of his mouth, rose from his squatting posture against the log wall of the jail.
“Fox wants me’n Shorty tuh collect a bad debt from a gent named Hank Basset,” said Tad, coming to the point. “We ’lowed we’d leave it up tuh you.”
Kipp nodded.
“Kinda figgered he might pick you boys fer the job. Take him up on it.”
“We’re obliged to yuh, Sheriff,” grinned Tad. “Mister Fox, yuh done hired two hands.”
Again the twitching at the corners of Luther Fox’s thin lips.
“Get your guns from Kipp and pull out. I heard your six-shooters were empty. You’ll find ammunition a-plenty in your saddle pockets. Likewise a Winchester apiece, in your saddle scabbards. Here’s an order on Basset for the steers.”
He held out a folded paper. Tad shoved it in his vest pocket. Fox turned to the sheriff.