A clear space separated the tree and the greasewood patch where Tad lay prone on the ground. A space wide enough to prevent him making out the words of the low-toned conversation. Only when the voices momentarily laid stress on some spoken thought, could he make anything of the murmur. The voice of Kipp was clearly recognizable. The other speaker’s voice was vaguely familiar.
“I tell yuh,” came Kipp’s voice, raised with emotion, “I’ve come to the breakin’ point! I’ve stood it till I can’t stand it no longer. Why, in ——’s name, can’t you and Fox let me quit and pull outa the country? I tell yuh now, I can’t be crowded no more. I’ll tell the whole —— miser’ble story!”
“Like —— you will,” came the sneering reply, low pitched, calm, distinct. “You’ll play yore string out. When we clean up the Basset deal, you kin go. Not till then. We need yore protection.”
Kipp’s reply came in a hoarse whisper, indistinguishable to the listener hidden in the brush.
A coarse, jeering laugh came from the other man in reply. A match flared to light a cigaret and Tad recognized the black-bearded face of the half-breed, Black Jack.
“You know —— well you won’t do no talkin’,” came the breed’s voice with cold conviction.
“Where’s Fox?” asked Kipp, breaking a brief silence.
“Somewhere on the LF trail, headin’ this way. And I don’t aim that he should ketch me here, neither. I’m draggin’ it for the Pocket.”
Black Jack got to his feet and took a step toward his horse. Then he halted.
“Goin’ to stay here all night? Better be gettin’ to town where yuh belong. Fox’ll be along directly and he’ll wonder what brung you here. Pete Basset breakin’ his stake rope has put the old gent in one —— of a humor, and he might treat yuh rough. Better hit the grit.”