“Jim Flynn. He hustled right down from Bald Knob.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“No. Our boys threw up their hands. Jumpers had the drop on ’em.”
“Flynn know any of the gunmen?”
“Sloan was one,” answered Byers.
McClintock turned to Dodson. “Do you pay yore gun-fighters by the job or by the day?” he asked contemptuously.
“I don’t answer questions put that way, McClintock,” said Dodson stiffly. “Your manner is an insult, sir.”
“It’s an insult if these roughs are not being paid by you. Can you tell me that they’re not?” demanded Hugh, eyes cold as the steel-gray waters of Lake Tahoe on a wintry morning.
“I’ll tell you nothing under compulsion, sir.”
“Which means that I’m right. You and yore brother are back of this outrage. You think you can get away with our property by wholesale bribery. I should think you’d know the men you’re fightin’ better than that.”