“Now, looky here, Browning,” he said irritably to the lawyer, “there’s no manner o’ use in you pesterin’ me. See Ralph. He’ll talk turkey with you. I got nothin’ to do with this.”
“All we want is to see the paper you and Singlefoot Bill signed up. We’re entitled to see it. You’ve jumped the Ground Hog and other claims owned by my group of clients. We’d like to look over your title. Of course we’re all anxious to avoid trouble. The only way to do that is to let us know where you stand.”
Dodson listened sourly. But he was not a fool. He knew Browning could get a court order to look at the paper. There was no real objection to it, and when one is playing an underhanded game it is better to give an impression of bluff frankness.
“You’ll gimme yore word not to keep the paper nor to injure it—you or yore clients either?”
“Of course. This is business, not highway robbery.”
Dodson shot a slant look of warning at Sloan and went to the safe. He returned with a sheet of foolscap paper upon which had been written an agreement by which William Thornton, known as Singlefoot Bill, relinquished all rights in certain designated patented mining claims on Bald Knob to Robert and Ralph Dodson in consideration of three thousand dollars now paid him in hand.
Browning copied the paper exactly, word for word, and comma for comma. Meanwhile, Sloan, his gun in his hand, watched him and the McClintocks every second of the time. Both brothers looked the contract over.
The lawyer pushed the paper back to Dodson. “Much obliged. Of course it’s not worth the price of the ink on it, but you probably won’t be satisfied of that till the courts have said so.”
“You can bet yore boots we make it good,” retorted Dodson, his dodging eyes jumping to the men he hated so bitterly.
The three callers left the office. From the time they had entered it till the time they left, the McClintocks had not said a word except in asides to their lawyer.