“Yes?” Leroy rolled and lit a cigarette, his black eyes fixed intently on the malcontent. “Well, register it on the jump. I’ve got to be off.”
“That’s the point.” The curly-headed Neil had lounged up to his comrade’s support. “Why have you got to be off? We don’t savvy your game, cap.”
“Perhaps you would like to be major-domo of this outfit, Neil?” scoffed his chief, eying him scornfully.
“No, sir. I ain’t aimin’ for no such thing. But we don’t like the way things are shaping. What does all this here funny business mean, anyhow?” His thumb jerked toward Collins, already mounted and waiting for Leroy to join him. “Two days ago this world wasn’t big enough to hold him and you. Well, I git the drop on him, and then you begin to cotton up to him right away. Big dinner last night—champagne corks popping, I hear. What I want to know is what it means. And here’s this Miss Mackenzie. She’s good for a big ransom, but I don’t see it ambling our way. It looks darned funny.”
“That’s the ticket, York,” derided Leroy. “Come again. Turn your wolf loose.”
“Oh! I ain’t afraid to say what I think.”
“I see you’re not. You should try stump-speaking, my friend. There’s a field fox you there.”
“I’m asking you a question, Mr. Leroy.”
“That’s whatever,” chipped in Reilly.
“Put a name to it.”