"I want you—in that cab. The man who saw you in my uncle's room the night he was killed is with me. You can either come with us now an' talk this thing over quietly or I'll hang on to you an' call for a policeman. It's up to you. Either way is agreeable to me."
Beads of perspiration broke out on the fat man's forehead. He dragged from his left hip pocket the familiar bandanna handkerchief. With it he dabbed softly at his mottled face. There was a faint, a very faint, note of defiance in his voice as he answered.
"I dunno as I've got any call to go with you. I wasn't in Cunningham's rooms. You can't touch me—can't prove a thing on me."
"It won't cost you anything to make sure of that," Kirby suggested in his low, even tones. "I'm payin' for the ride."
"If you got anything to say to me, right here's a good place to onload it."
The man's will was wobbling. The cattleman could see that.
"Can't talk here, with a hundred people passin'. What's the matter, man? What are you afraid of? We're not goin' to hit you over the head with the butt of a six-shooter."
Hull flung at him a look of startled terror. What did he mean? Or was there anything significant in the last sentence? Was it just a shot in the dark?
"I'll go on back to the Paradox. If you want to see me, why, there's as good a place as any."
"We're choosin' the place, Hull, not you. You'll either step into that cab or into a patrol wagon."