At the mention of which name Jack Harpe appeared to shrink inwardly.
He looked suddenly very old.
"Take chairs, gents," invited Judge Dolan, looking about him in the manner of a minstrel show's interlocutor. "If everybody's comfortable, we'll proceed to business."
"I thought you said this wasn't a trial," objected Luke Tweezy.
"And so it ain't a trial," the Judge rapped out smartly. "The trial will come later."
Luke Tweezy subsided. His furtive eyes became more furtive than ever.
"Go ahead, Racey," said Judge Dolan.
Racey, still holding his sixshooter, leaned hipshot against the doorjamb.
"It was this way," he began, and told what had transpired that day in the hotel corral when he had been bandaging his horse's leg and had overheard the conversation between Lanpher and Jack Harpe and later, Punch-the-breeze Thompson.
"They's nothing in that," declared Jack Harpe with contempt, twisting his neck to glower up at Racey. "Suppose I did wanna get hold of the Dale ranch. What of it?"
"Shore," put in Luke Tweezy. "What of it? Perfectly legitimate business proposition. Legal, and all that."