"Huh," grunted Rafe, content to let it go at that. "Anyway, you'll be well paid."
"I didn't come alla way from the Jornada just to hear you say I'd be well paid. Your 'well paid' and my 'well paid' might be two different things. Sometimes you and I don't talk the same language."
Rafe Tuckleton considered a moment. "Five hundred dollars apiece for Tom and the sheriff," said he, looking at Slike from beneath lowered eyebrows.
"We'll bargain for 'em separately," said Slike. "One thousand for Tom, payable in advance."
"No," denied Rafe. "Too much."
"Aw right," assented Slike cheerfully. "I'll be pulling my freight for New Mexico to-morrow. What you gonna have for dinner?"
"Let's talk it over. One thousand dollars is a lot of money for a li'l job like rubbing out Tom Walton."
"If it's a li'l job, why don't you attend to it yourself?"
"Oh, I can't. Impossible. Why, man, consider my position."
"Sure, I understand. You'd rather live than have Tom Walton kill you. Don't know that I blame you, Rafe. You always were a sensible jasper."