Slike's eyes dwelt on Rafe's face with tolerant contempt. The red color of Rafe's leathery cheeks was not entirely due to the heat of the cannon-ball stove. No.
"I'm not a gunfighter," disclaimed Rafe quickly. "Never was. That's your job."
"And I am a gunfighter. Always was. And it's my job. And I intend to get my price for my job. One thousand in advance, or the deal's off."
"I'm not a rich man," protested Rafe. "I lack ready money. So does Mr. Shindle here. Say five hundred now and the rest in the spring."
"I know how rich you are," said Slike. "And I can make a fair guess how you and Mr. Shindle stand for ready money. You can raise the thousand without too much trouble, I guess. Anyhow, it goes."
"You drive a hard bargain."
"A man in my business can't afford to be squeamish." As Slike spoke his eyes narrowed.
"But——"
"No buts. You want Walton killed——"
"Sh-h! Not so loud," cautioned Skinny Shindle. "Removed is a better word than killed, anyway."