"Aw, hell," sneered Dan Slike, "you make me sick. I've got no use for a jigger that don't call a cow by its right name. I dunno the first thing about removing. But I'll kill anybody you say. I ain't a bit particular. Not a bit." Here Slike bent on Skinny Shindle the full measure of a most baleful regard.
The strangely squeamish Shindle strove manfully to stare down the other man, but dropped his eyes within the minute. This appeared to please Mr. Slike. He smiled crookedly and turned his attention to Tuckleton.
"Rafe," said he, "my time is money. I can't stand here higgle-hoggling with you from hell to breakfast. One thousand, or you get somebody else to do the job."
"I suppose I'll have to do as you say," Rafe grumbled. "And the same amount for the sheriff."
"Not-a-tall," denied Slike. "Not a-tall. Do you think I'm gonna rub out a sheriff for a thousand cases? You must have mush for a brain! Killing a rancher is a short hoss, but a sheriff is another breed of cat. Besides, he's got two deputies, to say nothing of the feelings of the county. Killing this sheriff for you means I gotta leave the county on the jump. Do you think I'm gonna run the risk of being lynched for a measly thousand dollars? If you do, take another think. Take two of 'em! Me, I'll take two thousand for your man."
"Two thousand dollars for simply shooting a sheriff?"
"Again lemme remark that if the business was as simple as you say it is, you'd do it yourself. Two thousand in advance."
"But that's three thousand in all."
"You're a wonder at arithmetic. I make three thousand too."
"But look here, Dan, we——"