" Then, after a watchful pause, he
continued: "I'm kind o' figgerin' whose way. Not mine, or--yours. Eh,
Bob? We could do with it. Pity, ain't it?"
Bob turned. His eyes sought the face in the shadow of the doorway.
"I'm no descendant of Judas," he said coldly.
"No. But--Judas didn't sell a gang of murdering cattle rustlers. That
ain't Judas money."
"Maybe. But it's blood money all the same."
"Mighty bad blood that oughter be spilt."
Bob turned away. His gaze wandered out westward. Then his eyes came
slowly back to the man in the door-way.
"You thought I was talking hot air just now--about a man's price. You
didn't like it. Well, when I find myself with a price I hope I shan't
live to be paid it. That's all."
The man in the doorway shook his head. Then he spoke slowly,
deliberately. And somehow much of the sharpness had gone out of his
tone, and the hard glitter of his steely eyes had somehow become less
pronounced.
"Oh, I guess I got your meanin' right, fer all yer thousand dollar
langwidge.
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