"But I don't," insisted Blount good-naturedly. "So far as I know, there
is only one of me--on Lost River or anywhere else."
"That'll do for you; it ain't your put-in, nohow," was the gruff
decision of the court; but Blount was too good a lawyer to be silenced
thus easily.
"Perhaps you might not especially regret killing the wrong man, but in
the present case I am very sure I should," he went on. And then: "Are
you quite sure you've got the right man?"
"The boss knows who you are--that's enough for us."
"The boss?" questioned Blount.
"Yas, I said the boss; now hold your jaw!"
Blount caught at the word. In a flash the talk with Gantry on the
veranda of the Winnebasset Club flicked into his mind.
"There is only one boss in this State," he countered coolly. "And I am
very sure he hasn't given you orders to kill me."
"What's that?" demanded the spokesman.
Blount repeated his assertion, adding jocularly: "Perhaps you'd better
call up headquarters and ask your boss if he wants you to kill the son
of his boss."
At this the gun-holder came around the fire to stand before his
prisoner.
"Say, pal--this ain't my night for kiddin', and it hadn't ort to be
your'n," he remarked grimly. "The boss didn't say you was to be rubbed
out--they never do. But I reckon it would save a heap o' trouble if you
_was_ rubbed out.
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