"So you know it means shootin', eh?" said Sanderson grimly as he
stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him, slamming it
shut with his left hand.
"Well, shootin' goes." There was the cold calm of decision in his
manner; his eyes were ablaze with the accumulated hate and rage that
had been aroused over what he had heard. The grin that he showed to
Dale drew his lips into two straight, stiff lines.
"I reckon you think you've earned your red shirt, Dale," he said, "for
tellin' tales out of school. Well, you'll get it. There's just one
thing will save your miserable hide. You got that seven thousand on
you?"
Dale hesitated, then nodded.
Sanderson spoke to Mary Bransford without removing his gaze from Dale:
"Get pen, ink, an' paper."
The girl moved quickly into another room, returning almost instantly
with the articles requested.
"Sit down an' write what I tell you to," directed Sanderson.
Dale dropped into a chair beside a center-table, took up the pen,
poised it over the paper, and looked at Sanderson.
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