The horseman drew up beside him. “That you, Burton?” he called softly. “Yes,” said Burton, shortly. “You got Pete’s letter, then,” the man went on, dismounting from his horse. “I suppose it’s all right to talk here. No one around, eh?” “As well here as anywhere. Only cut it short.” “Oh, there ain’t any hurry,” returned the man, with a laugh. “Wait till I tie my horse, then we can sit down and chew it over comfortable.” “Now,” he went on, that task performed, “what I came to see you about was this fellow Munford.” “Well,” demanded Burton, “what about him?” “It looks to us down to Big Cloud, from the way the fellows on the construction trains are talkin’, you ain’t got any cause to love him, eh? So Pete figured you and him could deal. You want to get rid of him, don’t you?” “I wish to God I’d never seen his face!” exclaimed Burton, with great bitterness. “Sure! That’s the idea. You don’t want him; we do want him--bad! There’s nothin’ against the rest of the men; we’ll forget all about that. It’s just Munford we’re after.” “Why don’t you get him, then?” said Burton curtly. “We’re goin’ to,” the man replied, with a nasty laugh. “We’re goin’ to, all right. It’s a fair deal. You’re on, eh? Pete said you’d jump at the chance to sit in. We want you to fire him.” “That all I’m to do?” asked Burton, quietly. “Sure, that’s all there is to it--except this.” Munford’s hand closed on his companion’s arm in a tight, spasmodic grip as Pete’s emissary produced a wad of bills and began to peel off the outer ones. “Three hundred plunks,” said the man, extending the money he had abstracted from the roll to Burton. “Pretty good for just firin’ a man we’ve been lookin’ for you to fire for the last week, anyway. Besides, there’s been some talk down at headquarters about you not bein’ able to handle your men, and about them gettin’ someone that can. Pete says not to bother about that, he’ll fix it for you. Here, take the money.” “Suppose I fired him,” said Burton, slowly, “where’d he go?” “What do you care where he goes, so long as you get rid of him?” “He couldn’t go West,” went on Burton, paying no attention to the other’s remark; “so he’d have to go East--that’s Big Cloud--and _murder!_” He turned fiercely, savagely on the man. “You dirty, low-lived hound!” he flashed. “You offer me three hundred dollars to murder a man, do you? You wonder why I’ve stood for what I did, do you, you scrimp! Fire him, eh, to get a cowardly knife or shot in his back! You think I didn’t know what would happen if I let him out, eh? Get out of here, you cur! And get out now--while you _can!_” Burton’s voice rasped, hoarse with passion. He turned abruptly away and strode quickly in the direction of the camp. “Hold on, wait a minute, Burton,” cried the other, following him. “Don’t get batty.”