Hammett, his foot still smarting from the wrenched bandage, sat this time at the desk. The others stood. Charmian had sent the disapproving Eliza Shepard to town on an overnight errand. “I still think we should abandon our course,” Charmian said, “but Mr. Siringo has agreed to abide by your decision, Becky. The ranch is yours too. I was wrong to consider letting it go to Clanahan without asking you.” “Thank you. I—” “Hang on,” Siringo said. “This is about more than just real estate, or selling illegal goods. Kennedy means to control this country, and he ain’t above hiring murderers to get what he wants. If we don’t stop him here, history won’t thank us.” “History’s hooey.” “That’s mighty enlightening, Mr. Hammett,” Siringo said, “but maybe you’d care to go on for those of us who missed a class or two.” “What I’m saying is let’s not pump the job up so big we can’t see around it. Kennedy’s just a politician, same as Clanahan, and when you get down to it Mike Feeney, may he rest in peace.
