“I been playin’ in a hell o’ luck lately, Mr. Westcott,” he said.
Westcott made a move as if to ride on.
“If it’s nothing but a hard luck story,” he began.
“No, no. It ain’t.” Broome laid a restraining hand on the pony’s mane.
“I want ter know who that feller is up yonder.” He jerked his head toward the casa, at the same time characterizing Gard after a manner entirely to his own mind.
“I don’t know him from a hole in the post,” Westcott said, with great apparent candor. “What makes him get on your nerves so?”
“He give me the double cross an’ the grand throw-down, sure, all in the same shuffle,” Broome said, with a snarl.
“Where was that.”
“Sommers in the mountains. I was lost in the desert; pretty near cashed in, an’ I met up with this feller. He took me inter camp, hell of a outfit. Everything made outer nothing, same ’s a Papago where they ain’t no settlement handy. He was eatin’ tree beans, an’ shootin’ game with a bowarrer, an’ he had all sorts o’ scare-crow Bible verses wrote up round like a Sunday school. Sufferin’ snakes! You never see the beat of it!”
“I don’t know as I ever want to,” Westcott said, impatiently. “Drive on, Broome.”