“Where you from, kid?” asked the man.
The red mounted to Manzanita’s forehead in resentment of the unwarranted familiarity. But she thought it the part of wisdom to appear serene.
“I live at Squawtooth,” she replied. And she added significantly: “My brother’s not far from here. I’m waiting for him.”
“Who? The kid that rode through a little while back?”
“Well, maybe he might be called a kid,” she replied, “but he does a man’s work, and—and he can throw a dollar in the air and hit it with a six-gun. For that matter, I can, too,” she added.
“So? Nice little popgun you pack on your hip there. Thirty-eight on a forty-five, ain’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Huh! I usta take thirty-eights for pills when I was feelin’ a little puny.”
“Indeed? Such pills are often good for certain complaints—if they’re administered properly.”
He laughed. “Pretty good!”