“Yeah––yo’re damn right. Crazy, you bet yore life. Uh-huh.”
“He said the Miller’s Block brand could easily be turned into the N Block––Belle’s brand. He said horses had been run off the range––”
“He’s dead,” Sam observed unemotionally. “You bet. He’s gettin’ fun’ral to-day.”
“How long will the boys be out?” Lance pulled a splinter off the rail beside him and began separating the fibers with his finger nails that were too well cared for to belong to the Black Rim folk.
“I dunno, me.”
“Scotty sure was crazy, Sam. He tried twice to kill me. Once he jumped up and ran into the kitchen and grabbed a butcher knife off the table and came at me. He thought I was there to rob him. He called me Tom.”
“Yeah,” said Sam Pretty Cow, blowing smoke. “He’s damn lucky you ain’t Tom. Uh-huh––you bet.”
Lance lifted his eyebrows, was silent while he 262 watched Shorty limping down from the house, this time with table scraps for the chickens.
“Scotty was certainly crazy,” Lance turned again to Sam. “Over and over he kept saying, while he looked up at the ceiling, ‘The Lorrigan days are numbered. Though the wicked flourish like a green bay tree, they shall perish as dry grass. The days are numbered––their evil days are numbered.’”
Sam Pretty Cow smoked, flicked the ash from his cigarette with a coppery forefinger, looked suddenly full at Lance and grinned widely.