“Still, dad lets you stick around the outfit,” he drawled meaningly.
Sam Pretty Cow shot a quick glance toward him, looked at the door, relaxed again and studied his toes which he wriggled on the dirty floor.
“I’m good man, you bet. I’m mind my business.” He drew a long breath, glanced again from the door to Lance’s face. “Tom’s damn smart man––me, I’m mebby smarter. I dunno.”
Lance looked down at him, smiling strangely. 321 “Sam, I’m minding my business, too. I’m doing it by––not minding my own business. Tom Lorrigan’s a smart man––but I’m Tom Lorrigan’s son.”
Sam turned his foot over, looked critically at the calloused sole of it, turned it back again and blew a mouthful of smoke. “Yeah––uh-huh. You damn smart––you don’t like them damn jail. I’m don’t. We both smart, you bet.”
Lance lifted an eyebrow. “What’s the Piegan word for accomplice, Sam?” he asked softly.
Sam Pretty Cow considered. “Me, I’m don’ know them damn word,” he decided.
“It’s a word that sends smart men to jail, Sam. It means the man that stays at home and––knows.”
Sam Pretty Cow tucked his feet under the thin blanket, laid his half-smoked cigarette on the box, with the burning end out over the edge.
“Uh-huh. Yeah. You bet.” He looked up at Lance, for the first time meeting his eyes squarely. “I’m know them damn word you call. Nh-hn. Long time I’m got that what it mean on my heart. You’re damn right.” He waited a minute, saw the Lorrigan look on Lance’s face, on his lips that smiled enigmatically. “Them Californy got bronks to bust?”