"Show me yore money."
Johnny rolled over on his side and produced a coin, which he held up.
"Chuck it over," said Two-Spot.
"Yo're too busy," jeered Johnny.
"Chuck it, an' see."
Johnny sat up and sent the coin glittering through the air, Two-Spot making an unexpected catch. He went into the saloon, soon reappeared, and shuffled across the road. Sitting down at Johnny's side with his back to the buildings, he lit his cigar and lazily reclined. "I shore appreciates this rest," he sighed.
Johnny laughed outright. "Yo're worked to death," he jibed.
"Ol' Simon Verrier," began Two-Spot, "was th' first owner of th' SV. He run it for twenty years, an' there wasn't nobody in all that time done any devilment an' wanted to repeat it. He was testy, big, an' powerful, an' he reckoned th' gun he packed was made to be used. He had Buck Sneed for his best man, an' an outfit what believed th' same as he did about guns. At that time there wasn't no boundaries, not fixed. Th' ranches sort of mingled along th' edges. Then th' Bar H got notions. It sort of honed for that valley, an' made a play or two for it. There wasn't no third. Ol' Simon an' Buck rid down to th' Bar H house an' spoke plain. Failin' to have any lines didn't bother them two. They picked th' ridges of th' dividin' hills an' says: 'Them's th' lines; stay on yore own side.'"
Johnny laughed for the benefit of any of the curious on the other side of the road.