"Well, Sabota," he said at last, "th' Ramblin' Kid didn't quite do his duty, did he? If he had gone as far as he ought to you wouldn't be laying there—they'd just about now be hiding your dirty carcass under six feet of 'dobe!'"
Sabota mumbled some guttural, unintelligible reply.
"Listen, you infernal skunk," Old Heck went on coldly, "as quick as you're able to travel you'll find Eagle Butte's a right good place to get away from! You understand what I mean. If I catch you around, well, I won't use no fists!" And without waiting for an answer he turned and left the room.
The owner of the Quarter Circle KT then hunted lip the marshal of Eagle
Butte.
"Tom," he said, "I reckon you'll be looking some for th' Ramblin' Kid, after what happened last night, won't you?"
The marshal had heard of Sabota's effort to have the young cowboy drugged the day of the race and also the immediate cause for the fight.
"Oh, I don't know as I will," he said, "unless the Greek makes some charge or other. I don't imagine he'll do that"
"I know blamed well he won't!" Old Heck interrupted. "But how about th' Ramblin' Kid putting his gun in your ribs—resisting an officer and so on?"
"Putting his gun in my ribs? Resisting an officer?" the lanky Missourian answered with a sly grin; "who said he put a gun on me—or resisted an officer or anything? I ain't heard nothing about it!"
Two days later Sabota, with the help of "Red" Jackson, managed to get to the Santa Fe station. He was able to travel and he did travel. Jackson said he went to the "Border." Eagle Butte did not know or care—the Cimarron town was through with him.