"Howd'y, Mr. Allison. I don' mind the heat; I'm used to it," answered
Larramore.
"George," called Allison, after driving on a short distance, "'pears to me the good things o' this world ain't equally divided. I don't see why you should sit up there roasting in the sun an' me down here in the shade o' the hack. We'll jes' even things a little right here. You crawl down off that load an' jump into the hack an' I'll get up there an' drive your team."
"Pow'ful good o' you, Mr. Allison, but——"
"Crawl down, I say, George, it's Clay tellin' you!"
And the change was made without further delay.
Five miles farther up the road John McCullough and two friends lay in ambush all that day and far into the night, with ready Winchesters, awaiting Allison. But he never came.
Shortly after taking his seat on top of the high load in the broiling sun, plodding slowly along in the dust and heat, Allison was nodding drowsily, when suddenly a protruding mesquite root gave the wagon a sharp jolt that plunged Clay headlong into the road, where, before he could rise, the great wheels crunched across his neck.
CHAPTER IV
TRIGGERFINGERITIS[1]
On the Plains thirty years ago there were two types of man-killers; and these two types were subdivided into classes.