"As I said before, I don't intend to hurt you, Mr. Cashaw. But I am after certain information, and I rather think you can aid me in getting it."
"What you want to know?"
"In the first place, I want you to tell me all you know about Sack
Todd. What does he do at his ranch?"
"Humph! Don't ask me, fer I don't know. An' if I did—"
"And if you did—"
"Sack's been a putty good friend ter me, stranger. Lent me a hundred dollars onct, when a fire had cleaned me out. A feller don't feel much about hurtin' his friend."
"That is so, too. Then you really don't know what is going on at the ranch? Come now, speak the truth," and James Monday's voice grew stern.
"Well, it's some sort o' patent, I guess. Sack don't want folks to git onto it. Reckon it's a new-fangled printing press—one to run by electristity—or sumthin' like that."
"He told you that, did he?"
"Yes. But I hain't goin' to answer no more questions," went on the old man, and started to mount the wagon seat again.