“Dines and Charlie See favor each other a heap. Not in looks so much,” said Shaky, “but in their ways. I used to know Charlie See right well, over on the Pecos. He was shortstop on the Roswell nine. He couldn’t hit, and he couldn’t field, and he couldn’t run bases—but oh, people, how that man could play ball!”
“Nonsense. They’re not a bit alike. You think so, just because they’re both little.”
“I don’t either. I think so because they’re both—oh my!”
“I don’t like this man See, either,” said Caney. “I don’t like a hair of his head. Too damn smart. Somebody’s going to break him in two before he’s much older.”
“Now listen!” said Shaky Akins, without heat. “When you go to break Charlie See you’ll find he is a right flexible citizen—any man, any time, anywhere.”
“Well,” said Hales, “all this talking is dry work. Come up, boys. This one is on me.”
“What will it be, gentlemen?” inquired the suave Merman. “One Scotch. Yes. Three straights. A highball. Three rums. One gin sling. Make it two? Right. Next? Whisky straight. And the same. What’s yours, Mr. Akins?”
“Another blond bland blend,” said Shaky. “But you haven’t answered my question, Jody. Why should cowmen see this killing any different from anyone else? Just clannishness, you think?”
“Because cowmen can read sign,” said Charlie See. He stood framed in the front door: he stepped inside.