“Jingo, John! For a stage blacksmith you are some spieler.” De Spain added an impatient, 90 not to say contumelious exclamation concerning the substance of Lefever’s talk. “I didn’t ask them for a reputation. This man interfered with my guard––in fact, tried to cut his throat, didn’t he?”
“Would have done it if Frank had been an honest man.”
“That is all there is to it, isn’t it? If Sassoon or anybody else gets in the way of the stages, I’ll go after them again––that’s all there is to it, isn’t it?”
Lefever tapped the second finger of one fat hand gently on the table. “Practically; practically all, Henry, yes. You don’t quite understand, but you have the right idea. What I am trying to hammer into your dense cocoanut is, that when a man has, gets, or is given a reputation out in this country, he has got to live up to it.”
“What do you want me to do––back a horse and shoot two guns at once up and down Main Street, cowboy style?”
Lefever kept his patience without difficulty. “No, no. You’ll understand.”
“Scott advised me to run down to Medicine Bend for a few days to let the Morgans cool off.”
“Right. That was the first step. The few days are a thing of the past. I suppose you know,” 91 continued Lefever, in as well-modulated a tone as he could assume to convey information that could not be regarded as wholly cheerful, “that they expect to get you for this Sassoon job.”
De Spain flushed. But the red anger lasted only a moment. “Who are ‘they’?” he asked after a pause.
“Deaf Sandusky, Logan, of course, the Calabasas bunch, and the Morgans.”