"Sure. Johnson. That's me. I done told you that a thousand times."
"Ah, yes. Here are two," said the telegrapher, and very deliberately he smoothed out the messages and delivered them.
The first dealt with dates of Moffatt's appearances on the Border, so far as Haverty had been able to learn them. They were nothing but unconfirmed rumors, and Lafe skimmed over it. The other was unsigned and he read it several times, the copper hue of his face deepening.
"Don't worry. Nobody can lie to me about you."
He thrust this message into his shirt pocket and forgot all about the reproof he had rehearsed for the telegrapher's benefit. Very jauntily he exhibited the slip to Buffalo Jim at the slaughter house. That worthy butcher eyed it gravely, and grunted.
"She's a daisy," he said, after mature consideration, vaguely aware that Lafe expected him to say something appropriate.
"You're damn whistlin'," said Lafe. "What'd I tell you, Buf'lo? She'd never believe nothing against me."
"Yes, sir, she's a daisy," Buffalo repeated. "It's like she just tore up that widow woman's letter and was as sarcastic as hell."
As Jim said this, he winked at one of the wagon horses. Then he went leisurely to work again on a piece of harness he was patching.
"All the same, Lafe," he admonished, "you'd better figure on her throwing that up to you again. The woman never breathed that wouldn't. Hey? You mark my words—the first row you have, Hetty'll hand you one about Paula, first crack out of the box."