“Then the crime trust of Comanche must be dissolved?” sneered Slavens.
“I don’t git you, pardner,” returned Ten-Gallon with cold severity.
“Oh, never mind.”
“You’re the feller that beat Boyle to it, too,” added 296 the chief; “and I want to tell you, pardner, I take off my katy to you. You’re one smart guy!”
“You’ll find your man on down the road about a quarter,” directed Slavens, on whose ear the encomiums of Ten-Gallon fell without savor.
“I heard in Meander today that you’d sold out to Boyle,” said Ten-Gallon.
“Well, you got it straight,” the doctor told him.
Ten-Gallon slued in his saddle, slouching over confidentially.
“Say, it ain’t any of my business, maybe, but how much did you git out of this pile of rocks?”
“It isn’t any of your business, but I’ll tell you. I got more out of it than this whole blasted country’s worth!” Slavens replied.