“Well, pilgrim!” sounded a raucous voice. “Slep’ it off, have ye?”
Shea groaned and sat up. “Where—where am I?”
“Town of Zacaton City, county o’ Grant, State o’ New Mexico.” The other chuckled. He was a disreputable old fellow, distinguished by shiftless garb and dirty gray hair. “I reckon Ben Aimes must have give ye quite a jag, eh? If I was you, I’d spill out o’ town right smart. He’s got the constable lookin’ for ye.”
Shea clasped his head and groaned again, not understanding the words clearly.
“I’ve fallen!” he moaned.
“With a thud,” agreed the other. “But worse’n that, pilgrim. Ye’ve gone and got ol’ Mis’ Crump in real bad. If ye wasn’t so mis’able I’d boot ye out o’ here for it.”
Thady Shea stared up dully. “What—what’s that you say?”
Old man Ferris surveyed him in pitying contempt, and carefully sank his remaining fangs into a plug of tobacco.
“D’ye mean as ye don’t know what ye been an’ done? Well, I can’t say as I can see why Mis’ Crump ever’s taken up with the likes of you, but it’s plumb certain that ye’ve gone an’ done for her this trip, ye no-account swine!”
Shea’s brow broke into cold perspiration. His quickening faculties began to grasp the sense of these words.