Slivers interrupted Allen’s song with an oath, and putting spurs to his horse, galloped on ahead. Allen watched him and then shook his head.
“Reckon the kid’s plumb cured of hankerin’ to be the bad boy from Bitter Creek,” he commented to himself. “Guess he’s thinkin’ more of how to clear himself of the charge agin’ him now than to make it definite by bustin’ into Little Deadman’s Branch an’ shootin’ up the gents what double crossed him. Reckon I showed him just in time what it means to ride the long trail.”
Allen had deliberately taken Slivers through the small towns to give him a taste of what it meant to be hunted.
That night the two camped in a thicket close to the Pecos. After they had finished their frugal meal, Slivers smoked several cigarettes and stared silently into the fire.
“Jim, yuh win,” he said at last.
“Meanin’?”
“Meanin’ yuh can boss things when we get to Little Deadman’s. I ain’t sayin’ that ‘Spur’ Treadwell, the gent what planted the killin’ of ‘Iky’ Small on me, ain’t due to die. But I figger on runnin’ with the law instead of agin’ it from now on, so we’ll get Spur legal.”
“Yuh ain’t hankerin’ to be my partner no more an’ ride the long trail with me?” Allen bantered.
Slivers flushed and moved uncomfortably.
“Shucks, I ain’t desertin’ yuh, ’cause yuh’d never took me along no way. But I’m plumb sick of bein’ chased ragged. Hell, I dream of sheriffs sneakin’ upon me,” Slivers said slowly and a little shame-facedly.