“Mebbe so, but I aims to talk turkey to that kid when I next sees him an’ make plumb certain,” Sandy said flatly.
“One-wing knows him,” Spur Treadwell announced.
His mind was occupied with other things. He frowned and then rolled a cigarette.
“Why don’t yuh marry the gal an’ save all this bother?” Mac asked maliciously.
The cords tightened in Spur’s neck at this taunt, but his eyes showed no resentment when they met Mack’s. Though he had sufficient courage, he was not foolish enough to quarrel with either of the twins. They were too deadly with a gun. He knew their type—knew their blood lust—knew that if he pressed them, they would drop him as quickly as they would some hobo puncher. No, he would never place himself in a position where he would be forced to draw against them. Later, after they had outgrown their usefulness—that was different. They would pay then for any taunts they threw at him now.
“Mebbe I will marry the gal—but I don’t hanker none to have no rich wife—they get bossy,” he said coldly.
The twins grinned at each other, then the three strolled slowly toward the house.
About a mile from the ranch house, Bill McAllister pulled his horse over close to Allen, and the two rode on side by side in silence. The bunch of horses trotted on ahead.
“Kid, I hears about the ruction yuh had in the bunk house last night with the twins. I’m askin’ yuh, who are yuh?” the old horse wrangler said keenly.
“What yuh mean?” Allen said innocently.