“You still eatin’ here?” he wanted to know.
“I am. Anything to you?” The Pup’s eyes, red from the effect of the last night’s indiscretion, glared evilly. “Want to ask any more questions?”
“Well, now, maybe jest one or two,” the veteran puncher said slowly. “First, where’d Gus duck to?”
“How should I know? Think I’m his keeper?”
“Keeper? Not any! I thought you pretended to be his friend, but I guess I was mistaken. Usually, when a man tells a fellow certain things, that other man kind of likes to keep track of his buddy.”
“Hey? What do you mean—certain things? I don’t know nothin’ about Gus. He rode with me a few times, that’s all.” The Pup leered suggestively. “If you mean the letter he was waitin’ for from that skirt down Togas way, why—”
Pop Burns’ expression changed. His eyes narrowed, and the lines about his mouth deepened. His hands clenched until they looked like solid balls of brown leather.
“Suppose you just forget about that,” he said evenly, an unwonted dignity coming into the old man’s voice and manner. “Understand? We ain’t in the habit of talkin’ out in public about another man’s affairs. Gus was a friend of mine, I ain’t aimin’ to listen to a coyote like you makin’ fun of him. Get me?”
The Pup started to reply, then took a second look at Pop’s face, and thought better of it. With an uneasy laugh he turned away and walked toward the corral, where his pony was tied. Pop motioned to Teddy, who was filling a can of flour some distance away.
“Hear that?”