“Do I know that ol’ hoss thief? An’ you bin sellin’ booze for him? Better man never lived’n—— D’ye happen to have what’s good for snake bite?” he tittered.
The sheriff dug a bottle out of his pack and passed it to him. “’Tain’t as fine’s it might be, but it beats nothin’,” grimaced Tinnemaha Pete, as he wiped his mouth. “An’ after you workin’ in that rough-house joint of McGregor’s, you’re leery of Billy Gee! Say, d’ye know that boy’s a genius! He’s a cat for lives an’ a fox for tricks. He’s showed up ag’in. Ain’t you heerd? Lordy! Hell burn my soul, if he ain’t writ another notice an’ stuck it up on the blackboard of the Searchlight! Yes, he did—night afore last. ‘Warburton, I’m glad you’ve been reëlected sheriff. You’re the only man for the job. I mean it.’ That’s what the notice said. Ain’t that the tantalizin’ young devil?” Tinnemaha’s old eyes snapped proudly.
Warburton’s teeth set under their cover of beard. He began apportioning the fried rashers of bacon into two tin plates.
“One of these days Mr. Sheriff’ll nab that galoot. Jest you watch,” he replied slowly. “An’ when he does——”
“If he does,” hooted the old man, “he’s a Jim Dandy. If it hadn’t bin for Lem Huntington, the dirty——”
He broke off in his eccentric way, trotted over to his pack animals, and started throwing off their loads. Presently he had them hobbled for the night and was back at the fire, squatting on the ground, his heaping plate in his lap. They ate in silence, Warburton studying his guest curiously, listening to him mumbling over his food.
When the dishes had been washed and stacked away in a kyack, and the two men had filled and lighted their pipes, Sheriff Warburton returned to the subject uppermost in his mind.
“Yessir, jest like you said, dad, if it hadn’t been for this rancher Huntington gittin’ the drop on Billy Gee, the sheriff would ’a’ never——”
“Lem Huntington’s a ornery skipjack—a louse,” cried Tinnemaha Pete in sudden fury. “He togs up like a tinhorn gambler an’ smokes seegars now, an’ he’s bought a bunch of cows an’ is plantin’ a patch in alfalfee. The cussed scrub! The ring-necked buzzard! I know, stranger! They can’t fool old Tinnemaha Pete. Leetle Miss Dot—there’s a angel for you, mister! She hid out Billy Gee that day, an’ her dad nails him for the reeward. The t’rantula!”
It had grown quite dark. The purple sky was brilliant with stars; a warm, fragrant breeze purred down upon the night camp from over the shattered crests of the rocky hills. In the leaping firelight, Tinnemaha’s wizened features were distorted with senile rage. His black, short-stemmed pipe trembled in his bony, clawlike hand.