"You're not afraid?"
Childress laughed at him heartily. "Of death or of pain; neither. I've near suffered both; never died and always came back to pay up those who had caused the pain."
"Good Lord, I'd hate to play poker with you." This sort of sprung from Murdock's lips without his intent.
"Maybe you will—some day, Murdock; but it won't be when you deal all the cards and look into my hand while my shuffling fingers are crippled. Anyway, light my pipe, if you don't mind."
Murdock got the pipe from the breast pocket of the sergeant's trail coat, a non-uniform one he had purchased in Ottawa against the time of casting the uniform behind him.
"Have some of my tobacco, even if you are a pest."
"No, thank you. By the time they get through with that branding iron I'll be cussin' you so hard that you'll wonder why you ever were born. The core of the pipe will be enough for me."
Murdock seemed troubled; took off his soft brimmed Stetson and combed his black hair with his fingers.
"I don't make you, stranger," he said slowly, as if his thoughts troubled him. "I've put up a hawse thief in my day—two of 'em. But they never——"
"They never were horse thieves the two you led the lynching party on, and you know it. Do you think you're ever going to get away from that? Do you think that I'm the only one who is coming up here after you? And the others won't come alone or be roped—roped!"