"Thanks," said Jig, handing back the flask. "Hot stuff, partner."
"You got a tough throat," observed the rancher. "First I ever see that didn't choke on a swig of that. But you youngsters has the advantage of a sound lining for your innards."
He helped himself from the flask, coughed heavily, and then pounded home the cork.
"How's things up Whiteacre way?"
"Fair to middlin'," said Jig. "They ain't hollering for rain so much as they was."
"I reckon not," agreed the rancher.
"And how's things down Sour Creek way?" asked Jig.
"Trouble busting every minute," said the other. "Murder, gun scrapes, brawls in the hotel—to beat anything I ever see. The town is sure going plumb to the dogs at this rate!"
"You don't say! Well, I heard something about a gent named Quade being plugged."
"Him? He was just the beginning—just the start! Since then we had a man took away from old Kern, which don't happen once in a coon's age. Then we had a fine fresh murder right this morning, and the present minute they's two in jail on murder charges, and both are sure to swing!"