How could he know that Bellyful had only become a road-agent in the last ten minutes?
Aaron threw it all down. Then he was allowed to go his ways, seeking more fools to cheat.
Up in the air the eagle sailed. He was still looking down upon clots of cactus, thickets of mesquite, and skeletons of cattle. He also saw a horseman going slowly one way, and a horseman going slowly the other. In time many miles lay between them, and the forks of the road were as silent and empty of motion as the rest of Repose Valley.
. . . . . . .
To me, listening, Scipio Le Moyne narrated the foregoing anecdote while he lay in hospital, badly crumpled up by a bad horse. Upon the day following I brought him my written version.
“Yes,” he said musingly, when I had finished reading it to him, “that—happened—eight—years—ago. You’ve told it about correct—as to facts.”
“What’s wrong, then?”
“Oh—I ain’t competent to pass on your language. The facts are correct. What are you lookin’ at me about?”