“You shore must have run into a hell of a lot of grief out there,” grinned Breezy, “but I’d hate to see the old fellers lose their jobs. They’d jist about massacree yuh, Baggs. You couldn’t have ’em put in jail for tellin’ yuh a few things, but if you get ’em fired—you better go on a vacation.”
“I refuse to be bullied!”
“Go ahead. Anyway, you better tell yore troubles to Ben Dillon, ’cause he’s the sheriff. I’m jist his hired man, and I ain’t supposed to know anythin’. He’d tell yuh his opinion.”
Baggs snorted angrily and went up the street, mopping his almost bald head with a gaudy handkerchief, while Breezy chuckled out loud.
“Ben’ll tell him his opinion all right. Ben hates Baggs, and he likes them two old codgers.”
“Baggs is a lawyer, eh?” asked Hashknife.
“Oh, shore. Used to be prosecutin’ attorney of this county. He done some lawin’ for old Harmony Singer, who owned the Box S. Old Harmony up and died from bein’ dragged by a horse, and he left everythin’ to his niece. I guess she hired Baggs to handle her lawin’.”
“Was the place worth much?”
“Oh, shore. The Box S is a good layout.”
“Is the girl runnin’ it?”