“What’s the use of arguing about it? I’m willing to take what’s coming to me. I got tired of being shot at, that’s all.”
“Well,” grinned Skeeter, “that’s a-plenty, ’f yuh stop t’ ask me. C’m here and set down.”
The man obeyed wonderingly.
“Yuh got a bad cough,” observed Skeeter.
“Go ahead,” said the man bitterly. “It’s my cough—not yours.”
“Aw, ——!” grunted Skeeter. “I beg yore pardon. I’m always sayin’ the wrong thing.”
He studied the man for several moments, and then:
“Mind tellin’ me somethin’? Honest t’ goodness, I don’t know a danged thing about this here country. I just rode in. When a feller gets his bronc shot out from under him he kinda wants t’ know why.”
The man’s eyes expressed his unbelief. Skeeter laid his six-shooter across his lap and rolled a cigaret while he waited for the man to explain.
“Well,” began the man slowly, “you’ve got me dead to rights; so it don’t make much difference now. If you’re one of the cattlemen I’ll likely get lynched for killing the horse.”