“This country ain’t human, Sleepy,” says Hashknife. “This here family must ’a’ been ignored complete, the same of which would drive anybody loco. Honest, I thought Jim Sillman was half-human, but he ain’t. Glory’s a humdinger, but she’s sure handicapped. Think of these hombres spyin’ on her to see if she ever comes to see her sister-in-law. Ain’t they the meanest, sneakinest bunch of pariah dogs yuh ever seen? It ain’t hard to see who slammed that bullet into Tug Wilson. Too bad she shot high.”
I’m leaning against one of the front windows, looking down the road, and I sees a man coming. It’s almost dark, but I sabe that pelican.
“Here comes Sol Vane,” says I.
He rides up to the front gate, gets off his horse, takes out a white rag. I opens the front door.
“Can yuh see me?” he asks, waving the rag.
“Come ahead,” I yells back at him, and he shuffles up to the door.
“I packed a flag,” says he, masticating real fast and looking at Hashknife with the kid on his lap, “I ain’t got no gun on me.”
“Yuh didn’t need to deprive yourself of a gun,” says Hashknife.
“I ain’t comin’ to talk mean,” explains Sol. “We held a council uptown, and I just comes down here to let yuh know some of the things we argued out.
“Some was in favor of bustin’ down here and puttin’ yuh on the run, but I’m plumb in favor of goin’ kinda soft.”