“All for you,” amends Hashknife, “but I ain’t started yet. For one thing, Sol Vane, I’m goin’ to do this: I’m goin’ to the county seat, find a regular lawyer and make Willer Crick jump over the moon. I’m goin’ to see that this here baby gets a square deal and I’m goin’ to——”
“Now, now,” grunts Sol Vane. “Don’t git excited. Willer Crick ain’t goin’ to beat nobody out of nothin’—not if they owns anythin’, y’understand.”
“This here Buddy is exhibit A,” says Hashknife. “Willer Crick took away his folks but they don’t take away nothin’ more. This ranch ain’t much, but it’ll be somethin’ for him to live on.”
Hashknife gets up and steps over beside Sol Vane.
“You tell your —— council that Buddy owns this ranch, will yuh?”
“’Pears to me,” says Sol, “that you’re kinda anxious to—the kid bein’ a minor and you grabbin’ him thataway, it kinda looks like you was sort of——”
Sol Vane made one awful mistake when he hinted that Hashknife was trying to feather his own nest. I seen Hashknife swing his body sideways, and Sol Vane landed flat on his face on the little dirt walk. It was a beautiful smash. We stands there and watches him twitch back to life, like one of them animated toy things. He managed to get to his feet and start for the gate, but ran into a tree and fell down again.
Then he got up and found his horse, but he didn’t take time to mount; just went staggering down the road, leading the horse.
“Good!” says Buddy, and his eyes were like saucers. “Sol Vane bad mans, my daddy says.”
“My gosh!” gasps Hashknife. “Did yuh hear that? He said it was good. This feller ain’t no Willer Cricker, y’betcha.”