“Talks like a cow-man,” opines Dirty.
“Maybe he’s making us a visit.”
Dirty throws the tent-flap open, and we gets a view of a feller on a roan bronc.
“Say, you——” he begins, but he’s looking down the muzzle of Dirty’s gun, and his voice fails him.
“Speaking to me?” asks Dirty, soft-like.
“You better put down that gun,” says he. “It might save you a lot of trouble.”
“Yes,” says Dirty, “and if it went off and killed you, feller, it would likely save you a lot of trouble, if this is the way you’re in the habit of speaking to strangers. What seems to itch you?”
“Your sheep!” he yelps. “Half your danged woollies are over my line! You agreed to keep them stinking sheep this side of the Mesquite, and this morning I finds half of them across. “You get ’em out of there pretty danged suddenlike or I’ll massacree the bunch. Sabe?”
“You don’t dare,” opines Dirty.
“The —— I don’t! Just about why?”