“Still think you’ll stay?” asks Dirty.
“Val, Aye go pretty soon but Aye coom back now,” pants Olaf, pawing the alkali out of his whiskers. “Aye boost some-t’ing.”
“You talk like you had,” admits Dirty.
“Aye coom back—yah! Aye get de law.”
“Yeah?” says Dirty. “Look at us, shepherd. We’re the law. Sabe?”
He looks at us, and his whiskers seem a heap agitated.
“You—are—de—law?” he asks, deliberate-like.
“You are looking at it,” grins Dirty. “How does she look?”
“Val—” he hitches up his rope belt, and picks up his war-sack—“val, Aye can say dis mooch: Yorge Hokansen hay say to me, O-o-olaf, das country has too mooch bum law and no yustice! Yorge iss smart—you bet.”
And me and Dirty stood there and watched the Hairy One fade out over the hills towards Silver Bend.