Kent Cutter, owner of the 7AL, failed to see any humor in Jimmy’s recital of the fruitless chase of Pete Conley. Kent went back to the Black Horse after the inquest, imbibed a sufficient number of drinks to make him free of speech and then proceeded to tell the world that he didn’t care very much for Jimmy Moran.
Lovely Lucas, Jimmy’s sole remaining cowboy, was in the Black Horse and heard Cutter’s loud-voiced, profane opinion of Jimmy. Lovely was a huge figure of a man. In fact he was so big that his eight and one-half by six and one-half Stetson did not seem at all out of proportion on his head. He had a big nose and an enormous mouth. He had been born and raised in southern Texas, and he had an easy drawl. He sauntered over to the bar, rested one elbow lazily and considered Cutter.
“You jist kinda like to talk, don’tcha?” he said slowly.
Cutter turned his bloodshot eyes upon the bulky Lucas.
“Mebby,” he said shortly, and turned his back.
“He-he-he-he-he!” chuckled Lovely. He had imbibed a few drinks himself.
“My talkin’ don’t ache you none, does it?” demanded Cutter frigidly.
“It ain’t got that far—yit,” smiled Lovely, “but you’ve done got to remember that Jimmy Moran is my boss, Cutter. He ain’t no damn angel, so anythin’ you feel like sayin’ about him might better be said to his face, ’cause I’ll shore tell him what you said, and I might make it sound a heap worse ’n you would.”
“Huh!” snorted Cutter. “That’s no dream!”
“I’d prob’ly lie,” said Lovely softly.