“I couldn’t like that Santel,” observed Wesson. “I ain’t got a darned thing against him, yuh understand, but there’s somethin’ so dog-goned cold-blooded about him that it kinda gits me.”
“He’s salty,” grinned Brick. “He’s also drunk right now, Cale. Let’s go down and help Harp arrange them two rifles. That’s all we’ve got left to move.”
“Yo’re lucky. I lost danged near everythin’ I owned. But Ma says we’re kinda lucky, and I s’pose that’s a good way to look at things. We’ll go down and see if she’s got anythin’ to cook for a meal.”
Mrs. Wesson gave Brick and Harp an upstairs room, where they decided to grab a few hours’ sleep. Both of them were weary, and the peacefulness of the Wesson home sent them quickly into dreamland.
Mrs. Wesson woke them up at supper-time and they came down to the outdoor wash-bench to clean up a little.
“Bill Grant has been over twice to see yuh,” stated Mrs. Wesson.
“Tha’sso?” Brick lifted his wet face from the basin and blinked the soap out of his eyes. “What’d Bill want?”
“He didn’t say. I asked him if it was important, but he never said whether it was or not. Said he’d come again.”
They were just sitting down at the table, when Bill Grant knocked on the door and informed Mrs. Wesson that he wanted to see Brick. He wouldn’t come in; so Brick went out to him.
“I don’t like to take yuh away from a meal, Brick; but I’ve got somethin’ yuh ought to know. Santel’s drunk. He got me in a corner this afternoon and talked for an hour. He’s been detectin’ to beat , so he says. And here’s his solution of the thing: