“Somebody shot at him the other night, didn’t they? And Goode says that shot was fired at him today.”
“He ought to go away,” said Scotty, looking gloomily at his cigar, which seemed to be trying to expand into a rose, or a cabbage.
He flung it in a cuspidor, and smoothed his huge mustache.
“We never had no trouble around here until he came,” said Scotty. “He’s a hoodoo, that —— tenderfoot!”
“How’s that dog comin’ along, Scotty?”
“First class. It bit me once, and Al Porter twice.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha! Don’t like officers, eh?”
“Takes after his owner, I reckon. Gimme somethin’ to take the taste of that cigar out of my mouth.”
The sheriff drank a glass of liquor and scowled at Plenty Goode, who still sat on the bar-rail, snoring blissfully.
“Don’t wake him up,” pleaded the bartender. “When that jigger gets on one subject, he never knows when to quit.”