“I s’pose I would, Jack. Let’s go over and strike the Turkey Track cook for somethin’ to eat.”
“Fine,” grinned Sleepy. “Mebbe we’ll see Curt and Spiers. I’d give a lot to see the look on their faces when they see you.”
“Well, don’t get so danged interested in their faces that yuh forget their hands. Them two sidewinders are liable to strike before they rattle.”
“And they’re not friends of mine,” added Jack.
“What kind of a whipporwill is this Allison?” asked Hashknife as they mounted and rode toward the river crossing.
“I’d hate to say,” replied Jack. “If somebody had asked me a week ago what I thought of Curt and Steil, I’d probably have said that they were as good as the average.”
“Naturally. They tell me that you’ve had quite a lot of —— handed to yuh, Jack. I never got the story direct, yuh know.”
“And you probably never will, Hartley. I’m not complainin’. I went into it with both eyes open, yuh know. Mebbe I was all wrong, I dunno. Dad is a hard man, and he tried to teach me to hate. Mother is just the opposite, so she taught the opposite.
“Lovin’ got me some happiness and a lot of pure ——, but it kept me from turnin’ killer, Hartley. I’m the only one who knows what the last—well, the last hundred years—meant to me. It does seem that long. I’ve stood insults that would make a cotton tail fight a grizzly bear. They’ve called me a yellow skunk—a sheep lover—and I never even reached for my gun.”
“How about yuh now, Jack?”