“I’m goin’ back and kill that homely—uh⸺” Alden searched his vocabulary for the proper words.
“Yeah, you are, like hell! C’mon, before he spanks yuh. Next time you want to make fun of anythin’, pick somethin’ easy. C’mon, before I spank yuh myself.”
“Yo’re afraid of him,” accused Alden hotly.
“Listen to me,” said Van Deen. “You may be Kendall Marsh’s son, and you may be drunk, but you shut yore trap before I forget all that hogwash and tie yuh in a knot.”
“Oh, all right, Butch. We’re good friends. C’mon, I’ll go with yuh.”
“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said in a week,” as they walked out to their horses.
“Who was that feller, Butch?”
“That feller?” Butch examined his latigo critically. “That’s the feller who can hit hard in a short space than anybody I ever met.”
“But what’s his name?”
“I don’t know what it is, but it’ll be Methuselah before he ever gets me in reach of that right fist again. I thought the roof fell in on me.”