‘Dave’s all right,’ defended Red Eller.
‘I’m not sayin’ a word agin’ him, Red. Let’s all have a drink.’
They accepted the drink, and Hashknife turned to Red.
‘Were you at the Lane ranch this mornin’?’
‘I shore was,’ grinned Red. ‘That tenderfoot shore foxed us a-plenty. We was so anxious to git our hands on old man Lane that we plumb forgot he might stampede; and when we heard that winder go smash, we busted our legs tryin’ to head him off.[’]
‘And he shore led us a merry chase. By the time we did catch him, Spike was awful sore. He busted the kid flat with a punch on the jaw, but the kid got up, kinda white, spiffin’ blood. And when Spike grabbed him by the arm, the kid knocked Spike plumb cold with an uppercut to the jaw.[’]
‘Oh, it was a complete knockout. That tenderfoot kid may be crazy, but don’t never let anybody tell yuh he can’t hit. He took all the fight out of Spike. Why, he hit Spike so damn hard that Spike got on his horse from the wrong side.’
‘Is he any relation to Dave Morgan?’ asked Hashknife.
‘Na-a-aaw!’
‘What’s he doin’ in this country?’