“Wh-where’s it from?” he stammered. “My eyes ain’t worth a —— no more.”
“She’s from Boston.”
Lonesome licked his lips and stared into space.
“Bub-Boston! ——!”
He staggered off the sidewalk, almost fell in the dust, and weaved a crooked trail straight for the doorway of the War-Bonnet.
“’F that don’t beat ——, I’m a pigeon-toed fool!” grunted Hashknife foolishly.
“His ear-drums kinda shrink from Boston,” observed Sleepy, as Lonesome seemed to carom from one side of the door to the other.
“Scared plumb to death,” declared Hashknife. “It’s a danged shame for a man to get in that shape. Somethin’ has sure put the Injun sign on the old gent, Sleepy. This Easton’s a bass-drummer among these canary-birds, ’cordin’ to what I can get in my loop; so he must be somethin’ besides a card shark.”
“Let’s go over and talk to the blacksmith,” suggested Sleepy. “I’ve got to have some shoes put on my bronc’ pretty soon, and maybe I can save about four-bits by gettin’ real friendly. I have done it, by cripes.”
Barney Stout was inserting a new felly into a wagon-wheel, and swearing mournfully over the fitting. He rubbed his nose with the back of a very dirty hand and nodded to Hashknife and Sleepy. They had squatted down against the wall and were rolling cigarets.