“No; not any more. He told me all he knew a long time ago. But that ain’t got anythin’ to do with my troubles. If this keeps up, I’m broke. I’ve got to prove I played on the square with you.”
“How?”
“I’ll be damned if I know.”
“Did yuh, Angel?”
For several moments the young man looked at his father, turned on his heel, and went back to his horse.
“I suppose it’s the proper thing to do—to squawk about a crooked deal when yuh lose a few dollars,” he said, as he mounted his horse.
Old Rance watched him ride away. Old Chuckwalla came to the doorway, carrying a skillet in his hand, and looked down the road, where a cloud of dust showed the swift passing of the horse and rider.
“And I suppose you’re feelin’ sorry for him,” said Chuckwalla.
Rance nodded slowly, but did not look around.
“Blood’s a hell of a lot thicker’n water; but if he was my son, I’d kick the seat of his pants up so high that they’d tilt his hat forward.”