Budd informed the world at large by way of announcing his arrival.
“When’s the funeral, Jim?” asked McClintock. “I’ll be there if it’s soon. Like to be right sure he’s buried. Don’t mind pilin’ a big flat rock on top o’ that single-breasted coat my own se’f.”
The fat man looked at him severely. “Young fella, I been hearin’ about you. Met up with Doc Rogers. Says you got all cut up. How about it?”
“Doc Rogers ought to know.”
“Was it serious?”
“I’d say it was serious. Cost me twenty-five dollars.”
“Rogers ain’t no two-bit man,” Budd explained with pride. “Piodie is sure one high tariff town. Nothing cheap about it.”
“Here’s where he’s gettin’ ready to stick me on my feed bill,” Hugh mentioned to his buckskin.
“Not on yore tintype. Yore money’s no good at the Pony Express Corral, Kid.”
“Much obliged to Budd & Byers, Props.”