The little man raised the point of his thirty-eight significantly. “Ain’t this warrant enough?”
“What’s the trouble? What d’you want me for?”
“Tell him, Dusty,” the lank cowboy said.
“All right, Burt.” To the tramp he said roughly: “We’ll learn you how to treat a lady. Get up. You’re gonna trail back to the Diamond Bar K with us.”
“You’ve got the wrong man,” explained Tug.
“Sure. You’re jus’ travelin’ through the country lookin’ for work,” Dusty jeered. “We’ve heard that li’l’ spiel before. Why, you chump, the ol’ man’s autograph is writ on yore face right now.”
Tug opened his mouth to expostulate, but changed his mind. What was the use? He had no evidence. They would not let him go.
“I guess you hold the aces.” He rose, stiffly, remarking to the world at large, “I’ve read about those three-gallon hats with a half-pint of brains in them.”
Dusty bridled. “Don’t get gay with me, young feller. I’ll not stand for it.”
“No?” murmured the hobo, and he somehow contrived to make of the monosyllable a taunt.