The puncher waited. He knew this was preliminary matter.
“That young fellow Bob Dillon,” explained the fat man.
“If you’re expectin’ me to throw up my hat an’ shout, Blister, I got to disappoint you,” Dud replied. “I like ’em man-size.”
“I’m p-puttin’ him in yore charge.”
“You ain’t either,” the range-rider repudiated indignantly.
“To m-make a man of him.”
“Hell’s bells! I’m no dry nurse to fellows shy of sand. He can travel a lone trail for all of me.”
“Keep him kinda encouraged.”
“Why pick on me, Blister? I don’t want the job. He ain’t there, I tell you. Any fellow that would let another guy take his wife away from him an’ not hang his hide up to dry—No, sir, I got no manner o’ use for him. You can’t onload him on me.”
“I’ve been thinkin’ that when you are alone with him some t-time you’d better devil him into a fight, then let him whale the stuffin’ outa you. That’ll do him a l-lot of good—give him confidence.”