“He hurt me,” Bob confessed miserably. “I—was afraid.”
“Hurt you? Great jumpin’ Jupiter. Say, fellows, listen to Miss—Miss Roberta here. He hurt him, so he quit on the job—this guy here did. I never heard the beat o’ that.”
“If you’ll borrow one of yore friends’ guns an’ blow my brains out you’ll do me a favor,” the harried youth told Hollister in a low voice.
Hollister looked at him searchingly. “I might, at that,” agreed the puncher. “But I’m not doin’ that kind of favor to-day. I’ll give you a piece of advice. This ain’t no country for you. Hop a train for Boston, Mass., or one o’ them places where you can take yore troubles to a fellow with a blue coat. Tha’s where you belong.”
Up the street rolled Blister Haines, in time to hear the cowpuncher’s suggestion. Already the news had reached the justice of what had taken place. He was one of those amiable busybodies who take care of other people’s troubles for them. Sometimes his efforts came to grief and sometimes they did not.
“Hit the trail, you lads,” he ordered. “I’ll l-look out for this b-business. The exc-c-citement’s all over anyhow. Drift.”
The range-riders disappeared. At best the situation was an embarrassing one. It is not pleasant to be in the company of one who has just shown himself a poltroon and is acutely aware of it.
Blister took Dillon into his office. He lowered himself into the biggest chair carefully, rolled a cigarette, and lit up.
“Tell me about it,” he ordered.
“Nothin’ to tell.” Bob leaned against the table and looked drearily at the floor. The world had come to an end for him. That was all. “He showed up an’ took June from me—made me tell her to go along with him.”