“How did he do that? Did he cover you with a gun?”
“No. I had the gun—till he took it from me.” He gave the explanation he had used twice already within the hour. “I’m no good.”
Blister heaved himself up from the chair and waddled closer to the boy. He shook a fat forefinger in his face. He glared at him fiercely.
“Say, where you from?”
“Austin, Texas, when I was a kid.”
“Well, damn you, Texas man, I w-want to t-tell you right now that you’re talkin’ blasphemy when you say you’re n-no good. The good Lord made you, didn’t He? D-d’ you reckon I’m goin’ to let you stand up there an’ claim He did a pore job? No, sir. Trouble with you is you go an’ bury yore talent instead of w-whalin’ the stuffin’ outa that Jake Houck fellow.”
“I wish I was dead,” Bob groaned, drooping in every line of his figure. “I wish I’d never been born.”
“Blasphemy number two. Didn’t He make you in His image? What right you got wishin’ He hadn’t created you? Why, you pore w-worm, you’re only a mite lower than the angels an’ yore red haid’s covered with glory.” Blister’s whisper of a voice took unexpectedly a sharp edge. “Snap it up! That red haid o’ yours. Hear me?”
Bob’s head came up as though a spring had been released.
“B-better. K-keep it up where it belongs. Now, then, w-what are you aimin’ for to do?”