Matson said nothing. The Texan was building up for himself a vision of the life he loved in the wind and the sunshine of the open range. The old Chisum Trail song he sung must bring to his memory a hundred pictures of the past. These would be arguments more potent than any the sheriff could use.
“Stray in the herd and the boss said kill it,
So I shot him in the rump with the handle of the skillet.”
The cracked voice became clearer:
“I’ll sell my outfit soon as ever I can,
I won’t punch cattle for no damned man!”
“You don’t want your kid to grow up and learn that his dad was hanged,” insinuated Matson. “That would be a fine thing to leave him.”
“Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn—
Best damned cowboy that ever was born!”
The voice of the singer rang like a bell at last. He turned serene eyes on the tempter.