“I ain’t askin’ for your vote, Mac.”
“Oh, y’u don’t need votes. Just get the King to O. K. your nomination and y’u’ll win in a walk.”
“My friend, y’u better mind your own business. Far as I can make out y’u got troubles enough of your own,” retorted the nettled sheriff.
“Y’u don’t need to tell me that, Tom Burns’ Y’u ain’t a man—nothing but a stuffed skin worked by a string. When that miscreant Bannister pulls the string y’u jump. He’s jerked it now, so y’u’re taking us back to him. I can prove that coyote Morgan shot at me first, but that doesn’t cut any ice with you.”
“What made you light out so sudden, then?” demanded the aggrieved Burns triumphantly.
“Because I knew you. That’s a plenty good reason. I’m not asking anything for myself. All I say is that my friend isn’t fit to travel yet. Let him stay here under a guard till he is.”
“He was fit enough to get here. By thunder, he’s fit to go back!”
“Y’u’ve said enough, Mac,” broke in Bannister. “It’s awfully good of y’u to speak for me, but I would rather see it out with you to a finish. I don’t want any favors from this yellow dog of my cousin.”
The “yellow dog” set his teeth and swore vindictively behind them. He was already imagining an hour when these insolent prisoners of his would sing another tune.