Peaches shied away from Racey on general principles. He feared a catch. There were so many things about Racey that he did not understand.
"Whatcha talking about?" Peaches grunted, surlily.
"You—me—Chuck—everybody, more or less. You don't, do you?"
"Don't what?" A trifle more surlily.
"You don't see how and why Chuck Morgan is so all-fired friendly with me, and how I'm a-riding for a good outfit like the Bar S, when the last you seen of me, Chuck was a-hazing me up the trail with my hands over my head. You don't understand it none. I can see it in your light green eyes, Peaches."
Peaches modestly veiled his pale green eyes beneath dropped lids and turned his head away. He would have given a great deal to go elsewhere. But to do that would be to make himself conspicuous, and there were many reasons, all more or less cogent, why he did not wish to make himself conspicuous. Peaches sat still on his chair and broke into a gentle perspiration.
Racey perceived the other's discomfort and ached to increase it. "Did you stay here three-four days like I told you to that time a few weeks ago? And was Jack Harpe most Gawd-awful hot under the collar when you did see him final? And if so, what happened?"
Racey gaped at Peaches like an expectant terrier watching a rat-hole. It may be that Peaches felt like a holed rat in a hole too small for comfort. He turned on Racey with a flash of defiance.
"There was a feller once," said Peaches, "who bit off more'n he could chew."
"I've heard of him," Racey admitted, gravely. "He was first cousin to the other feller that grabbed the bear by the tail."