"I'm sorry."
"I didn't come here for sympathy."
"What did you come for?"
"Protection. What do you s'pose? You've gotta protect me."
"Listen to him, Rafe. Says we gotta protect him. That new brand of whisky at George's Place is certainly awful stuff. If you'll take my advice, Simon, you'll go a li'l easy on it till your system gets used to it."
"Yeah, sosh up by degrees like," offered Rafe.
"Look here," said the exasperated Reelfoot, "either you fellers pull suspicion off o' me, or I go to Wingo with the whole story."
"What'll that get you?" demanded Rafe. "Nothin', just nothin'. Wild tales of dead cows and separatin' Bill from his deputies and all ain't evidence. Nawsir. Think again, brother, think again."
"And, anyway," tucked in the district attorney, "what was wrong with the wild tale? It came straight enough. There were the tracks and there were the cows. Who can say your story wasn't the truth?"
"I tell you, they know it ain't the truth."