"Oh, he'll stand the acid," Tip said. "He'll go after anybody he thinks he oughta go after; but if we can't manage to give him the right kind of thoughts we're no good."
"You needn't start losing flesh, Sam," slipped in Tom Driver. "Bill would never go back on his friends. H's just a big overgrown kid, that's all."
Rafe Tuckleton leaned back in his chair and stared dubiously at Tip O'Gorman. "All right for Bill, but how about Tom Walton?"
"I'll bite," Tip averred blandly. "How about him?"
"Nothing, oh, nothing a-tall. Only Tom Walton has been one too many round here for a long time."
"He does talk too much," admitted Tom Driver, his bright little eyes, like those of an alert bird, fixed on Rafe Tuckleton.
"He's a very suspicious man," said the latter. "He like to broke Simon Reelfoot's neck last week over a horse of his he said Simon rustled."
"Serve Simon right," said Tip promptly. "Simon's a polecat. Always was. Felt like breaking his neck more than once myself. Good for Walton."
"But Simon's one of our crowd," Rafe reminded him, "and he's been mighty useful. We gotta consider his feelings."
"Oh, damn his feelings. The old screw ain't got any right to feelings."