“Wal, I couldn’t wear no boots like yours,” declared Red.
“You’ll have to. Another day will about finish them, and your feet, too.”
Red eyed his boss with interest. “You-all cussed me to-day because I was slow,” he complained.
“Larry, you always are slow, except with a horse or gun. And lately you’ve been—well, you don’t move out of your tracks.”
Neale often exaggerated out of a desire to tease his friend. Nobody else dared try and banter King.
“Wal, I didn’t sign up with this heah outfit to run up hills all day,” replied Red.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll get Casey to be my lineman. No, I’ve a better idea. Casey is slow, too. I’ll use one of the niggers.”
Red King gave a hitch to his belt and a cold gleam chased away the lazy blue warmth from his eyes. “Go ahaid,” he drawled, “an’ they’ll bury the nigger to-morrow night.”
Neale laughed. He knew Red hated darkies—he suspected the Texan had thrown a gun on more than a few—and he knew there surely would be a funeral in camp if he changed his lineman.
“All right, Red. I don’t want blood spilled,” he said, cheerfully. “I’ll be a martyr and put up with you.... What do you say to a day off? Let’s ride over to Slingerland’s.”