Now you'll waste all yore cartridges an' then
come snooping around me to borrow my gun. Why don't you lose the damned
thing?"
"What I pack ain't none of yore business, which same I'll uphold,"
retorted Mr. Connors, at last able to make himself heard. "You get over
on yore own side an' use yore Colt; I've wondered a whole lot where you
ever got the sense to use a Colt--_I_ wouldn't be a heap surprised to
see you toting a pearl-handled .22, like the kids use. Now you 'tend to
yore grave-yard aspirants, an' lemme do the same with mine."
"The Lord knows I've stood a whole lot from you because you just can't
help being foolish, but I've got plumb weary and sick of it. It stops
right here or you won't get no 'Paches," snorted Hopalong, peering
intently through a hole in the shack. The more they squabbled the better
they liked it,--controversies had become so common that they were
merely a habit; and they served to take the grimness out of desperate
situations.
"Aw, you can't lick one side of me," averred Red loftily. "You never did
stop anybody that was anything," he jeered as he fired from his window.
"Why, you couldn't even hit the bottom of the Grand Canyon if you leaned
over the edge."
"You could, if you leaned too far, you red-headed wart of a half-breed,"
snapped Hopalong. "But how about the Joneses, Tarantula Charley, Slim
Travennes, an' all the rest? How about them, hey?"
"Huh! You couldn't 'a' got any of 'em if they had been sober," and Mr.
Pages:
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110