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I'm my name's Racey Dawson, an' I used to ride for the Cross-in-a-box before I got a job up at the Bend. Jack Richie knows me. I ain't crazy honest." For Miss Blythe continued to look doubtful. "I " she began. "Lookit," he interrupted, "yesterday I got a heap drunk an' I rode off on somebody's hoss without meaning to I mean I thought it was my hoss and it wasn't.
"Is that so?" yammered Swing, now over his head as far as repartee was concerned. "Is that so? What you gassing about Arizona for thisaway? You gonna renig on the trip?" "I'll bet there's plenty of good jobs we can find right here in Farewell," dodged Racey. "And vicinity," he amended. "Yep, Swing, old-timer, I'll bet the Bar S or the Cross-in-a-box would hire us just too quick. Shore they would.
"I wish you'd pull yore kicks a few," interrupted Racey, rubbing his chest. "You like to busted a rib." "Not the way you landed," countered the unfeeling Swing. "You're tryin' to get off the trail again. Here you and me plan her all out to go to " "You bet," burst in Racey, enthusiastically. "We planned to go to either the Bar S or the Cross-in-a-box and get that job. Shore we did.
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