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Updated: June 13, 2025
"Luke seems to be living with us lately." "I never knowed him and Lanpher was good friends?" Racey cast at a venture. "I didn't either till lately." "Jack Harpe ever come out here?" "Long-geared feller supposed to have capital? Hangs out in Farewell? The one that Marie girl tried to down? Bo, he ain't been here as I know of, but then he could easy drift in and out and me not know it."
I couldn't keep you out of this with a ten-foot pole. Yo're like Tom Kane thataway always wantin' in where it's warm. Aw right, that's settled. Lookit, we know there's some crooked work on the towpath going on, and that Lanpher and Harpe are in it up to their hocks.
Thompson told him, and on the whole, gave a truthful account. "What kind of feller is this Dawson?" the stranger inquired after a moment's silence following the close of the story. "A skipjack of a no-account cow-wrastler," promptly replied Lanpher. "He thinks he's hell on the Wabash." "Allasame he must be old pie to put the kybosh on Nebraska thataway." "Luck," sneered Lanpher. "Just luck."
Racey felt that if he held his tongue another second he would incontinently burst. He sidestepped past the girl. "You've said yore li'l piece," he told Lanpher, "and for a feller who was bellyaching so loud about keeping out of this deal it strikes me yo're a-getting in good and deep buying up mortgages and all. Dunno what I mean, huh? Yep, you do. Shore you do. Think back.
"Yo're " began the 88 manager, and stopped suddenly. "What was you gonna say?" Alicran's voice cut sharply across the general silence. Lanpher controlled himself by an effort. Or perhaps it was not such an effort, after all. It may have been that he remembered the object lesson of the severed branch of the wild currant bush.
"And the stranger," Doc Coffin accepted the amendment. "What was the trouble?" pursued Racey. "Well, we kind of thought" Doc Coffin's eyes slid round to cross an instant the shifty gaze of Peaches Austin "we thought maybe this stranger dealt a card from the bottom. We ain't none shore." "Dale said he did, anyhow," said Peaches Austin. "He said so twice," put in Lanpher. Racey turned deliberately.
Between the two words was a perceptible pause. "I ain't shootin' nobody in the back. I never have yet, and I ain't beginnin' now, not for you or any other damn man." "Say " began Lanpher, threateningly. Alicran Skeel turned a grim face on his employer so suddenly and sharply that Lanpher almost dodged.
Lanpher, the manager of the 88 ranch, was speaking, and there was finality in his tone. "You mean you don't wanna appear in the deal a-tall," sneered his companion.
It was Molly Dale pushing past Racey and standing with arms akimbo directly in front of his gun-muzzle. Racey let his gun and holster fall up-and-down, but he did not remove his hand from the gunbutt. "Who do you want here?" Molly inquired of Lanpher. Lanpher's rat-like features cracked into an ugly smile. "Is yore paw home?" he asked. "Father's gone to Marysville." "When'll he be back?"
Lanpher arose, snarling, to face a levelled sixshooter. It did not signify that Racey had not drawn the weapon. He was perfectly capable of shooting through the bottom of his holster and Lanpher knew it. And Racey knew that he knew it. "Get out of this garden!" ordered Racey. "Take yore friend with you," he added, tossing the horse's bridle to Lanpher.
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