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"I don't want trouble here," said Shiller positively. "I ask you in a friendly way not to make it." "Well, I ain't makin' it, am I?" said McHale. "That's all right about not wantin' trouble, but I got other things to think of. This here Cross and Dade and that bunch don't run the country. Mighty funny if I have to drink in a back room for them gents. Next thing you'll want me to climb a tree.
"That's plenty, that's plenty!" he growled. "You'd think I was a sole survivor or something. Say, what are you trying to do choke me? There, you've kissed me three times already. Ouch! Darn it, don't hug me. My side's sore. Try that hold on Farwell. He looks as if he wouldn't mind." Casey laughed. Sheila and Farwell reddened. A smothered chuckle from McHale showed that he was enjoying himself.
There's no harm in him, handled right, but he's a kid, and you want to make allowances." "I'm obliged to you, and I'll do it. Jack Pugh and Glass have started out after him already. They allow to prospect 'round in the hills till they find him. That's what I'll do with McHale." Casey considered, and suddenly came to a decision. "Anybody going with you?" "No." "Don't you want a deputy?"
Farwell looking after him, experienced a second new sensation jealousy. Casey Dunne, busily engaged in strengthening a working harness with rivets, looked up as a shadow fell across the morning sunlight. The shadow belonged to Tom McHale. McHale, like Dunne himself, had seen rough times.
He rode down the street, gun in hand, casting swift glances right and left, ready for any attempt to stop him. There was none. He vanished in the swells of brown grasses, riding at an easy lope, as unhurried as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Tom McHale reached Chakchak, stabled his horse, made a hasty toilet, and attacked a belated supper.
Either because they didn't have no bells, or didn't want to use 'em. McHale and McCrae would keep their hosses on a rope so's they could make a quick get-away if they had to. They wouldn't take a chance on their strayin'. Now the grass that's been eaten down by the hosses is beginnin' to sprout again in some places, and not in others.
Casey grasped his wrists and dragged them loose, while McHale, his forearm across the huge, bull-like throat, heaved back. Oscar came apart from his victim slowly and reluctantly, as a deeply rooted stump yields to the pull of a purchase. "He kel my Olga! He kel my Olga!" he vociferated. "He shoot her yust like she ban von vulf! By the yumpin' Yudas, you let me go!"
"Nothing to hold on," grumbled McCrae. "They're cached close. If one of them would only come out to fetch in that dead one I wouldn't do a thing to him." McHale eyed him speculatively. "Seems like your young soul ain't swamped by no wave of remorse at killin' a man. Don't make you feel shaky nor nothin'?" Young McCrae smiled grimly. "Not that I can notice.
"Nobody is going to pull a gun on you if you behave yourself. If this man puts in a claim for his horse, I'll consider it, but I won't promise anything." He turned to his men. "You get back to work, the lot of you." Without further words, he strode off to the camp. Lewis stepped up to McHale. "I'll take my gun if you're through with it." McHale handed him the weapon.
The sheriff, seeing her, pulled up. She caught McHale's hardened paw in both her hands, searching his eyes for the truth. But McHale's face, though weary and lined with pain, and, moreover, rendered decidedly unprepossessing by a growth of stubble, contained no signs of disaster. "Where's Casey, Tom?" "Casey?" McHale replied.
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