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Updated: June 5, 2025
"And he ain't boiling along quite as fast now as he was in the wash," elaborated Racey. "I noticed that, too," admitted Mr. Saltoun. They waited, barring the trail. Punch-the-breeze Thompson did not attempt to ride around them. He pulled up and nodded easily to the two men. "They's been a fraycas down at McFluke's," Thompson said. "Fraycas?" Racey cocked an eyebrow.
Saltoun's arrival there were now present Dolan, who combined with his office of justice of the peace that of coroner, and twelve good men and true, the coroner's jury and most intimate friends, ready and willing at any and all times to serve the territory for ten dollars a day and expenses. Punch-the-breeze Thompson had returned with the sheriff.
I What does Thompson want now? 'Lo, Punch." "'Lo, Jack. Howdy, Lanpher." Racey could not see the newcomer, but he recognized the voice. It was that of Punch-the-breeze Thompson, a gentleman well known to make his living by the ingenious capitalization of an utter lack of moral virtue. "Say, Jack," continued Thompson, "Nebraska has been plugged." "Plugged?"
Yo're a-going with me while I'm hunting for Coffin and Honey Hoke and Punch-the-breeze Thompson and Peaches Austin. Those four will likely be together, see, and I wanna use you for a breastwork sort of." "A breastwork!" cried the now thoroughly upset Mr. Slimson. "A breastwork!" "Shore a breastwork.
"Well," said the stranger, refraining from comment on Lanpher's estimate of the Dawson qualities, "we'll have to get somebody in Nebraska's place." "I'm as good as Nebraska," Punch-the-breeze Thompson stated, modestly. "No," the stranger said, decidedly. "Yo're all right, Punch. But even if we can get old Chin Whisker drunk, the hand has gotta be quicker than the eye. Y' understand?"
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