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Updated: May 13, 2025
It did not seem to matter that Slim had said he meant to kill him, anyhow, or that the way in which his malignant eyes had followed his every movement took on new significance in the light of what had happened. He blamed himself. He should have quit long ago. He should have seen that Slim's ill-balanced mind needed only a trifle to shove it over the edge.
No, sirree, it's cornfed." "Glad to hear of it. I'll cipher out somehow to be there, Slim." Slim's glance took in the ranchhouse again. He had ridden twenty-three miles out of his way to catch a glimpse of the newly arrived mistress of the Lazy D, the report of whose good looks and adventures had traveled hand in hand through many canons even to the heart of the Tetons.
Bruce had not seen a human face save Slim's since the end of May, and it now was late in October, but he had no desire to meet the hunters and hear them boast of their achievement. Heavy-hearted, he wondered which ones they got. The hunters must have come over the old trail of the Sheep-eater Indians the one which wound along the backbone of the ridge. Rough going, that.
Perhaps it was because he could have throttled Slim with his thumb and finger, have shaken the life out of him with one hand, that Bruce forbore; perhaps it was because he saw in Slim's erratic, surly moods a something not quite normal, a something which made him sometimes wonder if his partner was well balanced.
Making every allowance for delays and changed addresses he had calculated that by now he should have an answer from Slim's mother or sister. He did not realize how positively he had counted on a letter until the clerk shook his head. "Nothing?" Bruce looked at him blankly. "Nothing." The answer seemed to take the last scrap of his vitality. He moved to the nearest chair and sat down heavily.
The stallion quivered with eagerness to be off. "Here's to try him." The gun flashed into Slim's hand and boomed. El Sangre bolted straight into the air and landed on legs of jack-rabbit qualities that flung him sidewise. The hand and voice of Terry quieted him, while the others stood around grinning with delight at the fun and at the beautiful horsemanship.
He rang the bell and waited, his right hand on the pocket of his overcoat. The door opened cautiously a few inches and a pair of close-set eyes in a wrinkled face gimleted Clay. "Whadya want?" "The old man sent me with a message," answered the Arizonan promptly. "Spill it." "Are you alone?" "You know it." "Got everything ready for the girl?" "Say, who the hell are youse?" "One of Slim's friends.
Possibly if he could have looked in all directions at the same time he would have been able to detect signs of mirth on the faces of the others as well; for Slim's grievances never seemed to be taken seriously by his companions which is the price which one must pay for having a body shaped like Santa Claus and a face copied after our old friend in the moon.
He disliked any show of feeling by the boy over the offer he had made. "But I can't take your money," Bud protested. "Yes, you can," assured Slim. "You pay it back when you get on your feet again. I'm going to take your word." Slim's generosity overwhelmed the boy. "Take my word!" he cried. Slim laid his hands on the boy's shoulders.
Injun and Whitey hastily removed the head covering and the gag, and Whitey eagerly asked what had happened. Slim was half choked and very indignant. "I dunno what happened to nobody, 'ceptin' to me," he gurgled. "Gimme a drink o' watah. I'se burnin' up." While Whitey held a cup of water to Slim's lips, Injun struggled with his bonds, and with great difficulty succeeded in releasing him.
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