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"Dead?" questioned Webster. "As a door nail," returned the babbler. "Socorro's bad man," said Webster, sententiously. "Wasn't a bit of good in him. Gamblin', shootin', outlaw. Best job Buck ever done." He found Mary Jane in the kitchen, singing over the supper dishes. "Texas Rankin is dead over at San Marcial," he said, with the importance of one communicating delectable news.
But now, since the express robbery, it won't be necessary for me to tell you not to nose around my house, for you're goin' to ride straight out of Socorro County, an' you ain't comin' back any more. If you do, I reckon you'll discover that Socorro's present leniency ain't elastic enough to be stretched to cover your home-comin'."
That's the reason you picked me out for the express job." He scowled as his eyes took in the meagre details of Socorro's one street. Because of long association these details had become mental fixtures. Socorro had been his home for ten years, and in ten years things grow into a man's heart. And civic pride had been his one great virtue.
Mary Jane continued with her dishes, looking at her father over her shoulder with a mild unconcern. "At San Marcial?" she said wonderingly. "I didn't know he had left Socorro!" "A week now," returned Webster with much complacence. "Fired him from Socorro for doin' that express job. Socorro's bad enough without Texas "
"Which means that you didn't want me to have a chance," complained Texas glumly. "Socorro's always been meaner'n " "'T ain't Socorro's fault," interrupted the sheriff with a sudden coldness; "you've been cuttin' didoes in Socorro for so long a time that you've disgraced yourself. You've gambled an' shot yourself into disfavor with the élite.
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