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Racey, transferring the gun-muzzle to the small of McFluke's back, stooped swiftly, drew out McFluke's knife and tossed it through a window. "You won't be needing that again," said Racey Dawson. "Help yoreself, Kansas." Which the deputy promptly proceeded to do by snapping a pair of handcuffs round the thick McFluke wrists. "Whatell you trying to do?" bawled McFluke in a rage.
"Everythin's comin' out all right. Hell, he wouldn't play that day, anyway! Said he'd never touch a card or look at a wheel again as long as he lived, and when I laughed at him he hit me. Whatell else could I do? I hadda shoot him. "Shut up, you and your 'I's' and 'He wouldn't' and 'I hadda! If you've told me that tale once since you came here you've told me forty times. Get up and get out!
He that takes exception to this custom and horns in on what cannot rightfully be termed his particular business, will find public opinion dead against him and his journey unseasonably full of incident. Racey moved a leg. "This him, stranger?" "Shore it's him!" he declared. "Whatell you hidin' him for? Get outa the way!" Whereupon the burly youth advanced upon Racey. This was different. Oh, quite.
"Whatell didja kick me for?" snarled Bull. "'Kick you for?" Racey repeated, stupidly. "Yeah, kick me," said Bull. "No damn man can kick me and me not take notice." "Dunno as I blame you. Dunno as I do. If any damn man kicks you, Bull, you got a right to drill him every time. And you think I kicked you?" "I know you did." "You know I did, huh? Did you see me do it?"
Was it a foreman you wanted or a gunman? And what did Racey mean about Jack Harpe a-bearing down on you so hard, huh?" "Nothing, nothing, nothing a-tall," Lanpher replied, irritably. "If Racey didn't mean nothing by it, what did yore eyes flip for and why didja shuffle yore feet?" "Whatell business is it of yores?" burst out the goaded manager. "None," Alicran replied, calmly.
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