Whispering Smith
happy here? Now tell me one thing—will you give up the trail?”
“I don’t know the trail.”
“I believe you; we shouldn’t follow it anyway. Were you paid last night or this morning?”
“I ain’t seen a man hereabouts for a week.”
“Then you can’t tell me whether there were five men or six?”
“You’ve got one eye as good as mine, and one a whole lot better.”
“So it was fixed up for cash a week ago?”
“Everything is cash in this country.”
“Well, Rockstro, I’m sorry, but we’ll have to take you back with us.”
The rancher whipped out a revolver. Whispering Smith caught his wrist. The struggle lasted only an instant. Rockstro writhed, and the pistol fell to the ground.
“Now, shall I break your arm?” asked Smith, as the man cursed and resisted. “Or will you behave? We are going right back and you’ll have to come with us. We’ll send some one down to round up your horses and sell them, and you can serve out your time—with allowances, of course, for good conduct, which will cut it down. If I had ever done you a mean turn I would not say a word. If you could name a friend of yours I had ever done a mean turn to I would not say a word.
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