The Sheriff's Son
and lights flashed in zigzags before his eyes. He sank back into unconsciousness.
The cowman returned to a world of darkness out of which voices came as from a distance hazily. A groan prefaced his arrival.
"Dave's waking up," one of the far voices said.
"Sure. When you tap his haid with a six-gun, you 're liable to need repairs on the gun," a second answered.
The next words came to Dingwell more distinctly. He recognized the speaker as Hal Rutherford of the horse ranch.
"Too bad the boy had to hand you that crack, Dave. You 're such a bear for fighting a man can't take any chances. Glad he did n't bust your haid wide open."
"Sure he did n't?" asked the injured man. "I feel like I got to hold it on tight so as to keep the blamed thing from flying into fifty pieces."
"Sorry. We 'll take you to a doc and have it fixed up. Then we 'll all go have a drunk. That 'll fix you."
"Business first," cut in Buck Rutherford.
"That's right, Dave," agreed the owner of the horse ranch. "How about that gunnysack? Where did you hide it?"
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