Peck made a remarkable recovery when the investigation turned to the contents of his pocket. He sat up with a jerk, a red rush of resentment coming into his thin-edged face. He put his wife's hand away rudely.
"None of your dang business what I got in that pocket, or any other pocket," he said. "I'm my own man; I'm goin' to carry whatever I dang please in my pockets from now on."
"Why, of course you can, Dowey darlin'," Mrs. Peck said soothingly, looking at him with anxious uncertainty in her eyes.
"If anybody goes monkeyin' around my pockets hereafter in the future I'll stand 'em on their heads!" Peck threatened, his confidence in his position growing as he enlarged his articles of independence.
"Of course you will, Dowey, and you'll serve 'em right," said Mrs. Peck.
Peck glowered around, red veins in his big glassy eyes, looking savage and mean.
"Where in the hell's my gun, Rawlins?" he asked.
"There—your hat's on it, Peck."
"I'm goin' over to find that feller I shot," Peck announced, grabbing his gun, getting up with as much iron in his legs as he ever had. "If he ain't dead I'll finish him—comin' in here killin' off my sheep!"
Mrs. Peck looked at him with beaming admiration. She got up, proud of her husband's new importance, proud of the second place she had taken in that team.
"I'll go with you, darlin'," she proposed.
"You'll stay where you're at till you're called for, old lady," Peck put her in her place severely, turning
