The bartender returned the greeting and
shot the other a keen glance from the corner of his eye as he set out a
bottle and a couple of glasses.
"Be'n down to the wreck?" he asked, with professional
disinterestedness. The cowpuncher nodded, lighted his cigarette, and
picking the bottle up by the neck, poured a few drops into his glass.
"Pretty bad pile-up," persisted the bartender as he measured out his
own drink. "Two or three of the train crew got busted up pretty bad.
They say----
"Aw, choke off! What the hell do I care what they say? Nor how bad
the train crew got busted up, nor how bad they didn't?" Purdy tapped
the bar with his glass as his black eyes fixed the other with a level
stare. "I came over fer a little talk with yeh, private. I'm a-goin'
to win that buckin' contest--an' yer goin' to help me--_sabe_?"
The bartender shook his head: "I don't know how I c'n help you none."
"Well yeh will know when I git through--same as Doc Godkins'll know
when I have a little talk with him. Yer both a-goin' to help, you an'
Doc. Yeh see, they was a nester's gal died, a year back, over on
Beaver Crick, an' Doc tended her. 'Tarford fever,' says Doc. But ol'
Lazy Y Freeman paid the freight, an' he thinks about as much of the
nesters as what he does of a rattlesnake.
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