"He
said it wouldn't hurt me for work."
"Yeah--and what kinda work?" Dirk rode so close that his
horse shouldered Bud's leg discomfortingly. "I been edgin'
yuh along to see what-f'r brand yuh carried. And I've got ye
now, you damned snoopin' kioty. Bart, he hired yuh to work-
and not to go prowling around lookin' up trails that ain't
there--"
"You're a dim-brand reader, I don't think! Why you--!"
Oh, well--remember that Bud was only Buddy grown bigger, and
he had never lacked the spirit to look out for himself.
Remember, too, that he must have acquired something of a
vocabulary, in the course of twenty-one years of absorbing
everything that came within his experience.
Dirk reached for his gun, but Bud was expecting that. Dirk
was not quite quick enough, and his hand therefore came
forward with a jerk when he saw that he was "covered." Bud
leaned, pulled Dirk's six-shooter from its holster and sent it
spinning into a clump of bushes. He snatched a wicked-looking
knife from Dirk's boot where he had once seen Dirk slip it
sheathed when he dressed in the bunk-house, and sent that
after the gun.
"Now, you long-eared walrus, you're in a position to play
fair. What are you going to do about it?" He reined away, out
of Dirk's reach, took his handkerchief and wrapped his own
gun tightly to protect it from sand, and threw it after
Dirk's gun and the knife.
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