Glendin, you can't
punish a man for a theft of which Duffy will not complain."
"Drew, you know what the boys on the range think of a hoss thief. It
ain't the price of what they steal; it's the low-down soul of the dog
that would steal it. It ain't the money. But what's a man without a hoss
on the range? Suppose his hoss is stole while he's hundred miles from
nowhere? What does it mean? You know; it means dyin' of thirst and goin'
through a hundred hells before the finish. I say shootin' a man is
nothin' compared with stealin' a hoss. A man that'll steal a hoss will
shoot his own brother; that's what he'll do. But I don't need to tell
you. You know it better'n me. What was it you done with your own hands
to Louis Borgen, the hoss-rustler, back ten years ago?"
A dead voice answered Glendin: "What has set you on the trail of Bard?"
"His own wrong doin'."
The rancher waved a hand of careless dismissal.
"I know you, Glendin," he said.
The deputy stirred in his chair, and then cleared his throat.
He said in a rising tone: "What d'you know?"
"I don't think you really care to hear it.
Pages:
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285