Glendin stood dazed, his face mottled with a sick pallor. Then he
moved automatically toward the bar. Murphy hobbled down the length of
the room on his wooden leg and placed bottle and glass before the
deputy.
"Well?" he queried.
Glendin poured his drink with a shaking hand, spilling much liquor
across the varnished wood. He drained his glass at a gulp.
"I dunno; what d'you think, Murphy?"
"You heard him talk, Glendin. You ought to know what's best."
"Let's hear you say it."
"I'd climb the best hoss I owned and start west, and when I come to the
sea I'd take a ship and keep right on goin' till I got halfway around
the world. And then I'd climb a mountain and hire a couple of dead-shots
for guards and have my first night's sleep. After that I'd begin
thinkin' of what I could do to get away from Drew."
"Murphy," said the other, "maybe that line of talk would sound sort of
exaggerated to some, but I ain't one of them. You've got a wooden leg,
but your brain's sound. But tell me, what in God's name makes him so
thick with the tenderfoot?"
He waited for no answer, but started for the door.
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