I could
see yore red head-"
"MY red head!" exclaimed Hopalong, sizing up the crimson warlock of
his companion. "MY red head!" he repeated, and then turned to Frenchy:
"Hey, Frenchy, who's got th' reddest hair, me or Red?"
Frenchy slowly turned in his saddle and gravely scrutinized them.
Being strictly impartial and truthful, he gave up the effort of
differentiating and smiled. "Why, if the tops of yore heads were poked
through two holes in a board an' I didn't know which was which, I'd
shore make a mistake if I tried to name `em"
But Red had the last word. "Anyhow, you didn't have a Sharp's in
that fight-you bad a .45-70 Winchester, just like mine!"
Thereupon the discussion was directed at the judge, and the forenoon
passed very pleasantly, Frenchy even smiling in his misery.
CHAPTER XIX
Hopalong's Decision
Shortly after noon, Hopalong, who had ridden with his head bowed low
in meditation, looked up and slapped his thigh. Then he looked at Red
and grinned.
"Look ahere, Red," he began, "there ain't no rustlers with their
headquarters on this God-forsaken sand heap, an' there never was. They
have to have water an' lots of it, too, an' th' nearest of any account
is th' Pecos, or some of them streams over in th' Panhandle. Th'
Panhandle is th' best place. There are lots of streams an' lakes over
there an' they're right in a good grass country.
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