"Swain turned state's evidence," said Pete, curtly. "He'll go free, I
suppose. Fill up your glass, partner. Can see you're thirsty yet."
This was to Gregg, who had purposely poured out a drink of the sheriff's
own chosen dimension to see if the latter would notice; this remark fixed
his suspicions. It was certain that the manhunter was after him, but again,
in scorn, he accepted the challenge and poured a stiff dram.
"That's right," nodded the sheriff. "You got nothing on your shoulders. You
can let yourself go, Vic. Sometimes I wish"--he sighed--"I wish I could do
the same!"
"The sneaky coyote," thought Gregg, "he's lurin' me on!"
"Turned state's evidence!" maundered Lew Perkins. "Well, they's a lot of
'em that lose their guts when they're caught. I remember way back in the
time when Bannack was runnin' full blast--"
Why did not some one shut off the old idiot before he was thoroughly
started? He might keep on talking like the clank of a windmill in a steady
breeze, endlessly. For Lew was old-seventy-five, eighty, eighty-five--he
himself probably did not know just how old--and he had lived through at
least two generations of pioneers with a myriad stories about them.
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