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'Wal, I'm not
powerful glad to know thet. . . . I hear Creech's blue hoss will race the King
this time. How about it?' 'Sure an' certain this year. I've Creech's an'
Bostil's word for thet.' Cordts put his hand on my shoulder. You ought to 've
seen his eyes!. . .'I want to see thet race. . . . I'm goin' to.' 'Wal,' I
said, 'you'll have to stop bein'--You'll need to change your bizness.' Then,
Bostil, what do you think? Cordts was sort of eager an' wild. He said thet was
a race he jest couldn't miss. He swore he wouldn't turn a trick or let a man
of his gang stir a hand till after thet race, if you'd let him come."
A light flitted across Bostil's face.
"I know how Cordts feels," he said.
"Wal, it's a queer deal," went on Brackton. "Fer a long time you've meant to
draw on Cordts when you meet. We all know thet."
"Yes, I'll kill him!" The light left Bostil's face. His voice sounded
differently. His mouth opened, drooped strangely at the corners, then shut in
a grim, tense line. Bostil had killed more than one man.


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