Sam Brent
would send you or me or any man into a gun-fight, or a posse, or a
jail, and never blink his eye, if he thought it was good business for
him. He'd do it pleasant, too, jest like he was sendin' you to a
dance, or a show. But he'd go jest as quick hisself, if he had to."
"Then I guess we got no kick," said Pete.
"I ain't kickin'. I'm jest puttin' you wise."
"I ain't forgittin', Ed."
Pete turned, following Brevoort's gaze. The man they were talking
about was in sight and riding hard. Presently Brent was close enough
to nod to them. Although he had ridden far and fast, he was as casual
as sunshine. Neither in his voice nor his bearing was the least trace
of fatigue.
"I'm goin' to need you," he told Pete. "We're short of hands right
now. If you need anything over in the line shack, go git it and come
along down after Ed and me."
Pete took the hint and left Brevoort and Brent to ride to the house
together while he rode over to the shack and warmed up some coffee and
beans. In an hour he was at the house. A thoroughbred stood at the
hitching-rail.
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