"
Jeff turned abruptly. His movement was almost electrical.
"I shouldn't," he said sharply.
Dug caught a glimpse of the desperate light in his eyes.
"Why not?" There was a dash of resentment in Peters' tone.
But Jeff was spared a reply. Dug anticipated him with an oath.
"Gol darn you, because she's--a woman!" he cried, with a fierce warmth.
"Hell take it you ken have your rights. That's enough, I guess. I'll
have the papers wrote, an' have you sign 'em to-morrow. Meanwhile I'm
sick to death of the whole blamed thing. I quit right here."
His intention was plain enough. He meant there should be no
misunderstanding it. And the little man, Peters, took his dismissal
without demur.
The moment Peters had safely negotiated the saddle and vanished in a
cloud of dust, Dug pressed the whisky bottle upon his guest. Jeff
almost mechanically accepted it. He gulped down a stiff drink of neat
spirit. Dug watched him.
"Guess you're feelin' pretty darn saddle weary," he said kindly.
Jeff flung himself into his chair without replying.
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