“Listen to me,” answered the foreman,
“don’t let him get inside this house.
I’d rather take part of hell into a house of
mine. Besides, if he sees me—”
“He’s coming here, but he’s not
going to see either of us—my mind is made
up—neither of us until I have him helpless.”
THE COMEDY SETTING
“Dead, you mean,” broke in Nash, “because
otherwise he’ll never be helpless.”
“I tell you, Nash,” said the other solemnly,
“I can make him helpless with one minute of
talk. My problem is to keep that wild devil harmless
while he listens to me talk. Another thing—if
he ever sees me, nothing but death will stop
him from coming at my throat.”
“Speakin’ personal,” said the other
coldly, “I never take no chances on fellers
that might come at my throat.”
“I know; you’re for the quick draw and
the quick finish. But I’d rather die myself
than have a hair of his head hurt. I mean that!”
Nash, his thoughts spinning, stood staring blankly.
“I give up tryin’ to figure it out; but
if he’s comin’ here and you want to keep
him safe I’d better take a fresh hoss and get
twenty miles away before night.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind; you’ll
stay here with me.”
“And face him without a gun?” asked the
other incredulously.
“Leave gun talk out of this. I think one
of the boys looks a little like me. Lawlor—isn’t
that his name?”
“Him? Yes; a little bit like you—but
he’s got his thickness through the stomach and
not through the chest.”
“Never mind. He’s big, and he’s
grey. Send for him, and get the rest of the boys
in here. They’re around now for noon.
Get every one. Understand? And make
it fast.”
In ten minutes they came to the office in a troop—rough
men, smooth men, little and big, fat and thin, but
good cattlemen, every one.
“Boys,” said Drew, “a tenderfoot
is coming to the ranch to-day. I’m going
to play a few jokes on him. First of all, I want
you to know that until the stranger leaves the house,
Lawlor is going to take my place. He is going
to be Drew. Understand?”
“Lawlor?” broke out several of them, and
turned in surprise to a big, cheerful man—grey,
plump, with monstrous white whiskers.
“Because he looks a bit like me. First,
you’ll have to crop those whiskers, Lawlor.”
He clutched at the threatened whiskers with both hands.
“Crop ’em? Chief, you ain’t
maybe runnin’ me a bit?”
“Not a bit,” said Drew, smiling faintly.
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
“It took me thirty years to raise them whiskers,”
said the cattleman, stern with rebuke. “D’you
think I could be hired to give ’em up?
It’s like givin’ up some of myself.”
“Let them go, then. You can play the part,
whiskers and all. The rest of you remember that
Lawlor is the boss.”
