“Yes.  Him pastin’ me between the eyes that way, I took as an onfriendly act, an’ one I resented.”

“That wallop you landed on his chin was a beautiful piece of work.”

“Yes, quite comely.”  The cowboy wriggled his fingers painfully.  “But these long-horns that’s raised on salt-horse an’ rawhide, maintains a jaw on ’em that makes iron an’ granite seem right mushy.  I didn’t figure I’d recount the disturbance, aimin’ to pass it off casual regardin’ the disfigurin’ of my profile.  But if you-all witnessed the debate, I might as well go ahead an’ oncork the details.  In the first place, this warrior is a deputy that’s out after Win.”

The Texan glanced sharply at Bat who became suddenly seized with a fit of coughing, but the face of the half-breed was impassive—­even sombre as he worked at the blanket.  “It’s all owin’ to politics,” continued the cowpuncher, rolling and lighting a cigarette.  “Politics, an’ the fact that the cow country is in its dotage.  Choteau County is growin’ effeminate, not to say right down effete when a lynchin’, that by rights it would be stretching its importance even to refer to it in conversation, is raised to the dignity of a political issue.  As everyone knows, a hangin’ is always a popular play, riddin’ the community of an ondesirable, an’ at the same time bein’ a warnin’ to others to polish up their rectitude.  But it seems, from what I was able to glean, that this particular hangin’ didn’t win universal acclaim, owin’ to the massacre of Purdy not bein’ deplored none.”

Once more the half-breed emitted a strangling cough, and Tex eyed him narrowly.  “Somethin’ seems to ail your throat.”

“Oui, A’m swal’ de piece tabac’.”

“Well just hang onto it ’til it gets a little darker an’ we’ll have supper,” said the Texan, dryly, and resumed.

“So there was some talk disparagin’ to the lynchin’, an’ the party that’s in, holdin’ its tenure by the skin of its teeth, an’ election comin’ on, sided in with public opinion an’ frowned on the lynchin’, not as a hangin’, you onderstand, but because the hangin’ didn’t redound none to their particular credit—­it not being legal an’ regular.  All this is brewed while the dance is goin’ on, an’ by breakfast time next mornin’, there bein’ a full quorum of Republican war chiefs on hand, they pulls a pow-wow an’ instructs their deputies to round up the lynchers.  This is done, barrin’ a few that’s flitted, the boys bein’ caught unawares.  Well, things begun lookin’ serious to ‘em, an’ as a last resort they decided to fall back on the truth.  So they admits that there ain’t no lynchin’.  They tells how, after they’d got out on the bench a piece they got to thinkin’ that the demise of Purdy ain’t a serious matter, nohow, so they turned him loose.  ’Where is he, then?’ says a county commissioner.  ‘Search us,’ replies the culprits.  ‘We just turned him loose an’ told him to vamoose.  We didn’t stick around an’ herd him!’” Again Bat coughed, and the Texan glared at him.