They got up as I came near. Tod was twenty-two, and had been punching cows on Texas range since he was fourteen. He and Tom Lundy rode as saddle partners. Red Mike was a tough hand, a good man with a rope and with any kind of stock. He was also a very good man with a gun ... and he didn't scare. "Conn," Mike asked roughly, "are they going to make trouble for that boy?" "I'll talk to John Blake." "He won't take any talk. You know how he is, Conn. With him a rule is a rule." "I'll handle him." "Well," Mike said, "if anybody can, you can." "Not that way," I said irritably. "This mustn't run into gun trouble, so you sit tight." "If you need us," Mike said, "we'll be here. And sober." John Blake was in the Bon Ton. When I walked in the door he took his bottle from the bar and reached over for a couple of glasses. Together we walked to a back table and sat down. "You sold your beef?" "Kate's talking to Hardeman." Blake filled two glasses. "Conn, do me a favor? When you get your money ... pull out." "Kate's the boss.
