"It sure is enterprising
whiskey. Three drinks of it make a decent man want to kill his little
golden-haired baby sister with an axe. Say, here's a good one--lemme
tell you! I remember the first time, about three, four years ago--"
The speaker was interrupted--it seemed to me with intentional rudeness.
One man hurriedly wished to know who did the cutting last night;
another, if the wounded would recover; and a third, if Pete, an aged red
vassal of our own ranch, had been involved. Each of the three flashed a
bored glance at Sandy as he again tried for speech:
"Well, as I was saying, I remember the first time, about three, four
years ago--"
"If old Pete was down there I bet his brother-in-law did most of the
knifework," put in Buck Devine firmly.
It was to be seen that they all knew what Sandy remembered the first
time and wished not to hear it again. Others of them now sought to
stifle the memoir, while Sandy waited doggedly for the tide to ebb. I
gathered that our Pete had not been one of the restive convives, he
being known to have spent a quiet home evening with his mahala and their
numerous descendants, in their camp back of the wood lot; I also
gathered that Pete's brother-in-law had committed no crime since Pete
quit drinking two years before.
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