"Well? Say it." Jack chose a deep crimson and flung the loop over his
head as if he were arraying himself for a ball.
"It may be some advantage to know ... I've watched Jose lasso cattle; he
always uses--"
"Step right there!" Jack swung to face him. "I don't want to know how
Jose works with his riata. He don't know any of my little kinks, don't
you see? I never," he added, after a little silence, "started out with
the deliberate intention of killing a man, before. I can't take any
advantage, Dade; you know that, just as well as I do." He tried to
smile, to soften the rebuff--and he failed.
Dade went up and laid a contrite hand upon his shoulder. "You're a
better man than I am, Jack," he asserted humbly. "But it's hell for me
to stand back and let you go into this thing alone. I've got piles of
confidence in you, old boy--but Jose never got that medal by saying
'pretty, please' and holding out his hand. The best lassoer in
California means something. And he means to kill you--"
"If I'll let him," put in Jack, stretching his lips in what passed for a
grin.
"I know--but you've been off the range for two years, just about; and
you've had a little over three weeks to make up for that lost practice."
His eyes caught their two reflections in the glass, and something in
Jack's made him smile ruefully. "Kick me good," he advised. "I need it.
I've got nerves worse than any old woman.
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