He could hear Mintie washing-up in the kitchen. Ransom was
feeding his horses. Smoky took a cleaning-rod, ran it through the
rifle, and examined the bit of cloth, which was wet and greasy. Then
he replaced the rifle and went back to the table, where Ransom found
him when he returned a few minutes later. The two men smoked in
silence. Presently Ransom said abruptly:--
"Dead struck on Mints, ain't ye?"
"I am," said Smoky laconically.
"Told her so--hay?"
"'Bout a million times."
"What does she say?"
Smoky blew some rings of smoke before he answered.
"She says--'Shucks!'"
"That don't sound encouragin'."
"It ain't. Fact is, she thinks me a clam."
"A clam?"
"That's right. She'd think a heap more o' me if I was to pull out o'
these yere hills and try to strike it somewheres else."
"Wal, squatters have made this no kind o' country for a white man.
Ye're white, John."
"I aim ter be."
"You air, sonnie. Say, if anything happened to me, would ye watch out
for Mints?"
"I wonder!"
"S'pose, fer the sake of argyment, that one o' these sons o' guns did
for me--hay?"
"'Tain't likely," said Smoky scornfully.
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