"You wait here, Sam, and I'll bring you
something. I thought you were among the Indians, or in Mexico, or in
the Bad Lands long ago."
"I'm in bad lands enough here. I'll go with you. I'm not going to let
you out of my sight, and no tricks, mind, or you know what will
happen."
"Surely you trust me, Sam," whined Mike, getting up.
"I don't trust any living man. Who fired that shot at me when I was
leaving?"
"So help me," protested Mike, "I dunno. I wasn't in the bar at the
time. I can prove I wasn't. Yer not looking well, Sam."
"Blister you for a slow dawdler, you'd not look well either, if you had
no sleep for a week and was starved into the bargain. Get a move on
you."
Sam ate like a wild beast what was set before him, and although he took
a stiff glass of whiskey and water at the beginning, he now drank
sparingly. He laid the revolver on the table at his elbow, and made
Mike sit opposite him. When the ravenous meal was finished, he pushed
the plate from him and looked across at Davlin.
"When I said I didn't trust you, Mike, I was a liar. I do, an' I'll
prove it. When it's your interest to befriend a man, you'll do it every
time."
"I will that," said Mike, not quite comprehending what the other had
said.
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