(Art by me) ….."Stop it, Badger. You are getting on my nerves."......
"Pack train's late. What do you make of it, Wooly?"
"Maybe they gotta take it easy….heat."
The speckled man tickled his beard. He took a slug from the jug—and handed it to the other man. "Hell—when I worked there something was frequently snapping at the smelter.
Who knows, Mike. "He disgorged—then leaned back against the tree.
"I want this done with. By fall, I want to be in Oregon."
"Hah! The day you ride outta here will be the day I'm an angel. You'll never settle into a ranch and you know it."
The boy stuck the knife in the ground near his boot. "All I want is to get back to Loma Parda—get me one've them fandango girls—and stay drunk for a year, pirooting around." He threw the knife again.
"Stop it, Badger. You are getting on my nerves." Mike stood over him and pushed the jug at him. Badger took a long swallow. His eyes were red. "What I wouldn't give for a drink of cold water. Hell! If Garcia doesn't come back soon, we'll be too drunk to ride."
"He'll be here when the train gets here. I figure he's following it. Least that's what he's paid for."
"I don't like him," said Wooly. "He thinks he's better than everybody. He won't drink. Doesn't talk much. Then talk fancy."
"He's the best gun I've ever known," Mike said. "He's okay."
"Don't like him anyway. Comes time—you'll see who's good," Wooly said to Badger.