Jim was
unmistakably glad to see me.
"Where've you been? Morton was in an' powerful set on seein' you. I
steered him from goin' up to Sampson's. What kind of a game was you
givin' Frank?"
"Jim, I just wanted to see if he was a safe rancher to make a stock deal
for me."
"He says you told him he didn't have no yellow streak an' that he was a
rustler. Frank can't git over them two hunches. When he sees you he's
goin' to swear he's no rustler, but he _has_ got a yellow streak,
unless..."
This little, broken-down Texan had eyes like flint striking fire.
"Unless?" I queried sharply.
Jim breathed a deep breath and looked around the room before his gaze
fixed again on mine.
"Wal," he replied, speaking low, "Me and Frank allows you've picked the
right men. It was me that sent them letters to the Ranger captain at
Austin. Now who in hell are you?"
It was my turn to draw a deep breath.
I had taken six weeks to strike fire from a Texan whom I instinctively
felt had been prey to the power that shadowed Linrock. There was no one
in the room except us, no one passing, nor near.
Reaching into the inside pocket of my buckskin vest, I turned the lining
out. A star-shaped, bright, silver object flashed as I shoved it, pocket
and all, under Jim's hard eyes.
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