Who is that feller? He's not Dickson. Who is he?"
"Search me."
"That's what I'm tryin' ter do, an' if yer don't give up peaceful, I'm
goin' through yer, minute."
"Do you know who he is?"
"I've got my suspicions. I see a feller up to Phoenix what's ther dead
ringer fer him, an' his name wasn't Dickson then."
"What was it?"
"It was Fancy Farnsworth."
"I guess you're on, Bud. But Mr. Farnsworth asked me to keep it dark,
and, as it is Christmas, I consented to do so. Remember, this is the
time for brotherly love and peace toward all men. It wasn't much to do,
and I invented the name of Dickson for him myself. What's the matter?"
"Oh, nothin', if yer like ter bring cattle like that ter our Chrismus
festivities. Fer me, I wouldn't."
"I guess he's not as bad as that."
"He's worse."
"Explain."
"Well, if yer don't know, I will, an' let yer chew on it, an' see if yer
want ter take any chances on him. Now, Farnsworth ain't his real name,
neither. D'y'ever hear tell o' ther Somber Pass massacree, where a
tenderfoot immigrant named Spooner an' his family was killed, an' their
wagons an' horses, an' a pile o' money what Spooner had brought with him
ter start a cattle ranch an' buy stock with, wuz taken? D'y'ever hear
tell o' that?"
"Sure. It's part of the history of the Territory.
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