When Spur Harlen cashes
in his chips, he’ll leave behind . . .
MIGHTY FEW FRIENDS
Beau suddenly interrupted Caspar Groot’s discourse to ask;
“Ever have anything to do with Spur Harlen in your time, Groot?”
“Huh?” Groot’s grizzled face creased. He was looking down the barrel of the pension and his best days were behind him, but he still earned his pay. These days, he made up with shrewdness and cunning what he lacked in speed and agility. “Uh-huh, just once about three years ago before he cut and run to Utah. I came to a town the day after Harlen had busted out of jail there . . .” He shook his head. “Wasn’t a pretty sight, let me tell you.”
“Is he as bad as they say, or is it all talk?”
Groot stared into the distance.
“He ain’t as bad as they say, kid . . .”
Beau nodded, pleased. “I thought so. A man always hears these overblown stories about gunmen and outlaws—”
“He’s worse,” Groot cut in. “A whole heap worse.”