Boothill is full of trespassin’ polecats!
Hancock stood with his stubbled jaws agape, puzzled anew by what often seemed like the Mexican’s uncanny sixth sense. He was sure Xavi could read minds at times, was convinced the little fat greaser had some sort of psychic ability denied normal men. How the hell could Xavi know what he was doing? Why, he couldn’t even see him properly in this light.
“Bulldust,” he grunted, sliding the rifle into the saddle scabbard. “What’s a couple of killin’s more or less to me?”
“It was the woman.” Xavi’s manner was part-accusing, part-proud. “I saw your face, Señor Chad, I know how you feel. The badmen kill the woman so you kill them. Of course it is very foolish, but Xavi goes with you.”
“Xavi does no such goddamn thing. You reckon I want a bumble-footed fat Mexican stumblin’ around raisin’ enough racket to wake the dead when I’m busy stalkin’ a couple of . . .”
Hancock broke off, realizing he was making an admission.
Of course, Xavi picked up on it.
“So, you do go to kill,” he said sharply. He turned and began gathering up his bedroll. “I come with you, so that there will be someone to bury you.”