What the hell’s wrong
with a nice, quiet drygulching?
“I knew that varmint was going to cause me trouble,” he said, glaring at the cigar between his fingers. “I damn well knew the second he strutted into the auction room and I didn’t even know who he was. Goddammit!”
“So we missed him once, boss,” said Madison, a man as tall as Tilton but with a blank, dark face. “There’ll be other times. Farraday rides big and flash — he’ll give us another chance at him.”
“You had a chance today.”
“Bad luck, I tell you. Look, what the hell’s wrong with a nice, quiet drygulching—?”
“No!” Tilton snapped.
Madison looked surprised. “It’s worked for us before, boss.”
Tilton looked up at him narrowly.
“Haven’t you got any brains at all, Madison?”
The ramrod looked offended. “What’d I say now?”
“Drygulch Farraday — that’s what.”
“He’d be out of your hair fer sure that way.”
“Yeah, and I’d have both hands full of trouble — fer sure.”