Also, Peets notified the Red
Light not to heed any requests of this party in respects to said
nose-paint.
"It turns out this sick person, bonin' for licker as is plumb
nacheral, forgets himse'f as a gent an' sort o' reckons he'll get
fraudulent with Peets. He figgers he'll jest come Injunin' into the
Red Light, quil himse'f about a few drinks surreptitious, an' then
go trackin' back to his blankets, an' Doc Peets none the wiser. So,
like I says, this yere ill person fronts softly up to the Red Light
bar an' calls for Valley Tan.
"Black Jack, the barkeep, don't know this party from a cross-L
steer; he gets them mandates from Peets, but it never does strike
Black Jack that this yere is the dyin' sport allooded to. In
darkness that a-way, Black Jack tosses a glass on the bar an' shoves
the bottle. It shore looks like that failin' shorthorn is goin' to
quit winner, them recooperatifs.
"But, son, he's interrupted. He's filled his glass--an' he's been
plenty free about it--an' stands thar with the bottle in his hand,
when two guns bark, an' one bullet smashes the glass an' the other
the bottle where this person is holdin' it. No, this artillery
practice don't stampede me none; I'm plumb aware it's Doc Peets'
derringers from the go-off.
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