“Word got out fast,” Billy remarked. “Looks like you’re totin’ the no-good label, Fargo.” The Trailsman was relaxed in the saddle but vigilant, his sun-slitted gaze missing nothing. “Looks that way,” he agreed cheerfully. “But if I’m the King Rat, what’s that make you for siding me?” “What I’ve always been. A low-down, whiskey-suckin’, mother-lovin’ son of the sagebrush.” “You only suck whiskey when somebody else planks their cash. What do you do with your money, save it for your trousseau?” “Fargo, give over with all these questions about my money. You best put your brain toward this hombre that’s raping and cutting women in your name. Word’s bound to spread, you know. We could both end up with our tits in the wringer. I want to finish this job—the wages is damn good.” Fargo conceded all this with a grim nod. “Yeah, that’s the deal, all right. It’s a mite curious, huh?” Old Billy popped a horehound candy into his mouth. “Curious ?
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