He considered me, the sharp, sleepy little eyes peeping out under the frayed stray brim. ‘Would that be Tom Little’s wagon you’re drivin’? Seems I know that broken spoke – an’ the horse.’
For a moment my blood ran cold, and I stopped my hand from going to the pistol in the back of my belt.
‘Well, it was Tom Little’s wagon,’ says I. ‘Still will be, if he hadn’t loaned it me yesterday. When I take it back, it will be his again, I guess.’ If I’d stayed in that country, and learned to whittle with a Barlow knife, and chew tobacco, I’d have made President.
Flash For Freedom!, p.207, Pan edition, 8th printing, 1980.
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