In the middle of the cabin stood Magpie Simpkins, my pardner, and facing him is a fat _hombre_, dressed like a cross between a short-card artist and a perfume pedler. They don’t see me. From the expression on their faces, I’d say that their minds are null and void as far as I’m concerned. Magpie ain’t got no gun on his hip, which is unusual, and I can see by the expression in his eyes that he’s laboring under a heavy strain.…
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