An' he had a feller
visitin' him. That feller's name was Bill, an' he was out here to git
the dope so's he could write books about the cattle country. I reckon
his las' name was the same as the Bill as wrote this. I don't know no
other Bills as writes books, do you, stranger?"
Conniston evaded. "Are you sure it's about the cattle country?"
"It sorta sounds like it, an' then it don't. You see it begins in a
desert place. That goes all right. But I ain't sure I git jest what
this here firs' page is drivin' at. It's about three witches, an' they
don't say much as a man can tie to. I jest got to where there's
something about a fight, an' I guess he jest throwed the witches in,
extry. Here it says as they wear chaps. That oughta settle it, huh?"
There was the line, half hidden by Lonesome Pete's horny forefinger.
"_He unseamed him from the nave to the chaps!_" That certainly settled
it as far as Lonesome Pete was concerned. Macbeth was a cattle-king,
and Bill Shakespeare was the young fellow who had visited the Triangle
Bar.
Thoughtfully he put his books away in the box, which he covered with a
sack and which he pushed back under the seat. Then he looked to his
horses, saw that they had plenty of grass within the radius of
tie-rope, and after that came back to where Hapgood lay.
"I reckon you can git along with one of them blankets, stranger.
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