Buck laughed shortly. "I'll be waiting. I don't like that lanky
bastard. I reckon I got some scores to settle with him." He looked at
me, and his face twisted into what he thought was a tough snarl.
Funny--you could see he really wasn't tough down inside. There wasn't
any hard core of confidence and strength. His toughness was in his
holster, and all the rest of him was acting to match up to it.
"You know," he said, "I don't like you either, Irish. Maybe I oughta
kill you. Hell, why not?"
Now, the only reason I'd stayed out of doors that afternoon was I
figured Buck had already had one chance to kill me and hadn't done it,
so I must be safe. That's what I figured--he had nothing against me,
so I was safe. And I had an idea that maybe, when the showdown came, I
might be able to help out Ben Randolph somehow--if anything on God's
Earth _could_ help him.
Now, though, I wished to hell I hadn't stayed outside. I wished I was
behind one of them windows, looking out at somebody else get told by
Buck Tarrant that maybe he oughta kill him.
"But I won't," Buck said, grinning nastily. "Because you done me a
favor. You run off and told the sheriff just like I told you--just
like the goddam white-livered Irish sheepherder you are. Ain't that
so?"