Do you get me,
Johnnie?"
"Lemme go with you into the house, Clay," the little man pleaded.
"No, this is a one-man job. If the note is straight goods I've got to
work on the Q.T. Do exactly as I say. That's how you can help me
best."
"What's the matter with me goin' into the house instead o' you? It
don't make no difference much if they do gun me. I'm jest the common
run of the pen. But you--you're graded stock," argued the Runt.
"Nothin' doin', old-timer. This is my job, and I don't reckon I'll let
anybody else tackle it. Much obliged, just the same. You're one
sure-enough white man, Johnnie."
The little fellow knew that the matter was settled. Clay had decided
and what he said was final. But Johnnie worried about it all the way.
At the last moment, when they separated at the street corner, he added
one last word.
"Don't you be too venturesome, son. If them guys got you it sure would
break me all up."
Clay smiled cheerfully. "They're not goin' to get me, Johnnie. Don't
forget to remember not to forget yore part. Keep under cover for
thirty minutes; then if I haven't shown up, holler yore head off for
the cops."
They were passing an alley as Clay finished speaking. He slipped into
its friendly darkness and was presently lost to sight. It ran into an
inner court which was the center of tortuous passages. The cattleman
stopped to get his bearings, selected the likeliest exit, and brought
up in the shelter of a small porch.
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