vacation he had taken since he was shot up the last time, down in New Mexico eight or nine years ago. He made this pretext and he advanced that, keeping his only reason under cover, where it bulged as big as a fat woman trying to hide in bed.
He could ride along just as comfortable as a bird in a tree, Waco said, and a man needed company on a slow drive like that. It wasn't the same as rackin' out on a feller's horse to go some place, when he could streak right through and line up with his navel agin the bar. Wagon travel was worse than walkin', the way he looked at it; even a slab-sided old centipede like him was better than no company under such conditions. And so on, to a great length of irrelevant argument.
Tom thanked him heartily, told him he'd appreciate his company above the company of any man alive, but that was a one-man business, a purely personal affair at that stage, and he could not permit a friend to become involved. He had started it, and he would finish it. He was appreciative, but firm, so firm that Waco realized further argument would not advance his desires an inch.
"All right, Tom," he yielded. "I fixed up that rifle yisterday so it works fine."
"Thanks, old feller."
"There's a good shotgun here, too. I ain't in favor of a shotgun as a reg'lar thing, but there's exceptions, as the widder woman said when she married the one-eyed man. I could load you up a dozen shells with buckshot—it'd be excusable if they tried to gang a man. Of course, I always like to keep in the law myself, and stick to my old gun, but a shotgun's excusable at times, perfec-ly excusable."
