Jack Sutton waited while a man might have counted a slow twenty, then he walked by Hindeman and out the door. Something about Ben was too much for him. He had looked Jack right in the eye and never missed chewing his tobacco. He looked just the same when he watched a branding or bought a barrel of flour.
"Forget it, Ben, Only she gets under my skin."
Hindeman looked at the knife Maria Cristina gripped. "Yeah," he said dryly, "I can see where she might."
(from The Burning Hills, by Louis L'Amour)
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