“Guess you're right,” said Slim. “Got it right in the book.” George held out his hand for the magazine. “Let's look at it?”
Whit found the place again, but he did not surrender his hold on it. He pointed out the letter with his forefinger.
And then he went to his box shelf and laid the magazine carefully in. “I wonder if Bill seen it,” he said.
“Bill and me worked in that patch of field peas. Run cultivators, both of us. Bill was a hell of a nice fella.”
During the conversation Carlson had refused to be drawn in. He continued to look down at the old dog. Candy watched him uneasily.
At last Carlson said, “If you want me to, I'll put the old devil out of his misery right now and get it over with.
Ain't nothing left for him. Can't eat, can't see, can't even walk without hurtin'.”
Candy said hopefully, “You ain't got no gun.” “The hell I ain't. Got a Luger.
It won't hurt him none at all.” Candy said, “Maybe tomorra. Le's wait till tomorra.”
“I don't see no reason for it,” said Carlson. He went to his bunk, pulled his bag from underneath it
and took out a Luger pistol. “Le's get it over with,” he said. “We can't sleep with him stinkin' around in here.”
He put the pistol in his hip pocket. Candy looked a long time at Slim to try to find some reversal.
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