Whitey Wimble, beginning by looking puzzled, wound up by turning a
distressed face toward Steve.
"It's kind of a fine point," he suggested finally. "Now, come right
down to it, it sort of looks to me----"
"Fine point!" cried Steve hotly, a sudden anger growing within him as
he thought how Blenham had played the game all along the line, how
Blenham might well prove too shrewd for a boy like Barbee, how a set of
prejudiced fools here in the Old Trusty by denying him the loan of a
horse might seriously be aiding Blenham whom none of them had any love
for. "Why, damn it, man, haven't I told you that Blenham has just put
a raw deal across on me, that he's coming close to getting away with
it, that all I ask is a horse to run him down? Who's going to let me
have one? I'm in a hurry!"
Never until now did he realize how strong a factor in the life of the
community was the prejudice against his blood. On every hand he saw
doubt, clouded eyes, distrust. Plainly many a man there held him for a
liar; would even go so far, it was possible, as to suggest later that
Steve Packard had meant to steal the horse he asked for. Steve stared
about him a moment, his back stiffening. Then, with a little grunt of
disgust, he strode across the room.
"At least," he flung over his shoulder at Whitey Wimble, "I am going to
use your telephone again!"
Without waiting for an answer and caring not the snap of his fingers
what that answer might be, he went to the telephone, jerking down the
receiver, saying brusquely to the operator:
"Ranch Number Ten, please.
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