Canned

"Well, maybe he did," he assented generously, gleaning a box from the pile on the bunk and sitting down, "but it sure looks like corroborative evidence, in here. How about it, Bill?"

"How about what?" countered Billy, his teeth close together.

"The girl, and the dawg, and the fight--but more especially the girl. The Pilgrim--"

"Damn the Pilgrim! I wisht I'd a-killed the lying ---- The girl's a lady, and he ain't fit to speak her name. She come here last night because her hoss fell and got crippled, and there wasn't a hoss I'd trust at night with her, it was storming so hard, and slippery--and at daylight I put her on the gentlest one we had, and took her home. That's all there is to it. There's nothing to gabble about, and if the Pilgrim goes around shooting off his face--" Billy clicked his teeth ominously.

"Well, that ain't just the way he told it," commented the foreman, stooping to expectorate into the hearth and stopping to regard surprisedly its unwonted emptiness. "He said--"

"I don't give a damn what he said," snapped Billy. "He lied, the low-down cur."

"Uh-huh--he said something about you shooting that dawg of his. I saw the carcass out there in the snow." The foreman spoke with careful neutrality.

"I did. I wisht now I'd laid the two of 'em out together. The dawg tried to feed offa my leg. I shot the blame thing." Charming Billy sat down upon the edge of the table--sliding the dishpan out of his way--and folded his arms, and pushed his hat farther back from his forehead. His whole attitude spoke impenitent scorn.