Language Barrier

[Part 1 · A Losing Proposition]

Mr. Wen strained with all his might, trying to turn his head just a little, trying to make his [jaw], evolved over millions upon millions of years, slowly open.

Turn his head, flex his spine, stick out his tongue, and lick at those sources of life.

"Mr. Wen? Vincent?" The cowboy had spotted the name on Mr. Wen's badge.

Out West, Chinese laborers had no rights.

But a Chinese laborer with a name, an English name, and a grasp of English was bound to have money.

After the gunshot, quite a few wolves had raised their heads.

The oppressive heat had made them increasingly restless, seesawing between hunger and the anxiety of survival.

They watched the cowboy, the prey at his feet, and the little red mare behind him, all of them tempting targets.

Little Dolly flicked her tail and blew out a heavy breath through her nostrils.

Jack was just about to undo his belt and let the floodgates open—

"—Oh! You're sticking out your tongue? Vincent! You little glutton!~"

The kid was gradually getting used to violence—and using it.

"But you have to pay first! Or how about a different drink? Try some freshly brewed Jack!"

The train drew closer and closer.

Before he could get his pants all the way off, young Jack suddenly drooped. He fastened his belt again, stamping his feet in a furious rage, so angry at his own stupidity he was almost ready to go mad!

He couldn't do it!

He couldn't do it.

"All right! All right!"

Little Jack pretended to be relaxed, glancing first at the distant prairie, then at the red boulders at the mouth of the canyon.

At last he looked down at the stranger lying at his feet, a living corpse if