“Ef it was me, I’d put him out of the way mighty doggoned quick!” exclaimed Bob, who seldom lost an opportunity of telling what he would do.
“For the first time in your life, Bob, you’ve said a wise thing,” said Murdock.
“Fur the first time!” cried Bob, in indignation. “Wal, I reckon now, I don’t take a back seat to any man in the station—”
“In drinking whisky? No, you don’t, to do you justice,” said Murdock, sarcastically. “But, Benton, can you fix up for the Indian now?”
“Yes, easily enough,” replied the one addressed. “I’ve got the pigment to paint our faces with in my pouch. Just lend me your hunting-shirt, and take my coat.”
“How about your hair?”
“Tie a handkerchief over it, nigger-fashion,” suggested Bob.
“Yes, that will do,” said Murdock. “The girl will be so frightened that she won’t be apt to notice you much. Tie a handkerchief over her eyes the moment you grab her.”
“And the young feller?” asked Bob.
“Leave him to me,” and Murdock tapped the butt of his rifle significantly.