“I wants you two beasts to get outen my kitchen!” replied “The Cactus” vigorously; “an' I wants you to move some hurried, too. Don't never let me find your moccasin tracks 'round yere no more, or I'll turn in an' mark you up.”
“Yere, you!” she continued as the ambassadors were about to leave, something cast down by the conference; “you-alls can tell the folks of this town, that if they're idiots enough to go makin' a gun play over me, to make it. They has shore pestered me enough!”
“Which I don't wonder none at Thompson bein' reluctant an' doobious about seein' this Cactus lady,” said Enright, as the two walked away.
“She's some fiery, an' that's a fact!” observed Cherokee in assent.
The result of the talk with “The Cactus” found its way about Wolfville, and in less than an hour bore its hateful fruit. The peaceful quiet of the Red Light, which, as a rule, was wounded by no harsher notes than the flutter of a stack of chips, was rudely broken.
“Gents who ain't interested, better hunt a lower limb!”
It was the voice of Cottonwood Wasson. The trained instincts of Wolfville at once grasped the trouble, and proceeded to hide its many heads behind barrels, tables, counters, and anything which promised refuge from the bullets.