“Yes,” says Enright, “the windmill is, as experience has showed, amply upholstered for sech plays; an' as delays is aggravatin', the committee might as well go wanderin' over now, an' get this yere ceremony off its mind.”
“See yere, Mr. Pres'dent!” interrupts Cheyenne Bill in tones of one ill-used, “what for a deal is this I rises to ask?”
“You can gamble this is a squar' game,” replies Enright confidently. “You're entitled to your say when the committee is done. Jest figure out what kyards you needs, an' we deals to you in a minute.”
“I solely wants to know if my voice is to be regarded in this yere play, that's all,” retorts Cheyenne Bill.
“Gents,” says Doc Peets, who has been silently listening. “I'm with you on this hangin'. These Eastern sharps is here in our midst. It'll impress 'em that Wolfville means business, an' it's a good, safe, quiet place. They'll carry reports East as will do us credit, an' thar you be. As to the propriety of stringin' Cheyenne, little need be said. If the Chinaman ain't enough, if assaultin' of an innocent tenderfoot ain't enough, you can bet he's done plenty besides as merits a lariat. He wouldn't deny it himse'f if you asks him.”
There is a silence succeeding the rather spirited address of Doc Peets, on whose judgment Wolfville has been taught to lean. At last Enright breaks it by inquiring of Cheyenne Bill if he has anything to offer.
“I reckons it's your play now, Cheyenne,” he says, “so come a-runnin.'”
“Why!” urges Cheyenne Bill, disgustedly, “these proceedin's is ornery an' makes me sick. I shore objects to this hangin'; an' all for a measly Chinaman too! This yere Wolfville outfit is gettin' a mighty sight too stylish for me. It's growin' that per-dad-binged-'tic'lar it can't take its reg'lar drinks, an'——”
“Stop right thar!” says Enright, with dignity, rapping a shoe-box with his six-shooter; “don't you cuss the chair none, 'cause the chair won't have it. It's parliamentary law, if any gent cusses the chair he's out of order, same as it's law that all chips on the floor goes to the house. When a gent's out of order once, that settles it. He can't talk no more that meetin'. Seein' we're aimin' to eliminate you, we won't claim nothin' on you this time. But be careful how you come trackin' 'round ag'in, an' don't fret us! Sabe? Don't you-all go an' fret us none!”
“I ain't allowin' to fret you,” retorts Cheyenne Bill. “I don't have to fret you. What I says is this: I s'pose, I sees fifty gents stretched by one passel of Stranglers or another between yere an' The Dalis, an' I never does know a party who's roped yet on account of no Chinaman. An' I offers a side bet of a blue stack, it ain't law to hang people on account of downin' no Chinaman. But you-alls seems sot on this, an' so I tells you what I'll do. I'm a plain gent an' thar's no filigree work on me. If it's all congenial to the boys yere assembled—not puttin' it on the grounds of no miser'ble hop slave, but jest to meet public sentiment half way—I'll gamble my life, hang or no hang, on the first ace turned from the box, Cherokee deal. Does it go?”