“Shore!” exclaimed the Cochino Colorow, picking up a rifle that stood in the corner. “An’ bein’ plumb timid that a-way, of course I’ll neither bat an eye nor wag a year ag’in the outrage.”
The Cochino Colorow cocked the Winchester. Mr. Sopris shook his head, as might one whose good nature had been abused.
“That’s plenty!” said Mr. Sopris. “Since sech is your attitoode of voylence, we jest won’t search this joint.”
“No, I don’t reckon none you will,” retorted the Cochino Colorow, fingering the Winchester. “You two delegates from Ogallala had better hit the trail for home. An’ don’t you never come pirootin’ into North Platte searchin’ for things no more.”
Mr. Masterson and Cimarron overheard this conversation, and the dialogue so affected the latter that Mr. Masterson had his work cut out to keep him in his blankets. As the colloquy ended and the retreating footfalls told the departure of the committee from Ogallala, Cimarron, sore, sick and exhausted, turned his face to the wall with a sigh of shame.
“Bat,” he said, pleadingly, “would you mind leavin’ the room a moment while I blush?” Then he continued while his tears flowed: “We’re a fine pair of centipedes to lie bunched up in yere while the Red Hog plays our hands!”
“They were only four-flushing,” said Mr. Masterson, soothingly, by way of consolation.
In the corral to the rear of the Bank Exchange stood a ramshackle phaeton, which was one of the sights that North Platte showed to tourists. This conveyance belonged to the mother-in-law of the Cochino Colorow. The lady in question, who was of a precise, inveterate temper, was in the East visiting relatives, and the Cochino Colorow, after sundry drinks to convey his courage to the needed height, endowed Mr. Masterson and Cimarron with the phaeton to assist them in a cross-country break for Dodge. After this generous act the Cochino Colorow was troubled in spirit.
“I’ll fight Injuns for fun,” explained the Cochino Colorow, defensively to Mr. Masterson, “but whether you deems me weak or not, I simply shudders when I think of my said mother-in-law an’ what she’ll say about that buggy. But what could we-all do? Cimarron has got to vamos. Them Ogallala sharps will most likely be showin’ up to-morry with a warrant an’ a comp’ny of milishy, an’ that vehicle is the one avenoo of escape. While her language will be mighty intemperate, still, in the cause of friendship, a gent must even face his mother-in-law.”
“What do you reckon she’ll do?” asked Mr. Masterson, who was not a little disturbed by the evident peril of the good Cochino Colorow. “Mebby Cimarron had better give himself up.”