“You'd kick, by golly, if you was goin' to be hung,” Slim bantered tritely and belatedly, and gulped remorsefully when he saw that he was “joshing” an unconscious man.
“We better get him home. Irish, you—” Weary looked up and discovered that Irish and jack Bates were already headed for home and a conveyance. He gave a sigh of approval and turned his attention toward wiping the sweat and grime from Happy's face with his handkerchief.
“Somebody else is goin' to git hit, by golly, if we stay here,” Slim blurted suddenly, when another bullet dug up the dirt in that vicinity.
“That gol-darned fool'll keep on till he kills somebody. I wisht I had m' thirty-thirty here—I'd make him wisht his mother was a man, by golly!”
Big Medicine looked toward the coulee rim. “I ain't got a shell left,” he growled regretfully. “I wisht we'd thought to tell the boys to bring them rifles. Say, Slim, you crawl onto your hoss and go git 'em. It won't take more'n a minute. There'll likely be some shells in the magazines.”
“Go on, Slim,” urged Weary grimly. “We've got to do something. They can't do a thing like this—” he glanced down at Happy Jack— “and get away with it.”
“I got half a box uh shells for my thirty-thirty, I'll bring that.” Slim turned to go, stopped short and stared at the coulee rim. “By golly, they're comm' over here!” he exclaimed.
Big Medicine glanced up, took off his hat, crumpled it for a pillow and eased Happy Jack down upon it. He got up stiffly, wiped his fingers mechanically upon his trouser legs, broke his gun open just to make sure that it was indeed empty, put it back and picked up a handful of rocks.
“Let 'em come,” he said viciously. “I c'n kill every damn' one with m' bare hands!”