“I thought you said you was goin' to lock Dunk up in the blacksmith shop,” he launched accusingly at Andy.
“We did,” averred that young man, pushing his toe against the railing to accelerate the voluptuous motion of the hammock.
“He ain't there. He's broke loose. The chain—by golly, yuh went an' used that chain that was broke an' jest barely hangin' together! His horse ain't anywheres around, either. You fellers make me sick. Lollin' around here an' not paying no attention, by golly—he's liable to be ten mile from here by this time!” When Slim stopped, his jaw quivered like a dish of disturbed jelly, and I wish I could give you his tone; choppy, every sentence an accusation that should have made those fellows wince.
Irish, Big Medicine and Jack Bates had sprung guiltily to their feet and started down the steps. The drawling voice of the Native Son stopped them, ten feet from the porch.
“Twelve, or fifteen, I should make it. That horse of his looked to me like a drifter.”
“Well—are yuh goin' t' set there on your haunches an' let him GO?” Slim, by the look of him, was ripe for murder.
“You want to look out, or you'll get apoplexy sure,” Andy soothed, giving himself another luxurious push and pulling the last, little whiff from his cigarette before he threw away the stub. “Fat men can't afford to get as excited as skinny ones can.”
“Aw, say! Where did you put him, Andy?” asked Big Medicine, his first flurry subsiding before the absolute calm of those two on the porch.
“In the blacksmith shop,” said Andy, with a slurring accent on the first word that made the whole sentence perfectly maddening. “Ah, come on back here and sit down. I guess we better tell 'em the how of it. Huh, Mig?”
Miguel cast a slow, humorous glance over the four. “Ye-es—they'll have us treed in about two minutes if we don't,” he assented. “Go ahead.”