“Yes, I am.”
“I won’t hurt you, Miss Leslie Gordon. I remember you first-rate. Got that little white handkercher that you done up my hand in the day I burned it so at the Alton camp yet.”
“You might not hurt me, but I think you would hurt my dog.”
“Yes, Miss Gordon, I’m ’bleeged t’ say that if I had a shootin’ iron in my hands jest now I’d be mighty glad t’ let daylight through that dog o’ yourn. He’s too fractious t’ live in the same country as a white man.”
I grasped the revolver tighter. “How came you in the cavern?”
“Well, if you want t’ know, I took a drop too much at the dance last night, an’ the ole man, he’d said if sech a thing as that ar’ took place again he’d feel obligated t’ give me the marble heart. Mighty cranky the ole man is. So I jest wended up here along, thinkin’ I’d bunk with the ole hermutt till I got a little nigher straight. It’s a thing that don’t often happen,” he added, in self-extenuation; “but the party, it done got away with me. Now you know all about it, an’ you’d better hand over them weapons.”
“YOU BETTER HAND OVER THEM WEAPONS!”
(Page [220])
In spite of his civility, he was plainly angry, and I was the more resolved not to yield. The storm had been gradually lessening, the rain had subsided to a mere drizzle, and, in the increasing silence, I plainly heard the musical tinkle of old Cleo’s bell. It came from beyond the ridge, so that it was certain that the cows were in the little green valley where I had hoped to find them. I started to climb the ridge, remarking over my shoulder to the baffled cowboy, “You’ll find your things in the pine, where I told you.”