“Git up, you sufferin’ fool!” he whispered hoarsely; “they’re here!”
Taylor’s eyes snapped open and were fixed on Bud with a resentful glare, which instantly changed to reserved amusement when he saw Bud’s bulging eyes and general evidence of suppressed excitement.
He yawned sleepily, stretching his arms wide.
“The outfit, eh? Well, tell Bothwell I’ll see him——”
“Bothwell, hell!” sneered Bud. “It ain’t the outfit! It ain’t no damned range boss! It’s her, I tell you! An’ if you’re figgerin’ on gittin’ that ankle bandaged before— That starts you to runnin’, eh?” he jeered.
For Taylor was out of bed with one leap. In another he had Bud by the shoulders and had crowded him back against the wall.
“Bud,” he said, “I’ve a notion to manhandle you! Didn’t I tell you to have me up early?”
“Git your fingers out of my windpipe,” objected Bud. “Early! Sufferin’ shorthorns! Did you want me to git you up last night? It’s only four, now—an’ they’ve been here for hours, I reckon—mebbe all night. How’s a man to know anything about a woman?”
Taylor was getting into his clothes. Bud watched him, marveling at his deft movements. “You’re sure a wolf at hustlin’ when she’s around!” he offered.
But he got no reply. Taylor was dressed in a miraculously short time, and then he sat down on the edge of the bed and stuck a foot out toward Bud.