“I knowed he'd git hurt,” he explained to the bandage, torn from the edge of his kerchief, which he carefully bound around his last wound.
Down in the arroyo Johnny was complaining.
“This yer's a no good bunk,” he plaintively remarked.
“It shore ain't—but it's th' best we kin find,” apologized Billy.
“That's th' sixth that feller sent up there. He's a damn poor shot,” observed Johnny; “must be Shorty.”
“Shorty kin shoot plum' good—tain't him,” contradicted Billy.
“Yas—with a six-shooter. He's off'n his feed with a rifle,” explained Johnny.
“Yu wants to stay down from up there, yu ijit,” warned Billy as the disgusted Johnny crawled up the bank. He slid down again with a welt on his neck.
“That's somebody else now. He oughter a done better'n that,” he said.
Billy had fired as Johnny started to slide and he smoothed his aggrieved chum. “He could onct, yu means.”