“Sort of continuing the little nap you was taking when he roped you, eh?” asked Shields, holding his sides.
“Nap nothing! Nap nothing!” yelled the other in profane denial. “I wasn’t asleep, I tell yu! I was wide awake! He got th’ drop on me, and then that cussed rope of his’n was everywhere! Th’ air was plumb full of rope and guns! I didn’t have no show! Not a bit of a show! Oh, just wait till I get him! Why, I heard my pardners talking as they hunted for me, and there I was not twenty feet away from them all the time, helpless! They’re fine lookers, they are! Wait till I sees them, too! I’ll tell ’em a few things, all right!”
“Well, I reckon you may see one or two of them, if they’re lucky–and you can’t beat a fool for luck,” replied the sheriff. “They want to be angels; they’re on his trail now.”
“Hope they get him!” yelled the puncher, dancing with rage. “Hope they burn him at th’ stake! Hope they scalp him, an’ hash him, an’ saw his arms off, an’ cave his roof in! Hope they make him eat his fingers and toes! Hope––”
“You’re some hopeful to-day,” responded the sheriff. “If you like them, you better hope they don’t get him. That’s hoping real hope.”
“Wait till I get him!” the puncher repeated, grabbing for his Colt, being too enraged to notice its absence. “I’ll show him if he can tie a man up an’ leave him to choke to death, an’ starve an’ roast! I’ll show him if he can run this country like he owns it, shooting and abusing everybody he wants to!”
“All right, Sonny,” Shields laughed. “I’ll shore wait till you gets him, if I live long enough. But for your sake I shore hope you never finds him. He wouldn’t get any more reputation if he killed you, and your friends would miss you.”
“Don’t yu let that worry yu!” retorted the enraged man. “I can take care of myself in a mix-up, all right! An’ I’m going to chase after my friends an’ take a hand in th’ game, too, by God! He ain’t going to leave me high an’ dry an’ live to boast about it! But I suppose you reckon yu’ll stop me, hey?”
Shields raised both hands high in the air in denial. “I wouldn’t think of such a thing, not for the world,” he cried, laughter shaking his big frame. “You can go any place you please, only I’d take a gun if I was going after him,” he added, eyeing the empty holster. “You know, you might need it,” he was very grave in his use of the subjunctive.
The puncher slapped his hand to his thigh and then jumped high into the air: “––! ––!” he shouted. “Stole my gun! Stole my gun!” Then he paused suddenly and his face cleared. “But I’ve got something better’n a Colt on my cayuse!” he cried as he leaped toward the edge of the cañon. “An’ I’ll give him all it holds, too!” he threatened as he bumped and slid to the bottom. The sheriff took more care and time in descending and had just reached the trail when he heard a heart-rending yell, followed by a sizzling stream of throbbing profanity.