“That’s fair and business-like, you skunk!” cried Cartter. “Peel yourself and waltz out here!”
“Mr. Jones,” said the “war-hoss of the hills,” in a mild conciliatory tone, “I am satisfied that this man is a friend of yours. You might insult me and banter me and tear me all to pieces, but against a friend of yours I’d never lift a hand. Now your friend is of the right stripe; I like his looks. Thar’s no use of two good men a-fightin for nothin, so I’ll tell you what you best do. You give him $500 and me $500 an’ we’ll work together. The two of us could chaw up the town—we’d be a terror to it.”
“No,” said Jones, “you won’t do. You ain’t game, you—”
“He’s a dunghill!” chipped in Cartter.
“I can’t fight in a room,” said the fellow; “I have never yet had a fight in a room. I don’t like it.”
THE SCARED BULLY.
“I guess you’re not struck after it anywhere!” said Cartter.
“It is rather close to fight in a room,” said Jones. Then turning to the fellow, whose eyes were still wandering in the direction of Cartter’s coat-tails, he handed him a twenty-dollar gold piece, saying; “Take this: I hire you for my open-air fighter. You are never to fight for me except in the open air and where there is a good chance for you to run.”
“Thank you Mr. Jones,” said the fellow, pocketing the coin and making for the door. “Thank you, and if I ever see a show to put in a lick for you I’ll not forget to do it.”