“Gents,” says Monkey Mike, “soon as ever Briggs hears of our committee, we’re a-goin’ t’ git pop’lar with the nice people, ’cause we’re tryin’ t’ help Hank. And we’re also goin’ t’ git a black eye with the licker men account of shuttin’ off the Shackleton trade. A-course, us punchers must try t’ make it up t’ the thirst-parlours fer the loss, though I admit it ’ll not be a’ easy proposition. But things is desp’rate. If Walker gits in, we’ll have a nasty deputy-sheriff sent up here t’ cross us ev’ry time we make a move. We got t’ work, gents. You know how I feel. By thunder! Bergin treated me square all right over that Andrews fuss.” (Y’ see, Mike’s a grateful little devil, if he does ride like a fool Englishman.)
“Wal,” says Buckshot Milliken, “who’ll be the first sergeant? I call fer a volunteer.”
All the fellers just kept quiet–but they looked at each other, worried like.
“Don’t all speak to oncet,” says Buckshot.
I got up. “I’m willin’ t’ try my hand,” I says.
“Thank y’, Cupid.” It was Buckshot, earnest as the dickens. “But–but we hope you’re goin’ to go slow with Hank. Don’t do nothin’ foolish.”
“What in thunder ’s got into you fellers?” I ast, lookin’ at ’em. “Is Hank got the hydrophoby?”
“You ain’t saw him since he begun t’ drink, I reckon,” says Chub.
“No.”
“Wal, then.”