“If he puts on single word about me in that paper of hisn,” I says, gittin’ on my ear good and plenty, “I’ll just natu’ally take him acrosst my knee and give him a spankin’.”
“And he’ll put enough slugs in you t’ make a sinker,” answers Buckshot. “Why, Cupid, Hank Shackleton can fight his weight in wildcats. You go slow.”
“But he cain’t shoot,” I says.
“He cain’t shoot!” repeats Buckshot. “Why, I hear he was a reg’lar gun-fighter oncet, and so blamed fancy with his shootin’ that he could drive a two-penny nail into a plank at twenty yards ev’ry bit as good as a carpenter.”
“Wal,” I says, “I’ll be blasted if that’s got me scairt any.”
Buckshot shook his haid. “I’m right sorry t’ see any bad blood ’twixt y’,” he says.
Next thing, it was all over town that Hank was a-lookin’ fer me.
Afterwards, I heerd that it was Hairoil tole Macie about it. “You know,” he says to her, “whenever Hank’s loaded and in hollerin’ distance of a town, you can shore bet some one’s goin’ t’ git hurt.”
Mace, she looked a little bit nervous. But she just said, “I reckon Alec can take keer of hisself.” Then off she goes to pick out a trunk at Silverstein’s.
I reckon, though, that ole Silverstein ’d heerd about the trouble, too. So when Mace come back to the eatin’-house, she sit down and writ me a letter. “Friend Alec,” it said, “I want to see you fer a minute right after supper. Macie Sewell.”