“You blamed polecat,” he hollered, “I’ll learn you t’ shoot off you’ mouth when it ain’t loaded! You’ hands ain’t mates and you’ feet don’t track, and I’m a-goin’ t’ plumb lay you out!”
I just stayed where I was. “What’s in you’ craw, anyhow?” I called back.
He didn’t answer. He let fly!
Wal, sir, I doubled up like a jack-knife, and went down kerflop. The boys got ’round me–say! talk about you’ pale-faces!–and yelled to Hank to stop. He drawed another gun, and, just as I got t’ my feet, went backin’ off, coverin’ the crowd all the time, and warnin’ ’em not t’ mix in.
They didn’t. But someone else did–Mace. Quick as a wink, she reached into a buckboard fer a whip. Next, she run straight up to Hank–and give him a turrible lick!
He dropped his pistols and put his two arms acrosst his eyes. “Mace! don’t!” he hollered. (It’d sobered him, seemed like.) Then, he turned and took to his heels.
That same second, I heerd a yell–Bergin’s voice. Next, the sheriff come tearin’ ’round the corner and tackled Hank. The two hit the ground like a thousand of brick.
Mace come runnin’ towards me, then. But the boys haided her off, and wouldn’t let her git clost.
“Blood’s runnin’ all down this side of him,” says Monkey Mike.
Shore enough, it was!