Just then–“Sheriff! sheriff!” (It was the widda, one hand helt out towards him.)
A great idear come to me then. I put my best friend back into my pocket. “I won’t interfere fer a while yet,” I says to myself. “Mebbe this is where they’ll be a show-down.”
“Cupid,” says Bergin, “what’s the matter?”
I fit my way to him. “They think you throwed this rock, here,” I answers.
“The low-down, ornery, lay-in-the-sun-and-snooze good-fer-nothin’s is likely t’ think ’most any ole thing,” he says. “Pedro, let go my arm.”
Just then, one of the cholos come runnin’ up with a rope!
The section-boss seen things was gittin’ pretty serious. He begun to wrastle with the feller that had the rope. Next, all the women and kids set up another howlin’, Mrs. Bridger cryin’ the worst. But I wasn’t ready to play my last card. I stepped out in front of the gang and helt up my hand.
“Boys,” I says; “boys! Give the man a chanst t’ talk. Why, this rock ain’t like the rocks on the Butte.”
“You blamed idjits!” yells Bergin. “Use you’ haids! How could I ’a’ hefted the darned thing?”
“Aw, he couldn’t ’a’ done it!” (This from the widda, mind y’,–hands t’gether, and comin’ clost.)