Then the little man went to the door and called out scornfully: “Come in, you damn cowards! He’s gone!”
Shadowy forms grew out of the starlight, with whistlings, answered from afar; more shadows came.
“Is Caney dead?” inquired a voice.
“Hell, I don’t know and I don’t care!” answered the little man truculently. “I had no time to look at Caney, not knowing when that devil would hop me. See for yourself.”
The crowd struggled in—but not all of them. Weir came in groaning, his face distorted with pain as he fondled his crippled arm. The Merman examined Caney. “Dead, nothing,” he reported. “Knocked out. He won’t breathe easy again for a week. Bring some whisky and a pail of water. Isn’t this fine? I don’t think! Billiard table ruined—plate-glass mirror shot to pieces—half a dozen men crippled, and that damned little hell hound got off scot-free!”
“You mention your men last, I notice,” sneered the little man. “Art Price has got three of his back ribs caved in, and Lanning needs a full set of teeth—to say nothing of them run over by the stampede. Jiminy, but you’re a fine bunch!”
They poured water on Caney’s head, and they poured whisky down Caney’s throat; he gasped, spluttered, opened his eyes, and sat up, assisted by Hales and the Merman.
“Here—four of you chaps carry Caney to the doc,” ordered the Merman. “Take that door—break off the other hinge. Tell doc a windlass got away from him and the handle struck him in the breast. Tell him that he stopped the ore bucket from smashing the men at the bottom—sob stuff. Coach Caney up, before you go in. He’s not so bad—he’s coming to. Fresh air will do him good, likely. Drag it, now.”
“Say, Travis, I didn’t see you doin’ so much,” muttered one of the gangsters as Caney was carried away, deathly sick. He eyed the little man resentfully. “Seems to me like you talk pretty big.”
The little man turned on him in a fury.