"No! Nor devil!" cried Farrell.
"Nor no more do I!" said Dan, turning on Apache Kid. "Nor no more do I. And if the loss o' the hosses don't cut any figure to you, it don't no more to us, for we 're goin' through with you right to the end."
But I thought that a something about his underlip, as I saw it in the shadows of the fire, belied his strong statement. Apache Kid was of my opinion, for he looked keenly in Dan's face and remarked: "A very good bluff, Daniel."
"Don't you Daniel me!" cried the man. "You 're gettin' too derned fresh and frisky and gettin' to fancy yourself."
"That's right. A bluff should be sustained," said Apache Kid, insolently, and then dropping the conversation, as though it were of absolutely no moment, he rolled himself again in his blanket. And this he had no sooner done—unconcerned, untroubled, heedless of any possible villainy of these two men—than Pinkerton's voice spoke behind me:
"He 's a good man spoiled, is that Apache Kid. I could ha' been doin' with a son like that."
"I think you 're kind o' a soft mark, right enough," sneered Farrell to the now recumbent form of Apache Kid. "I think you 're too soft to scare me."
Apache Kid was up in a moment.
"Soft!" he cried, "soft!"
And on his face was the look that he gave the Italian livery-stable keeper at Camp Kettle, only, as the saying is, more so.