And then, alas! All my joy departed and went away, for when my eye happened to slide behind me, it fell on a Tonto brave—a full-sized Tonto-Yuma brave, that ought to be seen at Camp Grant, dressed in a pocket handkerchief, a pair of moccasins, and a large rifle.
"By-by, my honey, I'm gone!" I sings to myself—never missin' a step, however, for to let that Injun know I was on to him would be a sign of bad luck. I wiggled around kind of careless to see if there was any more of him. There was. Nine more. Here was Saunders Colorado and Colin Hiccup Grunt, fortified by—say six, drops of Scotch whiskey, a Scotch sword and a Scotch bagpipe, up against ten Tontos armed with rifles. I would have traded my life interest in this world for an imitation dead yaller dog. "Oh, they won't do a thing to us, thing to us, thing to us!" sings I to myself, hoppin' around so gleefully, keepin' time to the bagpipes. "Whoop her up, Colin!" I hollers. "On with the dance, let joy be unconfined!" That was in my school reader, so it ought to be true. My joy was unconfined all right enough—she'd flew the coop long since.
[Illustration: "Whoop her up, Colin!" I hollers]
At that Colin really turned himself loose. He'd warmed to the occasion and climbed into the spirit of the thing. His eyes was shut and he was leaping five foot in the air at a pass, wagglin' his head from side to side. And as for them bagpipes, he simply blew the mangled remains of all the sounds since the flood out of the big end—he took silence by her hind leg and flapped her into rags.
I pranced like a colt, wonderin' why we didn't get shot or something. At last I couldn't stand feeling all them hard-coal eyes behind me, so I whirls around as if I'd simply waited my time, and capered down that line of Injuns, wavin' the sword over their heads, looking far away, and smilin' the easy grin of the gentleman who pets the tiger in the circus parade.
"Oh, Colin!" I chants, as if it was part of a war-song; "understand English for once in your life and keep that squealer yelpin' or these ham-coloured sons of Satan will play a tune on us—give it to 'em, Colin, my b-o-o-y—let the good work go ah-ah-ah-ah-on!"
I reckon he made me out, for, after one sharp blat (I suppose when he opened his eyes), the old bagpipes went on whining same as before.
I made two trips up and down the line, then flung the sword up in the air and yelled: "Bastante!"