“It’s our’n!” the boy went on with curious vehemence. “Like dis here,” snatching an old knife from his pocket and shaking it in his tight fist, “ter t’row away, ter sell, er ter keep, and nobuddy got nuttin’ ter say about it?”
“Just that, laddybuck. That and nothing else.”
“No more slinkin’ an’ snoopin’ aroun’ dodgin’ der coppers; no more stallin’ fer der push; no more dirt of no kind—say, I can’t git dat jus’ in a minute.”
He stood grappling with the new idea. In the search an old one came to the top. His face changed rapidly. The furtive, hunted look returned. In a tone, the odd quiet of which contrasted with the former heat, he spoke again. “Yer for me, now, ain’t yer, Jim? If—if der Gun should happen ter come here, yer wouldn’t t’row me down at dis stage of der game?”
The big man answered him with an equal soberness. He thrust a hand before the boy’s eyes—a splendid hand, massive and corded at the base, running out to long, shapely, intelligent fingers, and every line in it spoke of power.
“Do you see that hand, Ches?”
“Yessir.”
“If the ‘Gun’ shows his face where that hand can get a grip on him, it will do the business for him in one squeeze, and if the hand can’t reach, there’s a rifle inside that can. Now get that out of your mind once for all.”
“Well—” said the boy, “well—aw, I’ll be damned, dat’s all I kin say, Jim,” and rushed into the house.
The miner leaned back and laughed, and blew his nose; and laughed again and blew his nose again; then he wiped the dust out of his eyes, swore a few words himself, and followed the boy within.