“To show you that he’s blooded and doesn’t mind expense,
He stands around a-scorchin’ of his eight-dollar pants!”
Brown whirled. “Have ye got a gun?” he snarled savagely.
“Betcher. Always!” said Tinnin; “and I know how to use it.”
Crack! Bang! Bang! Bang!
They emptied their guns over the fire. Harris was sitting directly between them. They were using blank cartridges, but of course Harris didn’t know that, so he went right away.
When he came back Tinnin was stretched out, all bloody (beef’s blood) over his breast and face; the conspirators were huddled, whispering.
Harris came up scared, white and shaking. Ward and Brown grabbed him. Says Ward, gritting his teeth:
“My bucko, you’ll swing for this!”
It flashed on the tramp that they meant to lay the “murder” on him. He begged awful as they took him in, leaving the corpse and the cook to watch the wagon. It was great sport from our point of view—and in that light.
In town Brown told the boys the tramp had killed poor Jeff; and turned him over to Mossman, the “appointed” sheriff.