"I ain't got a friend but my hawss an' gun,
The last kin shoot an' the first kin run,
An' I'm a rovin' son-of-a-gun,
An' this is my night to howl."
"He's a cool sort of a cuss," said Sam to Mormon. "I reckon he's a bad actor, but there's sure somethin' erbout the galoot I like. He ain't over fond of Plimsoll, that's a sure thing, if he is workin' fo' him. Wonder why?"
"They tell me," replied Mormon, "thet Plimsoll's apt to be fond of the other feller's gal. He ain't satisfied with what he can pick for himself. T'otheh feller's apple allus has a sweeter core. I w'udn't wondeh but what that was the trouble. Plim ain't got any mo' respect fo' wimmen than hell has fo' fryin' souls."
"Uh-huh! He w'udn't go round pickin' a scrap with Roarin' Russell on their account, fer instance?"
Mormon paid no attention to the friendly gibe. As they entered the street of the camp, largely deserted, though there was every evidence of crowds forgetting time in the drinking and gambling shacks, Sandy moved up even with Wyatt and locked arms with him.
"I ain't goin' ter make no break," said Wyatt. "Here's Plim's. Jest you let me go in ahead through the door. I've seen you use your guns. I ain't suicidin'."
They allowed him to go in first, unescorted. Their plans held no further reprisal against Wyatt.