To Jack’s surprise the first act of his host was to produce a whiskey bottle which he placed to his mouth, taking a long swig, offering the same to Hamlin.
“No, thank you,” said Jack, “I don’t like your brand.”
“Good shot, that leaves the more for me,” and the miner took another big swig.
Quiet reigned for a few minutes, when suddenly, with a demoniacal yell, Slack drew his gun and aiming it at one of the windows, emptied the six shots in as many seconds, crying out, “I got him then, didn’t you see him? It was Paddy Mann, whom they say I killed last year. There, I saw him tumble over the cliff,” and the now thoroughly drunken man shrieked with laughter.
Another libation was indulged in, and looking at the other window Slack shuddered, exclaiming, “Ah, there is the Dutchman after me; what does he want? Let me take a pop at him,” and again was the revolver emptied into the window, provoking much maudlin merriment from the gunner.
Hamlin laid quietly in bed all this time, feeling a sense of more security by so doing, but on the alert with his own gun if it became necessary to defend himself.
The bottle was again produced and the liquor went gurgling down Slack’s throat. “That was Hans Schmidt that I finished. What was he doing around here, do you suppose?”
“Hold on, hold on,” he shrieked, “here comes Ah Lim, the Chinaman, I can see him dodging behind the rocks; let me go out and pepper him.”
Six shots again rang out in the air, and throwing himself on the ill-smelling bed, Slack pulled one of the skins over his head to shut out the gruesome sight his imagination had conjured up.
“That Chinaman ought to know better ’n to come round this yere cabin. I told him so, but he, too, has fallen over the slide and I’ll never be bothered by him. They been coming purty thick tonight, but I’ve done a good job, and now I’ll have another drink.”