“Kin I,” he said, “get my gun? You got me licked.”
“Go on, get it,” Roy said shortly. “But you’ll give us no more funny work. My brother and I are out for a walk, and we intend to continue it. Understand?”
“There’ll be no more shootin’,” Maryland asserted. “I’m sober now—I wasn’t before.”
He walked toward his gun and picked it up. Then, while the boys watched him, he re-entered the hall, a different man than when he had come out. The crowd dispersed, after shouting congratulations to Roy for his nerve and marksmanship. The whole affair was taken by most of the men as a matter of course, just an item in the life of a mining camp.
“I reckon you got your welcome,” Teddy remarked, as he and Roy left the glow of light for the darkness of the farther end of the street. “They’ll know you now.”
“Maybe. You know, that was a lucky shot. Maryland was drunk, and there was no telling where his next bullet would go. I really tried to put his arm out of commission. But it served—hitting his gun.”
“Sure did!” Teddy agreed. “Maryland! That’s a fine name for a man!”
“I don’t believe he’s such a terror as he thinks he is. Did you hear the crowd jeer him?” asked Roy musingly.
“Yes. He’s the kind who goes wild all of a sudden and needs a good sock on the jaw to bring him to. No real harm in him when he’s sober, I guess. Golly! this is a real sure-enough mining camp, isn’t it? We no sooner get to it than we have to use guns. I suppose every man is his own police force here.”
“With reservations. The toughs know that if they shoot up the place the military will enter and put this camp under martial law. So they have to watch their step.”