XI
THE REVOLT OF A SHEEP
“There is nothing more terrible than the revolt of a sheep,” said De Marsay.—Balzac.
“OH, shut up, Hank! Dang it! Hain’t you goin’ to let a feller sleep none? How can I be strong enough to keep from snivellin’ in the mornin’, if I don’t get my sleep?”
A small man with a thin, weak face, that might have suggested the vacuous countenance of a sheep had it not been for an expression of anguish and childish petulance, sat up among a bunch of furs in the corner of the cabin. He supported himself tremblingly upon an arm and stared with watery, haggard eyes upon Hank, who regarded him wistfully.
Hank was a big man and raw-boned. His big, quiet, hirsute face contrasted strongly with the face of the other. About his waist hung a belt containing a pair of six-shooters. Since the dark had fallen he had been pacing nervously back and forth across the cabin floor, his eyebrows knit, his face twitching, now and then offering a soft word of comfort to the little man who lay among the furs in the corner breathing fitfully.
“Cuss your hide, Hank! You know I hain’t slep’ none for a week, and you go on a-trampin’ and a-gabbin’ till you got me all on needles! Why can’t you leave me be? O damn it!”
The last words were more like a sob than a curse; and the white, thin face and quivering lips seemed too impotent for the words. Hank stopped pacing up and down, and with his fists resting upon his hips he stared at the little man.
“Now, Sheep,” he drawled kindly, “you hain’t got no call to talk that away. Hain’t I tryin’ to be your friend to the finish? I was just thinkin’ to cheer you up so’s you’d make a respect’ble, manly hangin’. I didn’t go to rile you.”