"P'utty sporty clothes you got on. I reckon some o' my boys needs them worse 'n you do."
"Yes, I reckon," said one of the guerillas, slouching up and leering into Al's face. It was the fellow whom Al had knocked down and he could leer with only one eye for the other was closed and the flesh around it had already turned blue-black in color. He glanced down at Al's shoes, which had been purchased in Kansas City.
"Those look about my size," said he, comparing them with his own broken-down cowhide boots. "I'll take them before I shoot you."
He knelt down and began to unlace one of the shoes. Al's anger and contempt were so great that he had lost all sense of discretion. But he showed his feelings in unusual ways.
"Certainly; help yourself," said he, in a smooth tone of mocking politeness, thrusting his foot a little way forward. "I always like to have a nigger take care of my shoes for me."
The crowd laughed uproariously and the ruffian sprang to his feet and slapped Al across the mouth.
"Take 'em off yerself an' hand 'em to me!" he shouted.
Al looked around at the other men.
"If you will untie my hands and leave me free to use them," said he, "I will hand you my shoes,—and something more." He glanced significantly at the guerilla's still uninjured eye.