“It’s fun to handle them and clip their wings,” said Barry Brown.
“You bet,” said his captain, “and we are the boys that can do it.”
“I feel just like having a nice little knock down and pick ’em up sort of little tea party,” said the tall, lanky stableman; “I’ve only had enough so far to make me hungry for a good square shindy, and I feel as though I could fairly walk through a good-sized crowd of hard nuts.”
“You’ll have enough to do, Jack,” said the young Mexican. “Sinyaro is a rascal—a big rascal, but he will fight like a tiger. While he lives his men will never give in, so I advise you to try and kill him off the first thing.”
“And spile all the illegant little ruction entirely?” roared Barney Shea, before Jack could say a word. “Be off wid ye, ye little haythen! Bedad, now that it is meself that knows what’s what, be my sowl, I’ll let the divilish thafe go out of me grasp if I should happen to put me purty paws upon him, so I would. Musha, my gad! would ye put a sudden ind to an illegant row?”
Pedro was silenced.
“Course not—course not,” glibly said Pomp, examining those deadly long-range revolvers. “Nebber do, sar, nebber do in the warld. What fo’ you tink we come all dis yar way if you is gwine to cut off de rumpus in de middle, eh, Massa Pedro? Dis yar fire-top gemmen and me we’se de rattlin’ gamecocks or dis yar party, we is; yes, sar, an’ don’t yer forget dat, nudder.”
“You shall have all the fun you want, my colored friend,” said Barry Brown; “but just now I want something solid to eat if I’m booked to do any work.”
Pedro spoke to several of his neighbors, and they speedily prepared meals for the hungry party.
Pomp, being blessed with remarkably powerful eyesight, was stationed upon one of the housetops to note the advent of the robber band, and there he sat eating and watching for over twenty minutes.