“I'm a poor prune at the best,” Pink said stubbornly, “but I am not going to let you go into that place alone. You can rave all you want.”
“Very well. Then we'll both stay here. You are about as quiet as a horse going through a corn patch.”
After some moments Pink spoke again.
“If you insist on stealing the whole show,” he said, sulkily, “what am I to do? Run to town for help, if you need it?”
“I'm not going to round up the outfit, if there is one. I haven't lost my mind. I'll see what is going on, or about to go on. Then I'll come back.”
“Here?”
Cameron considered.
“Better meet at the machine,” he decided, after a glance at the sky. “In half an hour you won't be able to see your hand in front of you. Wait here for a half-hour or so, and then start back, and for heaven's sake don't shoot at anything you see moving. As a matter of fact, I might as well have your revolver. I won't need it, but it may avoid any accidental shooting by a youth I both love and admire!”
“If I hear any shooting, I'll come in,” Pink said, still sulky.
“Come in and welcome,” said Willy Cameron, and Pink knew he was smiling.