“There’s no wolf or vulture on the prairies of Texas ugly as yourself. Dastardly dog!”
“Ah! you’d like to get me angry? But you can’t. I’m cool as a cowkumber—aint I? Your dander’s up, I can see. Keep it down. No good your gettin’ excited. I s’pose you’d like me to spit in your face. Well, here goes to obleege ye.”
At this he stoops down, and does as said. After perpetrating the outrage, he adds:—
“Why don’t ye take out your handkercher an’ wipe it off. It’s a pity to see such a handsome fellow wi’ his face in that fashion. Ha! ha! ha!”
His four confederates, standing apart, spectators of the scene, echo his fiendish laughter.
“Well, well, my proud gentleman;” he resumes, “to let a man spit in your face without resentin’ it! I never expected to see you sunk so low. Humiliated up to the neck—to the chin! Ha! ha! ha!”
Again rings out the brutal cachinnation, chorused by his four followers.
In like manner the monster continues to taunt his helpless victim; so long, one might fancy his spite would be spent, his vengeance sated.
But no—not yet. There is still another arrow in his quiver—a last shaft to be shot—which he knows will carry a sting keener than any yet sent.
When his men have remounted, and are ready to ride off, he returns to Clancy, and, stooping, hisses into his ear:—