The shooting scrap had turned out pleasantly, with nobody the worse for it, and everybody thirsty.
Glasses rattled on the bar, and bottles passed.
“Here’s how, pard,” said Sam.
He drained his glass at one gulp, and set it down.
“But say,” he added, “you’d oughter hev let us make the other cuss dance. Friend of yourn?”
“No. I saw that he was scared half to death, and I was afraid he might have a fit.”
“Rot! he’d ’a’ got over it. Jine us now, won’t ye, pard, and rout him out?”
“We’ll let you do the shootin’,” said another, eagerly.
“Now, gents,” began Bronco Bill, fearful that the rough crowd would break loose again.