“Injun race ponies ’gainst horse,” replied the Indian, stolidly.
“Vot kind of a bet you make?” said Morris.
“Bet firewater and tobac.”
“I’ll do it. I bet on your ponies und you bet on mein horse.”
“Injun no bet so. Chief got many pistols. Chief good shot?”
“Am I a goot shoots? I should say I vos a goot shoots. I am de pest shooter on de stofe—I mean range. Mit dis son of a gun I”—but “Wild Bill” did not finish that sentence, as the pistol which he held loosely in his left hand went off unexpectedly, which so startled him that he jumped backward trembling.
At this stage of the proceedings, the four men with Helen returned to the bar-room and, seeing the latter part of this affair from the door, gave Helen a chance to throw a bird that she had shot on her way over the range, so that it fell at his feet, and then she drew back out of sight. The shoemaker saw the bird fall at his feet and, picking it up, said proudly:
“Am I a shootser? Vell, look out for your selluf. Dot tells de story.” And then he began to strut about grandly.
The men looked out, tiptoeing to the door, Shoshone saying:
“Wait, boys; take a peek first. It may be Rattlesnake Sam shootin’ things up. He’s been on the rampage lately, and he’s ugly when he gets started, and we don’t want a noise.”