“What’s this?” said Shoshone, tapping upon the edge of the bar with his glass. Morris immediately answered him in the same code. Shoshone turned and slapped Morris on the back with such force that it brought tears to his eyes, while Shoshone called to the others: “Hey, boys, I lose. He is an operator—and an honest one.”
In the meantime Dan and Mike had been having “fun” with the Indian. One of them poured alcohol over his moccasined foot and the other touched a match to it. The Indian jumped when he saw the blaze, but Snakes turned a seltzer-bottle in that direction, which quenched the flame. The Indian gave one hair-lifting whoop and, grasping his bottle, disappeared.
In the meantime Morris was beginning to feel the influence of the vile liquor he had been forced to take and, all of a sudden, he began with a rousing “Ee—you! Ee—you! Let it go at dat. I’m de bad shoemaker from de Bowery, New York, und I’m going to raise der tuyfel. You vill see if I can shoot de shootses!”
At this, the bewildered man took two of the pistols and began shooting right and left, bringing down bottles, lamps, deer-heads, and mirror in fell confusion, yelling like a wild man at the same time.
Every man in the room took to the door and ran up the run, disappearing behind the rocks. Morris never stopped until he had emptied the whole of the four pistols. The cartridges, with their load of tiny quail-shot, would have hurt no one, unless he had happened to hit someone’s eye, but they sufficed to splinter the glasses and make a great noise.
As the last cartridge exploded, Morris staggered over to a chair and sank down upon it, moaning:
“Oh, Dora—Dora! Oh, mein poor head! mein head!”
Loney, hearing his voice, crept into the room, peering through the smoke, and then he called:
“Oh, Mr. Goldberg—I mean——”
“Nefer mind de Vilt Bill—I’m done mit him. I’m yust meinselluf now, but oh, mein head!”