“Oh, he’ll be back in a minute. He’s all right. Say, kid, who is your friend, anyway, and what brought him here. Come, now, tell me the truth.”
“I always tell the truth, sir. His name is Mr. Morris Goldberg, and he is a shoemaker from New York. A man came there—Mr. ‘Cactus Bill’—and another man shot him in the back. I saw him, and the bad man took Dora away. The bad man had another bad man along and that man hit me here—see—and they carried Dora away; and Bennie—that’s Dora’s steady company—don’t know where we are.”
“‘Cactus Bill,’ you say? What became of him?”
“Mr. Goldberg had a funeral for him, ’cause he had no friends. ‘Cactus Bill’ gave Mr. Goldberg a paper that he said was about a gold mine out here and it was for him, and when all of Mr. Goldberg’s money was spent, looking for Dora, we came here to find the mine so, maybe, we could get some more money. Say, what ails Mr. Goldberg this morning?”
“What shall never ail you, little man, if I can help it,” said Shoshone contritely. “Ahem! Have you had your breakfast yet?”
“No, sir; not yet.”
“Well, come along and we’ll have our breakfast together, and you shall tell me all about this Dora, and all, while we eat.”
“I thought I saw you at the table when I took Jake back. Say, he looks fine this morning. You ought to see him.”
Shoshone slapped his leg with his hat in great enjoyment of something, but all he said was:
“Folks have to eat a lot out here.”