“It’s a trap!” yelped Bloom. “He’s layin’ for us, Phelps.”
“Hush your yaup!” cried the doctor, “or I’ll give you somethin’ that’ll make you feel real bad. Phelps is going with Buffalo Bill; so’m I; so’re you. Do you understand me? As a man with the free and unrestricted right of franchise, a man who voted for you for sheriff, you’re going, Bloom, or I’ll see to it that you’re everlastingly snowed under at the next election. Phelps is going because I say so, and that’s why. Git your hosses. While you’re about it, git mine. Vamos!”
“You can boss Bloom,” answered Phelps, “but you can’t boss me. I’m staying here, with Jake.”
The doctor stepped to the door.
“Prouther!” he called.
“Hyer!” answered the voice of Prouther.
“Get up Phelps’ hoss, and Bloom’s, and mine. We’re goin’ to take a hossback ride through this beautiful morning quiet. Pronto, boy, pronto!”
“On the jump.”
The doctor turned back, pulled a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end and scratched a match.
“Sorry I ain’t got another,” said he.