“An’ who are you that finds fault wi’ the diggers?” inquired the tall man, turning full round upon the Irishman, with a tremendous oath.
“Be the mortial,” cried the Irishman, starting up like a Jack-in-the-box, and throwing off his coat, “I’m Larry O’Neil, at yer sarvice. Hooroo! come on, av’ ye want to be purtily worked off.”
Instantly the man’s hand was on the hilt of his revolver; but, before he could draw it, the rest of the company started up and overpowered the belligerents.
“Come, gentlemen,” said the host of the ranche, stepping forward, “it’s not worth while quarrelling about a miserable red-skin.”
“Put on your coat, Larry, and come, let’s get ready for a start,” said Ned; “you can’t afford to fight till you’ve made your fortune at the diggings. How far is it to the next ranche, landlord?”
This cool attempt to turn the conversation was happily successful. The next ranche, he was told, was about ten miles distant, and the road comparatively easy; so, as it was a fine moonlight night, and he was desirous of reaching the first diggings on the following day as early as possible, the horses and mules were saddled, and the bill called for.
When the said bill was presented, or rather, announced to them, our travellers opened their eyes pretty wide; they had to open their purses pretty wide too, and empty them to such an extent that there was not more than a dollar left among them all!
The supper, which we have described, cost them two and a half dollars—about ten shillings and sixpence a head, including a glass of bad brandy; but not including a bottle of stout which Larry, in the ignorance and innocence of his heart, had asked for, and which cost him three dollars extra! An egg, also, which Ned had obtained, cost him a shilling.
“Oh, morther!” exclaimed Larry, “why didn’t ye tell us the price before we tuck them?”
“Why didn’t ye ax?” retorted the landlord.