“Hurt, 'Mexico'?” anxiously inquired his friends.
“Naw. He ain't got the nerve to shoot straight.” The bartender and some others came running in with anxious faces. “Never mind, boys,” said “Mexico.” “'Peachy' was foolin' with his gun; it went off and hurt him some.”
“Say, there's blood here!” said the bartender. “He's been bleedin' bad.”
“Guess he's more scared than hurt. Now let's git to business.”
The bartender and his friends took the hint and retired.
“Now, boys, listen to me,” said “Mexico” impressively, leaning over the table. “Right here I want to say that the doctor is a friend of mine, and the man that touches him touches me.” There was an ominous silence.
“Just as you say, 'Mexico,'” said one of the men, “but I see the finish of our game in these parts. The doctor's got the boys a-goin' and you know he ain't the kind that quits.”
“You're right an' you're wrong. The Doc ain't the whole Government of this country yet. His game's the winnin' game. Any fool can see that. But we hold most of the trumps just now. So for the present we stay.”
As the meeting broke up, “Mexico's” friends warned him against “Peachy.”
“Pshaw! 'Peachy'!” said “Mexico” contemptuously. “He couldn't hold his gun steady at me.”