“No use being kicked, Billy, by something that wouldn't appreciate it,” said Martin.
“Don't guess that way, Doc. He's an ornery cuss, he'd appreciate it all right, that old mule. But Doc, what's eatin' you?”
“Oh, nothing, Billy, except that I'm an ass, an infernal ass.”
“An ass, eh? Then I guess I couldn't give you no satisfaction. You better try that mule.”
“Well, Billy, the horses at two,” said the doctor briskly, “the broncho and that dandy little pinto.”
“All serene, Doc. Hope you'll have a good time. Brace up, Doc, it's comin' to you.” Billy's wink conveyed infinitely more than his words.
“Look here, Billy, you cut that all out,” said the doctor.
“All right, Doc, if that's the way you feel. You'll see no monkey-work on me. I'll make a preacher look like a sideshow.”
And truly Billy's manner was irreproachable as he stood with the ponies at the hotel door and helped their riders to mount. There was an almost sad gravity in his demeanor that suggested a mind preoccupied with solemn and unworldly thoughts with which the doctor and his affairs had not even the remotest association.
As Cameron who, with his wife, watched their departure from the balcony above, waved them farewell, he cried, “Keep your eyes skinned for an Indian, Martin. Bring him in if you find him.”