“All mussed-up an’ beat to hell,” cried Ike, feeling that he was being ousted from his rights.
“Yes, an’ Buck carried you to home, an’ rode in fer the doc, an’ had you fixed right,” cried Abe.
Ike looked round indignantly.
“Say, is youse fellers makin’ this big talk or me? ain’t yearnin’, if any feller’s lookin’ fer glory.”
His challenge was received with a chorus of laughter.
“You’re doin’ fine,” cried the Kid.
Ike favored the speaker with a contemptuous stare and returned to his work. He shrugged.
“They ain’t no account anyway, missie,” he assured her, “guess they’re sore. Wal, y’ see you come along in the storm, an’ what should happen but the side o’ Devil’s Hill drops out, an’ sets gold rollin’ around like—like taters fallin’ through a rotten sack. ‘Gold?’ sez we, an’ gold it is. ‘Who bro’t us sech luck?’ we asts. An’ ther’ it is right ther’, so ther’ can’t be no mistake. Jest a pore, sick gal wi’ red ha’r, all beat to hell an’——”
“Gee, ain’t it beautiful!” sneered Curly.
Soapy pretended to weep, and Abe thumped him heavily on the back.