There was no reply. For all heed the man under the blanket gave, he might have been deaf, dumb and blind. He just came steadily on.
Tresler shouted again, and more sharply. This time his summons had its effect. It brought an answer—an answer that set him off into a fresh burst of laughter.
“Gorl darn it, boys,” came a peevish voice, from amidst the blanket, “’tain’t smart, neither, playin’ around when a feller’s kind o’ roundin’ up his plug. How’m I goin’ to cut that all-fired buckskin out o’ the bunch wi’ you gawkin’ around like a reg’ment o’ hoboes? Ef you don’t reckon to fool any, why, some o’ you git around an’ head him off from the rest of ’em. I’d do it myself on’y my cussed legs has given out.”
“Boys, eh?” Tresler was still laughing, but he checked his mirth sufficiently to answer, “Why, man, it’s the whisky that’s fooling you. There are no ‘boys,’ and no ‘bunch’ of horses here. Just your horse and mine; and I’ve got them both safe enough. You’re drunk, Joe—beastly drunk.”
Joe suddenly struggled to his feet and stood swaying uncertainly, but trying hard to steady himself. He focussed his eyes with much effort upon the tall figure before him, and then suddenly moved forward like a man crossing a brook on a single, narrow, and dangerously swaying plank. He all but pitched headlong into the waiting man as he reached him, and would undoubtedly have fallen to the ground but for the aid of a friendly hand thrust out to catch him. And while Tresler turned to pacify the two thoroughly frightened horses, the little man’s angry tones snapped out at him in what was intended for a dignified protest. In spite of his drunken condition, his words were distinct enough, though his voice was thick. After all, as he said, it was his legs that had given way.
“Guess you’re that blazin’ ‘tenderfoot’ Tresler,” he said, with all the sarcasm he was capable of at the moment. “Wal, say, Mr. a’mighty Tresler, ef it wa’n’t as you wus a ‘tenderfoot,’ I’d shoot you fer sayin’ I wus drunk. Savee? You bein’ a ‘tenderfoot,’ I’ll jest mention you’re side-tracked, you’re most on the scrap heap, you’ve left the sheer trail an’ you’re ditched. You’ve hit a gait you can’t travel, an’ don’t amount to a decent, full-sized jackass. Savee? I ain’t drunk. It’s drink; see? Carney’s rotgut. I tell you right here I’m sober, but my legs ain’t. Mebbe you’re that fool-headed you don’t savee the difference.”
Tresler restrained a further inclination to laugh. He had wasted too much time already, and was anxious to get back to the ranch. He quite realized that Joe knew what he was about, if his legs were hors-de-combat, for, after delivering himself of this, his unvarnished opinion, he wisely sought the safer vantage-ground of a sitting posture.
Tresler grabbed at the blanket and pulled it off his shoulders.
“What’s this?” he asked sharply.
Joe looked up, his little eyes sparkling with resentment.