“Wal?” he inquired, his face wreathed in a grin that had none of the amiability usual to it.
Sunny turned; and it was evident all his good-nature was restored. He had suddenly realized that to be baited by the fatuous Toby was almost refreshing, and he spoke without any sort of animosity. It would certainly have been different had the challenge come from the hectoring widower.
“Why for do I do it––an’ hate it? Say, that’s jest one o’ them things a feller can’t tell. Y’see, a feller grouses thro’ life, a-worritin’ hisself ’cos things don’t seem right by his way o’ thinkin’. That’s natteral. He guesses he wants to do things one way, then sudden-like, fer no reason he ken see, he gits doin’ ’em another. That’s natteral, too. Y’see, ther’s two things, it seems to me, makes a feller act. One’s his fool head, an’ the other––well, I don’t rightly know what the other is, ’cep’ it’s his stummick. Anyways, that’s how it is. My head makes me want to go one way, an’ my feet gits me goin’ another. So it is with this lay-out. An’ I guess, ef you was sure to git to rock-bottom o’ things, I’d say we’re all doin’ this thing ’cos Wild Bill said so.”
He finished up with a chuckle that thoroughly upset the equilibrium of the widower, and set him jumping at the chance of retort.
“Guess you’re scairt to death o’ Wild Bill,” he sneered.
“Wal,” drawled Sunny easily, “I guess he’s a feller wuth bein’ scairt of––which is more than you are.”
Sandy snorted defiantly. But a further wordy war was averted by the remittance man.
“Ther’s more of a man to you than I allowed, Sunny,” he said sincerely. “There sure is. Bill’s a man, whatever else he is. He’s sure the best man I’ve seen on Sufferin’ Creek. But you’re wrong ’bout him bein’ the reason of us worritin’ ourselves sick on this yer trail. It ain’t your head which needs re-decoratin’, neither. Nor it ain’t your stummick, which, I allow, ain’t the most wholesome part of you. Neither it ain’t your splay feet. You missed it, Sunny, an’ I allus tho’t you was a right smart guy. The reason you’re on this doggone trail chasin’ glory wot don’t never git around, is worryin’ along in a buckboard ahead of us, behind ole Minky’s mule, an’ he’s hoofin’ to home at an express slug’s gait. That’s the reason you’re on the trail, an’ nothin’ else. You’re jest a lazy, loafin’, dirty bum as ’ud make mud out of a fifty-gallon bath o’ boilin’ soapsuds if you was set in it, but you was mighty sore seein’ pore Zip kicked to death by his rotten luck. An’ feelin’ that always you kind o’ fergot to be tired. That’s why you’re on this doggone trail. ’Cos your fool heart ain’t as dirty as your carkis.”
And as he fired his last word Toby dashed his spurs into the flanks of his jaded horse, and galloped out of reach of the tide of vituperation he knew full well to be flowing in his wake.