“Mackinaw! Jest get that,” he cried.
“By Gee!” laughed Sunny.
But Wild Bill cut them all short in a surprising manner.
“Say, guess you fellers ain’t never made no sort o’ mistakes––any o’ you. You’re laffin’ a heap. Quit it, or––” His eyes flashed dangerously. Then, as the men became silent, he darted across to where Scipio was still fumbling with the neck rope.
The little man’s attempt at saddling, under any other circumstances, would have brought forth Bill’s most scathing contempt. The saddle was set awry upon an ill-folded blanket. It was so far back from the mare’s withers that the twisted double cinchas were somewhere under her belly, instead of her girth. Then the bit was reversed in her mouth, and the curb-strap was hanging loose.
Bill came to his rescue in his own peculiar way.
“Say, Zip,” he cried in a voice that nothing could soften, “I don’t guess you altered them stirrups to fit you. I’ll jest fix ’em.” And the little man stood humbly by while he set to work. He quickly unfastened the cinchas, and set the blanket straight. Then he shifted the saddle, and refastened the cinchas. Then he altered the stirrups, and passed on to the mare’s bridle––Scipio watching him all the while without a word. But when the gambler had finished he glanced up into his lean face with an almost dog-like gratitude.
“Thanks, Bill,” he said. “I never done it before.”
“So I guessed.” And the gambler’s words, though wholly harsh, had no other meaning in them. Then he went on, as Scipio scrambled into the saddle, “You don’t need to worry any ’bout things here. Your kiddies’ll be seen to proper till you get back, if you’re on the trail a month.”
Scipio was startled. He had forgotten his twins.