"Terms of endearment," says I, "which I blushes for Dale's morals."
Dale signaled, Keep your tail up.
"Well, General," says I, "without being able to read him exact, I guess Dale ain't drawing his men off along the bank with your outfit to shoot them like rabbits the moment they quit cover."
"Tell Dale," said Whiskers in his tired voice, "he needn't trouble to take his men along the bank to whar they can swim the river. Now if you had religion—"
I could have choked with grief.
"Tell Dale," says Whiskers, and his bereaved voice kind of jarred me now, "we're just goin' to keep a gun at your ear-hole while we march up the trail. If Dale's men fire, your wife will be a widow, Mr. Smith."
At that I wagged my arms and signaled. No call to get wet. Hold-ups marching to Georgia. Kill man with gun. If you miss, ware Widow Smith. You see if Dale squinted and missed, my widow was apt to reproach. So I added, Allow windage for squint.
Dale answered, You bet your life I will.
Then I swung round facing the cabin, and saw the barrel of my own revolver just peering round the door. By its height from the ground I judged that poor young Ginger was the artist. I wished it had been Bull, for I'd taken a fancy to Ginger.
"Well, gents," says I, "your umbrellas is in the hat rack. All aboard for Robbers' Roost, and don't forget the lunch."