"Poco tiempo," says Jim.
"Who are you, anyways?"
"Quien sabe?"
"Wall, ye cayn't stay here, so ye'd best get absent." He pulled his gun on Jim's feet. "Now jest you prance!"
Jim laughed at him.
"Mañana," he said. Then in English, "You bark a lot, my friend. Whose dog are you?"
Then he heard McCalmont's slow, soft drawl. "I sure enjoy to see the sire's grit show out in the young colt. Spoke like a man, Jim! And as to you, Crazy Hoss, I want you to understand that if you don't learn deportment I'll politely lam yo' haid, you, you double-dealing foogitive, low-flung, sheep-herdin' son of a lop-eared thug! Hain't you got no more sense than a toorist, you parboiled, cock-eyed, spavined, broken-down, knock-kneed wreck o' bones? You——!"
With such genteel introductions McCalmont sure spouted burning wrath into that robber, scorching holes until he lost his breath.
"The evil communications of this young polecat," says he to Jim, "is shorely spoiling my manners. And now, you—you turtle-doves, you'll jest get away out of here and cook your supper thar by the barn. You want to be mighty quiet too, 'cause my Curly is lying in here wounded. Git over now!"
The robbers trailed off grinning, while the chief sat down on the doorstep next to Jim.