Dog-gone Hawkins froze me with his eyes. "Ef your soul," he says, "were to stray out on to your dog-goned cheek it would get lost!"
I'm always getting misunderstood like that by people who ought to know better. You see, I had to shock old Hawkins, or he would notice at once that I aimed to follow the buckboard.
"Cyclists," says I, "dawg-traps, sulkies, buggies, waggons, sore-back horses, mules, tenderfoot—look at yo' circus and say if that ain't enough to corrupt a long-horn's mortals. Hello, look at that!"
A man was coming down from the north, lickety-split on a roan with a rangy stride. He wore sombrero, shirt, shaps with streaming fringes, a brace of guns to his belt. He rode with a cowboy swing to his broad shoulders, and his face was black with rage as he pulled up facing our crowd—guns drawn for war.
"Boys," he shouted, "whar's yo' sheriff?"
I followed Hawkins as he rode up to confront the stranger.
"I'm United States Marshal Hawkins. What's your dog-goned business that needs drawn guns?"
"I'm Buck Hennesy, segundo to the Robbers' Roost gang of outlaws, and my guns are to shoot if I see you flirt that smoothbore."
"Your business?"
"State's evidence—take it or leave it!"