"As how?" this Ute inquires, his homely face twisting around into strange new species of grins.
"Why, you-all knows every hawss I got, and has yo' notions of value. Jest you whirl right in, boys, and take what's coming to you in hawsses instead of cash. Pay yo'selves liberal, and I'll sign the bills."
"Shame!" says Monte. "D'ye think we'd take yo' pets?"
In the end we agreed to go into partnership, the which we did, for those boys were as good as brothers from the moment I got into trouble. Monte is my partner still.
Now, in course of these details, while we sat smoking cigarettes around the door of the cabin, we saw a sort of dust-cloud come rolling along out of the city.
"Which reminds me," says Ute, "that the Grave City stranglers was proposing yesterday to come and hold a social gathering here. Mr. Davies, they's aiming to hang you some."
We rolled the rain-barrels into the house, we toted bales of hay for barricades, and led our saddle-horses into cover; then put in the rest of our time filling the water-butts. In all we had forty minutes to prepare for our guests, but wanted a whole lot more.
"You, Chalkeye," says young Monte in his thoughtful way, "you can talk the hind leg off a mule. Spose you make big war medicine to these here strangers until we're ready."
Custer had got joyful, as he always did when there was trouble coming, making little yelps of bliss.
"Don't talk them off the range," says he, "or we'll get no fight."