Ute, he lay low, saying nothing, but he sure grinned volumes while he whirled in with his axe, cutting twelve loopholes through the 'dobe walls. I told Custer to break a hole in the roof and get up there quick, because the parapet had rain-spouts most convenient for shooting. Monte was laying out the ammunition, I was spreading wet blankets over the hay barricade in the front doorway, and then the Vigilance Committee came slanting down for battle.
Seeing that Grave City was shy of horseflesh that morning, these people had done their best with thirty head, using them to haul waggons and buckboards full of men. Only the chairman was in the saddle, he being old Mutiny Robertson, who wanted to buy my ranche and not to burn it. I ought to mention that this gentleman was a Cherokee Indian by birth, a white man by nature, and some time a robber himself. He knew what sort of lightning had struck Grave City during the night, but his feelings did him credit and kept his mouth shut. As chief of the Vigilantes he had to go against all his natural instincts, but still he acted hostile and looked dangerous, leading his men until he came up against my door.
"You, Chalkeye!" he shouted.
I put up my head behind the barricade in the doorway.
"Wall," says I, "this compliment, gentlemen, throws my tail high with pride. Put yo' hawsses in the barn while I fix the breakfast."
"These barricades," says Mutiny, "is intended hawspitable—eh, Chalkeye?"
"Which," says I, "they're raised in celebration of my thirty-third birthday as a token of innocent joy."
"Seems to me," he responds, "that this yere day is apt to be remembered hereaways as the anniversary of yo' quitting out of from this mortal life."
"These predictions of yours," says I "is rude."
"You're due to die some, right now"—he poked his gun. "Come out!"