"Scared?" she inquired, sort of sarcastic about the nose.
"Shut yo' haid. D'you want to be captured?"
"It would be a sort of relief from being so lady-like."
Then a big gust of laughter shook the house, and I knew that Miss Blossom's guest was the whitest man on the stock-range, Sheriff Bryant. Naturally I had to go and see old Dick, so I told Curly to keep good, quit the parlour, crossed the passage, and walked right into the dining-room, one hand on my gun and the other thrown up for peace.
Dick played up in the Indian sign talk: "Long time between drinks."
"Thirsty land," says my hand.
"Now may I inquire?" says Miss Blossom.
"Wall, ma'am"—old Dick cocked his grey eye sideways—"this Chalkeye person remarked that he languished for some whisky, upon which I rebuked him for projecting his drunken ambitions into a lady's presence."
The way he subdued Miss Blossom was plenty wondrous, for she lit out to find him the bottle.
"Sheriff," says I, as we shook hands, "yo' servant, seh."