"You have yo' lives, you and the Dook. Ryan and his outfit allow they'll wipe you out when Michael comes."
"Is that all?" Jim laughed. "They're thoughtful and painstaking, anyway. By the way, I don't know that my father and I have been shrieking for help as yet."
"If you were the kind of people to make a big song when yo're hurt, I reckon that we-all would jest leave you squeal."
"And who is we-all? You've acted like a white man to-night, looking after my poor roan and me like a little brother. But why should you care, young chap? I've never seen you before in my life; I don't even know your name."
"My name is Crook; I works at the stable."
"But why should you interfere? You may get hurt. I wouldn't like that, youngster."
"Wall, partner"—Crook shuffled a whole lot nervous—"I got a message for you from the boys. The Dook's had nothing but greasers working for him, and that's rough on us white men, but still he's surely good. He's dead straight, he don't wear no frills, and many a po' puncher, broke, hungry, half daid of thirst, has been treated like a son at Holy Crawss. We don't amount to much—'cept when you want an enemy or a friend—but our tribe is right into this fight a whole heap, for them Ryans is dirt; and if they comes up agin you to-night I expaict there'll be gun-play first."
"Well, kid," said Jim, yawning with a big mouth, "I wish they'd put it off until to-morrow."
"Yo' eyes is like boiled aigs. Try a cigarette to keep you awake."
"Can't we get my father away from this house?"