Mr. Rams was at his second helping when a sudden thought drove all the blood from his clerkly visage. "What food is this?" he gasped.
"An Indian girl," I told him, "dear little papoose our friend shot yesterday."
Rams broke for the woods.
The Mexican warned me to make the Throne Mine by daylight, but when I led the mare to my poor tenderfoot he seemed in a state of collapse. And yet I tapped the manhood which underlies the English character, for ill as he was, and believing me to be a thrice confessed cannibal, insane and armed, he faced me like a hero. "Clear out!" he shouted, pointing me down the trail. "I'll walk to the Throne. Clear out!"
"I'm to deliver you," said I, "in good repair, and take a receipt for you."
His sparring attitude was in quite excellent form, but I told him to lower the right fist just an inch, and wade right in for blood.
The blow on my solar plexus made me reel, but of course I stood to attention. He had to be delivered in good repair, not damaged, at the Throne. His second made my nose bleed.
"Defend yourself," he howled, and poured in all he had until his breath was gone.
"When you're done being peevish," said I, "we'll hit the trail."
"I don't understand," answered my tenderfoot.