“I’m going to your camp with you, whether you need an escort or not,” said the latter.
Without a word Johnny walked away down the street, very straight. We hurried to catch up with him; and just as we did so he collapsed to the ground and was suddenly and violently sick. As I helped him to his feet, I could feel that his arm was trembling violently.
“Lord, fellows! I’m ashamed,” he gasped a little hysterically. “I didn’t know I had so little nerve!”
“Nerve!” suddenly roared Danny Randall; “confound your confounded impudence! If I ever hear you say another word like that, I’ll put a head on you, if it’s the 289 last act of my life! You’re the gamest little chicken in this roost, and I’ll make you beg like a hound if you say you aren’t!”
Johnny laughed a little uncertainly over this contradiction.
“Did I kill him?” he asked.
“No, worse luck; just bored him through the collarbone. That heavy little derringer ball knocked him out.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Johnny.
“Which I am not,” stated Danny Randall with emphasis. “You ought to have killed him.”
“Thanks to you I wasn’t killed myself. I couldn’t have hoped to get the draw on him with my holster gun. He is as quick as a snake.”