Barney’s wrath was kindled by this. He opened his mouth to deliver a broadside of verbal grape and canister, when he was suddenly interrupted.
A shot and a yell, from down the road, startled every man in camp. Two, three, five more shots barked in swift succession. Miss Sally Wooster herself was drawn from the house by the fusillade.
With Comanche-like whoops, a horseman came dashing madly toward the men, brandishing two huge revolvers as he rode.
“Skete, and drunk in the morning,” said Tuttle.
A moment later the rider scattered the population as he rode his weltering pony through the group.
“You lubbers, celebrate!” he yelled, discharging a weapon three times in a second. “There’s been a baby born at Red Shirt Canyon! We git in the census! We git on the map! Big Matt Sullivan’s wife has got a little boy!”
“A boy!” said Sally Wooster. “Oh my!”
“Is that all?” inquired John Tuttle, on behalf of his somewhat indignant townsmen. “Red Shirt’s thirty-seven miles away. We’ve got something more exciting than that right here in camp.”
“Red Shirt’s in this same county,” protested the horseman, a trifle crestfallen. “I thought you fellers was patriotic.”
Barney Doon threw out his chest and swaggered forward.