“Allonsum sum-sum bill-din,
Allonsum sum-sum bill-din,
Allonsum sum-sum bill-din,”
repeated times without number. Barney called it an Indian lullaby. As sung it was equally good Cherokee, Chinese, or Russian, being Barney’s clearest recollection and interpretation of a song which his mother once had droned.
On the third day following, Slivers, Tuttle, and others held a council of war.
“Barney’s goin’ to clean up the whole works of us,” said the mule-driver, “unless we can manage to work some better combination.”
“What can we do?” inquired Tuttle. “The kid sure likes him best.”
“That wasn’t the point. It’s a game of how much we all know about a young un as against little Barney. Now, Moody, on the square, do you think you know as much as him?”
“He knows more than you’d think,” confessed Moody. “The—the only little kid I ever had—she died—ten months old.”
“Oh.”
“Well—that was hell, sure.”
Some of the men puckered their lips as if to whistle, but made no sound.