Each drew his ramrod from the pipes and attached the cleaning worm with its twist of tow, kept handy in belt pouch in muzzle-loading days.
“Clean as a whistle!” said Jackson, holding out the end of the rod.
“So’s mine, pardner. Old Jim Bridger never disgraced hisself with a rifle.”
“Ner me,” commented Jackson. “Hold a hair full, Jim, an’ cut high the top o’ the tin. That’ll be safer fer my skelp, an’ hit’ll let less whisky out’n the hole. We got to drink what’s left. S’pose’n’ we have a snort now?”
“Atter we both shoot we kin drink,” rejoined his friend, with a remaining trace of judgment. “Go take stand whar we marked the scratch. Chardon, damn ye, carry the cup down an’ set hit on his head, an’ ef you spill a drop I’ll drill ye, d’ye hear?”
The engagé’s face went pale.
“But Monsieur Jim——” he began.
“Don’t ‘Monsieur Jim’ me or I’ll drill a hole in ye anyways! Do-ee-do what I tell ye, boy! Then if ye crave fer to see some ol’-time shootin’ come on out, the hull o’ ye, an’ take a lesson, damn ye!”
“Do-ee ye shoot first, Bill,” demanded Bridger. “The light’s soft, an’ we’ll swap atter the fust fire, to git hit squar for the hindsight, an’ no shine on the side o’ the front sight.”
“No, we’ll toss fer fust,” said Jackson, and drew out a Spanish dollar. “Tails fer me last!” he called as it fell. “An’ I win! You go fust, Jim.”