“It was that air ole Bull Harris and his gang. Bull had been a-fightin’ somebody else, cuz one eye was black.”
“Bully, b’gee!” put in Dewey.
“An’ he was mad’s a hornet. ‘Look a yere,’ says he, ‘you rarin’ ole hyena of a cowboy, I want you to understand that you an’ that air scoundrel Mallory’——an’, Mark, I never gave him a chance for another word, jes’ piled right in. An’ then all the rest of ’em lit on to me an’ there was the wust mess I ever heerd tell of.”
Angry though Mark was, he could not help being amused at the hilarity of his bloodthirsty friend and fellow-warrior, who was still dancing excitedly about the tent.
“Who won?” inquired Mark.
“I dunno,” said Texas. “I never had a chance to find out. First they jumped on me and smothered me, an’ then I got out and jumped on them, only there was so many I couldn’t sit on ’em all to once, an’ so I had to git up ag’in. Oh, say, ’twas great. I wish some o’ the boys could a’ been thar to see that air rumpus. An’ I ain’t through yit, either. I’m a-goin’ to lambast them air yearlin’s—what d’ye say, Mark?”
Texas gazed at his friend inquiringly; and Mark gripped him by the hand.
“I’ll help you,” he said. “I’m going to settle that crowd for once and for all if I have to put them in hospital. And now let’s go out and hunt for the rest of the Seven and see what’s happened to them.”
Mark’s patience was about exhausted; he had stood much from Bull Harris, but as he left that tent and strode out of camp with the other two at his side, there was a set look about his mouth and a gleam in his eyes that meant business.
He had scarcely crossed the color line that marked the western edge of the camp before he caught sight of one more of the Seven. And Mark had seen him but an instant before the thought flashed over him that this one had been through just the same experience as Texas and “B’gee” Dewey.