To this the Seven answered not a word, but merely hurried on. Mark wished that both his hands had not been done up in bandages, however. It was not that he wanted to fight, but that he wanted to hold Texas. He was on one side of this excitable youth and Dewey had him by the arm on the other. The timid Indian, who would have gone around the world sooner than look at a fight, was behind, pushing Texas along as if he had been a baby carriage.
In this peculiar fashion they were getting past admirably, though the Texan’s fingers were twitching rather ominously, and his eyes were dancing with half-suppressed excitement.
The gang, however, had no idea of losing some promised sport in that way; the “guying” grew louder and more plentiful.
“Look at de babies run! Gee! dey’re ’fraid to look at us!”
“Come on, boys, let’s foller ’em. Let’s see where dey’re goin’.”
“Look a-here, Mark,” began Texas, at that point. “Look a-yere! I ain’t a-goin’ to stan’ this hyar——”
“Go on,” said Mark, sternly. “Hurry up, fellows.”
“But, man——”
“You’ll have us all in jail, Texas! Not a word, I tell you. I——”
“Hey, dere, kids! Some o’ you come back an’ we’ll learn you how to fight.”