“Patty, girl, you are pale today.”
“Oh, Eric, 'tis the last day of grace. Heaven help us if—”
“See, Patty, gir-r-rl, they're fixin' for the foot race between Cherokee Bob an' that Australian squirt fr'm Sacramento.”
“Why are they placing men with guns every ten feet along the track?”
“The Indian can beat the Australian, but he thried to sell the boys out, an' if he slackens his gait by ever so little, the b'ys will begin shootin' sthraight before them. An' maybe afther the race, he'd better be runnin' right on into the next county.”
“What next?”
“Next is a jackass fight, an' then, the race!”
After the billigerent jacks had been led away, Red Pete suddenly took to the brush, accelerated by a fusillade of bullets.
“Welchin' his bets, he is, an' ivery man he owes is lettin' him have it.”
“Nary a hit!” wailed old Jack Horner. “The shootin' in this camp is a-gittin' vile! Time we was quittin so d—— much pick handlin, an' a-practicin' up. It's a reflection on the community. Why, there ain't been a Chinaman drilled with a bullet decent an' clean for weeks!”