“My ——, wasn’t that a wreck!”
Oyster and Eskimo had helped Al Porter to his feet, and he was clinging to them, puffing heavily. The sheriff managed to get up without further difficulty, and they waited for him to recover his speech. The two horses scrambled to their feet and moved toward the ranch-house, still frightened.
The sheriff was mad; so much so, in fact, that he almost yanked one side of his mustache off, trying to find words with which to express his feelings.
“Yuh know, Sheriff,” said Johnny Grant, anticipating the sheriff’s coming flood of profanity, “you know it was an accident.”
“Yea-a-a-huh?” blurted the sheriff.
“Wh-wh-who was ridin’ that —— bub-bucker?” stammered Al Porter.
Johnny looked around at Jim Legg, who was still a trifle dazed over it all. Johnny grasped him by the arm and turned to the deputy.
“This is Jimmy Legg, the only man that ever stayed on Cowcatcher.”
“I don’t give a ——!” roared the sheriff. “Every time I get in sight of you fellers, somethin’ happens. By ——, I’m sick and tired of it! Do yuh hear me?”
“Louder and more profane,” begged Eskimo, cupping one hand beside his ear.