“Looky!” grunts Windy. “Sons of guns want peace.”
There’s a white handkerchief waving out of the saloon-door and then a man comes out, looks around and motions for the rest to come out, which they does, packing a man with them.
They crosses the street to a wagon, wherein they places their man, and then they drives away, two men in the wagon and three more on horses. Then another man rides out from behind the saloon, sees us and comes over with both hands in sight. He’s the dark, hatchet-faced person, sort of serious-looking, and sets his bronc like a regular puncher. We’re on the sidewalk now and he pulls up near us and says:
“Woods, I’m kinda sorry this happened. I ain’t extendin’ no sympthy to the Circle Dot, yuh understand, but I don’t like this six-to-one fightin’.”
“I didn’t get hurt, none to speak about,” says Windy, “and I didn’t hang out no white flag. If yuh asks me, Snag, I’d say that yo’re payin’ money to a lot of danged poor shots.”
He turns slow-like, and looks down the road. Then he turns back to us.
“You ought to be glad,” says he.
“Yeah?”
“What’s goin’ be done with the Circle Dot?” he asks.