Slowly Spike got up from Bert, who managed to get to his feet. They were both badly bruised.
‘Misser Lane,’ said Spike foolishly, ‘thish is so unexpected. B’lieve me, I dunno what to shay. I’d crave to have yuh put away that gun. We ain’t doin’ nothin’, and we ain’t goin’ to do nothin’.’
‘You’re danged right yuh ain’t. Now, you fellers get on yore horses and head for home. I ought to fill yuh both with lead, I suppose. What in hell were yuh doin’ here, anyway?’
‘Tha’s a question,’ said Spike seriously. ‘B’lieve me, whatever it was—we’re all through.’
‘Ain’t it a fac’?’ agreed Bert. ‘I sholemnly swear that the test’mony I give in this case—’
‘Go home,’ said the old man. ‘You’re both too drunk to do anything. And don’t never come here again.’
‘We won’t,’ promised Spike.
He followed them to their horses and watched them ride away in the darkness, wondering why they had been fighting and especially why they were fighting in his door-yard.
‘What I’d crave t’ know is thish,’ said Bert dismally, as they rode toward Mesa City. ‘What was it all about, and where in hell did you come from? You was inside the stable, wasn’t yuh?’
‘I shore was, Bertram. What I want to know, is what happened to you down there. Didn’t yuh shoot?’