“Say, Dan,” Said Bill, “what would be yer attitood in a case of this ‘ere kind? Is moneybags to be respected more ‘n a man?”
“I’ll be hanged if I know fur sure,” replied Dan, as he scratched his chin, shut one eye, and breathed heavily against his big tooth. “If a man hangs ‘round an’ gits in the way betwixt you an’ sumthin’ you want, why, you’ve got to git him off the face of the airth, I reckon, even if an accidental shootin’ ensues.”
“Say, Dan,” said Bill, in a subdued voice, “I’ll bet big money you’re the nerviest feller I ever run agin’ on the range.”
“Waal,” said Dan, rather pleased at the compliment, “if there’s any money in it, jist try me.”
“Is that solid, Dan? Are you givin’ it to me straight?”
“Solid an’ straight, Bill, sure. Course it’s a heap o’ pressure to assoom; still, if the inducements are toomultuous ‘niff, I can sure git action on my artill’ry.”
“All right, I’ll not furgit yer promise. I may need you pow’rful suddin some o’ these ‘ere dark nights.”
“Waal, jist bring yer roll along when yer lookin’ fur me, an’ you’ll fin’ me dead game. Listen, what’s thet? Guess the major’s home sure ‘nuff, an’ playin’ on his fiddle.”
The two cowboys reined their ponies, and in silence listened to the melodious strains of the major’s violin. They were far down the valley from the major’s home, and the music seemed mellowed in the soft moonlight, and sweetened by the distance. He was playing “Home, Sweet Home,” with countless variations. The melody traveled lazily on the night currents, and, when it finally died away, trembled and rested like a benediction on the peace and quietude of the sleeping valley.
Soon Dan Spencer was galloping for his dug-out, east of Meade, and Bill Kinneman was heading his bronco across the prairie toward Horton’s ranch.