“Better not let Big Gus hear you use such language, Edgar,” said Eph, “because he’s kind of tetchy sometimes.”
Edgar only laughed. He was an odd sheep to be in such a fold, for he looked more like a consumptive than an outlaw; his face had a decided pallor, and he was subject to a hacking cough. It was evident that he also gave some attention to dress and a real diamond shone in his shirt front, once white, but now of a dubious grime.
But make no mistake. Next to the Boss he was the most dangerous man in the pack. He was a man with a certain amount of education, but it did him no good, and if he got near a piano, he could make it hum with harmony. His chief accomplishment, however, and one which made him valuable to his chief, was his ability to use a revolver with rapidity and precision.
“You fellars better turn in;” it was the voice of Gus Gols; “I’m liable to give yer somethin’ besides conversation in a day or two. I want yer to look pink and purty if we should happen to meet them swell tenderfeet. Shet up now.” They “shet.”
CHAPTER XXIII
A HOLIDAY
“It’s going to be a fine day,” said Jim. He was standing in front of the tent on the hill and taking a preliminary look at the sky. It certainly had the appearance of being just as he said. The sun was sweeping the shining length of the valley with his fresh and early beams and there were a few fair, faint clouds drawn across the broad blue brow of morning.
“There’s nothing like the first break of day in the mountains,” said Jeems. “I’ve seen it a hundred times and I never get tired of it.”