Casey got his black pipe well lit, puffed a cloud of smoke, and picked up his rifle.
“Drill, ye terriers, drill!” he sang, and shoved his weapon through a port-hole. He squinted, over the breech.
“Mac, it’s the same bunch as attacked us day before yisteddy,” he observed.
“It shure ain’t,” replied McDermott. “There’s a million of thim to-day.”
He aimed his rifle as if following a moving object, and fired.
“Mac, you git excited in a foight. Now I niver do. An’ I’ve seen thot pinto hoss an’ thot dom’ redskin a lot of times. I’ll kill him yit.”
Casey kept squinting and aiming, and then, just as he pressed the trigger, the train started with a sudden lurch.
“Sp’iled me aim! Thot engineer’s savin’ of the Sooz tribe!... Drill, ye terriers, drill! Drill, ye terriers, drill!... Shane, I don’t hear yez shootin’.”
“How’n hell can I shoot whin me eye is full of blood?” demanded Shane.
Neale then saw blood on Shane’s face. He crawled quietly to the Irishman.