“Shore your mind ain’t workin’,” said Larry. “Get out of heah. Mozey over to thet camp doctor or you’ll never need one.”
Shurd backed away, livid and shaking, and presently he ran.
“Red!...” expostulated Neale. “You—you shot him all up! You nearly killed him.”
“Why in hell don’t you pack a gun?” drawled Larry.
“Red, you’re—you’re—I don’t know what to call you. I’d have licked him, club and all.”
“Mebbe,” replied the cowboy, as he sheathed the big gun. “Neale. I’m used to what you ain’t. Shore I can see death a-comin’. Wal, every day the outfit grows wilder. A little whisky ‘ll burn hell loose along this heah U.P. line.”
Larry strode on in the direction Shurd had taken. Neale pondered a moment, perplexed, and grateful to his comrade. He heard remarks among the laborers, and he saw the flagman Casey remove his black pipe from his lips—an unusual occurrence.
“Mac, it wus thot red-head cowboy wot onct p’inted his gun at me!” burst out Casey.
“Did yez see him shoot?” replied Mac, with round eyes. “Niver aimed an’ yit he hit!”
Mike Shane, the third of the trio of Irish laborers in Neale’s corps, was a little runt of a sandy-haired wizened man, and he spoke up: “Begorra, he’s wan of thim Texas Jacks. He’d loike to kill yez, Pat Casey, an’ if he ever throwed thot cannon at yez, why, runnin’ ‘d be slow to phwat yez ‘d do.”