“Where’s Queen?” asked Colter.
“He was with me fust off,” replied Somers. “An’ then when the shootin’ slacked—after I’d plugged thet big, red-faced, white-haired pal of Isbel’s—”
“Reckon thet was Blaisdell,” interrupted Springer.
“Queen—he got tired layin’ low,” went on Somers. “He wanted action. I heerd him chewin’ to himself, an’ when I asked him what was eatin’ him he up an’ growled he was goin’ to quit this Injun fightin’. An’ he slipped off in the woods.”
“Wal, that’s the gun fighter of it,” declared Colter, wagging his head, “Ever since that cowman, Blue, braced us an’ said he was King Fisher, why Queen has been sulkier an’ sulkier. He cain’t help it. He’ll do the same trick as Blue tried. An’ shore he’ll get his everlastin’. But he’s the Texas breed all right.”
“Say, do you reckon Blue really is King Fisher?” queried Somers.
“Naw!” ejaculated Colter, with downward sweep of his hand. “Many a would-be gun slinger has borrowed Fisher’s name. But Fisher is daid these many years.”
“Ahuh! Wal, mebbe, but don’t you fergit it—thet Blue was no would-be,” declared Somers. “He was the genuine article.”
“I should smile!” affirmed Springer.
The subject irritated Colter, and he dismissed it with another forcible gesture and a counter question.