"There's nine of us now
an' there'll be nine more an' a cook to-morrow, mebby."
"Gosh, yu grows some," replied the guard. "Eighteen'll be a plenty
for them glory hunters."
"We won't be able to," contradicted Red, "for things are peculiar."
At this moment the conversation was interrupted by the tenderfoot,
who sported a new and cheap sombrero and also a belt and holster
complete.
"Will you gentlemen join me?" He asked, turning to Red arid nodding
at the saloon. "I am very dry and much averse to drinking alone."
"Why, shore," responded Red heartily, wishing to put the stranger at
ease.
The game was running about even as they entered and Lefty Allen was
singing "The Insult," the rich tenor softening the harshness of the
surroundings.
I've swum th' Colorado where she's almost lost to view, I've braced
th' Jaro layouts in Cheyenne;
I've fought for muddy water with a howlin' bunch of Sioux, An'
swallowed hot tamales, an' cayenne.
I've rid a pitchin' broncho `till th' sky was underneath, I've
tackled every desert in th' land;
I've sampled XXXX whiskey `till I couldn't hardly see, An' dallied
with th' quicksands of the Grande.
I've argued with th' marshals of a half-a-dozen burgs, I've been
dragged free an' fancy by a cow;
I've had three years' campaignin' with th' fightin', bitin' Ninth,
An' never lost my temper `till right now.
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