Must be damn dangerous, to most anybody around. Looks more like a
cactus than a six-shooter-gosh, it's a ten-shooter! I allus said them
Dutchmen was bloody-minded cusses. Think of bein' able to shoot
yoreself ten times before th' blame thing stops!" Then looking at the
line-up for the owner of the weapon, he laughed at the woeful
countenances displayed. "Did they sidle in by companies or squads?" He
asked.
"By twos, mostly. Then they parade-rested an' got discharged from
duty. I had eleven, but one got homesick, or disgusted, or something,
an' deserted. It was that cussed flapjack," confessed and explained
Mr. Connors.
"What!" said Mr. Cassidy in a loud voice. "Got away! Well, we'll
have to make our get-away plumb sudden or we'll never go.
At this instant the escaped man again began his bombardment from the
corner of the corral and Mr. Cassidy paused, indignant at the
fusillade which tore up the dust at his feet. He looked reproachfully
at Mr. Connors and then circled out on the plain until he caught a
glimpse of a fleeing cow-puncher, whose back rapidly grew smaller in
the fast-increasing distance.
"That's yore friend, Red," said Mr. Cassidy as he returned from his
reconnaissance. "He's that short-horn yearling. Mebby he'll come back
again," he added hopefully. "Anyhow, we've got to move. He'll collect
reinforcements an' mebby they all won't shoot like him.
Pages:
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189