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With a yell of "Hellsfire!" like a bursting shell, he would rowel his saddle-mule and lead the Train through flood or flame. His was a curse and a blow. He seemed a devil, condemned ever to pound miles behind him bloody miles. Sometimes, there was a sullen baleful gleam in the black eye, shaded by a campaign hat, but more often it was wide-open and reckless like a man half-drunk.
"What's the difference? Hellsfire! Whisky! Let's get a drink. It's whisky I want." "Shore. I told you thet a while back. Come on, pard. It's red-eye fer us!" They crossed to the corner saloon, a low dive kept by a Chinaman and frequented by Mexicans and Indians. These poured out pellmell as the cowboys jangled up to the bar. Jard Hardman's outfit coming to town had prepared the way for this.
"Hellsfire!" shrieked Hardman. His face grew frightful to see beastly with rage. "You're as bad as that hussy who threw me down for him. I'll fix you, Lucy Blake. And I'll put your cow-thief father behind the bars for life." Pan leaped at Hardman and struck him a body blow that sent him tumbling out of his saddle to thud on the ground. The frightened horse ran down the path toward the gate.
But we'll find out.... So you think Hardman will claim most of our horses or take them all?" "I shore do." "Blink, if he gets one of our horses it'll be over my dead body. You fellows sure showed yellow clear through to let them ride in here without a fight." "Hellsfire!" cried Blinky, as if stung. "What you think? ... There wasn't a one of us thet had a single lead left fer our guns.
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