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N'Yawk was a great boaster; said he wasn't afraid of no durned outlaw, said his father had waded in bloody gore up to his neck and that he was a chip off the old block, rather hoped the chase would come our way so he could try his marksmanship. The air began to grow chill and the sky was becoming overcast. Preparations for the night busied everybody.
Then such a roar of laughter. Herman gazed at me in astonishment, and Mr. Watson gently explained to me that eggs and cackle-berries were one and the same. N'Yawk was not yet up, so Herman walked over to his bed, kicked him a few times, and told him he would scald him if he didn't turn out. It was quite light by then. N'Yawk joined us in a few minutes.
Ward took a shot at them once yesterday, but I guess he didn't hit; the men got away, anyway. And durn your sleepy head! you just lay there and snored. Well, I'll be danged!" Words failed him, his wonder and disgust were so great. N'Yawk turned to get his breakfast. His light shirt was blood-stained in the back, seemed to be soaked.
The punchers sat about the fire, eating hungrily from their tin plates and eagerly listening to the recital. Two of the boys were tenderfeet: one from Tennessee called "Daisy Belle," because he whistled that tune so much and because he had nose-bleed so much, couldn't even ride a broncho but his nose would bleed for hours afterwards; and the other, "N'Yawk," so called from his native State.
Louderer were so panicky that we couldn't have made a rational suggestion. N'Yawk, white around his mouth, approached Mrs. Louderer. "I want to quit," he said. "Well," she said, calmly sipping her coffee, "you haf done it." "I'm sick," he stammered. "I know you iss," she said, "I haf before now seen men get sick when they iss scared to death." "My old daddy " he began.
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