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Meanwhile, Lieut. Herne, who had closely followed me, fell back, using the butt-end of his discharged sixshooter upon the hard heads around him: in so doing he came upon a dozen men, who though they loudly vociferated, "Kill the Franks who are killing the Somal!" allowed him to pass uninjured.
"Get the hell out of here." "Feel sick, sonny?" came the deep voice again, and the dark eyebrows contracted in an expression of sympathy. "Funny, I'd have my sixshooter out if I was home and you told me to get the hell out, sonny." "Well, who wouldn't be sore when they have to go on K.P.?" said Fuselli peevishly. "I ain't been down to mess in three days.
The second went straight up into the blue, for by then Racey had the old man's wrist. "There, there," soothed Racey, "you don't want that gun, Nawsir. Not you. Le's have it, that's a good feller now." So speaking he twisted the sixshooter from the old man's grasp and jammed it into the waistband of his own trousers. The old man burst into frank tears.
"Took you a long time to find it out," said Racey Dawson. "Si'down, I said," he added, sharply. Bull obeyed, his back against the rock, and was careful not to lower his hands. Racey hunkered down and sat on a spurless heel. The rifle was under his knee. He had exchanged the bowie for a sixshooter. The firearm was trained in the general direction of Bull's stomach. Racey smiled widely.
Mexican Joe's place was closed and likewise the other little 'dobe life saving station. So, naturally the body politic emits thirsty ejaculations of surprise and ports hellum for the Blue Snake. And what does it find there? "Behind one end of the bar sits Jefferson Peters, octopus, with a sixshooter on each side of him, ready to make change or corpses as the case may be.
"Ain't you been enough of a fool already to-day?" interrupted Racey. "You ain't asking for it, are you?" "You can't run no blazer on me," denied the other, furiously. Racey promptly holstered his sixshooter. "Now's yore best time," he said, quietly.
When the smoke cleared away there was a rent in the sleeve of Racey's shirt and the burly youth sat rocking his body to and fro and groaning through gritted teeth. For there was a red-hot hole in his right shoulder which hurt him considerably. Racey Dawson gazed dumbly down at the muzzle of his sixshooter from which a slim curl of gray smoke spiralled lazily upward.
He hesitated, glanced this way and that, making a quick mental decision. Mary V had once been candidly tempted to shoot him and had dallied with the temptation to the point of cocking her sixshooter and aiming it directly at him. She looked now quite capable of repeating the performance and of completing what she had merely started last summer.
You're so all-fired careless with a sixshooter, Swing. Like enough you're aiming right where the feller's bed is, too," he added, craftily. Ensued then sounds of rapid departure from the bed next door. A door flew open and slammed. The parting guest padded down the stairs in his socks, invoking his Maker as he went. "And that's the last of him," chuckled Racey.
Her sixshooter still pointed in his general direction. "Put yore gun away," he advised her. "We've got no time to lose. Hold the candle for me! Put it in the can first!" Automatically she obeyed the several commands. He knelt before the open safe and, beginning at the top shelf, he stuffed into his bran sack every piece of paper the safe contained.
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