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Pringle reflected swiftly: The sheriff's rage hinted strongly that he was in Creagan's confidence and hence was no stranger to last night's mishap at the hotel; their silence proclaimed their treacherous intent.
I just love to talk. I am the original tongue-tied man; I ebb and flow. Don't let me hear a word from any of you! Well, pardner?" Foy, still kneeling in fascinated amaze, now rose. Creagan's nose was bleeding profusely. "That was one awful wallop you handed our gimlet-eyed friend," said Pringle admiringly. "Neatest bit of work I ever saw. Sir, to you! My compliments!"
But to avoid mistakes, Foy's gun followed Pringle's motions, at the same time willing and able to blow out Creagan's brains if advisable. He also acquired Creagan's gun quite subconsciously. "Let me introduce myself, gentlemen," said Pringle. "I'm Jack-in-a-Pinch, Little Friend of the Under Dog see Who's This? page two-thirteen. My German friend, come out from behind that bar hands up step lively!
Never heard of him before!" "'Tain't fair, just when we was all crowdin' up for supper! He might have waited." "This will be merry hell and repeat if he hooks up with Foy," said Creagan's voice, adding a vivid description of Pringle. Old Nueces answered, raising his voice: "He's afoot. We got to beat him to it. Let's ride!" "That's right," said the sheriff. "But we'll grab something to eat first.
You look like someone had spread you on the minutes." He eyed Creagan with solicitous interest. Mr. Creagan's battered face betrayed emotion. Pringle's shameless mendacity shocked him. But it was Creagan's sorry plight that he must affect never to have seen this insolent Pringle before. The sheriff's face mottled with wrath.
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