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Glory had been belabored with worse things than hats during his eventful career; he laid back his ears, shut his eyes tight and took it meekly. There came a gasping gurgle from the hammock, and Weary's hand stopped in mid-air. The girl's head was burrowed in a pillow and her slippers tapped the floor while she laughed and laughed.
Slim, it appeared from Weary's rapid explanation, had arrived at the ranch with his horse in a lather and with a four-inch furrow in the fleshiest part of his leg, where a bullet had flicked him in passing. The tale he told had led Weary to believe that Slim was the sole survivor of that reckless company. "Mamma!
He wanted Weary's opinion, and Miguel Rapponi's, and Pink's when it came to that, he wanted the opinion of them all. Thus far the boys had been wholly occupied with getting their shacks built and in rustling cooking outfits and getting themselves settled upon their claims with an air of convincing permanency.
"If that's all you have to complain of, Alan, it's no such great affair," said I. "And it sets me ill to be complaining, whatever," said he, "and me but new out of yon deil's haystack." "And so you were unco weary of your haystack?" I asked. "Weary's nae word for it," said he. "I'm not just precisely a man that's easily cast down; but I do better with caller air and the lift above my head.
You look like the devil by lightning." Happy, watching, seized the hand that held the razor; Cal, like a cat, pounced upon the mirror, and Jack Bates deftly wrenched the razor from Weary's fingers. "Whoopee, boys! Some of you tie Weary down and set on him while I shave," cried Cal, jubilant over the mutiny. "We'll make short work of this toilet business."
Weary, just about to reload, caught sight of him and gave a whoop of pure joy. "Lord, how I do hate a Chink!" he cried, and dropped to the ground the three shells in his hand that he might fire the two in his gun. Pink yelled also. "Nab him, Cal!" and caught his gun arm the instant Weary's last bullet left the barrel. Cal leaned and caught Weary round the neck in a close hug.
"Well, you sure did put the finishing touches to him," contended Irish, guiltily aware that he himself was originally responsible; for Patsy never had liked Irish very well because of certain incidents connected with his introduction to Weary's double. Patsy never could quite forget, though he might forgive, and resentment lay always close to the surface of his mood when Irish was near.
He seemed more approachable to-day, but that did not count probably he was only reflecting Weary's sunshine, and would freeze solid the minute "And so you are the mysterious genius who has set the Butte critics by the ears!" chuckled the senator.
The bartender regarded him fixedly and unbelievingly. "You'll have quite a contract making Spikes swallow that," he remarked drily. "Oh, damn Spikes," murmured Weary, with the fine recklessness of Irish in his tone. At that moment a cowboy jangled in, caught sight of Weary's back and fell upon him joyously, hailing him as Irish.
Weary's in Dry Lake. He is drunk. And he is shootin' up the town. If yuh don't want t' believe it, I guess they's no law t' make yuh but if yuh got any sense, and are any friends uh Weary's, yuh'll mosey in and fetch him out here if yuh have t' bring him the way he brung ole Dock that time Patsy took cramps. Go on in and see fer yourselves, darn yuh!
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