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Casey, McHale, and Sandy seized their nigh stirrups, shot them at their left toes, gripped saddle horns, and went up in an instant. Oscar, less expert, fumbled for a hold with his toe, hopping on his right leg as his horse sidled and backed. "Stand still, Ay tal you!" he gritted. "By Yudas, Ay club hal from you purty kvick!"
When everything lay open before them Mr. and Mrs. Svenson stared at the array, speechless. "Yumpin' Yudas!" yelled the big fellow at last. He grabbed his six-foot smiling wife and kissed her with a loud smack. The selection of these gifts had been the outcome of many consultations between Mr. Philip Kendrick and Miss Cristy Lawson.
Looks like you ain't got the nerve to hit anything that's comin' for you. You sorter confines your slaughter to harmless cayuses and such." "Guess again," said Lewis, unmoved. "I thought I could stand the Swede off, that's why. I shot two foot high on purpose." "You kel my Olga!" shouted Oscar. "Yust wait, you faller. Ay gat my goose gun, and Ay blow you all to hal! By Yudas, Ay gat skvare kvick!"
Casey grasped his wrists and dragged them loose, while McHale, his forearm across the huge, bull-like throat, heaved back. Oscar came apart from his victim slowly and reluctantly, as a deeply rooted stump yields to the pull of a purchase. "He kel my Olga! He kel my Olga!" he vociferated. "He shoot her yust like she ban von vulf! By the yumpin' Yudas, you let me go!"
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