Where was I at when I bogs
down? As I says, this
lieutenant nabs a pistol an' goes flutterin' from his limb. But this
don't do them Greasers. They puts up a claim that some Americans
tracks up on one of their outfit an' kills him off, they says, five
days before.
They allows that, breakin' even on the deal, one of us is due to
die. Tate offers to let 'em count the lieutenant, but they shakes
their heads till the little bells on their sombreros tinkles, an'
declines the lieutenant emphatic. "'They p'ints out this yere
lieutenant dies in his own game, on his own deal. It's no racket of
theirs, an' it don't go to match the man they're shy. "`One of us
six who's left has to die to count even for this Greaser who's been
called in them five days ago. Tate can't move 'em; all he says is no
use; so he quits,
an' as he's been talkin' Spanish--which the same is too muddy a
language for the rest of us--Tate turns in an' tells us how the
thing sizes up. "`"One of us is shorely elected to trail out after
the lieutenant,"says Tate. "The rest they holds as pris'ners. Either
way it's a hard, deep crossin', an' one's about as rough a toss as
the other." "'This last
Tate stacks in to mebby win out a little comfort for the one the
Mexicans cuts outen our bunch to kill.
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