You-alls
fires at will.'
"Enright goes over to the side of the street, counts 'one,' 'two,'
'three,' an' drops his hat. Bangety! Bang! Bang! goes the rifles
like the roll of a drum. Cherokee can work a Winchester like one of
these yere Yankee 'larm-clocks, an' that Red Dog hold-up don't seem
none behind.
"About the fifth fire the Red Dog man sorter steps for'ard an' drops
his gun; an' after standin' onsteady for a second, he starts to
cripplin' down at his knees. At last he comes ahead on his face like
a landslide. Thar's two bullets plumb through his lungs, an' when we
gets to him the red froth is comin' outen his mouth some plenteous.
"We packs him back into the Red Light an' lays him onto a monte-
table. Bimeby he comes to a little an' Peets asks him whatever he
thinks he wants.
"'I wants you-alls to take off my moccasins an' pack me into the
street,' says the Red Dog man. 'I ain't allowin' for my old mother
in Missoury to be told as how I dies in no gin-mill, which she
shorely 'bominates of 'em. An' I don't die with no boots on,
neither.'
"We-alls packs him back into the street ag'in, an' pulls away at his
boots. About the time we gets 'em off he sags back convulsive, an'
thar he is as dead as Santa Anna.
Pages:
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132