As they's on foot, an' as Old Monte is makin' fifteen miles
an hour by now, they merely manages to hold their own in the race,
about forty yards to the r'ar.
"This don't go on long when Cherokee, after thinkin', says to Texas,
'This yere is the way I figgers it, If we-alls keeps on, them Injuns
is that fervent they runs in on us at the ford. With half luck
they's due to down either a hoss or Monte--mebby both; in which
event the stage shorely stops, an' it's a fight. This bein' troo,
an' as I'm 'lected for war anyhow, I'm goin' to caper out right
yere, an' pull on the baile myse'f. This'll stop the chase, an'
between us, pard, it's about the last chance in the box this pore
female an' her offsprings has. An' I plays it for 'em, win or lose.'
"'Them's my motives; says Texas, tryin' to pull himse'f together.
'Shall we take this he-shorthorn along?' An' he p'ints where them
four tenderfoots is mixed up together in the back of the stage.
"'He wouldn't be worth a white chip,' says Cherokee, 'an' you-all is
too hard hit to go, Texas, yourse'f. So take my regards to Enright
an' the boys, an' smooth this all you know for Faro Nell. I makes
the trip alone.'
"'Not much,' says Texas.
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