I'm hired to drive. It ain't
no part of my game to fight hold-ups an' stand off route-agents that
a-way, an' get shot dead for it by their pards the next trip; so, as
I says, the moment that Winchester goes off, I clamps my fingers
back of my head an' sets thar. Of course I talks back at this hold-
up a heap profane, for I don't aim to have the name of allowin' any
gent to rustle my stage an' me not cuss him out. "'But these yere
Wells-Fargo sharps, they never holds up their hands. That's nacheral
enough, for them gents is hired to fight, an' this partic'lar trip
thar's full six thousand dollars to go to war over.
"With the first shot the Wells-Fargo gents--they was game as goats
both of 'em--slides offen the coach an' takes to shootin'. The guns
is makin' a high old rattle of it, an' I'm hopin' the hold-up won't
get to over-shootin' an' drill me, when the first casooalty occurs.
One of the Wells-Fargo sports gets a bullet plumb through his frame,
an' is dead an' out in the crack of a whip.
"'It looks like the hold-up sees him tumble, for it's then he cuts
loose a whoop, jumps down onto the trail an' charges. He comes a-
shootin', too, an' the way the lead an' fire fetches forth from that
Winchester he's managin' shore reminds me of them Roman candles last
July.
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