"Little sinners," says he, "I perceive that you have fallen into evil company. This Chalkeye man is a pernicious influence, which would corrupt the morals of a grizzly bear. Flee from this Chalkeye person."
They wanted to take him into the nearest saloon and enjoy him for the rest of the day.
"Kin you dance?" says one of the boys, aiming a gun at his toes. "Whirl right in and dance!"
McCalmont walked right at him, eye to eye, and that same cowboy went as white as death.
"Shall I abate you," says the preacher, "in the midst of yo' sins? You done wrong--you done ate tobacco and chocolate candy mixed, then poured on hot cawfee, rye whisky, and an ice-cream soda; and now yo're white as a corpse with mixed sins. Go take a pill, my son, and repent before yo're sick."
The boys watched that preacher smiling, and went tame as kittens. The tone of his voice just froze them up, his smile scraped their young bones, his eyes looked death.
"Come, Chalkeye," says he, and led me off into the "Spur" saloon. There he threw a glance to Cranky Joe, the bar-keep, and put his finger on Mutiny Robertson, a smuggler who sat playing poker. Cranky put someone in charge of the bar, Mutiny passed his game to a friend of his, and both of them followed meek as sheep, while the preacher led on into the backyard. From there we worked round the back street to Ryan's stable, McCalmont keeping up his baby-talk for the sake of passing strangers.
"Ah," says he, "my young friends, these deleterious pleasures change peaceful stomachs into seats of war; but the sausage soothes, the milk assuages, the pie persuades, and b'ar sign is sure good to fill up corners. Beware of vanities, and when we get to the stable-yard let Mutiny here stand guard in case I'm attacked, while I expound the blessedness of simple things. Well, here we are--you Mutiny, fall back, you lop-eared mongrel; I'm dying for a chew of 'baccy, and I'd give my off lung for a cocktail."
Mutiny stood guard, Cranky hustled off to get liquor.
"I got a line of retreat from here," says Captain McCalmont, "and a saddled hawss within reach. No, not that painted plug, but a sure crackerjack, which can burn the trail if I'm chased. How's things, you Chalkeye?"