"Yo're through with yo' prayers, Chalkeye? Some comforted, eh? You ole ring-tailed snorter, cayn't you understand? We ain't going to have you mixed up with us range wolves, and branded for an outlaw. We want you to keep good, and be a whole lot respectable right along. Then you can stay around in this man's town, walk in the open with a proud tail, and show the Ryan outfit that Balshannon has one friend who ain't no robber."
"Now," says Curly, "hear my lil' voice, for I'm goin' to prophesy. You know that Ryan reckons to have young Michael here for Balshannon's funeral? Suppose this Michael don't transpire to-night? Suppose the train comes in with news of a horrible shocking outrage? Suppose them mean, or'nary robbers has stole a millionaire? Suppose--well, just you wait for Ryan's yell when he hears what's done happened to his petted offspring. He'll surely forget there's any Balshannon to kill. Just you wait peaceful, and when the town turns out to rescue that poor stolen maverick you want to ride in and collect Balshannon."
Opposite in the hotel piazza I watched old Ryan and the City Marshal having a mint julep together at one of the tables.
"You hear that hawss?" says Curly, and far off I heard a horse come thundering. Soon the rider swung into sight, pitching the dust high, until he came abreast of my window, and saw the City Marshal in the piazza.
"Marshal," I heard him calling, "the wire to Bisley has been cut."
"The City Marshal at Bisley wants your help."
"You Ryan, your partner Jim Fiskin has been held up on the Mule Pass by robbers. Marshal, the message is for you to bring a posse swift to the nigh end of the pass, so as the Bisley people can drive the robbers under your guns."
"Good," says the Marshal, belting up his gun, "I'll be thar."
"It would be an awful pity," says Curly behind my shoulder, "if our City Marshal and his posse of men got called away on a false scent, while the wicked robbers up north were stealing a millionaire."
It's a whole lot interesting to see how different sorts of people put up a fight. Cat, she spits, and proceeds with claws; dog, he says no remarks, but opens up with teeth; horse, he's mighty swift to paw; bull, he hooks; bear, he hugs affectionate while he eats your face; Frenchman, he pokes with a sword; German, he slashes; Spaniard, he throws his knife; nigger, he barbers around with a razor: and all of us have the same feelings to express in some heartfelt sudden way. If you're looking for trouble with Mr. Cowboy, you want to tame yourself and get pretty near absent before he shoots. But at present my mind is set on Britishers, which is a complicated tribe, and they sure fight most various.