We were some relieved to find the family all right, but Texas
Pete had bored one of them poor old crow-bait hosses plumb
through the head.
"It's lucky for you you don't get the old man," says Gentleman
Tim very quiet and polite.
Which Gentleman Tim was an Irishman, and I'd been on the range
long enough with him to know that when he got quiet and polite it
was time to dodge behind something.
"I hope, sir" says he to the stranger, "that you will give your
wife and baby a satisfying drink. As for your hoss, pray do not
be under any apprehension. Our friend, Mr. Texas Pete, here, has
kindly consented to make good any deficiencies from his own
corral."
Tim could talk high, wide, and handsome when he set out to.
The man started to say something; but I managed to herd him to
one side.
"Let him alone," I whispers. "When he talks that way, he's mad;
and when he's mad, it's better to leave nature to supply the
lightnin' rods."
He seemed to sabe all right, so we built us a little fire and
started some grub, while Gentleman Tim walked up and down very
grand and fierce.
By and by he seemed to make up his mind. He went over and untied
Texas Pete.
"Stand up, you hound," says he.
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