You or I would have shot, just as quick as he did,
if a drunken Spaniard made for us with a knife. So would the Captain,
or Swift, or any of the others.
"I know--I've got a nasty tongue when something riles me, and I lash
out without stopping to think. Dade has given me the devil for that,
more times than I can count. He went after me about this very thing,
too, the other day. I'll try and forget about Sandy; it doesn't make
pleasant remembering, anyway. And I'll promise to count a hundred
before I mention the Committee above a whisper, after this--nine
hundred and ninety-nine before I take the name of Swift or the Captain
in vain!" He smiled full at Bill--a smile to make men love him for the
big-hearted boy he was.
But Bill did not grin back. "Well, it won't hurt you any; they're bad
men to fuss with, both of 'em," he warned somberly.
"Come on out and climb a hill or two with me," Jack urged. "You've
got worse kinks in your system, to-day, than I've got in my legs. You
won't? Well, better go back and take another sleep, then; it may put
you in a more optimistic mood." He went off up the street towards the
hills to the south, turning in at the door of a tented eating-place
for his belated breakfast.
"Optimistic hell!" grunted Bill. "You can't tell a man anything he
don't think he knows better than you do, till he's past thirty. I was
a fool to try, I reckon."
He glowered at the vanishing figure, noting anew how tall and straight
Jack was in his close-fitting buckskin jacket, with the crimson sash
knotted about his middle in the Spanish style, his trousers tucked
into his boots like the miners, and to crown all, a white sombrero
such as the vaqueros wore.
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