ha!" laughed George Bruce. "So 'm I goin' on, by Scott!"
Grunts and envious looks came from the group and Carter squirmed uneasily. "That's just like you fellers, runnin' away an' leavin' me to face it. An' it was you fellers what played most of th' tricks on him last time he was here. Huh! now I gotta pay for 'em," he growled.
Bill glanced over the gloomy circle and laughed heartily. Two faces out of seven were bright, Dad's particularly so. "Well, he seems to be quite a favorite around here," he grinned.
Carter snorted. "Huh! Seems to be nothin'."
"He ain't exactly a favorite," muttered Dawson. "He 's a—a—an event; that's what he is!"
Carter nodded. "Yep; that's what he is, 'though you just can't help likin' th' cub, he 's that cheerful in his devilment."
Charley Logan stretched and yawned. "Didn't hear nothin' about no Injuns, did you? A feller rid through here yesterday an' said they was out again."
Bill nodded. "Yes; I did. An' there 's a lot of rumors goin' around. They 've been over in th' Crazy Butte country an' I heard they raided through th' Little Mountain Valley last week. Anyhow, th' Seventh is out after 'em, in four sections."
"Th' Seventh is a regiment," asserted George Bruce. "Leastawise it was when I was in it. It is th' best in th' Service."
Dad snorted. "Listen to him! It was when he was in it! Lordy, Lordy, Lordy!" he chuckled.
"There hain't no cavalry slick enough to ketch Apaches," declared Hank, dogmatically. "Troops has too many fixin's an' sech. You gotta travel light an' live without eatin' an' drinkin' to ketch them Injuns; an' then you never hardly sometimes see 'em, at that."
"Lemme tell you, Mosshead, th' Seventh can lick all th' Injuns ever spawned!" asserted Bruce with heat. "It wiped out Black Kettle's camp, in th' dead of winter, too!"
"That was Custer as did that," snorted Carter.
"Well, he was leadin' th' Seventh, same as he is now!"
Charley Logan shook his head. "We are talking about ketchin' 'em, not fightin' 'em. An' no cavalry in th' hull country can ketch 'Paches in this country—it's too rough. 'Paches are only scared of punchers."
"Shore," asserted Carter. "Apaches laugh at troops, less 'n it's a pitched battle, when they don't. Cavalry chases 'em so fur an' no farther; punchers chase 'em inter h—l, out of it an' back again."
"They shore is 'lusive," cogitated Lefty Dawson, carefully deluging a fly ten feet away and shifting his cud for another shot. "An' I, for one, admits I ain't hankerin' for to chase 'em close."
"Wish we could get that cub Jimmy to chase some," exclaimed Carter. "Afore he gits here," he explained, thoughtfully.
"Oh, he 's all right, Carter," spoke up Lefty. "We was all of us young and playful onct."
"But we all war n't he-devils workin' day an' night tryin' to make our betters miserable!"
"Oh, he 's a good kid," remarked Dad. "I sorta hates to miss him. Anyhow, we got th' best of him, last time."
Bill finished rolling a cigarette, lit it and slowly addressed them. "Well, all I got to say is that he suits me right plumb down to th' ground. Now, just lemme tell you somethin' about Jimmy," and he gave them the story of Jimmy's part in the happenings on Tortilla Range, to the great delight of his audience.
"By Scott, it's just like him!" chuckled George Bruce.
"That's shore Jimmy, all right," laughed Lefty.
"What did I tell you?" beamed Dad. "He 's a heller, he is. He 's all right!"
"Then why don't you stay an' see him?" demanded Carter.
"I gotta go on, or I would. Yessir, I would!"
"Reckon them Injuns won't git so fur north as here," suggested Carter hopefully, and harking back to the subject which lay heaviest on his mind. "They 've only been here twict in ten years."
"Which was twice too often," asserted Lefty.
"Th' last time they was here," remarked Dad, reminiscently, "they didn't stop long; though where they went to I dunno. We gave 'em more 'n they could handle. That was th' time I just bought that new Sharps rifle, an' what I done with that gun was turrible." He paused to gather the facts in the right order before he told the story, and when he looked around again he flushed and swore. The audience had silently faded away to escape the moth-eaten story they knew by heart. The fact that Dad usually improved it and his part in it, each time he told it, did not lure them. "Cussed ingrates!" he swore, turning to Bill. "They 're plumb jealous!"
"They act like it, anyhow," agreed Bill soberly. "I 'd like to hear it, but I 'm too thirsty. Come in an' have one with me?" The story was indefinitely postponed.
An accordion wheezed down the street and a mouth-organ tried desperately to join in from the saloon next door, but, owing to a great difference in memory, did not harmonize. A roar of laughter from Dawson's, and the loud clink of glasses told where Dad's would-have-been audience then was. Carter walked around his counter and seated himself in his favorite place against the door jamb. Bill, having eluded Dad, sat on a keg of edibles and smoked in silence and content, occasionally slapping at the flies which buzzed persistently around his head. Knocking the ashes from the cigarette he leaned back lazily and looked at Carter. "Wonder where he is?" he muttered.
"Huh?" grunted the proprietor, glancing around. "Oh, you worryin' about that yearlin'? Well, you needn't! Nothin' never sidetracks Jimmy."
A fusillade of shots made Bill stand up, and Carter leaped to his feet and dashed toward the counter. But he paused and looked around foolishly. "That's his yell," he explained. "Didn't I tell you? He's arrove, same as usual."
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