Part 17 (2/2)

_Swim._ ”That,” says I, ”means 'Dale.'”

_Pool._ ”That's 'fool,'” says I, ”because he don't give the answer.”

_Below._ ”That's 'h.e.l.lo.'”

_Rapids._ ”That's 'h.e.l.lo' again.”

”You lie,” says Whiskers, miserable, through his teeth. ”You made six letters.”

”Sorry,” says I, ”it got spelt wrong first time.”

_Float._ ”That's 'skunk,'” says I, ”because he's a polecat not to answer me.”

_Guns._

”What's that?” asked Whiskers, heaps suspicious because I couldn't think of another word of four letters. ”h.e.l.l!” says I.

”Quite right,” sighed Whiskers, ”to think of your future home.”

Dale signaled, _Coming_.

”Says he's ready for the Epistle and Gospel now. Spit it out, Whiskers.”

”Tell him to throw his guns in the river, or I'll shoot prisoner. And what's more, young man, you don't want to call me Whiskers.”

I wagged all that, word for word, as far as ”Whiskers,” and when the boys were through laughing, Dale asked if the robbers were serious.

I explained to the general that Dale wouldn't wet good guns to please a lot of--

”Lot of what?”

”Terms of endearment,” says I, ”which I blushes for Dale's morals.”

Dale signaled, _Keep your tail up._

”Well, General,” says I, ”without being able to read him exact, I guess Dale ain't drawing his men off along the bank with your outfit to shoot them like rabbits the moment they quit cover.”

”Tell Dale,” said Whiskers in his tired voice, ”he needn't trouble to take his men along the bank to whar they can swim the river. Now if you had religion--”

I could have choked with grief.

”Tell Dale,” says Whiskers, and his bereaved voice kind of jarred me now, ”we're just goin' to keep a gun at your ear-hole while we march up the trail. If Dale's men fire, your wife will be a widow, Mr. Smith.”

At that I wagged my arms and signaled. _No call to get wet. Hold-ups marching to Georgia. Kill man with gun. If you miss, ware Widow Smith._ You see if Dale squinted and missed, my widow was apt to reproach. So I added, _Allow windage for squint._

Dale answered, _You bet your life I will._

Then I swung round facing the cabin, and saw the barrel of my own revolver just peering round the door. By its height from the ground I judged that poor young Ginger was the artist. I wished it had been Bull, for I'd taken a fancy to Ginger.

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