I'm
used to what you ain't. Shore I can see death a-comin'. Wal, every
day the outfit grows wilder. A little whisky 'll burn hell loose
along this heah U.P. line."
Larry strode on in the direction Shurd had taken. Neale pondered a
moment, perplexed, and grateful to his comrade. He heard remarks
among the laborers, and he saw the flagman Casey remove his black
pipe from his lips--an unusual occurrence.
"Mac, it wus thot red-head cowboy wot onct p'inted his gun at me!"
burst out Casey.
"Did yez see him shoot?" replied Mac, with round eyes. "Niver aimed
an' yit he hit!"
Mike Shane, the third of the trio of Irish laborers in Neale's
corps, was a little runt of a sandy-haired wizened man, and he
spoke up: "Begorra, he's wan of thim Texas Jacks. He'd loike to kill
yez, Pat Casey, an' if he ever throwed thot cannon at yez, why,
runnin' 'd be slow to phwat yez 'd do."
"I niver run in me loife," declared Casey, doggedly.
Neale went his way. It was noted that from that day he always
carried a gun, preferably a rifle when it was possible. In the use
of the long gun he was an adept, but when it came to Larry's kind of
a gun Neale needed practice. Larry could draw his gun and shoot
twice before Neale could get his hand on his weapon.
It was through Neale's habit of carrying the rifle out on his
surveying trips that the second incident came about.
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