But Weary spied him as his foot touched the ground.  “Oh, yuh can’t sneak off like that, old-timer.  Yuh stay right outside and help wake ’em up!” he shouted hoarsely.

Cal turned and looked at him keenly; looked also at the erratic movements of the gun, and reconsidered his decision.  Joe Meeker could wait.

“Better come on out to camp, Weary,” he said persuasively.  “We’re all of us going, right away.  Yuh can ride out with us.”

Weary had not yet extracted all the joy there was in the situation.  He did not want to ride out to camp; more, he had no intention of doing so.  He stood up in the stirrups and declaimed loudly his views upon the subject, and his opinion of any man who proposed such a move, and punctuated his remarks freely with profanity and bullets.

Under cover of Weary’s elocution Pink did a bit of jockeying and got his horse sidling up against Cal.  He leaned carelessly upon the saddle-horn and fixed his big, innocent eyes upon Weary’s flushed face.

“He’s pretty cute, if he is full,” he murmured discreetly to Cal.  “He won’t let his gun get empty—­see?  Loads after every third shot, regular.  We’ve got to get him so excited he forgets that little ceremony.  Once his gun’s empty, he’s all to the bad—­we can take him into camp.  We’ll try and rush him out uh town anyway, and shoot as we go.  It’s our only show—­unless we can get him inside and lay him out.”

“Yeah, that’s what we’ll have to do,” Cal assented guardedly.  “He’s sure tearing it off in large chunks, ain’t he?  I never knew—­”

“Here!  What you two gazabos making medicine about?” cried Weary suspiciously.  “Break away, there.  I won’t stand for no side-talks—­”

“We’re just wondering if we hadn’t all better adjourn and have something to drink,” said Pink musically, straightening up in the saddle.  “Come on—­I’m almighty dry.”

“Same here,” said Jack Bates promptly taking the cue, and threw one leg over the cantle.  He got no further than that.

“You stay right up on your old bench!” Weary commanded threateningly.  “We’re the kings uh the prairie, and we’ll drink on our thrones.  That so-many-kinds-of-bar-slave can pack out the dope to us.  It’s what he’s there for.”

That settled Pink’s little plan to get him inside where, lined up to the bar, they might—­if they were quick enough—­get his gun away from him; or, failing that, the warm room and another drink or two would “lay him out” and render him harmless.

Weary, shoving three cartridges dexterously into the chambers in place of those just emptied, shouted to Rusty to bring out the “sheepdip.”  The four drew together and attempted further consultation, separated hastily when his eye fell upon them, and waited meekly his further pleasure.  They knew better than to rouse his anger against them.

Weary, displeased because Rusty did not immediately respond to his call, sent a shot or two through the window by way of hurrying him.