Big Medicine was swabbing paint from his eyebrows and bellowing his opinion of a man that will keep a-comin', by cripes, after he's shot the third time at close range, and then kick because he takes so much killing off.

This was aimed at the Native Son, who had evidently died hard, and who meant to retaliate as soon as he got that dab of paint out of his eye.

But the door opened violently against his person and startled him into forgetting his next observation.
This was Luck, and he had the look of a man who owns a guilty secret, and is ready to be rather proud of his guilt,--providing society consents to wink at it with him.

He was not smiling, exactly; he had a wicked kind of twinkle in his eyes.
"Hurry up, boys! My Lord, how you fellows do primp and jangle in here! They're going to run our first picture, _The Soul of Littlefoot Law_.
Don't you fel--" "The which ?" Big Medicine whirled upon him, rubbing his left eye into a terrifying, bloodshot condition while he glared with the other.
"_The Soul of Littlefoot Law_," Luck repeated distinctly with a perfect neutrality of manner.
"'S that what you call all that ridin' and shootin' we done, that you said was by moonlight ?" Pink inquired pugnaciously--for a young man who had died the death four different times that day.
"That's what it's called," Luck averred with firmness.
"Aw--where does Soul of Littlefoot Law come in at ?" Happy Jack scoffed.
"It doesn't, so far as I know." "Aw, there ain't no sense in such a name as that.

Is that where I got shot off'n my horse, and Bud, here, done his best to run over me ?" "That's the one.