Dan Andersen drew his revolver and fired a swift shot through the top of Tom Osby's wagon.

Tom came up, rifle in hand, like a jack-in-the-box, and bent on bloodshed.
"Shut up," said Dan Anderson.
"Well, I ain't so sure," said Tom, judicially rubbing his chin.

"It's a new wagon-bow for you fellers; and next time just you don't get quite so funny, by a leetle shade." I interfered at this point, for trouble had begun in Heart's Desire over smaller things than this.

"Don't you know it's Sunday ?" I asked Tom Osby.
"I hadn't noticed it," said he.
"Well, it is," said Dan Anderson.

"You come here, and tell me what time the stage gets in from Socorro." "I ain't no alminack," said Tom Osby, "and I ain't no astrollyger." "He's _loco_, Tom," said I.
"Well, I reckon _so_.