"Blast 'em! Blast 'em! They've got Buck! They've got Buck, blast 'em! They've got Buck, Skinny! Good old Buck! They've got him! Jimmy's gone, Johnny's plugged, and now Buck's gone! Come on!" he sobbed in a frenzy of vengeance.

"Come on, Skinny! We'll tear their cussed hides into a deeper red than they are now! Oh, blast it, I can't see--where's my gun ?" He groped for the rifle and fought Skinny when the latter, red-eyed but cool, endeavored to restrain him.

"Lemme go, curse yu! Don't yu know they got Buck?
Lemme go!" "Down! Red's got di' skunk.

Yu can't do nothin'-- they'd drop yu afore yu took five steps.

Red's got him, I tell yu! Do yu want me to lick yu?
We'll pay 'em back with interest if yu'll keep yore head!" exclaimed Skinny, throwing the crazed man heavily.
Musical tones, rising and falling in weird octaves, whining pityingly, diabolically, sobbing in a fascinating monotone and slobbering in ragged chords, calling as they swept over the plain, always calling and exhorting, they mingled in barbaric discord with the defiant barks of the six-shooters and the inquiring cracks of the Winchesters.