"You hear!" he yelled. "Senor Parker, you hear those boy give to me
hell like old times, no?"
"You ran--you _colorado maduro_ good-for-nothing--left me stuck
in--ditch--let bushwhacker--get away--fix you for this, Pablo."
Pablo's eyes popped in ecstasy. He grinned like a gargoyle. "You hear
those boy, _senor_?" he reiterated happily. "I tell you those boy he
like ol' Pablo. The night he come back he rub my head; yesterday he
poke the rib of me with the thumb--now pretty soon he say sometheeng, I
bet you."
"Shut up, I tell you." Don Mike's voice, though very faint, was
petulant. "You're a total idiot. Find my horse--get rifle--trail that
man--who shot me--get him--damn your prayers--get him--"
"Ah, Don Miguel," Pablo assured him in Spanish, in tones that were
prideful beyond measure, "that unfortunate fellow has been shaking
hands with the devil for the last forty-five minutes."
Don Mike opened his eyes widely. He was rapidly regaining his full
consciousness. "Your work, Pablo?"
"Mine--with the help of God, as your illustrious grandfather, the first
Don Miguel, would have said. But you are pleased to doubt me so I
shall show you the carcass of the animal. I roped him and dragged him
for two miles behind the black mare."
Don Mike smiled and closed his eyes. "I will go home," he said
presently, and Pablo and Parker lifted him between them and carried him
down to the waiting wagon.
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