Every place isn't Viking. One
night we had a difference--not a quarrel, mind you, but a difference. He
was for lynchin' a fellow called Piccadilly, a swell that'd come down in
the world, bringin' the worst tricks of his tribe with him. He'd never
been a bony fidy gentleman--just an imitation. He played sneak with the
daughter of Five Fingers, an Injin chief. We'd set store by that girl.
There wasn't one of us rough nuts but respected her. She was one of the
few beautiful Injin women I've seen. Well, it come out that Piccadilly
had ruined her, and one morning she was found dead. It drove my pal
well-nigh crazy. Not that she was anything partik'ler to him; but the
thing took hold of him unusual."
Now that I know all concerning Roscoe's past life, I can imagine that
this recital must have been swords at his heart. The whole occurrence is
put down minutely in his diary, but there is no word of comment upon it.
Phil had been obliged to stop for pain, and, after Roscoe had adjusted
the bandages, he continued:
"My pal and the others made up their minds they'd lynch Piccadilly; they
wouldn't give him the benefit of the doubt--for it wasn't certain that
the girl hadn't killed herself.
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