That's final!"
Nothing loath, Webfoot claimed the penalty from the crowd perched in the
trees, in some instances not without the aid of his six-shooter, and the
jack was then turned loose in the palisade.
"He's eatin' grass," piped up old Grease-top Jamie. "Say, I can see
twenty jackasses eatin', down to the boardin' house at Blue Tent any
day, an' I don't have to pay no dollar, neither. Turn out ye'r baar!"
"Hi! Here he comes! Eat 'im up, jack! Why, that ain't no grizzly.
Sufferin' stars, he's only a little scared cinnamon."
"He's goin' after mister-old-donk, though."
"Ye-aw. Lookin' fer protection. Hey, look at the donk landin' kicks on
'is ribs. Ride 'im baar! Claw 'im up! Give 'im - " but the little
cinnamon bear reached the fence in three jumps, scaled it, and took to
the grease-wood thickets in record time in spite of the yells and
bullets of the disgruntled spectators.
Webfoot had made even better time than the bear, and only the placid
jack remained as a memento of the occasion. He was taken at the head of
a long procession of miners and made the occasion for a call upon the
whole round of fandango houses, and dispensaries of liquid rowdyism in
the camp.
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