PATSY’S DANCING LESSON.
Serpent Sam, as he called himself, backed into the middle of the room
as he spoke.
The other men in the crowd yelled with joy, and got together at the
other end of the bar from Patsy, most of them.
A few stood almost behind their leader.
They were grinning at the fun they thought they were going to have with
the tenderfoot.
Patsy thrust his hands in the side pockets of his coat, and watched, as
if with curiosity.
He knew exactly what would happen, for he had met wild men from the
Western hills before.
So, when Serpent Sam blazed at his feet, he did not stir.
The first bullet tore a hole in the floor, just in front of his right
toe.
“Dance, you onery cuss! dance!” yelled Serpent Sam.
“I don’t know how,” replied Patsy.
“Jump then, you idiot! jump into the air, durn ye! I’ll teach ye!”
As he spoke, Serpent Sam fired again.
This time the bullet struck so close to the detective’s foot that it
jarred it.
But no harm was done, and Patsy never stirred.
He knew that the first shots would be aimed so as to scare him—not to
hit.
After that, Serpent Sam might be angered into firing to kill.
“For Heaven’s sake, stranger,” called Bronco Bill, “don’t be a fool.
Dance for the gentleman. It won’t last long, and nobody will be hurt.
Jump and let him have his fun.”
Patsy himself saw by the savage glare in Serpent Sam’s eyes that it
would be jump or get hit at the next shot.
Quick as a flash, therefore, without moving from his place, and before
Serpent Sam could cock his revolver again, Patsy drew one of his own
barkers and fired.
Nobody in the room knew what he was about till they heard the bang! and
saw the puff of smoke that rolled away from in front of the detective.
“I don’t dance for anybody,” said Patsy, quietly.
“Wow! ouch! damn!” howled Serpent Sam, as his revolver flew from his
hand.
Patsy’s bullet had struck it on the butt.
It not only caused Serpent Sam to drop the weapon, but it numbed his
fingers.
And the bullet did another thing.
Glancing from the place where it struck Sam’s revolver, it flew across
the room and hit another man on the cartridge belt, doing no harm, but
startling that man fearfully.
For that matter, all the men were startled.
Some of them ran behind the bar and crouched down.
Half a dozen of those who had been in the place when the horsemen came
ran for the outside door.
Serpent Sam, cursing with rage and pain, reached for his other revolver.
He could bend his numbed fingers just enough to draw it from his belt,
but he could not cock it.
While he was trying to do so, it dropped to the floor.
The fingers of his right hand would not hold it.
Patsy, knowing that he was disabled, was paying no attention to him.
He was sweeping his revolver carelessly around the room.
“It might go off,” he remarked. “It’s got a hair trigger. Look out!”
At that his weapon did go off.
One of the men was just getting the drop on him.
Patsy’s shot did for him just what had been done for Serpent Sam.
It knocked the gun out of his hand and caused him to leap back, cursing
with rage.
“If you gents enjoy dancing,” said Patsy, coolly, “just recollect that
I’m floor manager here. I’ll tell you when it’s your turn—yours, for
instance.”
With this he let drive at the feet of a man near the edge of the crowd.
The bullets splintered the floor at the man’s toe.
He jumped for fear, and the detective laughed.
“It’s more fun than I thought,” he cried; “we’ll try it again.”
He made as if he would empty all his cartridges at the men’s feet, but
he had done enough.
All except Serpent Sam were making a wild scramble to get behind the
bar, out of doors, underneath tables—any place, so as to be out of
range.
Sam had cooled down very suddenly.
“Hold on, stranger,” he called; “we uns know when we’re licked. You’ve
done us brown, an’ ef thar’s anything in the house you want, call for
it.”
Patsy understood the man.
His tone and manner showed that he meant what he said.
He was rubbing his sore hand and kicking his revolvers so that they
would lie where he could pick them up.
Of all the men there Sam was the only one who hadn’t shown fear.
The detective immediately pocketed his weapon.
“All right, pard,” he said, good-naturedly; “there is one thing in the
house I want.”
“Name it.”
“I want every man jack of you to wet up. The drinks are on me, gents.
Step lively.”
For an instant nobody stirred.
They looked at him as if they could not believe their ears.
Those who had crouched behind the bar gradually began to poke their
heads above it.
Naturally, Serpent Sam was the first to move.
Leaving his revolvers where they were on the floor, he strode to Patsy
with his hand outstretched.
“Put it there, pard,” he cried; “you’re a white man an’ no mistake. I
see I don’t need to ’pologize fer trying to hev some fun with yer.”
“Not at all,” replied Patsy, shaking the man’s hand.
Sam winced, for the detective’s grip hurt his sore fingers.
“Excuse me,” said Patsy, letting go; “I didn’t think.”
Then both laughed, and at that sound the other men came crowding up.
“Whar’d you learn to shoot?” asked one.
“Say, are you a walking Gatling gun?” inquired another.
Patsy smiled at them.
“I never learned to shoot,” he said. “I was born with a gun in my hand,
and I used to practice at the flies on the wall before I could walk.”
Everybody laughed at this.
Bronco Bill drew a long breath.
The shooting scrap had turned out pleasantly, with nobody the worse for
it, and everybody thirsty.
Glasses rattled on the bar, and bottles passed.
“Here’s how, pard,” said Sam.
He drained his glass at one gulp, and set it down.
“But say,” he added, “you’d oughter hev let us make the other cuss
dance. Friend of yourn?”
“No. I saw that he was scared half to death, and I was afraid he might
have a fit.”
“Rot! he’d ’a’ got over it. Jine us now, won’t ye, pard, and rout him
out?”
“We’ll let you do the shootin’,” said another, eagerly.
“Now, gents,” began Bronco Bill, fearful that the rough crowd would
break loose again.
He didn’t know Patsy.
“Rout him out?” echoed the detective; “why! he’s a mile from here by
this time.”
“Go on!”
“That’s what he’s doing. Bet your life on it.”
“We might break down the door and see,” somebody suggested.
Several of them began to move toward the door.
“Wait a minute,” called Patsy.
He was smiling, and they stopped to hear what he had to say.
“I’d rather you wouldn’t bother the fellow,” he went on; “I tell you
that straight, but if you’re dead anxious to have some fun with him and
want me to join, I’ll take the chance of a toss-up. What do you say?”
“It’s a go!” cried Sam, taking a coin from his pocket. “Heads or tails,
pard?”
“Is it a cent?” asked the detective.
“No—a dime.”
“Just as good. Throw it up to the ceiling, and if it comes down what
you call yourself, I’ll join you.”
Serpent Sam tossed up the coin.
“Tails!” he called.
It struck the ceiling with a ting, and began to fall.
The detective’s revolver flashed, to the great surprise of all, for
they were watching the coin.
Crack! bang! went the trusty barker twice in rapid order.
There was another ting at the further side of the room.
Sam went over there, and, after hunting a bit, picked up the dime.
He came back to the bar with it, his face fairly blue with wonder.
“Durned ef the stranger hain’t won,” he said; “the dime hain’t got
either a head or a tail.”
He laid the coin on the bar, and everybody crowded around to look at it.
Patsy’s first bullet had struck it on one side and his second on the
other, for the coin was spinning in the air and luck was with him to
the extent that both bullets did not hit the same side.
“Wal! ef that ain’t the durnedest shootin’ ever I seen!” said one of
the men.
All agreed with him.
“It means,” said Sam, gravely, “that we let the white-livered cuss
upstairs alone. But you must come with us to the next joint, pardner.”
“All right,” replied Patsy, “lead on.”
“An’ you’ll hev to make some galoot dance soon as we find one of the
right kind.”
“Go ahead. I’m agreed.”
The whole mob charged for the door.
On the sidewalk they paused to decide which way to go.
The street was not well lighted, and, while they were talking, Patsy
slipped a beard to his face.
“We’ll go to Danny Dineen’s next,” said Serpent Sam. “Come on, pard——”
He looked around.
“Where’s the sharpshooter?” he asked.
Patsy pointed down the street.
“He’s just scooted that way,” he said, in a disguised tone.
“Durned ef I don’t believe he’s tryin’ to shake us!” cried Serpent Sam;
“come on, boys, let’s catch up with him.”
Off they went, yelling like mad, some jumping to their horses, others
on foot.
When they had all disappeared around a corner, Patsy took off his beard
and went back into Bronco Bill’s.
Bill and his bartender were alone in the place.
“Great Scott!” exclaimed Bill, “where’d you come from?”
“I thought I’d say good-night,” responded Patsy, laughing.
“Didn’t you go with that crowd?”
“You see.”
“Wal, I don’t see how you done it, but you done me and my house a good
turn, pardner. Gee! I thought they’d shoot the whole outfit to pieces.
Have something?”
“No, thank you. When they find that I’ve given them the shake, they may
come back here, and if they find me, it won’t be so easy to get rid of
them again. Tell ’em you don’t know where I went.”
“All right, no more I do. Call again?”
“To-morrow.”
The detective then went out and crossed the street to his lodging.
He sat at his window for more than an hour.
He saw the horsemen return after a time, heard them singing and
shouting in Bronco Bill’s, but he heard no more shooting, and he saw no
more of Snell that night.