"The Swede wasn't going to argue about it, because we'd all come
out in front to listen; so he pulled his gun and let it off over
Pyann's head; and a couple of the boys did the same thing, and that
started the rest--about six others had guns--till it sounded like a
bunch of giant crackers going off. Old Pyann left in haste, all
right. He was flattened out on his pony till he looked like a
plaster.
"We didn't hear any more of him last night, but coming up here this
morning I found out he'd done a regular Paul Revere ride to save
his people; he rode clear up as far as that last camp, just below
here, on your place, yelling to every Injin he passed that they'd
better take to the brush, because the whites had broken out at
Kulanche. At that, the Swede ought to be sent up, knowing they'll
fight every time he sells them whiskey. Two of these last night
were bad cut in this rumpus."
"Yes; and he'd ought to be sent up for life for selling it to white men,
too--the kind he sells." This was Sandy Sawtelle, speaking as one who
knew and with every sign of conviction.
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