"Here," said the man, touching one of the shells.
"Right you are, my hearty! Well, here's your ten."
The man from Minnesota took the money and was going away.
"Hold on," said Mosher; "how do I know you had the money to cover that bet?"
The man laughed and took from his pocket a wad of bills an inch thick.
Quick as lightning Mosher had snatched the bills from him, and the man from Minnesota found himself gazing into the barrel of a six-shooter.
"This here's my money," said Mosher; "now you _git_."
A moment only--a shot rang out. I saw the gun fall from Mosher's hand, and the roll of bills drop to the ground. Quickly the man from Minnesota recovered them and rushed off to tell his party. Then the men from Minnesota got their Winchesters, and the shooting began.
From their camp the gamblers took refuge behind the boulders that strewed the sides of the canyon, and blazed away at their opponents. A regular battle followed, which lasted till the fall of night. As far as I heard, only one casualty resulted. A Swede, about half a mile down the trail, received a spent bullet in the cheek. He complained to the Deputy Marshal. That worthy, sitting on his horse, looked at him a moment. Then he spat comprehensively.
"Can't do anything, Ole. But I'll tell you what. Next time there's bullets flying round this section of the country, don't go sticking your darned whiskers in the way. See!"
He laughed and showed me a hole in his coat pocket which a bullet had burned.
"You see, having been in the game myself, I knew what was comin' and acted accordin'."
"Wait a while, sonny, wait a while. There's something mighty familiar about Jake Mosher. He's mighty like a certain Sam Mosely I'm interested in. I've just written a letter outside to see, an' if it's him--well, I'm saved; I'm a good Christian, but--God help him!"
"Sam Mosely? Sam Mosely was the skunk that busted up my home an' stole my wife, blast him!"
[A: A Jam-wagon was the general name given to an Englishman on the trail.]
Day after day, each man of us poured out on the trail the last heel-tap of his strength, and the coming of night found us utterly played out. Salvation Jim was full of device and resource, the Prodigal, a dynamo of eager energy; but it was the Jam-wagon who proved his mettle in a magnificent and relentless way. Whether it was from a sense of gratitude, or to offset the cravings that assailed him, I know not, but he crammed the days with merciless exertion.