It had missed him by
only a few inches and he now crept along the floor to the rear of the
room and shoved his rifle out among the branches of a stunted mesquite
which grew before a fissure in the wall. "You keep away from that windy
for a minute, Hoppy," he warned as he waited.
A terror-stricken lizard flashed out of the fissure and along the wall
where the roof had fallen in and flitted into a hole, while a fly buzzed
loudly and hovered persistently around Red's head, to the rage of that
individual. "Ah, ha!" he grunted, lowering the rifle and peering through
the smoke. A yell reached his ears and he forthwith returned to his
window, whistling softly.
Evidently Mr. Cassidy's eyes were better and his temper sweeter, for he
hummed "Dixie" and then jumped to "Yankee Doodle," mixing the two
airs with careless impartiality, which was a sign that he was thinking
deeply. "Wonder what ever became of Powers, Red. Peculiar feller, he
was."
"In jail, I reckon, if drink hasn't killed him."
"Yes; I reckon so," and Mr. Cassidy continued his medley, which prompted
his friend quickly to announce his unqualified disapproval.
"You can make more of a mess of them two songs than anybody I ever heard
murder 'em! _Shut up!_"--and the concert stopped, the vocalist venting
his feelings at an Indian, and killing the horse instead.
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