"Barras'll have to get him a new lookin' glass," he opined, as he shook the slivers from his hat brim. "The war's on--an' she's a beaut! If ol' Santa Anna was here, him an' I could lick the world! This red licker sure is gettin' to my head--stayed off of it too long--but I'm makin' up for lost time. Whoopee!" "Oh, I'm a Texas cowboy, Far away from home, If I ever get back to Texas I never more will roam." "Hey, in there!" The song ceased abruptly, and, gun in hand the Texan answered. "There ain't no hay in here! What do you think this is, a cow's hotel? The livery barn's next door!" "They ain't no outlaw goin' to run Timber City while I'm marshal!" "Put 'er here, pardner!" answered the Texan. "You run Timber City an' I'll run the Red Front! Come on in an' buy a drink, so I can get my change!" "You're arrested fer disturbin' the peace!" "Come an' get me, then. But come a-shootin'!" "You can't git away with it. I got twenty men here, an' everyone packin' a gun!" "You've got me, then," mocked the Texan. "I've only got two guns. Run 'em in in a bunch. I can only take care of a dozen, an' the rest can get me before I can reload." "Yer kickin' up an awful stink fer a dollar an' four bits." "'Tain't the money, it's the principle of the thing. An' besides, I aimed to pull a hell-winder of a jamboree--an' I'm doin' it." "You ain't helpin' yer case none by raisin' a rookus like this. Come out an' give yerself up. All there is agin you is a fine an' a little damages." "How much?" "We'll make it fifty dollars' fine, an' you'll have to talk to Pete Barras about the damages." The Texan laughed derisively: "Guess again, you short horn! I've got more money than that!" "You comin' out, or I got to go in there an' git you?" "I ain't comin' out, an' you ain't comin' in here an' get me," defied the cowboy; "you ain't got the guts to--you an' your twenty gun-fighters to boot! Just you stick your classic profile around the corner of that wall an' I'll shoot patterns in it!" "You can't git away. We've got yer horse!" "If I was a posse I'd surround you an' string you up for a bunch of horse-thieves!" "What you goin' to do about it?" "I'm standin' pat--me. What you goin' to do?" "Come on out, hands up, an' submit to arrest before you git in too deep." "There ain't a marshal in Montana can arrest me!" "What's yer name?" "Hydrophobia B. Tarantula! I'm a curly wolf! I can't be handled 'cause I'm full of quills! I've got seventeen rattles an' a button, an' I'm right now coiled!" "Yer drunk as hell," growled the marshal, "wait till you git sober an' you won't feel so damn hard." "You're goin' to miss some sleep waitin', 'cause there's seventeen quarts in sight, without countin' the barrel goods an' beer."