“No, sir!” said Morris, grandly. “I don’t vant to rob you. Mein horse is faster as a railroad train--on a siding.” “Injun race ponies ’gainst horse,” replied the Indian, stolidly. “Vot kind of a bet you make?” said Morris. “Bet firewater and tobac.” “I’ll do it. I bet on your ponies und you bet on mein horse.” “Injun no bet so. Chief got many pistols. Chief good shot?” “Am I a goot shoots? I should say I vos a goot shoots. I am de pest shooter on de stofe--I mean range. Mit dis son of a gun I”--but “Wild Bill” did not finish that sentence, as the pistol which he held loosely in his left hand went off unexpectedly, which so startled him that he jumped backward trembling. At this stage of the proceedings, the four men with Helen returned to the bar-room and, seeing the latter part of this affair from the door, gave Helen a chance to throw a bird that she had shot on her way over the range, so that it fell at his feet, and then she drew back out of sight. The shoemaker saw the bird fall at his feet and, picking it up, said proudly: “Am I a shootser? Vell, look out for your selluf. Dot tells de story.” And then he began to strut about grandly. The men looked out, tiptoeing to the door, Shoshone saying: “Wait, boys; take a peek first. It may be Rattlesnake Sam shootin’ things up. He’s been on the rampage lately, and he’s ugly when he gets started, and we don’t want a noise.” The Indian still stood in the same place, but bowed ironically several times, saying: “Big chief, dead shot. Big chief, dead shot.” As the four men reached the porch, Shoshone saw that they had gotten hold of another tenderfoot, and promptly they forgot that there was to be no noise there that day, for Shoshone said: “Get ready, boys; now, all at once! He’s mine, for I saw him first.” All the boys, in chorus, gave their ear-splitting salute of “Ee--you! Zip,” etc., while the frightened shoemaker held up his shaking left hand, trying feebly to emit a ferocious cowboy yell, at which Shoshone Pete broke out laughing and said: “Why, hello, tenderfoot! What do you want to do? Sell me that?”--pointing at the shaking pistol. The shoemaker thought, “How can I shoot him now, when he begins to talk business?” Then to his tormentor he said: “Who told you dot I haf tender feet? Dot is right, for I haf got plisters on der heels.” At this naive confession, all present began to laugh and shout. Dan came forward, saying, as well as his laughter would let him: “I say, pardner, what might your name be?” “It’s--I mean, I am de Vilt Bill, de Bull-man. I am de rink-tailed squealer from Hoboken, New Jersey. I am de rip-snorting vilt man from de bad lands, und dis is de time to maket de racket. Quack! quack! quack!”