We had listened, that afternoon, too coolly, perhaps, to
a tale of many outrages, but the horror and infamy of them were not
brought home to us till we saw Mary, tattered scarred, bedraggled,
lying crumpled up against the gay chintz of the arm-chair. The poor
fellow kept muttering: "Coon Dogs come. I know. Killee you, killee me.
Heap bad men!"
Next morning Uncle Jake and the doctor rode up.
"I can do nothing," said the latter, presently. "It's a case of shock.
He may get over it; he may not. Another shock would kill him. I'll
leave some medicine."
Upon further consultation we put Mary into Ajax's bed. The Chinaman's
bunk-house was isolated, and the vaqueroes slept near the horse
corral, a couple of hundred yards away. Mary feebly protested: "No
likee. Coon Dogs--allee same debils--killee you, killee me. Heap bad
men!"
We tried to assure him that the Coon Dogs were at heart rank curs.
Mary shook his head: "I know. You see."
The day passed. Night set in. About ten, Mary said, convincingly--
"Coon Dogs coming! Coon Dogs coming!"
"No, no," said Ajax.
I slipped out of the house.
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