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washed his cut with sour wine。 That brought him to。 Sour wine is fine
to put a wound in shape to heal； but it's no soothing syrup。 He sat up as
though he'd been touched with a hot poker； stared around wild…eyed； and
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cut loose with that song you were singing。 Only it wasn't that verse。 It
was another one further along； that went like this：
Their coffin was their ship； and their grave it was the sea；
Blow high； blow low； what care we； And the quarter that we gave them
was to sink them in the sea； Down on the coast of the High Barbaree。
It fair made my hair rise to hear him； with the big； still； solemn desert
outside； and the quiet moonlight； and the shadows； and him sitting up
straight and gaunt； his eyes blazing each side his big eagle nose； and his
snaky hair hanging over the raw cut across his head。 However； I made
out to get him bandaged up and in shape； and pretty soon he sort of went
to sleep。 Well； he was clean out of his head for nigh two weeks。
Most of the time he lay flat on his back staring at the pole roof； his eyes
burning and looking like they saw each one something a different distance
off； the way crazy eyes do。 That was when he was best。 Then again
he'd sing that Barbaree song until I'd go out and look at the old Colorado
flowing by just to be sure I hadn't died and gone below。 Or else he'd just
talk。 That was the worst performance of all。 It was like listening to one
end of a telephone； though we didn't know what telephones were in those
days。 He began when be was a kid； and he gave his side of conversations；
pausing for replies。 I could mighty near furnish the replies sometimes。
It was queer lingoabout ships and ships' officers and gales and calms and
fights and pearls and whales and islands and birds and skies。 But it was
all little stuff。 I used to listen by the hour； but I never made out anything
really important as to who the man was； or where he'd come from； or what
he'd done。 At the end of the second week I came in at noon as per
usual to fix him up with grub。 I didn't pay any attention to him； for he
was quiet。 As I was bending over the fire he spoke。 Usually I didn't
bother with his talk； for it didn't mean anything； but something in his voice
made me turn。 He was lying on his side； those black eyes of his blazing
at me； but now both of them saw the same distance。 〃Where are my
clothes？〃 he asked； very intense。
〃You ain't in any shape to want clothes；〃 said I。 〃Lie still。〃 I
hadn't any more than got the words out of my mouth before he was atop
me。 His method was a winner。 He had me by the throat with his hand；
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and I felt the point of the hook pricking the back of my neck。 One little
squeezeTalk about your deadly weapons！ But he'd been too sick
and too long abed。 He turned dizzy and keeled over； and I dumped him
back on the bunk。 Then I put my six…shooter on。 In a minute or so
he came to。 〃Now you're a nice； sweet proposition；〃 said I； as soon as
I was sure he could understand me。 〃Here I pick you up on the street and
save your worthless carcass； and the first chance you get you try to crawl
my hump。 Explain。〃 〃Where's my clothes？〃 he demanded again；
very fierce。 〃For heaven's sake；〃 I yelled at him； 〃what's the matter
with you and your old clothes？ There ain't enough of them to dust a
fiddle with anyway。 What do you think I'd want with them？ They're safe
enough。〃'
〃Let me have them；〃 he begged。
〃Now； look here；〃 said I； 〃you can't get up to…day。 You ain't fit。〃
〃I know；〃 he pleaded； 〃but let me see them。〃
Just to satisfy him I passed over his old duds。
〃I've been robbed；〃 he cried。
〃Well；〃 said I； 〃what did you expect would happen to you lying around
Yuma after midnight with a hole in your head？〃
〃Where's my coat？〃 he asked。
〃You had no coat when I picked you up；〃 I replied。
He looked at me mighty suspicious； but didn't say anything more he
wouldn't even answer when I spoke to him。 After he'd eaten a fair meal
he fell asleep。 When I came back that evening the bunk was empty and
he was gone。 I didn't see him again for two days。 Then I caught
sight of him quite a ways off。 He nodded at me very sour； and dodged
around the corner of the store。
〃Guess he suspicions I stole that old coat of his；〃 thinks I； and
afterwards I found that my surmise had been correct。
However； he didn't stay long in that frame of mind。 It was along
towards evening； and I was walking on the banks looking down over the
muddy old Colorado； as I always liked to do。 The sun had just set； and
the mountains had turned hard and stiff； as they do after the glow； and the
sky above them was a thousand million miles deep of pale green…gold light。
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A pair of Greasers were ahead of me； but I could see only their outlines；
and they didn't seem to interfere any with the scenery。 Suddenly a black
figure seemed to rise up out of the ground； the Mexican man went down as
though he'd been jerked with a string； and the woman screeched。 I
ran up； pulling my gun。 The Mex was flat on his face； his arms stretched
out。 On the middle of his back knelt my one…armed friend。 And that
sharp hook was caught neatly under the point of the Mexican's jaw。 You
bet he lay still。 I really think I was just in time to save the man's life。
According to my belief another minute would have buried the hook in the
Mexican's neck。 Anyway； I thrust the muzzle of my Colt's into the
sailor's face。 〃What's this？〃 I asked。
The sailor looked up at me without changing his position。 He was
not the least bit afraid。 〃This man has my coat；〃 he explained。
〃Where'd you get the coat？〃 I asked the Mex。 〃I ween heem at monte
off Antonio Curvez；〃 said he。