"It's one partic'lar mornin', some two weeks after Silver Phil's
sentenced that a-way. The marshal gent himse'f ain't about, bein' on
some dooty over to Tucson. Silver Phil is upsta'rs on the top floor of
the 'doby with his gyards. Which he's hotter than a wildcat; the
gyards an' him has been havin' a cussin' match, an' as Silver Phil
outplays 'em talkin', one of 'em's done whacked him over the skelp with
his gun. The blood's tricklin' down Silver Phil's fore'erd as he sits
glowerin'.

"One of the gyards is loadin' a ten-gauge Greener--a whole mouthful of
buckshot in each shell. He's grinnin' at Silver Phil as he shoves the
shells in the gun an' slams her shet.

"'Which I'm loadin' that weepon for you,' says the gyard, contemplatin'
Silver Phil derisive.

"'You be, be you!' replies Silver Phil, his eyes burnin' with rage.
'Which you better look out a whole lot; you-all may get it yourse'f.'

"The gyard laughs ugly an' exasperatin' an' puts the ten-gauge in a
locker along with two or three Winchesters. Then he turns the key on
the firearms an' goes caperin' off to his feed.

"The other gyard, his _compadre_, is settin' on a stool lookin' out a
window. Mebby he's considerin' of his sins. It would be more in his
hand at this time if he thinks of Silver Phil.

"Silver Phil, who's full of wrath at the taunts of the departed gyard,
slips his hands free of the irons. Most of the hide on his wrists
comes with 'em, but Silver Phil don't care. The gyard's back is to him