human
Say, by cripes, that there saloon is the driest poison-palace I ever surged out of with two guns spittin' death and dumnation! Big Medicine complained, coming up with the plain intention of lighting his cigarette from Luck's cigar.
gpt
How'd we stack up this time, boss? Bein' soused on cold tea, I couldn't rightly pass judgment. How many was it I murdered in cold blood, in that there scene where I laid 'em out with black powder? Four, or five? Pink, here, claims I killed him twicet, whereas he oughta be left alive enough to jump on his horse and ride three hundred and fifty miles to fall dead in his best girl's arms. He claims he made that ride day before yesterday, and done some pitiful weaving around in the saddle, out there in the hills, and that he died in that blond lady's arms first thing this morning, and I hadn't no right to kill him twicet afterwards in the saloon fight. Now I leave it to you, boss. How about this here killin' Pink off every oncet in a while?
human
Well, Pink certainly does die pathetic, he soothed the perturbed murderer, dropping his professional brusqueness for frank comradeship.
gpt
He's about the best little close-up dier I ever worked with. He can get a sob anytime he rolls his eyes and gasps and falls backward.
human
That's all right, drawled the Native Son, taking off his sombrero to deepen the crease and the dents, because three girls were coming across the lot.
gpt
But I've got a complaint of my own to make. When you holler for Bud to start the rough stuff, he just goes powder crazy. He shot me up four times in that scene! Twice he held the gun so close my scalp's all powder-marked, and by rights he should have blowed the top of my head plumb into the street. He gets so taken up with this slaughter-house business that he'll wind up by shooting himself a few times if you don't watch him.
human
One thing, Weary put in mildly,
gpt
I want to speak about, Luck. We need more blood for those murders. I didn't have half enough for all the mortal wounds Bud gave me. By rights that saloon should be plumb reeking with gore when we're all killed off--the way Bud flies at it with those two six-shooters. No bullets hit the walls anywhere, so it stands to reason they all land in a soft spot on our persons. I needed a large bucket of blood--and I had about a half teacupful. He grinned.
human
Mamma! That was sure some slaughter, though!
gpt
Where's Tracy Gray Joyce? Luck inquired irrelevantly, with a hasty glance around them.
human
To-morrow, he'll have to come into that same slaughter pen and seize the murderer and subdue him by the steely glint of his eye and by his unflinching demeanor. He pulled the corners of his mouth down expressively.
gpt
That's the way the scenario reads,
human
Well, say, by cripes, he better amble down to the city and buy him some more glint! Big Medicine bawled, and laughed afterwards with his big _haw-haw-haw_.
gpt
And I'll gamble there ain't enough unflinchin' demeanor on the Coast to put that boy through the scene. Honest-to-gran'-ma, Luck, that there Tracy Gray Joyce gits pale, and his Adam's apple pumps up and down when I come up and smile at him! What color do yuh reckon he'll turn to when he stands up to me right after me slaying all these innocent boys--and me a-foamin' at the mouth and gloatin' over the foul deed I've just did? Say? How's he going to keep that there Adam's apple from shootin' clean up through his hair, and his knees from wobblin'? How--
human
He won't, said Luck suddenly, with a brightening of his eyes.
gpt
He won't. I hope they do wobble. You go ahead, Bud, and foam at the mouth. You--you _look_ at Tracy Gray Joyce. Not in the rehearsing, understand; leave out the foam and the gloating till we turn the camera on the scene. Sabe? On the quiet, boys.
human
Sure,