"'As how?' asks the third, who belongs with the Four-J brand. 'You ain't so locoed as to s'ggest we-all t'ars person'ly into this Jack Moore marshal none I hopes?'
"'Which you fills me with disgust!' says the other, nettled at the idee of pawin' the onprofit'ble grass 'round Moore; 'but whatever's the matter with goin' up to the far end of the street, an' w'irl an' come squanderin' back jest a shootin'?'
"'Great!' says Turkey Track, applaudin' the scheme. 'Which we-all nacherally shoots up their old prairie dog town, same as if it's a Mexican plaza, an' then jogs on to our ranches, all triumphant an' comfortable.'
"The three rides up to the head of the street, an' then turns an'––givin' their ponies the steel––comes whizzin' down through the center of eevents, yelpin' like Apaches an' lookin' like fireworks. They've got a gun in each hand, an' they shakes the flame an' smoke out of 'em same as three volcanoes on hossback.
"Moore's standin' in front of the Noo York store, talkin' to Tutt. As you-all might imagine, it frets him to the quick to see how little them effervescent sperits cares for his injunctions. 129 By way of rebooke––not wantin' to down 'em outright for what, take it the worst way, ain't nothin' more heen'ous than a impropriety––Moore gets his artillery to b'ar, an' as they flashes by like comets, opens on the ponies. It's hard on the ponies; but it won't do to let them young roysterers get away with their play. The example'll spread; an', onless checked at the jump, inside of a month thar'd be nothin' but a whoopin' procession of cow-punchers chargin' up an' down the causeways. Tenderfeet might acquire misgivin's techin' us bein' a peaceful camp, an' the thing op'rate as a blow to trade. It's become a case of either get the boys or get the ponies, an' onder the circumstances the ponies has the call.
"Thar's no more artistic gun-player than Moore in town, onless it's Cherokee, an' mebby Doc Peets, who's a heap soon with a derringer. As the ponies flash by, Moore's six-shooter barks three times. Two ponies goes rollin'; the third––it's Turkey Track's––continyoos cavortin' down the street an' out of town. Turkey Track never pulls up nor looks back. The last we sees of him is when he's two miles 130 away, an' a swell rises up behind him an' hides him from view.
"The G-bar boy, an' him from the Four-J outfit, hits the grass twenty feet ahead of their ponies, like a roll of blankets chucked out of a wagon, an' after bumpin' an' tumblin' along for a rod or so, an' all mighty condoosive to fractures an' dislocations, they flattens out reespective same as a couple of cancelled postage stamps. Shore, the fall jolts the savvy plumb out of 'em.
"Bein' they're stretched out an' passive, Moore collects 'em an' sops 'em up an' down in the water trough for mebby it's fifteen minutes. Which they're reesus'tated an' reeproved at one an' the same time. When them yooths comes to, they're a model to angels. To be shore, their intellects don't shine out at first none like the sun at noon, but continyoos blurred for hours. Even as late as the weddin' of Turkey Track with the Mockin' Bird––an' that ain't for all of eight weeks––the G-bar boy informs Boggs confidenshul, as they're takin' a little licker all sociable, that speakin' mental he's as yet a heap in eeclipse.
"The maiden name of the Mockin' Bird is 131 Loocinda Gildersleeve, but pop'lar pref'rence allers sticks to her stage title. She's a fav'rite at the Bird Cage Op'ry House, at which nursery of the drammy she's been singin' off an' on for somethin' like three years. She's a shore-enough singer, too, the Mockin' Bird is. None of your yeepin's an' peepin's, none of your mice squeaks an' tea-kettle tones an' cub coyote yelps. Which she's got a round, meelod'yous bellow like a hound in full cry, an' while she's singin' thar ain't a wolf'll open his mouth within a mile of town. Which them anamiles is plumb abashed, the Mockin' Bird outholdin' 'em to that degree.
"You-all don't hear no sech singin' in the East. Thar ain't room; an' moreover the East's too timid. For myse'f, an' I ain't got no y'ear for music, them top notes of the Mockin' Bird, like the death yell of a mountain lion, is cap'ble of givin' me the fantods; while the way she hands out 'Home, Sweet Home' an' 'Suwannee River,' an' her voice sort o' diggin' down into the soul, sets eemotional sports like Boggs an' Black Jack to sobbin' as though their hearts is broke. She's certainly a jo-darter of a vocalist––the Mockin' Bird is, an' 132 once when she renders 'Loosiana Loo' an' Boggs's more'n common affected, he offers to bet yellow chips as high as the ceilin' she can sing the sights off a Colt's .45.