“Mules,” said Bill, “hear that? No muck-a-muck for us if we don’t quit our foolin’.” And he loosed the lead straps, whereupon the mules dispensed with his services entirely and rushed to the trough, to bury their velvet muzzles deep in the water and wash out the desert dust.
When Shanty Madge had finished helping California Bill with his teams she bade the men good-night, and refused to allow Joshua to carry her bedding to the little nook she had chosen on the hillside. She tripped away carrying on her head a roll of blankets and a single mattress, which she had packed down on the unridden mule. Joshua sat down with Bill to keep him company while he ate.
Bill took an enormous mouthful of ham, and nodded at Joshua’s load of lumber, dimly outlined by the firelight.
“Quite a jag you got,” he said, which is the Western way of describing a heavily laden wagon and is not designed to cast reflections on one’s state of insobriety.
But before Joshua could agree with him Bill’s intensely black eyebrows lifted themselves and a blank look crossed his face.
“By golly, that reminds me!” he cried. “I’d forgot all about my passenger till I said th’ word ‘jag.’ He’s on top o’ my load playin’ with th’ angels—or he was when night come over th’ desert. Mighta fell off, f’r all I know—he’s lit from th’ toenails to th’ eyeballs an’ way ports. Ole pal o’ yours, Tony—this bird they call Th’ Whimperer. He was at Spur, all het up like an enjine, an’ I gentled ’im down an’ offered ’im a ride back to Ragtown. Shall I prod ’im off an’ throw a feed into ’im? Guess he must be one o’ these here morons, but he’s got two legs an’ don’t pick up his muck-a-muck with his toes.”
“You’ve got The Whimperer on that wagon?”
“If th’ desert wind didn’t blow ’im off.”
“And he’s drunk?”
“Drunk an’ rarin’ to make speech. Talked th’ arm off me till th’ breakdown th’ other side o’ Bobcat Point, then he went exhausted an’ pressed hay f’r th’ rest o’ th’ trip. An’, say, Tony, he was tryin’ to talk about you. Said you an’ me was friends, an’ he wanted me to make an appointment—seems—f’r him to meet ye an’ smoke th’ pipe o’ peace. Says he’s got somethin’ to slip ye in th’ way of information. But I take it he won’t eat. He’s got a bottle on his hip, an’ he’s hittin’ it to drive th’ sidewinders away whenever he’s awake. Le’s let ’im pound his ear till mornin’.”