WITH California Bill Fox leading—Shanty Madge beside him on the seat—the two wagons slowly made the grilling grade up the mountain toward Ragtown. Beside Cole of Spyglass Mountain rode one who would have fitted in nicely as “the horrible example” at a temperance lecture—The Whimperer.
His grotesque face was twisted with remorse and suffering this morning, and he looked as if he had been on the rack of torture. His artificial scar was livid, as always, and about it, as always, grew the scrub jungle of unsightly beard.
For a long time as Joshua’s four mules strained upward no word passed between him and his one-time jocker. The tramp’s bottle was not quite empty, but, a wise and experienced general in his constant war with booze, The Whimperer took the remaining contents in widely separated doses, for Ragtown was still many tiresome miles away. But finally, after a nerve-renewing dose, the John Yegg began to croak.
“Jack,” he said, “youse ’n’ me’ve had our little dif’rences, maybe, in de past, but we better let de dead bury dere dead—wot?”
“Go ahead,” invited Joshua. “Get it off your chest, Whimp.”
The tramp sighed wearily, took another dose, held the bottle before his crooked eyes and surveyed the lowered contents with a look of agony, and took the proverbial bull by its proverbial horns.
“Jack, it’s like dis here: I always liked youse, an’—”
“Lay off that stuff,” growled Joshua. “Shoot the piece!”
“Well den, it’s like dis here, as I said w’en youse interrupted me: Youse savvy Slim Wolfgang?”
“Yes, I know him.”