“Nothin’. Only I want to write a note. Can y’ wait? I want y’ to give it to the stage driver. It’s to my old boss, Mobray. It’s kinda special; seeing as how it has to deal with a funeral.”
“A funeral?”
“Yep. Leastways, almost so. There may be two. I kinda want to get news to Pop so’s he can be on hand, when they take a certain cow-puncher, that we know of, off to the calaboose.”
“What’s the rumpus?”
“No rumpus ’tall. It’s just that there’s some in this country that’s busting with this here stuff what we call chivalry! We ain’t goin’ to mention no names, nor have no hard feelin’s. Y’ ain’t seen Holman lately?”
The other squinted one eye and whistled.
“Y’ ain’t goin’ t’ tangle with Holman, Billy?”
The cowboy nodded.
“Yep. But y’ needn’t say nothin’ to nobody. If you see a column of smoke and sparks comin’ up from that strip of green yonder, you can know that it’s from Holman and Billy Magee. Him an’ me is goin’ t’ have a little round-up.”
“Better be careful, Billy. Don’t lose your head. You can’t hurt Holman. That crowd of Mexicans that he keeps will shoot you down like a rat. What’s the fuss? If it’s so dog-gone glorious let me in on it.”