“What does this feller want?” ast Sam.
“Wal,” I says, “he spoke a good bit about colour––”
“They’s shore colour at the Arnaz feed shop,” puts in Monkey Mike; “–them strings of red peppers that the ole lady keeps hung on the walls. And we can git blue shirts over to Silverstein’s.”
“No, Mike,” I says, “that ain’t the idear. Colour is Briggs, and us.”
“Aw, punk!” says Sam. “What kind of a book is it goin’ t’ be, anyhow, with us punchers in it!”
“Wait till you hear what I got t’ do,” I answers. “To continue: He mentioned characters. Course, I had to admit we’re kinda shy on them.”
“Wisht we had a few Injuns,” says Hairoil. “A scalpin’ makes mighty fine readin’. Now, mebbe, ’Pache Sam’d pass,–if he was lickered up proper.”
“Funny,” I says, “but he didn’t bring up Injuns. Reckon they ain’t stylish no more. But he put it plain that he’d got to have a bad man. Said in a Western book you allus got t’ have a bad man.”
“Since we strung up them two Foster boys.” says Bergin, “Briggs ain’t had what you’d call a bad man. In view of this writin’ feller comin’, I don’t know, gents, but what we was a little hasty in the Foster matter.”
“Wal,” I says, “we got t’ do our best with what’s left. This findin’ mawterial fer a book ain’t no dead open-and-shut proposition. ’Cause Briggs ain’t big, and it ain’t what you’d call bad. That’ll hole us back. But let’s dig in and make up fer what’s lackin’.”