Wal, we rustled ’round. First off, we togged ourselves out the way punchers allus look in magazines. (I knowed that was how he wanted us.) We rounded up all the shaps in town, with orders to wear ’em constant–and made Dutchy keep ’em on, too! Then, guns: Each of us carried six, kinda like a front fringe, y’ savvy. Next, one of the boys loped out t’ the Lazy X and brung in a young college feller that’d come t’ Oklahomaw a while back fer his health. It ’pears that he’d been readin’ a Western book that was writ by a’ Eastern gent somewheres in Noo Jersey. And, say! he was the wildest lookin’ cow-punch that’s ever been saw in these parts!
We’d no more’n got all fixed up nice when, “Ssh!” says Buckshot, “here he comes!”
“Quick, boys!” I says, “we got t’ sing. It’s expected.”
The sheriff, he struck up––
“Paddy went to the Chinaman with only one shirt.
How’s that?”
“That’s tough!” we hollers, loud enough to lift the shakes.
“He lost of his ticket, says, ‘Divvil the worse’,
How’s that?”
“That’s tough!”