Wal, say! that made the boys suspicious, and made ’em wonder if they wasn’t a darned good reason fer the parson not wearin’ duds like other religious gents, and fer his knowin’ how to ride so good. And they was sore–bein’ that they’d stood up so strong fer him, y’ savvy.
“A cow-punch,” says Monkey Mike, “’ll swaller almost any ole thing, long ’s it’s right out on the table. But he shore cain’t go a hippy-crit.”
“You blamed idjits!” chips in Buckshot Millikin, him that owns such a turrible big bunch of white-faces, and was run outen Arizonaw fer rustlin’ sheep, “what can y’ expect of a preacher, that comes from Williams?”
Dutchy seen how they all felt, and he was plumb happy. “Vot I tole y’?” he ast. But pretty soon he begun to laugh on the other side of his face. “If dat preacher goes to run a bar agin me,” he says, “py golly, I makes no more moneys!”
Fer a minute, he looked plumb scairt.
But the boys was plumb disgusted. “The parson’s been playin’ us fer suckers,” they says to each other; “he’s been a-soft-soapin’ us, a-flimflammin’ us. He thinks we’s as blind as day-ole kittens.” And the way that Tom-fool of a Hairoil hung ’round, lookin’ wise, got under they collar. After they’d booted him outen the shebang, they all sit down on the edge of the stoop, just sayin’ nothin’–but sawin’ wood.
I sit down, too.
We wasn’t there more’n ten minutes when one of the fellers jumped up. “There comes the parson now,” he says.
Shore enough. There come the parson in his fancy two-wheel Studebaker, lookin’ as perky as thunder. “Gall?” says Buckshot. “Wal, I should smile!” Under his cart, runnin’ ’twixt them yalla wheels, was his spotted dawg.
I hollered in to Dutchy. “Where’s you’ purp, Dutch?” I ast. “The parson’s haided this way.”