But I’m a-goin’ too fast.
It was the mornin’ after the Fourth of July. (That was why I was in town.) I was in the Arnaz bunk-house, pullin’ on my coat, just afore daylight, when, all of a suddent, right over Rogers’s Butte, somethin’ popped. Here, acrosst the sky, went a red ball, big, and as bright as if it was on fire. As it come into sight, it had a tail of light a-hangin’ to it. It dropped at the foot of the butte.
First off, I says, “More celebratin’.” Next, I says, “Curry!”–and streaked it fer the widda’s.
’Fore I was half-way, I heerd hollerin’–the scairt hollerin’ of women and kids. Then I heerd the grumble of men’s voices. I yelled myself, hopin’ some of the boys ’d hear me, and foller. “Help! help!” I let out at the top of my lungs, and brung up in Mrs. Bridger’s yard.
It was just comin’ day, and I could see that section-gang all collected t’gether, some with picks, and the rest with heavy track tools. All the greaser women was there, too, howlin’ like a pack of coyotes. Whilst Mrs. Bridger had the kid in her arms, and her face hid in his little dress.
“What’s the matter?” I screeched–had t’ screech t’ git heerd.
The cholos turned towards me. (Say! You talk about mean faces!) “Diablo!” they says, shakin’ them track tools.
Wal, it shore looked like the Ole Harry ’d done it! ’Cause right where the pig-pen used to was, I could see the top of a grea-a-at, whoppin’ rock, half in and half outen the ground, and smokin’ hot. Pretty nigh as big as a box-car, it was. Wal, as big as a wagon, anyhow. But neither hide ’r hair of them pigs!
I walked ’round that stone.
“My friend,” I says to the section-boss, “the maw-pig made just thirteen. It’s a proposition you cain’t beat.”