"Couple of pretty harmless coots, if you ask me," the young man with the shotgun observed.
"Sure," the fat man agreed, "but we got to remember peoples' feelings and keep Ozona straight. We don't like mobs or fear or girls gone wild."
The young man with the shotgun grinned. "That Vera-Ellen," he murmured, shaking his head.
"You better keep your mind off her too," the fat man said sourly. "She's wild enough without anybody to encourage her poetic ability or anything else. It's a good thing we gave those two their walking papers."
"They'll probably walk right into the arms of the Harvey gang," the young man with the squirtgun remarked, "especially if they try to short-cut."
"Pretty small pickings for Harvey, those two," the young man with the shotgun countered. "Which won't please him at all."
The fat man shrugged. "Their own fault. If only they'd had sense enough to keep their mouths shut. Early in life."
"They don't seem to realize it's 1993," said the young man with the shotgun.
The fat man nodded. "Come on," he said, turning back toward the town and the coolness. "We've done our duty."
The young man with the squirtgun took a last look. "There they go, Art and Science," he observed with satisfaction. "Those two subjects always did make my head ache."