"I don't know that it'd hurt you much to lose it, Taterleg."
"Hurt me? I'd look like one of them flat Christmas toys they make out of tin without that mustache, Duke. I'd be so sharp in the face I'd whistle in the wind every time my horse went out of a walk. I'm a-goin' to wear that mustache to my grave, and no woman that ever hung her stockin's out of the winder to dry's goin' to fool me into cuttin' it off."
"You know when you're comfortable, old feller. Stick to it, if that's the way you feel about it."
They hitched at the hotel rack. Taterleg said he'd go on to the depot with Lambert.
"I'm lookin' for a package of express goods I sent away to Chicago for," he explained.
The package was on hand, according to expectation. It proved to be a five-pound box of chewing gum, "All kinds and all flavors," Taterleg said.
"You've got enough there to stick you to her so tight that even death can't part you," Lambert told him.
Taterleg winked as he worked undoing the cords.
"Only thing can beat it, Duke—money. Money can beat it, but a man's got to have a lick or two of common sense to go with it, and some good looks on the side, if he picks off a girl as wise as Alta. When Jedlick was weak enough to cut off his mustache, he killed his chance."
"Is he in town tonight, do you reckon?"