Under pressure, Bull also admitted a descent into poetry. “I ked on’y think of a verse that a girl once wrote in my sister’s album when I was a kid. ’Tain’t near as good as yourn.
“My pen is dull, my ink is pale;
My love for you will never fail.”
“I think it’s pretty fine,” the others commended the effort.
After a thoughtful pause, consecrated by heavy smoking, Bull asked, “How old is she, Sliver?”
“Rising twenty, be the date.”
“Seems to me we orter raise a little hell in honor of the ’casion—if it’s on’y to keep her from feeling lonesome.”
“Little bit close on the funeral,” Jake tentatively suggested. “Jest about three months, ain’t it?”
“Yes, for a regular party. My idea was just to tip off the Lovells an’ have ’em drop in that day.”
“We might shoot things up a bit, too,” Sliver began, but Jake cut him off with utter scorn.
“This ain’t no cowman’s jamboree. Girls don’t like any shooting except what they do with their own pretty mouths. A cake with candles ’u’d be my idee.”