"I want you to write," he said; "scrawl yo' worst, and put down all the spellin' ignorant. Write:—'Dere Bill, I'm gawn with the buckboard for grub. Back this even.'—B. Brown.' Yes, that will do."
He took the book from Jim, tore out the leaf, and hung it on the door conspicuous.
"Thar's times," he said, "when sheriffs and marshals, and posses of virtuous citizens gets out on the warpath in pursuit of robbers. They comes pointing along mighty suspicious, and reads the tracks on the ground, and notes the signs, and sniffs the little smells, and in they'r ignorant way draws false concloosions. Meanwhile the robbers has adjourned."
Jim's face was as long as a coffin. "Captain," says he, "I've been thinking."
"I'm sorry yo're took bad, my son." The robber sat down beside him. "Let me see yo' tongue."
"Don't laugh at me. Will you mind, Captain McCalmont—if—if I speak of Curly—just this once—as—as a woman?"
"Turn yo' wolf loose, my son, I'm hearing."
"I love her, sir."
"Same here, Jim."
"Do you mind, though?"