"Wall, that cat is shorely spilled," says McCalmont, and so I knew for the first time that my Curly wasn't a boy, but come of a different breed of people altogether. I slid from my horse and sat down on a rock to unravel my mixed emotions.
"If that's the truth," I says, "I spose I may turn out to be a widow, the same being some confusing to the mind."
"Wall, Mrs. Davies," says McCalmont, "I was goin' to propose that you act as a sort of chaperon to Curly."
"I rise to inquire," says I, "if that's some new kind of mountain sheep." The name was new to me, and I felt suspicious.
"A mountain sheep," says McCalmont, "is a cimarron, but a chaperon's defined as a party which rides herd on girls to proteck them in society."
"Meaning that this carousing around in a waggon ain't good for wounds?"
"Not when the hawspital has to gallop over rocks."
"Seems to me," says I, "that right apart from bullet holes in a lady, he'll need home comforts more'n an or'nary robber."
"Kin you take Curly home, then?"
"I'm getting unpopular," says I. "My home ain't fortified much." I rolled a cigarette to think with. "Whereas I got some cousins which is ladies, the Misses Jameson. Their home is just the other side of the Jim Crow Mine, between that and Grave City, and they has a fancy for stray cats, dawgs, and outcasts generally. Seems to me, though, they'd be mighty near surprised if I played a wounded robber on them, calling the same a female. They ain't broke in to lady outlaws damaged in gun-fights yet. They're plumb respectable, and frequents the Episcopal Church. The bishop boards thar when he happens around, and they'll take up with any litter of passing curates."