“He’ll be gutted by night,” remarked Mr. Adams.
“I ain’t buryin’ him, then,” said Ephraim.
“Nor I,” said Specimen Jones. “Well, it’s time I was getting to Tucson.”
He went to the saloon, strapped on his pistol, saddled, and rode away. Ephraim and Mr. Adams returned to the cabin; and here is the final conclusion they came to after three hours of discussion as to who took the chain and who had it just then:
Ephraim. Jones, he hadn’t no cash.
Mr. Adams. The kid, he hadn’t no sense.
Ephraim. The kid, he lent the cash to Jones.
Mr. Adams. Jones, he goes off with his chain.
Both. What damn fools everybody is, anyway!
And they went to dinner. But Mr. Adams did not mention his relations with Jones’s pistol. Let it be said, in extenuation of that performance, that Mr. Adams supposed Jones was going to Tucson, where he said he was going, and where a job and a salary were awaiting him. In Tucson an unloaded pistol in the holster of so handy a man on the drop as was Specimen would keep people civil, because they would not know, any more than the owner, that it was unloaded; and the mere possession of it would be sufficient in nine chances out of ten—though it was undoubtedly for the tenth that Mr. Adams had a sneaking hope. But Specimen Jones was not going to Tucson. A contention in his mind as to whether he would do what was good for himself, or what was good for another, had kept him sullen ever since he got up. Now it was settled, and Jones in serene humor again. Of course he had started on the Tucson road, for the benefit of Ephraim and Mr. Adams.