“‘Imprisonment er twenty pesos,’ says the alcalde.
“‘Nixey,’ says Chinook Bill, ‘here’s a fiver.’
“‘Mil gracias,’ says the aesthetic one, an’ he bows to the earth humble an’ kisses his fingers coquettish. ‘An’ may I inquire fer where the señores mean to depart?’
“‘Sure,’ says Bill, with a wink, ‘Africa.’
“‘Bueno,’ says the alcalde. ‘Var good. A beautiful country I hear, señores. Adios. Now git, pronto!’
“So we mounts, gives a last partin’ salute, an’ hits them burros up. We druv constant fer ten days, an’ it was sure a God forsooken country we pushed into. First it was mesquite an’ cactus, then cactus and mesquite, an’ a few deflections in the way o’ hills. Then we begun to climb devious into regions o’ supernal ca’m, an’ the beautiful panorama changed its garment ... right in the middle o’ day, gents, an’ there we was with the tropics below us an’ a numerous supply o’ strange fauna in the way o’ monkeys an’ green parrots an’ yaller panthers. Then we started down devious on tother side and hit the deep timber, an’ us cow punchers. Imagine! An’ every day Chinook Bill got more an’ more worrit an’ turrible reticent.
“‘You ain’t a-skeered?’ says I, tauntin’.
“‘Huh, me?’ says he. ‘No, suh, but it’s sure annoyin’, this. Here we are in a natcheral temperate latitoode an’ hotter’n South Ameriky. It’s Chinook Bill who’s been up agin all the varyin’ shades o’ topographical insanity, but this is the infinitism o’ phantasy. It will get me nervous yet, an’ I hate to get nervous. But, in defiance o’ my cringin’ natur I’m bound to view the ancient glories o’ the fabled city o’ Poaquita.’ Then he takes another swag at that aguardiente an’ shrinks into a state o’ pensive isolation, fightin’ stegomyia as big as yer fist with meek fortitoode. Then there come a earthquake, which seismic convulsion yanked one o’ our pack mules down a chasm, our coolinary implements attached. Me an’ Chinook Bill sits down on the brink to listen to the musical cantinkerlations o’ tin kitchen ware fer ha’f a hour afterwards.
“‘If there be any Injuns within a radius o’ fifty miles,’ says Chinook Bill, ‘that infernal racket will start ’em on the war path.’ An’ we sure soon come across the immegiate signs o’ them savages, an’ Chinook Bill got more reticent an’ lookin’ arful pale under the gills an’ wild in the eye, a drinkin’ o’ that aguardiente an’ the chills. Oncet we was lyin’ in the shade o’ some rocks tryin’ to get some sleep. Chinook Bill dozes off an’ his pipe tilts between his teeth an’ the ashes burns a hole in his jeans. When it struck the sensitive tissue he ups with a wild screech, both guns cocked, an’ fires promiscuous. I see the light o’ the fever in his eye an’ the tremblin’ frenzy an’ I rolls over behind a convenient boulder. It was sure distractin’ to witness sich a waste o’ energy an’ precious ammunition, an’ I begins to yell frantic. He glares tragic in my direction, flops on his stummick an’ begins to wiggle, them Colts barkin’ tuneful. Then I has a arful presentment o’ homicide an’ shies down the mountain with becomin’ velocity, Chinook Bill in hot an’ lusty pursuit. But it wasn’t no use to run. So I intrenches an’ lets him burn powder. Arter he’d gone through his cartridge belt I bombarded him with capsules de quinine an’ demanded him to partake.
“‘Are you the chief?’ says he.