“‘We’re the blumdest idjits es ever roped a stray maverick, that’s what,’ says he. ‘Why didn’t we think of it?’
“‘Think o’ what?’ says I.
“‘That them messengers from Itchlatichlahoola must in course be sent back from whence they come ... ergo, we perish on the sacrificial altar like them pore priests did.’
“‘You move me to expostulation,’ says I.
“‘But there shines the glimmer o’ hope,’ says Chinook Bill.
“‘Eloocidate,’ says I.
“‘His Nibbs, the king, has discovered the rejuvenatin’ properties o’ that remainin’ jug o’ aguardiente. From my place o’ vantage I observe that he retires to the rear o’ his palace an’ is fast lubricatin’ his system with that highly soperiferous nectar. The harem is in an uproar an’ the foundation o’ a great nation is totterin’ an’ his women folks is desolvin’ rapidly in the ether landscape. The chamberlain, the secretary o’ war an’ the House o’ Lords is holdin’ special session. I think the whole city is contemplatin’ a ignominious flight. His Nibbs is a regular Nero an’ is callin’ fer Rome to be burnt to banish the monotony o’ his moody reflections. Such is the potency o’ the Greaser’s mescal!’
“‘Then there is indeed hope,’ says I, es the next moment his Nibbs, the king, gives a bibulous war whoop an’ emerges into the open with that jug o’ aguardiente strapped to his middle, a bloody spear held aloft an’ a glitter in his eye. The special session o’ the House o’ Lords adjourns immegiate an’ takes to the tall timber, the noble kinsman o’ the great Montezuma givin’ obligin’ chase. Then a new inspiration o’ sacrilege an’ carnage hatches in his Majesty’s volatile brain an’ with a turrible war whoop he wheels right about an’ charges into the temple o’ Itchlatichlahoola es the high priest an’ his retinue o’ lesser lights bolts from another door with the sacred emblems o’ that gracious divinity tucked under their arms, an’ they went the way o’ the House o’ Lords likewise. His Nibbs re-appears snortin’ in triumph an’ circles like a vexed steer, a-lookin’ fer something to dispute the bloody laurels o’ his victory. When he sights us he is shaken by a great felicity an’ his attitoode is one o’ blandishin’ uncertitoode, es if he entertained a fearful idee we was tantalizin’ visions an’ would melt at the touch. The agony o’ his suspense was something prostratin’ an’ I lets out a yell o’ ‘Whoa, Buck!’ just to relieve his mind, an’ then hyere he come, fust on one side the square, then the other, dancin’ mad. Chinook Bill gives another encouragin’ whoop, an’ his Nibbs cuts the pigeon wing an’ begins to circle, that jug o’ aguardiente cuttin’ heraldic devices in the much disturbed atmosphere, his fat arms pluggin’ chaos an’ his feet comin’ down an’ combustin’ with terra firma like the rattle o’ a ore chute, an’ a-lookin’ fer the world like one o’ them hell vultures es picked our trail through the Sonora Mountains.
“‘What’s the natcheral sequence o’ these French ballet fantastics?’ says I.
“‘It’s the unconscious promptin’s o’ great mental endowment,’ says Chinook Bill. ‘Jest at present he’s executin’ the Circle o’ Archimedes an’ formin’ a planetary tablet o’ the high heavens; incident’ly he’s performin’ our heagern rituals which precedes a quick an’ horrible despatch o’ the soul from the mortal coil.’