He’s got a look on his face that Columbus might a had when he first saw the shores of our fair country.
“What did he say?” asks a weak voice, and Calamity appears from the other side of the car.
“He said, ‘It’s a mighty bad wagon,’” I interprets, and Calamity nods his head:
“That Injun ain’t no danged idiot, Henry. Wonder if he’d like to take a ride?”
“Mesika klatawa kopa chick, chick?” I asks, but the old redskin puts his thumb up to his nose and wiggles his fingers at us.
“Nah-h-h-h-h!” he gargles, and points at his moccasins.
We manages to get that wagon back on the road. We drinks a toast to our good luck and to honest and cautious Injuns, and plods on up to the Cross J. I reckon our toasts covers too much territory, ’cause when Calamity opines to have me read his book of rules, all I can do is sing.
It’s almost dark when I wakes up. Beside me on the bunk is Calamity, snoring like a shepherd, so I sticks my boot into his ribs.
“Thanks,” says he, after a look around. “Thanks, Henry. I was having a autymobilemare.”
Just then in comes old man Whittaker. He looks around, sort of mad-like, and glares at me and Calamity.