I’ve rode a lot of broncs that didn’t sabe the meaning of a bit, but that thing was less bridlewise than anything I ever seen. We grinds back toward Paradise, smelling of burnt grease, gasoline and so forth. I takes another look into that jug, and feels so elevated that I puts my feet over the dashboard. Somehow that seems to give the critter more freedom, and we goes faster.
I gets so expert right away that I can drive one-handed, and I discovers a little jigger on the handle that will make her prick up her ears at a touch. I gives her a few touches, and marvels at how fast the mesquite goes past, when all to once I hears a yelp, and we hits something or somebody, and when I stops I’m cross ways of the road.
My machine is as dead as a nail. Pretty soon I hears a rustling noise in the dark, and then old man Whittaker’s voice:
“Who run into me? Gol dingle dang yuh! Blasted mule couldn’t run faster than I could! Hey, you feller with a autymobile! Ain’t yuh got no sense? Gol dang your soul, I’ll show yuh how yuh can run me down! Bang!”
He cut loose with that six-gun, and I drops out the other side and sneaks behind a tree.
I hears the old man cussing some more, and pretty soon he finds the machine and strikes a match. He has to light the second one before he finds what he’s looking for. He holds the match above his head for a minute and then wails:
“Gol dang yuh, Chuck! Why didn’t yuh speak? Aw ——! Chuckie, where did I hit yuh? Can’t yuh speak to a feller? Are yuh dead? My ——!”
He’s silent for a spell, and then he starts again:
“Where’s that danged slow-footed mule? Here yuh are, yuh long-eared snail! Got to get a doctor. Self-defense—nope, accident. Whoa! Maybe his neck is broke, too. Aw, this ain’t no way to celebrate nohow.”
He pilgrims off up the road, complaining about everything and cussing that mule for taking him all over the State instead of straight to the Cross J. I’d opine that the old man was so excited that he’d taken the wrong road out of town.