Ajax pointed almost due south, but we figured he’d bear a little to the west, so we cut across. We’re pilgriming down into a draw at the head of a little fork of Medicine Creek when all to once we busts into a clearing, and Magpie stops.
I bumped into him, and then looked over his shoulder. There is “Doleful” Doolittle, who herds sheep when he’s sober enough, and standing in front of him is Ajax.
Them hombres sure show signs of rough usage. Ajax’s hat is smashed down over his nose, and he’s looking out from between the crown and the brim. His coat is split up the back, and his long legs wabble a heap.
Doleful has lost one sleeve and his belt, the same of which causes him to hang on to his pants, so they won’t come down and trip him. If Doleful had twice as much sense he’d be almost half-witted.
“Hear me?” yelps Doleful, shaking his one free hand at Ajax. “I’m tellin’ you hereby that I’m aimin’ to show you, feller!”
“Very ungrammatical, to say the least,” pants Ajax. “Now I wish you to desist. Fisticuffs are a relic of——”
“I sabe,” says Doleful, spitting on his hands. “Set yourself, feller, ’cause I’m coming wide open like a wolf!”
Boof!
Doleful takes a skip and a jump and lands on Ajax’s bosom, and they both went into the alkali. It was some fight. They’re both yelling for help in about ten seconds, and then they gets to their feet.