We knocked off work late in the afternoon. I laid down on the bunk while Magpie fixes a kettle of beans. He’s standing in the door of the cabin, pouring the water off them beans, when all to once there comes a hunk of lead, knocks the kettle out of Magpie’s hand, and hives up in the foot of our bunk. Then comes the crack of a rifle.
I sees Magpie elevate his hands, and I slips loose my six-shooter. Then here comes “Mighty” Jones, covering Magpie with a rifle.
Mighty owns the only herd of goats in the county, and each and every one of them shaggy things is nitroglycerin on legs. I figures that Mighty has gone crazy from herding same, so when he turns sideways to me I slams a .45 slug into the loading-plate of his rifle.
That slug seems to cause consternation, being as it explodes some of Mighty’s magazine, and when a magazine full of 45-70s begin to heave and surge, it’s no place for a timid person.
Magpie turns a flip-flop into the cabin, and Mighty tries to dig himself into our chip-pile. I pilgrims out there and looks at Mighty.
“Why for the hands-up stuff, Mighty?” I asks. “You peeved?”
“You dang well know I am! You know why, too—blast you! I only seen one of you, but you two are pardners, and—I’ll see you in jail. I’m going to get the sheriff, me!”
“Plain crazy, Ike,” says Magpie sad-like. “Plain crazy.”
“Very plain,” I agrees.
“I’ll see you both in jail—betcher life!” wails Mighty. “Sure will.”