“Better see a eye doctor, Mighty,” advises Magpie. “You’re seeing things.”
“You’ll see something—dang you both!”
And Mighty fogs off down the trail.
“Poor old coot,” says Magpie. “Can’t help feeling sorry for him, Ike.”
“Uh-huh. He was a good old buggy but he’s done broke down.”
“No question about the buggy part, Ike.”
We fixed up our pot of beans and wondered where Ajax is. We ate supper and wondered some more about Ajax.
Then cometh Lindhardt Cadwallader Sims, knowed as “Scenery.” We always figured that Scenery was sheriff by default, being as two of Magpie’s friends forgot to vote, and Scenery won by one vote. He’s about knee-high to a he-human, and has darned near polished all the epitaph off his star in six months. He squeaks when he walks and squeaks when he talks, which makes him a pathetic person among his feller men.
The danged little imitation has a six-gun in his hand when he shows up in our doorway. He peers at us mean-like and clears his throat. I’m just about to pour some beans into my plate, but I takes one look at his gun and swings back with that kettle and let her fly. It was a good shot. She just turns over once and hit him right in the chin.
He staggers backward, drops his gun and begins to claw at them beans. Sudden-like he remembers his gun and goes pawing around for it. I swings the door about half-shut when I hears a biff and a grunt, and Scenery Sims comes into that door on his hands and knees. He hops to his feet fighting mad, and squeaks like a bull fiddle: