“Spiritus frumenti?”
“Go to ——! Next time I says good morning to you, Ajax, it will be in sign language. I’m through talking to you, that’s a cinch.”
“I will not consider it obligatory,” says he lofty-like, and I just grabs Magpie’s hand in time.
“Don’t hold the hand of progress, Ike,” says Magpie. “Can you figure out one good reason why I shouldn’t kill him?”
“Except that we don’t know exactly where to ship his remains. He’s from Boston, Magpie, but it ain’t like saying, ‘He’s from Piperock.’ You’ve got to figure that Boston covers considerable space, and until we finds out his home address we better let him suffer. Sabe?”
“Where is your home, Ajax?” asks Magpie.
“Home? The habitual abode of one’s family?”
I lets loose of Magpie’s hand and reached for my own gun, but the coming of Dirty Shirt Jones saves me from killing a fool-hen out of season. Dirty slides off his bronc and nods to us. Then he sees Ajax. He peers at Ajax for a minute and then gets right back on his bronc.
“Get off and rest your feet, Dirty,” says I, but Dirty only stares at Ajax and shakes his head.
Dirty shakes his head like a bee was buzzing around his ear. He shuts his eyes, shakes his head hard, and looks again.