Finally he rode on down to the ranch, where he dismounted at the old front porch, tied his horse and halted at the bottom step.
“That jist makes seventy-seven times I’ve done told yuh that I don’t know, Sailor,” declared a querulous voice. “Why don’tcha ever go out and cut wood, ’stead of settin’ in there and askin’ questions? How in hell do I know what’s to become of this here rancheria?”
“Don’t chide me, you ol’ weepin’-willer,” retorted the voice of Sailor Jones, so named because he got drunk one day and sent to a mail-order house for a rowboat.
“You make me bilious,” said Whispering Taylor.
“Yeah, I’ll betcha! It’s yore cookin’ that makes yuh bilious. I’m goin’ to quit yuh, before I git dyspepsy. Anyway, there ain’t no future for a feller around here no more.”
“Future!”
“Yea, future. I’m three year younger than you are, ain’t I? By the time I’m yore age⸺”
“You’d be older, if yuh didn’t lie.”
“I ain’t sixty yet.”
“Not yet—yo’re past it, feller. Why didn’tcha stop arguin’ and use up some of yore youthful wim and wigger on the woodpile? I shore hate to argue with a child. Go set on the corral fence and repeat yore ABC’s, while a man mixes up some biscuits in peace, will yuh?”