“Did he done wrong?” asks Dirty.
“If he ever done right he came back and corrected himself. Him and another cross between a bed-bug and a bee-sting went away together, and Piperock profiteth thereby. Make yourselves to home. You gents comes here at a opportune time, you know it? Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of Piperock and we’re goin’ to celebrate.”
“Celebrate?” whispers Dirty, hoarse-like. “Celebrate what? Is the town married?”
“Anniversary,” explains Magpie, “means a year. Piperock is ten years old and she’s goin’ to celebrate her growth and civilization. This is her birthday.
“They will come from near and far, gents, and great will be the day and date. There will be bronco-bustin’, et cettery, and bull-doggin’ of steers. There will be ropin’ contests, et cettery and some shootin’. She’ll be worth your patience.”
Magpie goes out and me and Dirty sets there and looks at each other.
“My ——!” gasps Dirty. “I feel that everything is not well with my soul. Somebody is goin’ to see Dirty Shirt Jones behind these whiskers and specs and I’ll be forced to stand on nothin’ and look up a rope.”
“Be of good cheer,” says I, “for I will be with thee. They’ll have something except Piperock’s birthday to celebrate next year.”
“Do scientists drink hard liquor, Ike?”
“They has a throat and a tongue,” says I. And then we pilgrims uptown, and goes into Buck Masterson’s saloon, where we gets fortified against our fears of the near future. Waldemar is there, and Waldemar has surrounded himself with enough hooch to make him expand considerable. When we gets there he’s talkin’ politics with “Half Mile” Smith, and “Swan River,” and neither of them snake-hunters knows anything about politics, except who is sheriff.