High and mighty we went. We changed ends, sunfishin’ and worm-fencin’, but Ike Harper didn’t pull leather—’cause there wasn’t any; but he sure did anchor himself to that bronc’s mane with both hands, got a toe-holt under each shoulder and rode regardless of sun, moon, or tide.
I gets a glimpse of Dirty Shirt Jones ahead of me, and I’d tell a man Dirty is high above that animile’s back, the same of which ain’t healthy to nervous systems nor stummicks.
Into that crowd we went, ——ity blip. I got a rope under my chin, the same of which cut off my wind. Somebody got one arm around my neck and seems to caress me, and then I’m out in the open, far from the maddening crowd. I manages to get a breath, shoves the encircling arm from around my neck and finds that there’s two of us.
I’m all mixed up in a rope. Out of the dark comes another rider, just as my bronc gets hoppled in this danged rope, and turns a handspring. This other horse goes over the top of us, and as far as I’m concerned the earth and sky have met.
Later on I removes the veil and comes back to material things. All is dark and dreary. I hears Dirty singing, soft and low—
“I sa-a-a-a-w the-e-e-e new Jee-e-e-ru-u-u-u-sa-a-a-lem—” and on every word he quavers like some one was shaking his soul.
“——!” says I. “I went further back than that, Dirty. I saw the old town.”
“—le-e-e-e-e-e-ft up your voice and see-e-e-ng,” wails Dirty.
“I ain’t got none to lift!” I yells, and Dirty stops. Then he says—
“Ike, I—I feel that my days are numbered.”