“Come on. I’m going to find a disguise for you to wear.”
“You’re a wonder if you can conceal me,” says Dirty, who is cock-eyed in one optic. “All them snake-hunters has to do is take one look at me and I’m due to chase buffalo in the happy hunting-ground.”
“Smoked glasses will fix you,” says he.
“Smoked glasses won’t help my bowlegs,” says I. “Magpie says he can roll me like a hoop.”
“I never thought I’d live to see the day when I’d have to look at Piperock through smoked glasses,” wails Dirty.
Well, he fixed us up; that’s a cinch. When he got through with us we looked like a couple of shepherds gone to seed. Down at one of them two-handed stores he purchased us both a outfit. He got us each a pair of smoked specs and some whiskers which makes us resemble a pair of owls.
“Your home town won’t recognize you now,” says he.
“No,” says Dirty, “but that won’t profit us much. Piperock may not penetrate our disguise, but that won’t stop ’em from pot-shooting a pair of freaks.”
“There’s one cinch,” says I. “They won’t never kill us in our own names.”
He takes us up to a hotel where all his stuff is and we sets down on the bed while he packs up.