“Went away,” says a sad voice, and there stands Muley, Telescope and Chuck.
They sure are something for to see. They look like they had been made of mud and hadn’t dried out yet.
“It was fate,” says Muley, digging the ooze out of his eye.
“She braved the dangers of the iron trail,
Maybe she rode on boats that have a sail,
And all was well,
Until she came to peaceful Paradise,
Where everybody leaves who has the price.
Fate sure is—!!”
“Amen,” says Telescope. “You handled that well, Muley.”
“Gents,” says I, “don’t be sacrilegious. You are now standing in the presence of the bereaved brother-in-law. The lost lady was his wife’s sister.”
“Shucks!” exclaims Telescope, trying to remove the hat he ain’t got.
“This is painful, Wick. Where’s your outfit?”
“Holy henhawks!” wails Wick. “You fellers bucked over it and through it, et cettery, and left me setting on the bank on a busted box of dynamite, with nothing left but my rifle—and Hen threw that in the jungle. The rest, if there’s anything left, is likely on its way to Piperock.”
“And we’re on foot,” wails Chuck. “My tobacco is wet, and there ain’t a drink in the crowd, and——”