“And Shakespeare’s dead, and Longfellow’s dead, and I don’t feel very good myself,” finishes Muley.
“And we’ve got to find that runaway,” says I. “They’re likely at the ranch—unless they’re strung out along the road.”
“My wife will give me particular thunder,” wails Wick. “She ain’t expecting me to bring back no deceased sister-in-law—darn it all! I reckon we better toddle over to the ranch, eh?”
“I know a short-cut,” offers Chuck. “We’ll walk back over that ridge and swing on to the road on the other side of Ghost Gulch. That’s only about four miles.”
“And still four miles from the ranch,” groans Muley. “And us wearing high-heeled boots.”
“Ye gods, I wish I had that rifle,” grunts Wick. “I’d kill four punchers right here.”
“Death ain’t nothing,” groans Muley, limping along.
“Hell hath no fury like a blistered heel,
That busts and then begins to peel.”
It’s dark when we got to the Cross J ranch, and we limps in like five lost souls. There ain’t a trace of that buckboard or the lady. There ain’t nobody around the place.
“My gosh!” wails Wick. “Something has got to be did. She was my wife’s sister.”