“Why use the past tense?” complains Muley. “Maybe she still is your wife’s sister. We’ll be square with her, Wick, and consider her alive until she disappoints us.”
“I know where the old man keeps his spirits,” states Chuck, fussing with a window. “You fellers feel spirit voices calling?”
We did. Chuck found the cache, and we has quite a seance.
“Walking is too slow,” complains Wick. “I’ve got to go faster than that, boys. Ain’t there a danged thing around here I can ride upon?
“Ain’t you hombres got enough sabe in your system to know that out there somewhere in the stilly night is a remnant of my wife’s family, crying for succor?”
“Might he not ride, Solomon?” asks Chuck, wiggling his ears at Muley.
“Beyond question he may,” nods Muley. “Hang a hull on Solomon, Chuck, and let the sucker arrive at his wife’s sister’s side without delay.”
“Solomon is which?” asks Wick.
“Solomon,” says Telescope, “is a mule. A white mule—in color. He ain’t no speed-demon, but he sure can save shoe leather, Wick.”
“I accepts the nomination,” says Wick and takes another drink.