“The matter with us?” asks Muley mean-like. “That’s our business, Ricky. Who told you to tie up our broncs in Paradise? Next time you leave ’em alone and let ’em come home. Sabe?”
“Yeah?” snorts Ricky, riding away. “With their tails behind them, eh? All right, Little Bo-Peep.”
“Bo-Peep, eh?” whispers Chuck, wiggling his ears. “Mamma mine!”
“Our broncs are in Paradise,” mentions Telescope. “Three miles more, comrades.” We hobbles along on sore feet for a while, and then Chuck says—
“Say, Telescope, where was you aiming to take the lady? And what was your big scheme?”
“Out to the ranch, Chuck. I figured on dressing her up in our clothes and hiring her out as a male teacher. Sabe? Figured we’d slip one over on them three old pelicans, and then they’d have to keep her—or never hear the last of it. It was a good idea. If that little runt of a Warner had sense enough to leave the team tied,” adds Telescope a little later.
“You didn’t need to throw your hat on the ground and whoop like a drunken Indian,” reproves Muley. “You’re to blame, Telescope.”
“Yes,” says I. “You and Telescope has to argue like a pair of fools.”
“Oh, you wasn’t in the argument, was you?” sneers Telescope. “You three grocery-store punchers make me tired.”
“You cut out that runt talk,” says Chuck. “I’d rather be small and shapely than to be so tall that the buzzards roost in my hair. You think you’re a lady-killer, Telescope, and this is the one time when you likely qualify. Maybe the jury will adjudge so.”