“Confounded old coots,” says Chuck sad-like. “Only one of them is married, and he ain’t got no kids. I don’t blame Mike for harboring resentment against the weaker sex—after seeing his wife, but them other two loveless lunatics ain’t got no cause to boycott calico for educational purposes. I figured on a woman teacher, Henry.”
“You and me both,” says I. “According to fiction, a puncher has to fall in love with a school-teacher.”
Old Doughgod Smith wanders out and comes over to us, wiping his mustache.
“You’re three lovely old joy-killers, Doughgod,” says Chuck. “Regular old race-suiciders.”
“Now, now, Chuck,” says Doughgod, setting down with us. “Don’t blame me. It’s two against one, and I’m the one. Also, I’m sort of up against it. I didn’t know them snake-huntin’ cohorts of mine were so bitter against women—honest to gosh! That Miss—” Doughgod scratched his head—“I don’t know her name right now—well, she sounds on paper like a regular teacher; so I told her to come and take the job. She’s on her way now, and I don’t know how to head her off.”
“Two ways out,” states Chuck. “Either shoot J. B. or Mike and get a warmhearted man in their place, or meet the train and send her back from whence she comes.”
“Meet her at the train? Me? Not Doughgod Smith! Not me, Chuck. I got rheumatism in the vocal cords when it comes to denying a female anything. I can stand without hitching long enough to meet a lady in a crowd, but I don’t walk right up and speak to one. Reckon I’ll have to pay her way back.”
“I could meet her if I was properly coaxed,” observes Chuck. “Me—I ain’t scared of no female woman.”
“Would you do that, Chuck?” asks Doughgod anxious-like. “Honestly, would you?”
“Yeah. Give me the money for the ticket.”