Doughgod races up to us and hops up and down around us.
“Get down to the depot, Chuck!” he yelps. “She’s there.”
“Who?” asks Chuck.
“The lady—dog-gone you! The one I gave you the money for. Sabe? Point her homeward, boys, and make it sudden,” and Doughgod lopes on up the street.
He sure is skittish around calico.
“We’ve got to stand together,” observes Chuck, pulling on his boots. “We’ve got to. Divided we fall.”
“Under them circumstances I waves a flag of truce,” says Telescope. “I may kill a friend later on, but it never can be said that a Tolliver ever went back on a friend in need.”
We all plods down the street, with Muley carrying his boots, and, just as we got to the depot, a freight-train whistles. The lady is there. She’s setting there on a low truck in the shade, doing fancy work, and she’s the same lady.
“My ——!” snorts Telescope. “She must be made of cast-iron. Ain’t bunged up a bit.”