Muley shakes my hand and invites me to join the Perverted Order of Paradise Poets, of which he’s the only living member.
“Don’t tell too much down there, Muley,” advises Chuck. “If you runs off at the mouth I might get eased into jail, and that would cut down the number of detectives on the case. Sabe?”
“Fear not,” says Muley. “I go but to bring cheer to the needy. I will be back anon.”
About three hours later Doughgod Smith rides in, and we walks out to where him and the old man are greeting each other.
“If this keeps on, Whittaker, you’re going to be short of men,” states Doughgod.
“Huh!” grunts the old man. “One man don’t make no difference this time of year. Three punchers is enough to set around and play cards, and eat up good grub.”
“You only got two left now,” says Doughgod. “Muley’s in jail, too.”
“Muley!” snorts the old man. “What’s he in for?”
“Stealing dynamite from Mighty Jones.”
Chuck had started to set down on his heels, but when Doughgod’s information hits his ears he sprawls flat on his back and blinks at the sky. I starts to lean on a buckboard wheel that is ten feet away, and I ends up on my back with my feet over the tongue.