Hashknife, Cleve, and Musical came running from the corral, while McGurk’s horse got to its feet and trotted in a circle, as if undecided which way to go.
McGurk got to his feet, spitting sand and profanity, while Sleepy, his feet elevated in the rosebush, looked up at them with a vacant stare and tried to argue with them over the climate of Puget Sound.
“He’s all right,” grinned Hashknife. “That wallop knocked him back one season, but he’ll catch up.”
“McGurk, you picked a bad time to come around that corner,” said Big Medicine seriously.
McGurk rubbed the back of his head and sat down on the steps.
“I didn’t have a chance,” he explained. “That damn steer was into me like a shot.”
Sleepy was sitting up now, and Musical began singing softly:
“To-o-o-re-e-e-e-adore, don’t spit on the floor; use the cuspidor, what do yuh think it’s fo-o-o-er?
“You think yo’re damn smart, don’tcha?” wailed Sleepy. “My God, how did I know that London Bridge was failin’ down?”
“Serves yuh right,” declared Hashknife. “You knowed danged well it wasn’t the right thing to do, Sleepy. Evry time yuh do wrong, yo’re goin’ to run into the law.”