Sig ducks jist in time to save his life. Art shoots uh li’l high and when Sig ducks all he gits is th’ rakins of about six shot across his shoulder. One shot punctures th’ brone’s ear and it shore moves up and down a-plenty.
Th’ stage is rockin’ and swayin’ up th’ road as fast as four scared and whipped cayuses can yank it and Art Miller is bracin’ hisself and throwin’ leather promiscuous. Sig lost his rifle and is now ridin’ with both hands.
Art drops his whip, wraps his lines around his arm and, in tryin’ to put more shells in his gun, swings his team off th’ road. They go good for about ten jumps and then they’re into th’ timber.
Natcherally th’ leaders goes on opposite sides of uh tree, with th’ result that th’ wheelers skid to one side and th’ stage turns uh handspring. I reckon that Sig’s bronc thinks it’s uh real party fer its benefit, ’cause it pitches right into th’ tangle and Sig lights sittin’ down through th’ glass door of th’ stage, which is reposin’ serenely on its side when he arrives.
Sig sits there fer uh few minutes collectin’ his thoughts, when he discovers that he’s sittin’ on somebody’s head.
“Rosalind!” is th’ first thought that comes into his head, so he slides part way out and takes said head between his hands.
“Rosalind!” he wails. “My Gawd!”
He can’t see very plain until he climbs out and leans over th’ casing. “Speak to me, Rosalind!” he sobs. “Hu-honey, I wants yuh to—the devil!”
A figger rises up from th’ coach, looks him in th’ eye and spits out three perfectly good teeth.
“I begs yore pardon,” says Sig, in a dazed sort of uh way.