They rides back to town, where Ren gits prodigal with his six-gun ammunition, with th’ result that th’ atmosphere gits too warm fer comfort, and they grabs their hosses and fogs off to th’ Seven A ranch and go to work again.
Well, fer th’ next month they behaves fine—said month bein’ spent on th’ roundup out in th’ Sweetgrass hills, so far from town that it takes two days hard ridin’ to find anything except personal animosities, which ain’t sufficient.
Th’ nearest town is Piperock. Piperock ain’t what you’d call uh thrivin’ city—not havin’ uh Chamber of Commerce or an Ad Club, but she manages to angle along anyway. It contains about uh hundred human beings and a Greaser settlement.
Well, as I said before, Ren and Sig works steady fer uh while and then collects their stipend, rolls their war-sacks and moseys to town to revel amid th’ bright lights and enjoy th’ fruits of their labor.
They says “Klahowya” to Buck Masterson, th’ saloon keeper, and proceeds to pay rent on th’ saloon fixtures.
“Boys,” says Buck, “curb yore feelin’s fer this time. There’s uh heap uh sentiment agin’ yuh both here, and if yuh behave it’s bound to die out in uh little while. That Chink is still in th’ hospital at Helena.”
“Pshaw!” exclaims Ren. “That’s too danged bad. But I asks yuh, Buck, how was I to know that th’ Chink was behind that box, too? That Greaser ducks behind it and I never once thinks that there’s room fer two people. It surprises me so I lets th’ Greaser git away.”
“I allus told yuh,” stated Sig, “that you depends too much on th’ jump of that ol’ .41. Now, uh .45 is heavy enough that she don’t jump. To illustrate my point clearly——”
Right then Buck cuts in and talks ’em out of it. Uh six-gun demonstration ain’t no pink tea, especially when th’ demonstrator has about six scoops uh hooch under his belt.
They has a few more drinks and then decides to eat, so they ambles across th’ street to Jimmy Peyton’s Boston Chop House, th’ only eatin’ place in th’ town. There ain’t nobody in sight, so Ren yells—