“Hey!” yelled the voice of the harness drummer who was in the next room. “Cut out th’ orchestra practise, you drunken sheep-herders!”
“That,” states Ren, “makes me forget personal animosities, Sig. Here’s yore gun. Pull jist below that bunch uh cauliflower pitchers on th’ wall paper and it’ll jist about rake his bunk. Ready?”
Th’ door of th’ opposite room closed quickly and th’ drummer padded off down stairs and slept in uh chair.
“Sig,” says Ren, as he rolls into bed, “I’ll allus blame my downfall on uh quirt.”
“Misspelled,” mumbled Sig. “Should ’a’ been ‘quart.’”
The next mornin’ Sig saddled his horse and sat down in the stable door to roll a smoke.
“Ren, yo’re uh lucky devil,” he stated.
Ren dropped his latigo strap and stared at Sig.
“What do yuh mean?”