I reckon that mostly all human beings have some outlook in life. Some of ’em looks forward to the day when they can set down by the fire and let a hired man herd the sheep, while some looks forward to the day when they can hunt a warm climate in the Winter and know that somebody is at home to do the chores.
Me and Hashknife looks forward to Alaska. What in —— we are going to do up there has nothing to do with it. It’s something to look forward to, as the horse-thief said to the posse when they comes in sight of a limbless tree.
Three days after we leaves the Circle Dot, we cuts a wagon-road and there is that same old sign, sagging a little more and maybe a little more faded, but still showing:
THERE IS A CLICK ON WILLER CRICK
THE WORST IN ALL THIS NASHUN.
THE HITE OF THEIR AMBISHUN
IS TO BEAT THEIR OWN RELASHUN.
“Still advertisin’, I see,” grins Hashknife. “Them folks sure are a caution to ——, Sleepy. I wonder if Sol Vane’s hair ever growed on his head again. Wonder if Glory—say, Sleepy, there was a reg’lar girl. ’Member how she used to fill the magazine of her rifle after shootin’ once or twice? Reg’lar little he-woman. If I wanted to git married——”
“Which you don’t.”
“No-o-o, but if I did I’d—”
Hashknife squints down the road.
“By the antlers on a desert toad!” he gasps. “Here comes the joker.”