“Well, if Gospel was something they could steal, I’d say they’d entertain him over night.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’, Sleepy. In the words of the immortal George Washington: turn, boys, turn, we’re goin’ back.”
“George never said that,” says I. “It was Bryan.”
“All right, all right; have it your own way. What I don’t know about geography would make a set of hymn books, but I know somebody said it.”
“Why go back, Hashknife? Willer Crick wouldn’t hurt a preacher.”
“Not while he’s preachin’; but he can’t sermonize all the time. Willer Crick needs reformin’, Sleepy, but it’s got to be done in a language they understand.”
“It’s a fool idea,” I argues, “Willer Crick ain’t forgot us. They may be ignorant, but their memory ain’t weak. They may be shy on literature and art, Hashknife, but they sure as —— can shoot, and they’ll just about put the kibosh on us ever getting to Alaska.”
“You sure do get morbid, Sleepy. If Willer Crick had brains I’d pass ’em by. They can’t think beyond next drink-time.
“If they recognize us they’ll think like this: there’s them two crazy cowpunchers who depleted our community. Wonder who they’ll smoke up this time? That’s the way they’ll think.”
“And then start to shoot in self-defense. A preacher don’t mean nothin’ to me, Hashknife. What do you want to foller him in there for?”