We’re a heap hungry, and when we gets in shooting range we smells fried onions and coffee. There’s an aroma of biscuits on the air, too, which don’t hurt our noses none.
We pilgrims into the yard, and as we slips off our broncs the door opens, and we sees our heart’s desire. She’s a cute little filly. She’s slender, got a lot of eighteen-carat hair, and blue eyes as big as the end of a shotgun shell.
She’s got a bowl full of dough in her hands, and she stares at us like we’re curiosities. Sudden-like she smiles.
“I’m Sheriff Simpkins,” states Magpie, removing his hat.
She gives a queer little squeak and drops her bowl on the ground.
“I ain’t done nothing!” says she, sort of vacant-like.
“Ma’am, the queen can do no wrong,” states Magpie. “We smells the odors of Araby, so our noses brings us hither.”
“Onions,” says she. “Don’t they smell.”
“Perfume of the gods,” says I. “I’d wear one all the time if it wasn’t for the looks of the thing. I’m your obedient servant, Ike Harper. You living here alone?”
“Yes,” she nods. “A poor, defenseless woman. I hope there ain’t no objection to me using this cabin. I’ll take care of it.”