They all rolls off the porch, where the three animals tangles up, leaving Wick alone. He forks his bronc in a hurry, and sets there rubbing the haze out of his eyes.
Amelia is setting a new cross-country record for cats, as she hunts for a high spot, and the pup is singing along right behind her.
Alfred walks circles around a post for a few seconds, and then flutters to the top of the hitch-rack. He ruffles up what feathers he’s got left, cocks his head on one side and screeches:
“Har, har, har! Sheep dip! Who’s crazy?”
“My gosh!” explodes Wick. “That cyclone hit me so hard that I can see green eagles and hear ’em talk!” and he backs his bronc away, cautious-like, and leaves us in a hurry.
Me and Muley looks at each other for a while, and then Muley yawns:
“I must have lost that piece of letter where Zeb could find it. Well, it didn’t say nothing about buying sheep, anyway, Hen.”
“Lucky it didn’t, Muley. If the community thought you intended to bring eighty thousand dollars’ worth of sheep on to this range you’d be the honored guest at a cravat party. Your auntie didn’t understand conditions when she wrote that will, Muley.”
“Why emphasize ‘when she wrote that will,’ Henry!” he asks, sad-like. “After looking at Alfred and Amelia—well, Henry, there’s a destiny what shapes our ends.”
Next morning at breakfast we’re interrupted. Comes a thump of feet outside the door, and a voice yells—