“Kill him a few times for me, Hassayampa,” yells Jay-Bird. “He never told me the truth in his life.”
Clang! goes a bell. Bang! Bang!
“Dirty Shirt is drunk,” opines Magpie.
“As usual,” nods Jay-Bird. “Are you going to be active in the celebration Tuesday, Magpie?”
“Ain’t decided yet. I’m going to let Ike help ’em out. Feel it’s my patriotic duty to let ’em have a little assistance.”
“Magpie Simpkins,” says I, “me and you are pardners in material things, but when it comes to my soul you don’t own a share of stock. You ain’t going to loan me and I ain’t going to have no hand in anything. Sabe? I’m going down-town right now, and if you hear my old .41 talking out loud you’ll know that brotherly love has snuck up on me and I’m playing safe. Good-by!”
If we had a newspaper in Piperock, you’d likely see something like this:
The follering guests registered at Holt’s hotel today:
“Piegan” Peters, “Tombstone” Todd, “Ace-High” Anderson, “Dynamite” Davidson, “Calamity” Calkins, “Sad” Samuels, “Windy” Wilson, “Shiner” Seeley, “Slow-Elk” Sloan, “Ornery” Olsen, “Hip-Shot” Harris and others too ornery to mention.
Every danged one of them are practising horse-thieves. Brotherly love don’t mean nothing to that bunch, unless the brother owns some middling good stock.