Then I meets Dirty Shirt. He’s about six and seven-eighths drunk and he greets me more with his eyes than his tongue. He squints one eye at me and then holds out his six-shooter for me to shake hands with.
“Comp’ments of the sheason to the Harper twins,” says he serious-like. “By cripes, Ike, your brother looks more like you than you do. Fact.”
“Which one, Dirty?” I asks and he rubs his eyes.
“Ex-coosh me! My mishtake, I’m sure. You folks goin’ to shelebrashun? If so—why not? All three nods together. Good!”
“Anything going on up-town, Dirty?”
“Naw! Pete Gonyer and ‘Slim’ Hawkins are up in Holt’s hay-mow nursing a pair of Winchesters, while they makes out schpecifications for tug-of-war.
“‘Mush be amachoor,’ says Slim. ‘Stric’ly amachoor.’
“‘Amachoor what?’ asks Calamity. ‘Horsh-thieves,’ says Slim.
“Now everybody’s sore, Ike, ’cause they’re all professionals. Why, there ain’t ’nough amachoor horsh-thieves around here to tug the hat off your head.”
Just then Magpie shows up with two saddle-broncs and a hurry-up expression on his face.