“What will we do with ’em?” asks Yuma. “There ain’t no trees.”
“It ain’t exactly a hanging matter,” states the judge and I could love him for them words. “They ought to be in jail—blast ’em! If Scenery only had some way to get out and ——”
“He will,” states “Ornery” Olsen.
“‘Dynamite’ Davidson and ‘Calamity’ Calkins went down there a while ago and they said they’d get him out or kill him in the attempt.”
“Where is the tiger?” I asked.
“Dead!” snaps Wick. “Seventeen men fell on her and she died of old age!”
“I’ve got a scheme,” yelps Pete Gonyer, “a dinger of a scheme. Let’s rope ’em on to the elephant and take ’em to jail. Have pe-rade, eh?”
There wasn’t any need of a vote. It was unanimous. Even me and Magpie and Bosco voted “aye.” Jail looked like a happy hunting ground beside of all these ropes and tree talk.
Alcibiades looked on, mean-like, during the roping. Magpie was in front, then me and then Bosco. Somebody tied a rope to the elephant’s trunk and then we strung out like a cross between a funeral and a pe-rade. It sure attracted a lot of attention. Then we hove in sight of the jail.
There is Dynamite and Calamity, busy at something. Dynamite is on his hands and knees, while Calamity stands over him. Beside Dynamite is a wooden box with the cover off. Just then they rise up, sort of hurried-like, and see us.