“Well—” he looks at Dirty’s gun, serious-like—“well, not to mean any offense, but I’d say that Alcohol exaggerated a little, he meant a twenty-two.”
Be it known that Alcohol Adams is so ornery that his own dog barks at him. He’d steal money from his own kids, and then lick thunder out of them for losing it. Mosquitoes, horse-flies and rattlesnakes turn him down like a white chip in a no-limit stud game, and his soul is so small and elusive that he has to drink straight alcohol in order to exhilarate it.
Yaller Rock got so disgusted with him that they sent him to the Legislature, where he collected all the loose money in sight, and showed his appreciation of things by passing a few laws favoring sheep. He orated his views in Piperock, the same of which was contrary to our religion, and—let me admit that some poor shooting was done.
When he hit Paradise there was three hunks of lead in the cantle of his saddle, which proved we held too low or the range was too great. We held a mass meeting that night, and Magpie Simpkins chided us over our lack of ability.
We agreed to set aside six practise shots per day, against the time that Alcohol or any other lawmaker might appear in our midst. I hopes you hereby sabes something of Alcohol’s nature.
“You can’t run no blazer on me,” says this feller. “I’m ‘Sandy’ Sorensen. What you going to do?”
“Borrow your bronc,” says Dirty. “We’ll ride that roan double, Ike.”
“Won’t ride double,” says he.
“Maybe it never has,” corrects Dirty, taking his foot out of the stirrup. “Come up, Ike.”
Sandy sure diagnosed that bronc right. I’d trail my bet with his when he says it won’t ride double—not meek-like. A bronc can’t do its best with two hundred and ninety pounds on its back, but I hope to gosh I never ride that bronc single-handed when it’s riled.