Standing there beside a pair of packed burros is the queerest-looking pair of pelicans I ever seen. They’re both wearing hard hats and black-rimmed specs, and what you might expect such persons to wear in the line of shirts, collars and neckties, but from the waist on down they’re clad in chaps and boots.
One of ’em is wearing a pair of Mexican spurs—the kind with rowels the size of a dollar and eighty-five cents. One of them has a belt draped around his waist, and in the holster is one of them single-shot twenty-two pistols. The other is packing a pump shotgun.
One of ’em removes his specs and polishes ’em, careful-like.
“Quite remarkable, my friend!” says he. “Quite remarkable. The—er—equine was no doubt desirous of removing its burden.”
“One would be led to accept such a theory,” nods the other. “We have observed the effect, my dear Middleton, but of course we know nothing of the cause. It really was quite remarkable.”
“Holee suffering scissorbills!” grunts Dirty, leaving half his shirt on the snag and staggering to his feet. He stares at them and at me.
“Ike, do you see the same thing I do?” he whispers.
“I hope so,” says I, lowering my feet. “I hope I do, Dirty, otherwise I’m a goner mentally. Is one of them apparitions wearing spurs?”
“Thank ——!” gasps Dirty. “We see the same little details, Ike.”
“You see, Pettingill?” crows one of ’em. “You objected to the boots and spurs, but the customs of a country must be observed. It is well.”