“Have you any special creed or religious affiliations?” asked Middleton.
“No.” Dirty Shirt shook his head. “Not yet, but if you two are going to hang around this range for any length of time, I’m going to join something—that’s a dead cinch.”
“There was a cap in that stick, Dirty,” said Ike. “Wonder it didn’t go.”
“Uh-huh,” grunted Dirty. “There’s something that protects drunks and idiots, Ike.”
“Yes, Dirty, you’re right. Even them danged burros was removed far enough away to be safe. Drunks, idiots and jassacks—all under protection.”
He certainly was not referring to Middleton or myself, as neither of us ever touches liquor in any form.
Later on I insisted on knowing the probable destination of the sheep.
“Over in Sandy’s corral,” said Dirty Shirt. “Everything is grist that comes to his mill. He’ll demand payment for the range he thinks the sheep ate.”
“Oh, is he a miller?” asked Middleton. Dirty and Ike exchanged glances, and Ike said—
“That’s what education does for a feller, Dirty.”