Just then we were interrupted by the coming of Ike and Dirty Shirt, leading the runaway horses. They stared at the strangers.
“Holy henhawks!” exclaimed Dirty. “They’ve roped our shepherds!”
“Uh-huh,” nodded the tall one. “You might say a few words, Dirty.”
“Hello, Adams,” nodded Dirty to the other one. “Meet Professors Pettingill and Middleton. Gents, this person is Alcohol Adams. The tall one is Magpie Simpkins, the sheriff of Yaller Rock County. He’s just as bad as he looks. Magpie, what you got ropes on them pelicans for? They ain’t done nothing.”
“Well, talk a little, can’t you?” asked the Magpie person.
“Well—” Dirty Shirt rolled a smoke—“we tried our dangedest to fulfil our deputation, Magpie. These scientific pelicans pilgrim along, and we take ’em in. Sabe? They wants to know from personal experience whether it’s sheep or just general wear and tear that puts a shepherd into that mental condition known as crazy.
“They’ve had a hard time, gents. They sure have herded in the interests of science. We’ve all had a hard time, Magpie, and I’m off sheep forever. If Scenery Sims and Alphabetical Allen wants them sheep rounded up, they’ll have to do it themselves. Sabe? Law or no law, we’re all done.”
“So?”
The sheriff scratched his long nose, and began a silent laugh that shook his gaunt frame.
“Haw! Haw! Haw! You poor, locoed snake-hunters! Listen: I didn’t no more than get started for Piperock when I meets Scenery and Alphy. They’ve done patched up their differences. We went over to notify you, but you never showed up. I’ve been looking for you.”