“Such a open declaration causes some smoke and a little noise in Piperock, but neither of them gets shot up enough for us to declare a holiday. Scenery plasters a attachment on the herd, and then Alphy limps to Judge Steele’s wickiup and prays for a receiver.
“Being as I’m the sheriff I has to serve said attachment, and also being as I’m a danged fool I’m appointed as the receiver. The county didn’t elect me to herd sheep, gents. Over on the other side of that hill is the sheep. Somewhere over there is the tent. All very simple.”
Magpie fusses with his mustache for a moment and then gets to his feet. He slaps our lead burro with his hat, and hitches up his belt.
“Come on, mules! Hump yourselves!”
“Where to, feller?” asks Dirty. “Them is our burros, Magpie.”
“You won’t need ’em,” says he, weary-like, “so I’ll take ’em home for you. All I ask is this: Take care of the sheep.”
“Sheep?” I yells.
“S-h-e-e-p,” he spells, counting the letters on the fingers of his left hand with the barrel of the gun in his right. “Just sheep, Ike. Keep—your—hands—off—that—gun!”
“Yea-a-a-a-a-h!” blats Dirty, excited-like. “Explain yourself, feller.”
“You—” Magpie points at Dirty— “are the receiver. Sabe? I hereby makes you deputy receiver of them sheep, and I honors Ike by making him deputy attacher. Ike always was attached to sheep. May the Lord have a little mercy on your souls, and—don’t lose any sheep. Come on, canaries.”