Magpie had told me that Dirty and Scenery were paralyzed drunk the day before, and I had a hunch that Dirty had froze to death. But he wasn’t dead. His active eye does a few loops, steadies down to a strained contemplation of that crooked nose, and he says to me—
“The way of the transgressor is pretty damn’ tough, Ike Harper.”
“All depends on how heavy your underclothes are,” says I. “How about a shot of hot liquor?”
“Strong drink is ragin’, Ike.”
“So’s the thermometer.”
“I’m repentin’ of my sins.”
“Well, you’ve shore got a long hard season ahead of you, Dirty Shirt. Where does it hurt you worst? You ain’t done got religion, have you?”
“My sins are heavy among me, Ike. I’ve shot and slashed and cut and cussed pretty much all m’ life.”
“Not countin’ horse and cattle stealin’, card markin’ and other forms of malignant sins,” I reminds him. “But freezin’ to death ain’t goin’ to wipe ’em out none to speak about. Why not try goin’ to the penitentiary for life?”
“Wouldn’t pay me out, Ike; I’m half through livin’ right now. Me and Scenery got it together. He’s repentin’ in sackcloth and ashes right now.”