“Who in hell said I didn’t win?” yells Tombstone. “That wasn’t eighteen at all—it was eighty-one. I’ve got her right here, boys. My wife’s drawed my number! Here she is! By grab, I win that prize! Yah-hoo-o-o-o-o-o! Ike Harper never won nothin’, the bow-legged sheepherder!”
Well, I never let none of that gang call me names, even when I’m sober; so I steps right out on that platform, with all my bells ringin’, and I grabbed the shotgun out of the judge’s hands.
“Who’s a bow-legged sheepherder, you cross between a tarantler and a polecat?” I yelps.
The only light in the place is that big iron star; and that’s behind me, so I didn’t know where to shoot—but they did.
Wham! A bullet fanned my ear, and down came the star—ker-plank!
I ducked down and rolled in behind a corner of the curtain.
“My Gawd!” says an awed voice in the audience. “You shot his head off, Tombstone; I heard it hit the floor!”
Somebody yanked the curtains, and they began turnin’ on the lamps. Magpie took the shotgun away from me and shoved me into a corner.
“This is one of the best shows I ever did see,” declares Hair Oil Heppner. “Two singers done got knocked out, one bull fiddle busted, and a Piperocker minus his head—and this is only the first act.”
“I’ve won that prize,” declared Tombstone. “Jist somebody try to stop me from claimin’ it. Eighty-one wins.”