“I’ve got ten tickets,” says Dog Rib. “If eighteen was the number, I’ve got as much right to have it as you have, Tombstone. I’m from Yaller Horse the same as you and I—”
“You’re from Yaller Horse,” admits Tombstone, “but if you don’t shut up, you won’t never go back there, Dog Rib.”
Dog Rib is settin’ right behind Tombstone. Comes a dull thud, a sort of a scramblin’ noise, and then Mrs. Todd’s voice:
“Git up and take to him, Tombstone. Git up, can’tcha? He hit you with a boot. Did he hurt you, honey?”
“Honey’s in the comb,” says Hair Oil. “You shore do lift and drop a wicked boot, Dog Rib. But you ort to have removed the spur. Common etikette will tell you that it ain’t ethical to pet a man over the head with a loose boot and not remove the spur first. I’ll betcha he’ll part his hair in the middle for a long time to come. Well, the show gits better as we go along, don’t it, folks?”
“The danged murderer’s got some of Tombstone’s tickets!” wails Mrs. Todd.
“You had that boot off all the time, didn’t you?” asked Hank Padden.
“Shore did. How’d you know it?”
“You wouldn’t appreciate my reply, ’cause you live with ’em all the time. Well, let’s go on with the show. What’s holdin’ us back? I paid four bits to see a show, and all I’ve seen yet is small arguments. If all we’re goin’ to do is fight—let’s build up a good one, and then go home.” Magpie hauled me off the floor and led me back, where they’re fixin’ up that stable scene.
“They’re about to do battle out there,” says I.