“Git ready to yank the curtain,” says Magpie. “Put all them lanterns inside the manger. Makes it look better. Somebody blow out the lights out in front.”
“Somebody calm this here bo-veen, will you?” I asks. “I’m gittin’ seasick.”
I see the lights go out over the audience, and then I hears the curtain go rattlin’ back. Every bit of light from all them lanterns is reflected upward, and there I set on that swayin’ chimbley top, like an illuminated buffalo coat, decorated with brass sleigh bells, which are jinglin’ every time that restless steer weaves back and forth.
I’m gittin’ so dizzy I can’t look down, and the rest of the world is all black to me.
“It’s Ike Harper,” says a voice out in the crowd. “The catspaw of Piperock!”
“Don’t shoot, Tombstone! You might be mistaken!”
“I’d know him among a million. Don’t jiggle m’ arm.”
“Stand still, you bald-faced oreano!” yelps Dugout Dulin, and then I hears the splat of that two-by-four across the rear end of the old steer. Wham!
That bullet picked off one of my numerous sleigh bells and sent her jinglin’ up among the rafters, and I let loose with both hands. It wasn’t quite the longest fall I ever had, and I lit sittin’ down, for the simple reason that the chimbley kept me from turnin’ over.