But I didn’t reach the floor. That old steer’s withers was between me and terry firmy, as you might say, and I lit a-straddle of ’em. I reckon I lit jist ahead of Dugout’s next attempt to pacify the steer from behind, and we was both goin’ ahead at the impact.
My nose and chin knocked the front out of that fireplace, and we came right out into that manger. I seen one horn of that steer hook into Dirty Shirt’s curtain, and he seemed to kinda open up, like a newspaper in the wind. It must have scared Araby, ’cause in what short time I had, I seen that old camel’s shoulders and hump comin’ out through the wall, and the camel’s mouth was wide open in a perfect “O”, like somebody tryin’ to blow smoke rings.
“Hook’m, cow!” screams somebody out in that dark audience, and that steer starts sunfishin’ right across that platform, headin’ for the audience, head down, tail up, and foghorn blowin’, while behind us comes Araby, kickin’ at everythin’ in sight, but follerin’ me and the bald-faced steer.
It’s about eight feet drop to the floor off that platform, and I’ve got both knees locked right behind that steer’s horns, when the fall started. I gets a flash of Paradise and Yaller Horse and Piperock, goin’ backwards over their seats in the dark, and then we landed.
It shore was one awful jolt, but you can’t discount the Harper fambly, when it comes to bulldoggin’ a steer. I took that animile to the floor in one blaze of glory, as you might say. There’s only a few shots fired. There was two fired close to the ceilin’, and I think it’s Judge Steele up there with his shotgun, judgin’ from the sound of it. He was right in the path of Araby the last I seen of him.
I’m pretty much shook to pieces, but I still retain my fightin’ instinct, and I got that steer by the horns, holdin’ his head close to the floor. We knocked over all the chairs in reach, both of us growin’ weaker and weaker as the battle progressed.
Finally the steer said—
“Well, damn you, hold my arms, but git your hair out of my mouth!”
There’s a light comin’ from somewhere, and I lifts my head to look down at the face of Dog Rib Davidson. One end of his mustache points up and the other points down, one eye swellin’ shut and there’s hair between his teeth.
The light stops beside us, and I look up at Dirty Shirt Jones, packin’ a lantern. Behind him trails that colored curtain, and that’s about all the raiment he’s got. He looks us over by the light of the lantern.