I felt that machine jerk ahead like a buckin’ horse, and that dark room was filled with lightnin’ flashes, a cloud of smoke and the noise of a machine gun. I tried to jump out at the head of the stairs, but I hit against the side of the opening, and got knocked back on top of Mrs. Todd, who is yellin’ for Tombstone to let her out.
We shot off the top of them stairs in the dark and I don’t reckon we ever touched again until we shot out through that doorway, over the board sidewalk, bounced a couple times in that icy street, made a slight right hand turn jist in time to take every post out from under Buck Masterson’s porch. The street is full of screamin’ people, horses runnin’ away, porch posts goin’ up and comin’ down.
That’s when I lost Tombstone and his wife. The machine whirled around, kinda actin’ bowlegged, righted itself, and about that time it must have hit somebody, ’cause I’m enveloped in a suit of clothes that’s got somebody inside ’em, and all them little stars came back to play with little Ikie Harper.
I’m conscious of a dull crash, and then perfect peace. I open my eyes, but all is darkness. I can hear somebody movin’ around, but I’m not much interested. Then a lamp is lit and I look around. I’m settin’ in what’s left of that prize machine, and behind me is a wrecked doorway. I look around, and there’s Testament Tilton, standin’ beside his pulpit, without hardly enough clothes on to flag a handcar. One eye is swelled shut and his nose looks like a pickled beet.
“We’ll open services with a prayer,” says he solemn-like. “After that I shall endeavor to explain the different scenes of our entertainment. This is Christmas Eve—the evening when peace on earth, good will to men predominates; the evenin’ when all men are meek and mild, and a little child shall lead them.”
I dunno how I got out of there. That busted doorway wasn’t quite big enough, ’cause both of my legs had different ideas of direction. I’m still wearin’ part of that buffalo coat, and a long string of sleigh bells trail along behind me.
I didn’t go uptown. There wasn’t anythin’ up there to interest me; so I cut across to my own shack. I found Dirty Shirt, Scenery Sims and Magpie there, and they’re a fine lookin’ lot of undertaker bait.
I just comes jinglin’ in and rubs my hands over the fire. Magpie look sad-like at me, but don’t say anythin’.
“The steer broke its neck,” says Dirty Shirt. “Jumped through a winder and landed on its head.”