Wick Smith is a retired killer. He still retains the disposition, plus a walrus mustache and some bunions. He runs the Piperock Merchandise Company, and agrees with his wife, who scales two hundred and sixty. Buck Masterson was suspected of many things, before he settled down to runnin’ a saloon. He ain’t so tall, but he’s got plenty waist, big shoulders and skinny legs. On the Fourth of July he wears a collar, and on Christmas he adds a necktie to same.
Them four pelicans is plannin’ somethin’, I can see that right away; so I backed out and went home. I’m scared of them fellers, and when they git to plannin’ anythin’ I want to be outside their plans. Magpie didn’t say nothin’ when he came home, but he’s got somethin’ on his mind, and I seen him sneakin’ a few peeks at a little black book.
“Whatcha got there?” I asks, but he don’t answer.
But I sneaked it out of his overalls pocket that night, and it’s a Bible. I’ve knowed Magpie to have most everything else, but this is his first time to pack a Bible. I didn’t say anythin’, but I got all set to listen to mornin’ prayers. Mebbe he wasn’t that far gone, ’cause he didn’t pray, but he did mention that fact that Dirty Shirt Jones had turned over a new leaf and bid fair to become a valuable citizen of Piperock.
It was the followin’ mornin’ after that, when I went up to Buck’s place. I knowed I had twenty dollars in my pocket; so I invited those present to partake with me, which they did with cold weather alacrity, as you might say. Magpie was one of the elect. But when I dug deep for my twenty, my gropin’ hand encounters a lot of hunks of cardboard.
I took out a handful and looked ’em over. They’re about two inches square, with a pen and ink number on one side, and on the other is written:
Good for one chance.
I dug once more, but there ain’t no money in my pocket. Buck looks at me kinda dumb-like, and I says softly—
“Charge this up to me, Buck—until after the funeral.”
“No hurry,” says he.