“Peace on earth!” snorts Hip Shot. “Good will toward men! Does that mean men from Piperock? I’d crave to know about it, that’s what I’d crave?”
“It means men,” says Hair Oil. “That natcherally cuts out critters from Piperock. I heard the same thing, Hip Shot. Magpie Simpkins and his misguided cohorts aim to kinda soft soap us fellers. I know him of old. His dove of peace usually turns out to be a chicken hawk. I won’t go up there at no danged Christmas time.”
“Piperock will be glad about that,” says I. “They sent me down here to find out how many of you ain’t comin’. I’ll mark Hair Oil off my list.”
“Mark me off, too,” says Hip Shot.
“You’re off. How about you, Tombstone?”
“I’m comin’. Like a danged fool I bought ten tickets on that raffle, and I attends to see that no skulduggery is practiced.”
“If you ain’t there, your tickets ain’t legal.”
“Mark me back on,” says Hair Oil and Hip Shot together.
“There’s bound to be skulduggery,” adds Hair Oil. “I p’tects my dollar.”
Over at Hank Padden’s saloon I finds ’em playin’ poker, usin’ tickets as legal tender, and only bein’ discounted fifty per cent. I got into that game and lost nineteen tickets on the first jackpot. I’d have lost twenty, but I’d misplaced one of ’em, and didn’t find it until I was halfway home. Old Tombstone Todd won ’em all from me.