We sets there in the dark as long as we can stand the wailing, and, when our nerves give out, we gets up and looks around.
“Which way lieth the shack?” inquires Magpie. “We’ve got to take that last kid back home.”
I don’t know which way we came. It’s so dark that I can hardly see Magpie, who is right beside me. From the north comes a feel of storm, and a little rumble from above seems to ask us if we ain’t got sense enough to come in out of the rain.
“Standing here ain’t going to do nothing for us,” states Magpie. “We may point wrong and get nowhere, but our intentions are good.”
“Let us hope we strike a dairy,” says I, and we plods along again.
The Lord only knows where we went, and He likely didn’t pay much attention. We just traveled regardless, follering the lines of least resistance. Magpie has got so he ignores his bare feet. I reckon a feller’s feet can get just so full of cactus and stone-bruises that nothing can hurt ’em any more.
We drifted down a dry creek bed just as the rain began to come down on our unprotected heads. Then we went hunting for a tree to get under. All to once Magpie stops, and I bump into him. I hears horses smashing through the brush. Somebody whoops, and a shot is fired. Then the noise drifts off down the gulch.
“Posse,” informs Magpie.
“Did you think I’d mistake it for a duck hunt?” I asks.
Them kids act like we wasn’t paying enough attention to them; so they starts another kindergarten grand opery.