About a mile farther on we sees the lights of a house and points our perade accordingly. We’re too miserable to think of anything except making a wholesale delivery. Maybe Magpie had a vision of a pair of boots; I don’t know.
“Do we lie to them about things, Magpie?” I asks as we nears the place.
“We do not, Ike. No more lies. A certain measure of precaution but not a prevarication. I won’t be the father of triplets—not barefooted.”
We stumbles right up to the door. Magpie hammers on the middle panel with the butt of his six-shooter.
A feller sticks his head out of the door and stares at us. He’s got a face like a full moon.
“Ahem!” says Magpie. “Have you got any babies?”
Bang! He slammed the door in our face, and we hears him drop a bar across it. Then from the window we hears:
“Mosey, you bums! Hop out or pick lead out of your hide the rest of your lives.”
We went. Also and moreover we went fast.
“What do you think you’re doing—taking the census?” I asks when we’re out of shotgun range and stops to gather our wind.