Then we backs off that train. A brakeman heaves a hunk of coal at us and ducks under the train, and from up by the express car comes the roar of a shotgun, and a handful of buckshot seeps around us. We gets our bearings, and the way we went away from that train would make an antelope weep with envy. Then we sees the train pull out.
“My ——!” grunts Magpie. “We sure got some action, Ike!”
“Wa-a-a-a! Wa-a-a-a!”
“What in —— was that?” whispers Magpie.
“I’d say,” says I, feeling a drop of cold sweat run right down my back-bone, “I’d say that your boots squeaked, Magpie.”
“Boots? I ain’t got none on, Ike. Did you get that bundle?”
I sure did. It sort of wiggled in my hands; so I laid it down on the ground.
“Wa-a-a-a! Yah-a-a-a-a!” she goes again.
Magpie rolled the bundle over with the muzzle of his gun, and then we stares at each other. Magpie pulls his long mustache and clears his throat.
“Ike,” says he solemn-like, “you picked the wrong bundle. Beyond the shadder of a doubt you’ve traded my boots for a baby.”