“He’s here to save yore soul. Said so last Sunday.”
“Well, he don’t need to worry about my soul. I don’t.”
“Yuh would, if yuh had any. Right now all yuh need is one of them little bird whistles to make yuh imitate a flower garden. Man, yuh shore smell like a bed of Sweet Williams.”
“Some day, Peewee Parker, I’m goin’ to hang yore hide on a bobwire fence.”
“Pick yore day, feller, and bring the lady along.”
Not bein’ interested in dramatic teachin’ nor the troubles of married folks, me and Peewee goes back to the HP ranch. We’re dependable and as honest as the average run of cowpunchers. Of course, we don’t cut down no cherry trees, and then run our legs off to tell folks about it, but we git along. As long as the law keeps away from us, we’ll keep away from the law.
That night at supper time, Peewee gits to tellin’ me about one time he acts in a play. I figure he’s lyin’, of course, but a good lie is interestin’. Accordin’ to Peewee, he’s a pretty good actor. He shot six men in this play—two at one shot. He’s one of them pyramid liars—keeps pilin’ one on top of the other. I stopped him before he got too good. I ain’t never done no actin’, but I never seen anythin’ a Sykes couldn’t do; that is, anythin’ that’s honest.
“It took me a long time to git as good as I was,” says Peewee. “I’ll bet I was good enough to git a job in New York actin’ on a stage.”
“You wasn’t a good actor—you was a good shot. All the good actors I ever seen killed ’em with knives.”
“Well,” says Peewee, “I was a good actor. I wanted to kill ’em with knives, but the boss said, ‘You go ahead and shoot ’em, Peewee—knives is too messy.’”