“Which yuh ain’t a-tall. Yuh can’t fool Chuckwalla. What time does the Queen of Sheber come among us f’r nourishment?”
“I dunno,” wearily.
“Well, I s’pose not.”
Chuckwalla scratched his shoulder against a corner of the doorway.
“She shore growed up purty, didn’t she, Rance? Five year ago she was a tow-headed kid with long legs and freckles, and she used to yell at me, ‘Chuckwalla Ike, go set on a spike,’ and now she pokes out her hand and says, ‘Mr. Hazen, how do yuh do.’ There’s only one thing that improves with age, and that’s liquor.”
“They grow up,” said Rance slowly.
“Don’t they? Well, I s’pose I’d better scare up a flock of biscuits. She allus liked ’em. Mebby I better put on a shirt. She might not like a cook in dishabelle, as they say. And my lingeree is kinda mournful, too. And yuh might tell Monty Adams and Steve Winchell to cut out their profane greetin’s to me this mornin’. As far as the human voice is concerned, this ranch-house leaks like a sieve.”
Rance McCoy turned his head and looked curiously at old Chuckwalla.
“You heard what was said last night?”
“That don’t bother me,” said Chuckwalla quickly. “But I shore was curious to know who got that black ace, and quit on the job.”