Slim comes back in a few minutes, and holds down the place while I pilgrims up to Buck’s place. Me and Buck and “Half-Mile” Smith leans on the door and discusses local conditions.
“Show troupe in town,” states Half-Mile. “Came in on the stage. Seven or eight people, two colored persons and some dogs. They got a drum and a lot of horns, etcetery. I’d opine we’ll have some music.”
“I love a good show,” says Buck. “The last good one I seen was at Silver Bend. They played Shakespeare. Had a ghost and I was just drunk enough to enjoy it.”
“Give me a drink, quick!” pants a voice at the door, and into the place comes “Ricky” Henderson. He takes a long drink out of the bottle, and leans against the bar.
“Suffering surcingles!” he pants. “I’ve sure had one job! That or’nary hombre, Tombstone Todd, comes into my place a while ago, and climbs into a chair.
“‘Young feller,’ says he, ‘my hair and whiskers are too noticeable, so I admires to see ’em on the floor.’ He hauls out a six-gun, lays it across his lap, and leans back in the chair. ‘Young feller,’ says he again, ‘a razor what pulls is an abomination and a barber what uses one is flirting with the undertaker. Let your judgment be your guide.’”
“Was he satisfied?” asks Buck.
“I’m here, ain’t I?” grins Ricky. “But I wouldn’t do it again for a million dollars.”
“And you with a razor in your hand all this time, and his head tilted back?” wonders Half-Mile, aloud.
Ricky stares at Half-Mile and considers the remark.