Magpie slips his gun loose and spins the cylinder, hitches up his belt and yawns:
“Ike, I ain’t got nothing to prove who it was but I has the feeling that Tombstone is going too danged far. There’s such a thing as personal animosity, but when yuh bust into a man’s business and cause him financial loss it’s time to start a probe. That show person was about to help us pay our overhead expenses, but now he’s gone gun-shy.
“I hereby deputizes you to operate this here plant, while I fulfils the obligations of my oath concerning public nuisances. You got plenty of ammunition, Ike?”
“I ain’t no editor, Magpie,” I objects. “I can’t even sign my own name so folks can read it.”
“Sign mine,” says he. “You’re editor pro tempore. Sabe?” And then he slips out of the door.
I looks around, casual-like, places my .41 beside me on a chair, and sets down out of line with any window or door. It’s warm in there, and there’s a funny smell about the place. I had several scoops of gall and wormwood in Buck’s place, and the combination woos sleep in copious gobs. My sombrero slips over my face, and I sleep.
Sudden-like I wakes, and believe me she’s a rude awakening. Somebody kicks the chair out from under me, and proceeds to knead my abdomen with their knees, toes, fingers, thumbs and head. When that part is over they turns me on my face and rakes me fore and aft with a pair of long-roweled spurs, while they links their hands in my hair and hammers my forehead on the floor. When I ain’t got more than a glimmer of light left in my system they seems to draw aside and rest.
“There!” I hears a voice state. “Next time yuh prints your danged newspaper you’ll please leave my name out. Sabe? I ain’t no shepherd, and my shirt is as clean as yours!”
“‘Dirty Shirt’ Jones, you’re an assassin,” says I, weak-like.
He pulls my hat off the bridge of my nose and takes a look at me.