“Remains to be seen, as the feller said when he dug into a Injun grave.”
“Ike’s grateful,” says Magpie. “Ike’s the gratefulest human bein’ on earth.”
“That ain’t no ways true,” objects Dirty. “I’m the most gratefulest.”
I gets between Magpie and Dirty and makes ’em put up their guns. Then we all took a last look at the inside bottom of the jug of pain-killer.
Piperock appreciates art, there ain’t no question about that. There’s fellers in town for this social event that ain’t been outside their dug-outs since the big blow. Plain and fancy horse-thieves, unsuccessful rustlers, hairy old shepherds that says “Ya-a-a-ss” and “No-o-o-o,” just like a sheep, and others too numerous and or’nary to mention.
Scenery Sims is setting in front of the Mint Hall with a sawed-off shotgun on his lap, but he lets us in.
“How does she look, Scenery?” asks Magpie.
“Well,” squeaks Scenery, “everythin’ is all right so far, but them ex-dancers is all back from Paradise. The women is all up there in the hall now. Bill Thatcher is drunker’n seven hundred dollars, and somebody has hit Frenchy in the mouth and kinda crippled his part of the orchestra. Shouldn’t be s’prized if there’d be buzzards circlin’ Piperock in the mornin’.”
We went up into the hall, which is all fixed up for the social doings. They’ve got the stage all curtained off and the room is full of chairs. Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Tilton, Mrs. Gonyer, Mrs. Holt, Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Steele are there. Magpie leads me and Dirty up to the stage and in behind the curtain.
“My ⸺!” gasps Dirty. Sheep!”