Uncle Hozie shook his head slowly and sighed. He had drunk a little too much the night before, and his spirits were not overly bright. A tin can rattled loudly, and they looked toward the stable, where Dan Leach was throwing out the stuff they had stacked in the stall for the shivaree.
Joe’s eyes closed tightly for a moment and he turned his head away. He knew what those noise producers had been meant for. A cow-bell clattered among the cans. Lonnie and Nebrasky were watching Joe from the corral.
“I don’t feel like cussin’ anybody,” said Uncle Hozie.
“Not even me?” asked Joe.
“You? Nope. What’sa use, Joe? If yuh cuss folks before they do wrong it might do some good. Afterward, it’s no use. Yuh can’t wipe out what a man writes in the book of fate, Joe.”
“And I shore wrote a page last night, Hozie.”
“Yea-a-ah, I’d tell a man yuh did, Joe.” Uncle Hozie cocked one eye and looked at Joe.
“There’s by actual count, seventeen ⸺ fools in this Tumblin’ River range—and yo’re all of ’em, Joe.”
“I admit it, Hozie.”
“You do? My ⸺, you didn’t think for a minute yuh could deny it, didja? Huh! Why don’tcha git down? My ⸺, I hate to talk to a man on a horse! Especially the mornin’ after. Kinda hurts my eyes to look up.”