“By cripes,” he chuckles. “It won’t cost nothing to try.”
“Try what?” asks Magpie.
“Say, if you gets your two hundred back will yuh give me all I can make over that?”
“You answered your own question, Chuck,” declares Magpie. “You get us two hundred for that overgrown fool-hen and you can have the rest. What yuh going to do?”
“That’s my business, Magpie. You and Ike go along about your business, and don’t peep—no matter what happens. Sabe? Here comes the stage.”
Art Miller swings his four broncs around in front of us, and looks us over, sort uh grouchy like.
“Howdy, Art,” says Magpie. “What yuh doing these days—distributing poultry?”
Art spits over his off-wheeler, and considers the busted crate.
“Did yuh see what comes in that there box?” he asks, and we nods. “Did ye ever hear it crow?”
We all shakes our heads, and Art puts his hat on the brake lever and fumbles for his tobacco.