“Yes,” says I. “All I hope is that they don’t set up with uh gun in their hands. You sure look like uh cross between uh lodge-pole Christmas tree and uh zebra.”
We pilgrims down to the main road, and ambles through the dust in the direction of Piperock. We comes to uh turn in the road, where we sees uh man setting alongside on uh rock. He’s all humped up, with his head between his hands, and don’t look up until I hails him. Then we recognizes him as being Chuck Warner, puncher for the Cross-J. I never did know just how to take that feller. He never growed none to speak of from his waist on down, and I figures that he’s the honestest-looking liar I ever met. He sets there on that rock, sad-like, but when he sizes up our outfit his eyes gets bigger and he sort uh gasps:
“My ——! It must be true!”
“Too true,” I replies, glancing at Magpie. “Too true.”
He gets off the rock and wobbles over to us. His eyes are blood-shot, like he’d been dallying unduly with the cheerful fluid, and he squints at Magpie.
“It’s Magpie Simpkins in disguise, Chuck,” says I.
“Huh,” says he, sort uh relieved like. “Maybe I ain’t so bad as I thought. You fellers got time to help out uh pilgrim in doubt?”
“Your obedient servants,” says I. “Lead us to the doubt.”
He turns and ambles off across the country, and me and Magpie is right behind him. About two hundred yards from the road he stops and points across an open spot.
“That’s my bronc,” he states. “Yessir, that’s my little hawse, but, but—say, what in —— is on that rope uh mine, eh?”