“How is everythin’ in this village of iniquity?” asks Testament kinda offhanded.
“Iniquity, —!” snorts Buck. “There ain’t no iniquity in Piperock. We’re clean-minded and antiseptic of condition. If there’s any infection in this city it’s brought here from Paradise. By golly, some day you’ll be glad to be knowed as bein’ a suburb of Piperock City.”
“Haw-haw-haw-haw!” says Ricky. “Suburb of Piperock. Paradise will be a mee-trop-polis when Piperock goes back to the prairie-dogs.”
It’s difference of opinion that makes horse races, wars and so many kinds of whisky—all out of one barrel. Me and Dirty Shirt are plumb full of civic pride, and we’re willin’ to fight for our fair city—if we had one—but Piperock and Paradise ain’t worth no supreme effort; so we slides out kinda graceful-like and pilgrims back to our shack.
Magpie is just goin’ away, carryin’ complete dignity and a lot of stationery. I tells him about the three men from Paradise.
“The word has reached,” says Magpie, swellin’ his chest. “We shall not hide our light under a bushel.”
“Then you better hide yore carcass behind a wood-pile,” says Dirty Shirt. “Them three antagonizers didn’t jist ride up here to git a drink of liquor.”
“We are a peaceable aggregation,” says Magpie. “No more shall the war-cry sever, nor the runnin’ rivers be red. We are about to shed the things that have held us back. Uncivilization must bow to the tread of wisdom. The wheel of progress is turnin’, and woe unto him who gits under the tire. The people of Piperock have risen in their might, unleashed the bonds which have held them in darkness and are comin’ out into the light of a new day.”
“And,” says Dirty kinda awed-like, “if that ain’t a — of a lot to say all in one bunch, I’ll eat the garment that made me famous.”
Magpie snorts and pilgrims on up the street. In spite of the mighty proclamation he emits to us, I notices that he’s got a six-gun shoved into the waistband of his pants. Me and Dirty stretches out on the two bunks and rolls up a little sleep.