“It ain’t no argument, Ike,” he explains. “Paradise is the legitimate place for them things. We could do it up right.”
Tombstone invites me back to the bar, which I accepts. Dirty is arguin’ with the Cross J outfit and Liniment Lucas, and from Dirty’s talk I’d gather that he’s body and soul with Piperock.
“From this day henceforth, Piperock shall rossom like a blose,” orates Dirty Shirt. “The people of Piperock have rosin in their might, and we are comin’ out into the dight of a lew day. And if that ain’t a — of a lot to say at once, I’ll eat the garment that made me what I am today.”
From that time on things get kinda hazy. Mike Pelly peddles a brand that would make a cotton-tail rabbit grow fangs in his mouth and rattles on his tail. I’m led to understand that Paradise is jealous of Piperock, and that Paradise hankers for them three animals, like a calf hankerin’ for its ma.
Me and Dirty balances on the edge of the sidewalk in front of Mike’s place and begins to cheer for Piperock, when some careless son of a gun moved a heavy chair plumb out of Mike’s doorway and it hits me and Dirty Shirt at the same time.
And when we woke up we finds ourselves in jail. Hank Padden, our estimable sheriff, tells us that we’re in jail for disturbin’ the peace.
“You be —!” wails Dirty Shirt. “Paradise never had no peace to disturb. I can prove it to any judge, jury or collection of folks which has two ideas above a monkey.”
“I done my duty,” says Hank firm-like. “I was hired for this kind of work. You’ll prob’ly git six months apiece.”
This was sure cheerin’ news. The Paradise jail don’t feed none too good. We had a idea that Piperock would arise in its wrath and come down to drag us forth—but they didn’t. I sent word to Magpie, and he answered it.
I sent him this word—