“And nobody shot yuh?” gasps Dirty. “My gosh, they’re sure gittin’ forgivin’, Chuck.”
“They ain’t no friends to you two,” says Chuck seriouslike. “They’re glad yo’re in jail down here.”
Chuck Warner is the biggest liar west of the Atlantic Ocean—but this time I believed him.
“Magpie and Wick Smith hope yuh stay in jail,” says he.
“It kinda looks like they’d git their hopes,” Dirty acts kinda mournful.
“It kinda does,” agrees Liniment.
He’s got one of them long, wet-lookin’ noses and sad eyes. I reckon his folks intended him to be a undertaker, but Old Lady Fate had “horse-thief” marked after his name in the Big Book.
“Is this here a party of condolence, or did yuh come to gloat?” I asks. I hate like — to have folks lookin’ at me through the bars.
“Condolence and good cheer,” says Testament, hitchin’ up his pants. “You might call it a parley. I will go now, as it would not be meet for me to be party to it. Not that I ain’t in accord with it entirely, you understand.”
“It sure must be a tough proposition to drive you away,” observed Dirty.