“Who’s guardin’ ’em now, Ike?”
“I ain’t sure, but I reckon Hassayampa is on duty.”
Chuck goes away, leavin’ me to nod at the bartender and lean against Dirty Shirt. Then cometh Polecat Perkins and his pack of high-class mongrels. He’s got eight of ’em, all on ropes, and they proceeds to tangle themselves around our legs.
“Greetin’s, everybody,” says Polecat. “Lay down, dogs!”
Polecat joins our convention and gets enthusiastic over the fact that tomorrow is Labor Day and that we’re goin’ to have a jollification.
“Take them dogs outside,” orders Buck. “My —, this ain’t no doggery, Polecat. Take ’em away so folks will have a chance to git to the bar.”
Just about that time Hassayampa Harris comes into that saloon. I dunno how far he jumped from the outside, but I know he scraped his head on the top of the doorway and landed plumb in the middle of the room
“Yeeow-w-w-w! Look out!” he yelps.
Right behind Hassayampa comes Cleopatra. She comes among us, like a striped streak, hits in the middle of the room, lands on the pool table and goes plumb out through the back door, which has just been opened by Mighty Jones. Mighty’s feet flip up where his hat had been, and over him goes Polecat’s flock of dogs, each one tryin’ to yell louder than the rest.
“That’s our tiger!” explodes Buck.