It’s only about five minutes since East met West, but there has been several things come to pass. Gunga Din has gone back into Buck’s place, tryin’ to get rid of Cleopatra, when here comes Chief Cod Liver Oil, packin’ an old Sharps rifle. The old war-whoop sure must ’a’ been fortified against fear by much flavorin’ extract, ’cause he heads straight for Buck’s shattered entrance, soundin’ his tribal war-whoop regular.
I got to my feet. I reckon they were my feet. There ain’t no feelin’ in ’em, but they hold me up; so they must be mine. An armless man could count all the Harper heroes on the fingers of his hands, but just the same I goes pawin’ toward Buck’s place to see what I can salvage from Gunga Din, Cleopatra and Cod Liver Oil.
I don’t quite get there, when Cod Liver Oil comes out. He came out of there, end over end, missed me about a foot, and stood on his head and shoulders in the street. His Sharps lit just outside the doorway; so I picked it up and went in.
Cleopatra is settin’ on what used to be the end of Buck’s mahogany bar, her mouth wide open and her eyes shut. Gunga Din is standin’ in the middle of the room, with one hind foot on Magpie’s pant-leg, and Sahara is half-in and half-out of a rear window. And every time Gunga Din weaves the whole building shakes.
Dirty Shirt has got to his feet, and there he stands, plumb out of clothes, kinda rockin’ on his feet and grinnin’ foolish.
“Dud-do somethin’!” whispers Magpie. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to do somethin’?”
“Call on the Chamber of Commerce,” says I.
From under a smashed card-table, Wick Smith shoves up his head. He’s got the brim of his hat in his teeth, but manages to work it loose with his tongue.
“I give up,” he wheezes. “I know when I’ve got enough.”
Old Testament is still settin’ on the back-bar, but now he shakes loose and falls into Cleopatra. He kinda takes that big striped cat into a lovin’ embrace, but Cleopatra yowled once, kicked Testament backward and jumped straight at me.