“Not my orders,” says Doughgod. “They tell me not to let any man in with his gun, that’s all. You ain’t settin’ no precedent, Dirty. I reckon every man in the hall is packin’ a strange gun, but there’s one satisfaction—they can’t shoot more than six time per each, ’cause I’ve got all their extra ammunition.”
I picks out an old decrepid .44, and goes inside the hall. I looks over that congregation and I can’t see where Doughgod had any reasons for being cheerful. There’s at least a hundred men in there, which means six hundred shots, which is usually plenty and sufficient.
The reward notices are sure well represented, and you could just about lynch the whole bunch and not make any mistake.
We finds the acting talent behind the curtain. Scenery is all dressed up in a gunny-sack gown, with a ribbon tied around his head and no boots on. He’s making gestures like a prize-fighter.
“My ——!” gasps Dirty. “Would yuh look at that?” Scenery jerks one fist outward and upward, swings the other arm behind him, like he was guarding his rear, and then squeaks:
“Lo, there shineth a bright light. Let’s go to it.”
“Mark an X after Scenery Sims,” says Dirty. “He won’t last.”
We goes over where Wick is looking at Maud S. She’s still laying down and don’t act like she’s ever get up again.
“’Fraid she’s on her last legs,” says Wick. “Yessir, I reckon we’re goin’ to lose Maudie.”
“’Fraid?” snorts Mrs. Smith. “That de-eared hay-hound? Let her die.”