“I’ve gotta have a little help myself,” wails Muley. “I tell yuh that danged steer knocked me down and then the mule fell over me.”
“But poor old Ike is de-e-e-ad!” sobs Dirty.
“He’ll keep,” croaks Muley; “but I’ll spoil if I don’t have help.”
“Yuh gotta help me drag him home, Muley. You was to blame for his de-mise.”
“Naw, I wasn’t, Dirty. Chuck got the idea of dressin’ up that steer in Tellurium’s clothes. Tellurium was sore, too. We twisted a wire around the steer’s tail to make it bawl when the gag was pulled off.
“We just wanted to make it blat at Magpie. Nossir, yuh can’t blame us for it, ’cause that mule would ’a’ killed him anyway. I’d like to know what in —— woke up that gone-to-seed mule.”
“There ain’t nobody to hear,” says Dirty, “so I’ll tell yuh. I took a can of red pepper and a can of ginger and mixed ’em. Then I made a gob of dough in Dee’s shack and put the hot stuff in the middle. Sabe? Maud S. swallered it. That’s all.”
“They’d kill us if they knew,” groans Dirty.
“Death’s stinger wouldn’t hurt me,” groans Muley.
I crawls to my feet, and they don’t see me until I’m standing up beside ’em.