“Pass in, friends,” says he.
* * * * *
Then we gets a view of the interior and I forgets that I came to kill.
Magpie and Scenery are setting on the platform, each of them with a
sawed-off shotgun across their laps. Them blood-hunters are setting
around the place as far apart as they can get.
Bill Thatcher, Al Thatcher and “Frenchy” Deschamps, the jew’s-harp
virtuoso, are grouped in front of the platform with their discord
utensils, and behind them sets “Telescope” Tolliver, “Muley” Bowles,
“Chuck” Warner and Henry Peck, the Cross J quartet. Tied to a bench
at the rear of the room is one of Mighty Jones’ goats. Me and Dirty
takes seats as far as possible from that goat, ’cause we know it’s a
cross between a pile-driver and a grizzly bear.
Just then the door of the anteroom opens and Doc Milliken comes out with
his sleeves rolled up.
Magpie stands up, cocks both barrels of his annihilator and says:
“Feller Lizards to be--maybe. As I has said to you before, your
application is null and void until you has passed medically. Our hired
representative erred when he said that all we required was your names,
and I wishes to compliment you on your sensibilities on quitting your
private feuds until same was settled.
“The eminent doctor is prepared to make minute investigations of your
nervous systems and report in detail to us. He may or may not pass you
as being whole.”
“I rises to ask a question,” says Buck. “As soon as he notifies us
that a victim has passed, do we have a right to shoot and collect the
damages?”
“This ain’t no den of murderers,” squeaks Scenery. “You’ll get an even
break, Buck.”
Magpie, Scenery and Doc whispers a while, and then Magpie gets up.
“Gents, we’re going to give everybody a square deal. The candidates will
be examined as their names are called. After everybody is examined, Doc
Milliken will hand me a written list of them what has passed. I will
nail the list to the wall, that ye may all read your fate. Testament
Tilton is the first lucky man.”
That bunch of belligerents sets there and waits for him to come out.
Magpie wraps two fingers around the triggers and studies each one
intently.
“Might sing a little song,” offers Muley. “I wrote one for the occasion.
What do you think?”
“Take a chance,” squeaks Scenery. “I love music.”
“I moves that they stand up to sing,” says Half-Mile. “I don’t want to
make any mistake when I starts shooting.”
They stood up and sang one verse. It went like this:
“We-e-e love our little Le-e-e-g-jun
Like a Siwash loves his li-i-i-icker.
Will we all hang to-o-o-o-gether?
Well, I would sort of sni-i-i-i-icker.
We’ll rise and fall to-o-o-o-o-gether
N-o-o-o matter what comes u-u-u-u-up,
We’ll stick right to our Le-e-e-e-g-jun
Like ticks upon a pu-u-u-u-u-u-p.”
Old Testament comes walking out and sets down.
“You old psalm-singer!” hisses Buck. “I wish I knowed.”
“Buck Masterson is next,” announces Magpie.
“Thank gosh!” grunts Buck. “I won’t have to hear no more of that song.”
“Shall we keep on singing?” asks Muley.
“Not to amuse me,” says Magpie. “I reckon that song is musically
inclined, but I don’t like to hear four grown men hold their breath
like that. Maybe you better rest a while. Maybe the orchestra would
like to play.”
“Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast,” says Bill Thatcher,
rosining his old bow.
“Not your music,” says Half-Mile. “It makes me mad. I hate ---- out of
Sweet Marie, especially when she’s played by main strength. You’d seem
a heap like Ole Bull to a deaf man whose eyesight was failing.”
Buck came out and Ornery Olsen went in.