“Look out for John L. Goat!”
Man, they looked out. That goat was all primed to do the duties he was
supposed to do in a lodge, but the floor was slippery and most of them
got past. John L. Goat skidded and blatted and hit Tombstone Todd as he
dove for the door, and Tombstone went into the wall against the side of
his head, and I saw all the ambition die out of his eyes.
The goat hit him once after he was down, and then went tiptoeing around
the hall while I hid behind a chair. It hopped up on the platform,
pulled down the notice, picked up a sheet of paper off the table and
seemed to make itself a sandwich. Then it came down and went out of the
door.
I rolled me a cigaret and pondered deep-like on lodges. Suddenly I
hears a scraping noise and into the door comes Dirty Shirt on his hands
and knees. He’s got an expression on his face like that of an old dog
looking for a place to die. He crawls plumb over to the window and I
walks beside him, patting him on the head. Once he licked my hand, I
think. Still, maybe he tried to bite me--I don’t just know.
Over by the window he hauls himself up and peers outside. The bunch are
lighting the lamps in Buck’s place.