“Where are they now?” says the judge sad-like. “Where are they now?”
“Did you search the sheep camps, Judge?” yells Big Foot, and the pair of
them hugs each other.
“Just a minute, folks,” says Testament, climbing up on the stage.
“Bretheren, this here is a moral play and ain’t produced to be laughed
at. _Sabe?_ We’re here to hammer home a moral, and we’re going to do it
if we has to use powder. The next person who yells out loud is going to
need help. Lead us not into temptation.”
Old Testament sets down on a corner of the stage, facing the audience.
“Who is safe in this place?” continues the judge. “Not mine nor yours.”
“Not ours,” says Yuma soft-like, peering up at Testament.
“Shall I go on?” questions the judge. “Shall I call up and pass in
review before you, one after another, all the—the—the——”
“Wretched victims, Judge,” says the widder, reading in the book.
“All the vetched wrictims—er—vretched wictims—uh—who have fallen in
review during the last ten years in Piperock? Do I need to?”
“Not on our account, Judge,” says Big Foot. “We remember ’em. Some fell,
but the most of ’em had to be cut down. Go ahead.”
“But what is the root of all this evil?” yelps the judge. “Is there no
remedy?”
“Keeley!” yelped Yuma, and just then old Sam Holt comes on to the stage.
He’s got on his Sunday clothes.
“Howdy, Mr. Slade,” says the judge. “How’s every little thing?”
“Tol’able, Judge.”
Then he turns to Pete.
“Howdy, son Frank. Dog-gone your hide, you’ve been drinking again!”
“Uh-huh,” admits Pete. “Sure have, pa, and I’m going to drink some more,
too. Hand me a scoop of brandy, bartender.”