“Ought to be about to Cinnamon Creek.”
Hank, that uncle of my wife is too excitable. I’m always as placid as a
buffalo-waller, and, when he rears straight up, I just smile.
“Go on!” he whoops. “What’s the big idea, and who’s driving?”
“Cool off,” I advises him; “I was took sick at the last minute, and I
hired Devil Creek to drive it for me. I had cramps.”
He snaps his fingers a few times and takes a chew.
“Cramps, eh?” says he. “Who is this Devil Creek person?”
“Well, somebody had to take it out, didn’t they?” I asks. “I was
suffering something awful, and I grabbed at the first straw. What’s the
use of being a manager if you can’t hire a man in a emergency?”
“I asked you what you knew about him?” he reminds me.
I rolls a smoke and pats myself on the chest. I’ve decided to let him in
on that thousand; maybe the shock will kill him.
“Let me tell you something that will make you glad that you’ve got me
for a manager. This here Devil Creek ain’t him at all—he’s Dynamite
Carson.”
“Go ahead,” says he; “I don’t know either of them.”
“Dynamite Carson held up the U. P. Railroad a couple of weeks ago, and
there’s a thousand dollars reward for him. Devil Creek ain’t Devil Creek
at all—he’s Dynamite. _Sabe?_ When he drives back here, we’ll put the
deadwood on him and cash in on that thousand. What do you know about
that?”
Well, Hank, there ain’t nothing startling going on around here to write
about. I ain’t seen my wife for several days, ’cause I’ve been here that
long and she ain’t here, but likely I wouldn’t know her if I met her on
the street on account of my eyes. Her uncle chased me all the way over
here from Mesquite, and since then I ain’t been physically able to eat
much. It’s hard to eat when you can’t hardly see what you’re eating and,
when you do, you ain’t got no teeth left to masticate with.
Wish I was back with the Cross in a Box outfit. I ain’t asking for no
money, Hank, but a feller has current expenses what has to be met if he
wants to keep his credit well. Write soon and remember that money speaks
as loud as a long letter.
Y’rs resp’y and affectionately,
Dobie Dalton.
P. S. Hank, I forgot to tell you that there was four thousand dollars in
money in the express box on that stage, and I ain’t never seen where the
sheriff has caught Devil Creek or found the stage. Uncle said he had a
good notion to bend me all out of shape, and he meant it—’cause he did.
* * * * *
Mesquite City, June 10.