“I had lots of chances to get married back East, but I came out here
single.”
I figures there must be an epidemic of astigmatism in her home town, but
I congratulates her, and leaves.
Dirty Shirt is with Magpie when I arrives. Magpie sets there with one
hand on his gun, but when I don’t act hostile he rests easy.
“You ain’t sore, are you, Ike?” he asks.
“Me? Sore? Say, cowboy, I sure ain’t. Miss Finney is one nice female.
She ain’t no howling beauty, but money covers a lot of wrinkles.”
“Money?” asks Magpie. “She got money?”
“It won’t never do you any good. She’s sore at you, old-timer. Said
somebody told her you said she was the awfullest looking female that
ever hit this range. She spoke well of Dirty Shirt.”
“Of me?” asks Dirty. “The —— she did!”
Magpie picks up his hat and tightens his belt.
“I’ve got to see Judge Steele about them costumes,” he observes, and
goes out of the door.
“Females with money are plumb scarce,” observes Dirty Shirt. “Fact is, I
ain’t never seen one, Ike.
“Ordinarily I ain’t the marryin’ kind, but when you comes right down to
it a feller don’t never amount to much alone. The Lord intended us to
take a mate; don’t you know it?”
“Uh-huh; I reckon you’re right, Dirty. I ain’t found mine yet.”
“Well,” observes Dirty at last, “I reckon I’ll be going. Must be about
nine o’clock.”
* * * * *
I reckon I’ve been in bed a hour or so when somebody pokes into our
door. Then steps inside. I can’t figure out who it is so I slips my gun
out from under the blanket and waits for ’em to move.
Pretty soon I hears somebody else coming. They walks into the door, and
cometh a crash. I sets there on the bunk and listens to sounds of mortal
combat.
I hears the stove turn a hand-spring and our cupboard cuts loose and
falls off the wall. No voices—just grunts.
“Well,” says I, “I reckon I’d better make a light.”
I scratched a match and held it to one side of me, and then I saw enough
to cause me to light the lamp on the chair beside the bed. Setting on
the floor with a bucket on his head and the bail under his chin is
Magpie.
Over by the stove with his feet in the oven and a saddle-blanket tied
around his neck is Dirty Shirt. Them two _hombres_ sure show signs of
wear and tear.
“I—I got you—good!” gasps Dirty Shirt. “You—you—you——”
“Uh-huh,” grunts Magpie foolish-like. “You danged bushwhacker, you!”
“Wait a minute,” says I. “Let me in on this disorderly conduct. What is
the matter?”
“L-l-look at my fuf-face!” pants Dirty.
I held the lamp closer and beholds Dirty’s purple visage. He’s got a cut
over one eye, but I never seen purple blood before.
“Yes,” says I, “you sure need a blood tonic, Dirty; but that ain’t no
reason to try and assassinate poor Magpie.”
“He hit me—dang him!” yelps Dirty. “I walks in and he threw——”
“Ho-hold on!” explodes Magpie. “Shut up, Dirty! I never hit you.”
“Oh, no! Suppose I never got hit a-tall, eh?”
“Magpie,” says I, “you might tell us about it.”
“She must ’a’ got peeved,” admits Magpie. “I-I reckon she did.”
“Who?”
“Miss Finney. Ike, you know I don’t allow nobody to think ill of me, so
I goes down there to explain things. _Sabe?_ She was writing a letter. I
says to her—
“‘Somebody has told you things that I’m supposed to have said, ain’t
they?’
“She said yes. Well, I says to her: ‘Don’t you believe a danged word of
it, ma’am. What I said was exactly the reverse.’
“I didn’t know you was there,” states Dirty. “I asks Mrs. Gonyer if Miss
Finney was engaged, and she said—
“‘Lordy, not that I know anything about!’
“And I says—
“‘I’ll go in and set with her a while.’
“I just opened the door—it was half-open—and I got hit in the face with
this purple stuff.”
“Uh-huh,” says Magpie. “Ink. I ducked just in time.”