“Get him?”
“Never mind me, feller. Tend to your own knitting,” and I shoots again.
“What you shooting at?” he yelps, “Ain’tcha got more sense than to waste
shells thataway, Sleepy? Why don’t he shoot back?”
“Got him hypnotized. Hope the ladies stay away.”
“What has the ladies--” begins Hashknife, and then stops to shoot a
couple of times, “--got to do with it?”
“Because,” says I, “I’ve not only cut his suspenders, but I’ve plumb
ruined the seat of his panties.”
I turns to shoot again, but my man has turned gopher and dug himself
in. Me and Hashknife sticks to our posts until it gets too dark to
shoot, but the attack is over. I reckon that Willer Crick has began
to respect us a little.
We hangs saddle-blankets over the windows and plays seven-up until we
got tired, with two Colts, a derringer and two rifles on the table.
Hashknife is the first one to wake up in the morning.
“Wake up, Sleepy!” he grunts, kicking me in the ribs. “We’ve got
company.”
Some feller’s voice is high-pitched and quarrelsome, and we can hear
somebody swear pious-like. We slips into our boots and peeks out.
There’s three wagons in the yard, and half a dozen saddle animals are
tied to the fence.
A tall, pious-looking _hombre_ wearing a long black coat detaches
himself from the main herd and comes down our way.
“Shake your gun loose, Sleepy,” advises Hashknife. “Sometimes them pious
cloaks covers plenty of hardware.”