He was a bad man from Willer Crick.
His bluff was good but it didn’t stick.
He shot at the sheriff till the sheriff got sore,
Now his boots leave tracks on that beautiful shore.
I wipes the tears off my cheeks when I reads it. Magpie said he had
put his soul into it, but I never knowed before how deep Magpie’s soul
really was. It’s a hy-iu composition, but I got a better idea. I takes
it over to where them lead letters repose, and reconstructs the thing
a bit.
I ain’t no poet, but in a time like this a man’s spirit guides his
fingers. I works for an hour, trying to make the blamed things stand
up long enough to be read backwards, and I’m sore enough to kick a
baby when Magpie shows up. He looks at me and grins, when he sees what
I’m doing, and rolls a smoke.
“One of ’em has left, Ike,” he states. “Hank Padden rode in a while
ago, and said he met Cactus Collins on his way to Willer Crick. I’ll
get Tombstone before night. Sabe?”
“Them is noble resolutions, Magpie. You know how to make this stuff
stand up while she leaves her message on paper?”
“Sure. What yuh want to print it for, Ike? We ain’t got no paper to
waste.”
“Magpie,” says I, “a editor likes to see his stuff printed. I got a
old piece of paper what will do for this.”
Magpie sets the stuff in a little oblong affair, rolls on some ink,
lays on the piece of paper, and twists down the handle. This is how
she looks: