“Mister Jones, do you appreciate art as it is expressed in our efforts
this evenin’?” sez he, fondlin’ that ol’ gun.
“I done lost my gun in th’ ruckus,” complains Dirty Shirt, “and I done
left that boot up-stairs. Bein’ in said position I don’t hesitate to
state that I shore does appreciate it to th’ depth of my artistic soul,
Mister Simpkins.”
“Hoo, hoo!” sez uh li’l voice behin’ us, and we all turns and strains
our eyes in th’ dark.
“Hoo, hoo, yourself,” returns Magpie.
“Co-come over here and lift this--danged sidewalk off,” pleads a voice,
which we recognize as belongin’ to Cobalt.
We goes over to th’ entrance of th’ hall and lights some matches. We
sees two hands protrudin’ from under th’ walk, which was smashed flat
in th’ hurried exit. We lifts it up and hauls out th’ re-mains of
Cobalt Williams.
“I give thee much thanks fer succor,” wheezes Cobalt.
“If I hadn’t left that boot behind!” mourns Dirty Shirt. “Save uh man’s
life and then have him call yuh uh sucker!”
“This is uh different kind of uh fish,” states Magpie.
“They’re all alike except oysters,” opines Dirty Shirt. “I’m goin’ over
and git some hooch. My nerves shore need bracin’.”
Dirty Shirt goes weavin’ off across th’ street and then I turns to
Magpie.
“Let’s all go up to our cabin. No use stayin’ here on th’ street and
invitin’ disaster.”
When we gits up there Cobalt wants to know what I means by speakin’ of
disaster. He sez he remembers fallin’ down-stairs and rollin’ under th’
walk, and that th’ walk done laid down on him.
“What did yuh do to that hoss?” asks Magpie. “Didn’t I see yuh rubbin’
her hip?”
“Yes,” sez Cobalt, “I was doctorin’ her. You see she’s got uh cut on
her hip and Masterson tells Art Miller what to git to put on it. Art
gits th’ dope on his last trip and, bein’ sorta peeved at th’ show
bunch, he asks me to rub some of it into th’ cut in th’ evenin’. He
didn’t want it to git any worse.”
“Cobalt,” asks Magpie, “do yuh know jist what medicine that was?”
“Shore. I heard Masterson tell Art to git some carbonate bi-sulfid. He
said that with uh li’l external massage it would bring uh dead hoss to
life.”
“You----” began Magpie, but Cobalt wails:
“Aw, don’t git sore, Magpie. I only fol-lered directions.”
“_Errare est humanum_,” quotes Magpie seriously.
“Th’ same in United States means what, Magpie?” asks Cobalt.
“That,” sez Magpie, “in th’ Cree language means ‘To forgive is divine.’
I forgives yuh, Cobalt, fer beatin’ me to it. I had uh stick ready to
put under that bronk’s tail.”
“For th’ love of ---- ” sez I.
“Make it Annibel,” sez Magpie.
[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the November 1916 issue
of _Adventure_ magazine.]