by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Figures of Speech,” “No Wonder,” etc.
“I has to disagree with yuh, cowboy. There is some romance left. A
little barb-wire and a few sheep don’t cut the romance out of the
cow-land. She’s there, Sleepy.”
“Where?” I asks politely. “Me and you ain’t found none of it, Hashknife.
Since we shook loose from Willer Crick we ain’t done nothin’ more
romantic than gettin’ bucked off or lettin’ a gun go off accidental.
There ain’t a man left in the cow-country that would get ambition if
somebody called him a liar, and the villains has gone plumb out of the
female-stealin’ business.”
“Well, get off your bronc, Sleepy. Folks’ll think you’re a statoo on a
horse. I’m too hungry to argue. Git off and look for romance, cowboy.”
“In this town? Shucks. False fronts, licensed gamblin’-house,
livery-stable, general merchandise store and a barber-shop.
Romance ----!”
“We-e-e-ll, get off. Some ham and eggs looks plenty romantic to me.”
I gets off my bronc, limbers up my legs and looks around. The sign on
the store proclaims it to be the Sundown Mercantile Company.
“Sundown City,” says Hashknife. “She’s a cow-town, pure and simple.”
“Pure and simple ----!” says I.
“Why argue?” he says, sarcastic-like. “All day long you finds fault.
You’d kick if yuh was goin’ to get hung, Sleepy Stevens. Ain’t nothin’
right in your eyes?”
“Pure and simple ----”
I reckon the argument had gone far enough, but that wasn’t no way to
bust it up. A bullet splinters the top of the tie-rack, another one
busts the glass in the store-window and another one scorches a lousy dog
which was asleep in the shade of the saloon porch, and it went
_ki-yi-ing_ off down the street. Three punchers comes gallivantin’ out
of the saloon-door, sifting lead back inside, while several more oozes
out the back door, hunting for a place to get behind. I never seen so
much lead wasted and nobody saturated. Somebody heezes more bullets in
our direction, and I stands there with my mouth wide open until
Hashknife kicks my feet from under me, drops a rifle in my lap and then
does a dive across the sidewalk.
“Yuh might do a little somethin’ for yourself,” says he, as I sits there
digging dirt out of my eyes from the last bullet. Then he yells:
“Sleepy, you ---- fool, get under cover! Ain’tcha got no sense?”