“I don’t know; I have never been killed yet.”
“How many men have you killed?” asked Willie abruptly.
Mr. Simpkins’ face seemed to lengthen again and he shut his eyes as
though in deep thought. Then he opened his eyes and looked at Mr.
Harper.
“Ike, did you check up last week?”
Mr. Harper shook his head and started to explain, but Mr. Simpkins
fairly thundered:
“You’re a fine deputy! Make up that count at once.”
Mr. Harper asked if he should include Indians, but Mr. Simpkins said:
“Nothing less than half-breeds. Indians don’t count.”
I tried to explain that I only wanted an approximate number, but he said
that accuracy was his motto, and that he would not lie to me over such a
small matter.
I find that honesty is cultivated to an astonishing degree with these
people. Perhaps it is on account of their childlike faith. Mr. Suggs
asked them if they had ever heard of George Washington and the
cherry-tree. He told them the tale, and they seemed interested. Mr.
Jones said:
“Nothing to whoop about. You ought to know ‘Chuck’ Warner.”
* * * * *
I was about to evince a desire to meet Mr. Warner, when a cowboy came
in. This newcomer was of peculiar physique. His legs were altogether too
short for the length of his body. His face reminded me of the
aborigine—being rather long, with prominent cheekbones.
His ears were very prominent. In fact, they stood out from his head as
an animal’s ears do when seeking sounds. He looked at Mr. Suggs and
myself, and I will give you my word, those ears moved backward and
forward.
“Chuck,” said Mr. Harper, “this is Chatterton and Suggs. Gents, this
here apparition is Chuck Warner.”
“They write books,” stated Mr. Jones.
Mr. Warner’s ears waved a few times and then he said:
“Shucks. I hope they’re writin’ some more ‘Countess’ stuff.”