“If yuh wash the alkali mud off this one I think you’ll find Orvie
underneath.”
Somebody swore very profanely, and then another voice said:
“The other —— fool went plumb through Buck’s mirror. He’s got seven
years of bad luck comin’ to him.”
“If this hunk of mud ever gets its voice back I’ve got a few questions
to ask it,” stated a voice, which I think belonged to Mr. Simpkins.
“Do yuh reckon that bunch tried to lynch these two, thinkin’ they was
Cinch and Scissorbill?” asked a voice.
“If they did they ought to be sent up for not makin’ a good job of it.”
Then everything seemed to fade away. I do not know what happened in the
interim. It was very much like the moving picture, where a lapse of time
is shown. One never knows what the characters have been doing during
this time. At any rate, I awoke and stared around.
I was sitting on a seat, and beside me was something which I knew must
be William Burton Suggs, although he did not look so much like William.
On the seat ahead of us sat the man who drove the stage when we came in.
Standing on the sidewalk were a number of men; among them were Mr.
Harper, Mr. Simpkins, Mr. Warner and Mr. Jones.
“He’s awake now, so yuh can take the ropes off,” said Mr. Simpkins.
* * * * *
I looked down and beheld my hands and feet tied with rope, which
extended behind me and was tied to the rear of the seat. Mr. Jones began
unfastening the knots.
“Why was I tied?” I asked, and my voice did not sound at all familiar to
me.
“You was loco,” explained Mr. Jones. “You had a idea you wanted to rob a
bank.”
“You sure are a hog for action, feller,” said Mr. Simpkins. “You turned
two of the worst horse-thieves in the county loose, almost got lynched
by mistake, took them same horse-thieves’ horses away from right under
their noses when we had ’em surrounded; ducked about fifty pounds of hot
lead and wrecked a saloon.”
“And then insisted on robbin’ a bank,” grinned Mr. Warner, wiggling his
ears.
“Where are we going now?” I asked.
“Out!” said Mr. Simpkins, pointing down the road. “If yuh simply must
write stories—stay at home, in the house.”
“But,” I objected, “one must have experience——”
“Don’t come here,” said Mr. Simpkins. “This ain’t no place for to get
experience.”
“The feller what wrote ‘The Revelations of a Countess’ didn’t have
experience,” said Mr. Warner. “He used his imagination.”
“I—I think,” said Willie, “I think that is sufficient.”
“It sure as —— was for us,” nodded Mr. Jones.
“Shake a hoof, broncs!” cried the driver, and we went out of the West—a
very peculiar place, and utterly devoid, I think, of romance. I said to
William Burton Suggs:
“Willie, could you describe any of the emotions, feelings, etc., that
you experienced?”
“Yes,” said he, very thoughtful. “Yes, I can, Orville.”
For a while he was silent as the stage rocked along over the dusty road.
Then he grimaced with pain and said—
“Slow recovery from complete paralysis.”