Resolved, that Ike Harper and Dirty Shirt Jones, them same being part
and parcel of our past history, are hereby declared null and void as far
as we are concerned. Them two has violated the principles of liberty and
justice, failed in their duty to mankind and are hereby declared pariahs
and outcasts in Piperock. Resolution framed by Judge Steele and signed
by the following Republicans in good order:
Magpie Simpkins
Buck Masterson
Mighty Jones
Doughgod Smith
Ricky Henderson
Samuel Holt
“Whyfor cometh all this boycotting, Buck?” asks Dirty.
“You two failed to cast votes which would have put local option into the
discard,” says he, solemn-like. “You’re _hyas cultus_ around here.”
“No drinks?” I asks, and he shakes his head.
“O Death, where is thy stinger?” says Dirty dry-like, and we sets down.
“What did you fellers come back here for?” asks Buck. “You ain’t got no
friends left nor nothing.”
Just then old Judge Steele comes in, wiping his brow, and buys himself a
jolt of jiggle juice, but he don’t even seem to see us.
“How’s law and justice nowadays, Judge?” asks Dirty.
The old pelican stares at us like he’d never seen us before.
“Has somebody brought sheep into our fair land, Buck?” he asks.
“Looks thataway, Judge,” admits Buck, sad-like. “Things is changing
every day. Ain’t like the good old days.”
“Ain’t it so!” says the judge. “When we can’t go to the dogs fast
enough, the dogs comes to us, Buck.”
“Listen!” Dirty slides sidewise so his gun is handy. “You pair of
slop-headed snake-hunters think you’re smart, don’t you? Me and Ike felt
that Piperock needed us, and we came back. We’re here, and we’re here to
stay. Hear me holler?”
“If we don’t, we soon will,” admits Buck.
Me and Dirty walks out of there and slams the door. We’re sore. Dirty is
sorer than I am, ’cause he loses all caution and kicks that Lodestone
burro in the south end, the same of which reacts upon him. He picks
himself up and limps over to the sidewalk.
“Dang it all!” he wails. “Somebody has been talking to them burros.”
“I’m going to talk to Magpie,” says I. “He’ll understand.”
If he did, he didn’t show it. That long, lean, sorrowful-looking
_hombre_ never even took his boots off the table when we came in—and
I’ve been his pardner for years. All he done was to hitch his belt
around so his gun rests in his lap and go on spelling out a reward
notice.
“Ain’t you got no bowels of compassion?” I asks, and I put quarts of
tears into that question.
He marks the place with his finger and peers at me.
“Not a gut!” he snaps and goes on reading.
“How does your chances look, Magpie?” asks Dirty.
“Good a minute ago—rotten now.”