“Whyfor the exclamation, Dirty?” I asks, peering across the street,
where the crowd is milling around the door of the hall.
“Polecat hates Hassayampa,” explains Dirty. “Polecat tells ’em that them
Wets are going to steal the ice cream; so they deputizes us to guard it.
We takes out the cream and the ice, Ike, and dumps it in a safe place,
and then me and Polecat climbs into the rafters of the hall, and——”
Yeo-o-o-o-ow! _Bang! Bang! Crash!_ Yeo-o-o-ow!
We sees the lights go out in the hall. Out of the windows and doors come
hurrying men, and for the first time in history the Democrats and
Republicans merge into one. They not only merge, but they seem to get
very close to each other. Some of ’em comes our way, and I lopes over to
the rack to get on Lodestone. He ain’t fast, but he’s the fastest I’ve
got.
A bullet fans my ear, and I turns to shoot back—with the gun I ain’t
got—when somebody slams into me and we both goes down. I rolls over
about six times before I can stop. Then I gets right up, hops on to that
burro and digs him with my heels.
Lodestone is a noble steed. He feels the need of fast work and dashes
away—to the end of the rope. Some danged fool had tied him to the rack.
Me and that other jassack stands on our heads, and I reckon we both got
up at the same time. That darn old rabbit humps up like he was sore at
the whole world, and then that man I ran into gets up and staggers to
his feet.
“Sus-sorry I can’t make speech,” says he thick-like. “Ha, ha, ha! Got
money in advance, too. Ha, ha, ha! Paid twice. Thanks. Rotten campaign.
Pleased to meet you.”
The Honorable Alexander has been hit so hard that he ain’t neither got
sense nor caution. He haw-haws some more to himself and shakes hands
with Lodestone’s tail.
“Good night, gents,” says he. “Lovely party.”
“Good night and good-by,” says I.
Just then Lodestone lifts his legs sort of jerky-like, and I turns away.
Lodestone must ’a’ been dazed a little, too, ’cause he kicked twice when
once was sufficient.
I lights a match and looks at the feller. He squints cross-eyed at the
match, and I know that he’s had plenty. He’s only got one sleeve of his
coat on. I take it off and puts it on myself. All I’ve got left is one
sleeve of my shirt, and I feel ashamed.
Then I herds Lodestone into the open door of the livery-stable, climbs
up into the loft and goes to sleep on the hay. I don’t know how long I
slept, but I do know that the sun is shining through the cracks in the
west side when I wake up.
I hears voices raised in argument and anger below me, but that don’t
mean nothing in Piperock. Sudden-like I sees the hay begin to rise, and
out of that tangle of timothy comes the head of Dirty Shirt.
He nods to me and digs some foxtail out of his neck. Dirty looks like he
had been hit in the face so many times that nothing short of bunion
plasters would give him relief.
“Where did you get that coat?” he whispers.
I reaches inside the coat and hauls out a pocketbook and some old
letters. I looks at ’em and hands ’em to Dirty Shirt. The epitaphs on
the envelopes proclaim ’em to be for the Honorable Fitzhugh Peleg
Alexander, Deer Lodge, Montana.
“He was him?” asks Dirty foolish-like.
“Is,” says I. “Unless Lodestone hit him twice.”