It's a long walk to Montana. Plumb through Colorado
an' Wyomin' an'--an' New Jersey, or somewheres. Mebbe he's in there now.
As they say in the Bible, or somewheres, you got to hunt for a thing
where you find it, or something. Hold still, there you black devil you!
What you want to stand there spinnin' 'round like a top for? You be'n
drinkin', you doggone old ringtail! What was I goin' to do, now. Oh,
yes, twist Patty's nose, an' find Bat an' shoot at his ears a while, an'
make him get his ticket to New Jersey an'----
"This is a blame slow old town, she needs wakin' up, anyhow. If I ride
in that door I'll get scraped off like mud off a boot."
He spurred the black and brought him up with a jerk beside the sorrel
which snorted and reared back, snapping the reins with which he had been
tied, and stood with distended nostrils sniffing inquiringly at Ace of
Spades as the cowpuncher swung to the ground.
"Woke up, didn't you, you old stager? Y'ain't so bad lookin' when you're
alive. Patty'll have to get him a new pair of bridle reins. Mebbe the
whole town'll look better if it's woke up some.
"Y-e-e-e-e-o-w! Cowboys a-comin'!"
A citizen or two paused on the street corner, a few Mexicans grinned as
they drew back to allow the Gringo free access to the saloon, and a
swarthy figure slipped unobserved across the street and blended into the
shadow of the adobe wall.
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