"But Henry Smith--" I cries.
"There ain't no Henry Smith," says he.
I let that soak in about six inches.
"But there's a Buck Canon," I pleads. "Please say there's a Buck
Canon."
"Oh, yes, there's a Buck Canon," he allows. "Nice limestone
formation--make good hard water."
"Well, you're a marvel," says I.
We walked n together down to Dutchy's saloon.
We stopped outside.
"Now," says he, "I'm goin' to take one of those hosses and go
somewheres else. Maybe you'd better do likewise on the other."
"You bet I will," says I.
He turned around and taked up the paper he was carryin'. It was
a sign. It read:
THE DUTCH HAS RUSTLED
"Nice sentiment," says I. "It will be appreciated when the crowd
comes back from that little pasear into Buck Canon. But why
not tack her up where the trail hits the camp? Why on this
particular door?"
"Well," said Dutchy, squintin' at the sign sideways, "you see I
sold this place day before yesterday--to Mike O'Toole."
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE CORRAL BRANDING
All that night we slept like sticks of wood. No dreams visited
us, but in accordance with the immemorial habit of those who live
out--whether in the woods, on the plains, among the mountains, or
at sea--once during the night each of us rose on his elbow,
looked about him, and dropped back to sleep.
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