shore moves up and down a-plenty.

Th’ stage is rockin’ and swayin’ up th’ road as fast as four scared and whipped cayuses can yank it and Art Miller is bracin’ hisself and throwin’ leather promiscuous. Sig lost his rifle and is now ridin’ with both hands.

Art drops his whip, wraps his lines around his arm and, in tryin’ to put more shells in his gun, swings his team off th’ road. They go good for about ten jumps and then they’re into th’ timber.

Natcherally th’ leaders goes on opposite sides of uh tree, with th’ result that th’ wheelers skid to one side and th’ stage turns uh handspring. I reckon that Sig’s bronc thinks it’s uh real party fer its benefit, ’cause it pitches right into th’ tangle and Sig lights sittin’ down through th’ glass door of th’ stage, which is reposin’ serenely on its side when he arrives.

Sig sits there fer uh few minutes collectin’ his thoughts, when he discovers that he’s sittin’ on somebody’s head.

“Rosalind!” is th’ first thought that comes into his head, so he slides part way out and takes said head between his hands.

“Rosalind!” he wails. “My Gawd!”

He can’t see very plain until he climbs out and leans over th’ casing. “Speak to me, Rosalind!” he sobs. “Hu-honey, I wants yuh to—the devil!”

A figger rises up from th’ coach, looks him in th’ eye and spits out three perfectly good teeth.

“I begs yore pardon,” says Sig, in a dazed sort of uh way.

“Yo’re welcome,” says th’ other party, puttin’ his finger into th’ place where his teeth used to be, and lookin’ foolish.

“Uh—hu—huh!” says a voice behind them, and there stands Art Miller.

Most of his clothes are missin’ and he’s nursin’ uh skinned elbow and leanin’ agin’ uh wheel fer support.

“What happened, driver?” asks th’ party of th’ missin’ teeth.

Art looks over th’ wreck and then back at th’ bald head stickin’ out of th’ stage.

“If it was yore eyes instead of yore teeth I might take th’ trouble to explain,” he snaps. “Take uh look and form yore own conclusions.”

“We—huh—seem to have wrecked.”

 Prev. P 11/15 next