Elly Butch, I knowed this ud come. I knowed it. You’ll git sent up. And it ain’t right. You ain’t done nuthin’ wrong. It’s jist a law. W’at the hell’s a law? W’at’s it good fer? Why’n’t it agin the law everwhur else to sell whiskey? Them men whur they have their corner saloons all polished up—a-makin’ it criminal to sell a man a drink—w’at’s right about it? (With scorn.) Oh, yes! I know. Pertectin’ the Indians! They don’t want the Indians to git all lit up like they do all the time—ever day, ever night, regular. (With disgust.) Hell! Indians! I ain’t saw two Indians since I come to Indian Territory. Now they’ll git you. I’ve knowed it. They’ll stick you fer sellin’ the stuff to the poor fools that’s too skeered, and too weak, and too damn big a cowards to go up to Kansas City or Joplin and bring in their own whiskey, like a man. They’ll send you to jail—the only man that’s got guts enough to do it. You’ll git ten year or more. W’at’ll I git? I’ll git off—that’s w’at I’ll git. I’ll git left here to rot! Butch Butch Shet up! (He goes up the steps and listens intently. Then he comes down.) Let up on yer jail stuff. You’ll have me skeered. And I got to keep my senses. Listen t’ me. I been follered before. The last bunch o’ guys laid in wait close to the Holler whur the whiskey’s at. Did that stop me frum gettin’ the whiskey and gettin’ out with it? Did that stop me frum sellin’ it regler to Joe Hurd’s Curio Store at Claremont? I been follered lots o’ times and you know it. I been follered lots o’ times ’count o’ selling whiskey. It ain’t nuthin’ new to me. But this time I’m follered and it ain’t on the ’count o’ whiskey! They’s sump’n else.... [Pg 16] [Pg 16] Elly Elly Butch! You got to tell me! W’at is it, w’at’ve you done? Butch Butch Easy, easy! Elly
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