"Ip-e-la-go, go 'long little doggie, You'll make a beef steer, by-and-by."
That's the rear song for driving a herd. This is nonsense:--
"Two little niggers upstairs in bed-- One turned ober to de oder and said: 'How 'bout dat short'nin' bread? How 'bout dat short'nin' bread?'"
A voice called out of the dark, "Throw up yo' hands!"
Up went my paws. "Hello, boys," I shouted, "is this the inquiry office? I wants my visitin' cyard sent up to Cap McCalmont."
Somebody laughed, and then I heard Jim's voice. "Why, it's Chalkeye!"
"Well, if he don't want to be shot he'd better turn right back."
"Jest you tell yo' hold-ups, Jim," says I, "that them leaden go-through pills don't suit my delicate health." I dropped my hands, and the first robber asked Jim if he would answer for me.
"Take this man through," said the robber, and Jim led me, mighty pleased, to where the lantern shone.
"Captain," says he, "here's old Chalkeye!"
McCalmont jumped down from the buckboard, holding out his lantern. "Wall," says he, "I'm glad to see ye, Misteh Davies, I certainly am--shake hearty. Whar you from?"
"Here's me," came a faint chirp out of the bedding.
"Her wound broke out agin," says McCalmont.
"Wall, that cat is shorely spilled," says McCalmont, and so I knew for the first time that my Curly wasn't a boy, but come of a different breed of people altogether. I slid from my horse and sat down on a rock to unravel my mixed emotions.
"If that's the truth," I says, "I spose I may turn out to be a widow, the same being some confusing to the mind."
"Wall, Mrs. Davies," says McCalmont, "I was goin' to propose that you act as a sort of chaperon to Curly."
"I rise to inquire," says I, "if that's some new kind of mountain sheep." The name was new to me, and I felt suspicious.
"A mountain sheep," says McCalmont, "is a cimarron, but a chaperon's defined as a party which rides herd on girls to proteck them in society."
"Meaning that this carousing around in a waggon ain't good for wounds?"
"Not when the hawspital has to gallop over rocks."
"Seems to me," says I, "that right apart from bullet holes in a lady, he'll need home comforts more'n an or'nary robber."
"I'm getting unpopular," says I. "My home ain't fortified much." I rolled a cigarette to think with. "Whereas I got some cousins which is ladies, the Misses Jameson. Their home is just the other side of the Jim Crow Mine, between that and Grave City, and they has a fancy for stray cats, dawgs, and outcasts generally. Seems to me, though, they'd be mighty near surprised if I played a wounded robber on them, calling the same a female. They ain't broke in to lady outlaws damaged in gun-fights yet. They're plumb respectable, and frequents the Episcopal Church. The bishop boards thar when he happens around, and they'll take up with any litter of passing curates."