“I am a realist,” says he, dreamy-like. “I hate the artificial.” “Gawd bless and keep yuh,” says Dirty. “You’ll find it there, but yuh may never return back. The sheriff sells cemetery space.” He absorbs his liquor and seems a heap interested. “Is there a bank there that might be robbed and does they have a stage that might have a reason for carrying bullion?” “Now,” says Dirty, “me and Ike appears shocked at your question, but at the same time we’re a heap interested. Let’s go outside where there ain’t no walls to have ears and speak of such things as banks and stages. Yuh never can tell who might overhear us and suspect us of philanthropy.” We goes across the street and sets down on the sidewalk. “Now,” says Dirty, “there is a bank and there is a stage. Me and Ike are broke, but up to the present our records are as clean as our six-guns.” “Would you know how to rob a bank or a stage?” he asks. “Do the job like it ought to be done?” “We ain’t got no references from bank nor stage-lines,” says I. “But,” says Dirty, “we’re honest. We’ll split three ways, mister.” He thinks it over for a while, and then says— “Well, I feel that I’ve struck what I’ve been looking for.” “That’s what ‘Mighty’ Jones said when he fell off into Hellgate Cañon and dislodged a hunk of galena ore, fifty feet from the bottom,” says Dirty. “A feller never knows his luck till the wheel stops.” “You two are going with me,” says he. “Us two ain’t goin’ to do no such a thing,” says I. “You don’t know Piperock like we do.” “That’s why you’re going with me.” “You’re a danged poor fortune-teller,” observes Dirty. “Me and Ike would last about as long as a snowball in Yuma and you’d be alone. They’d put us in a nice little jail and then you’d get lost, strayed or stolen. “No, sir. You write to all your folks, predictin’ your demise, leave your watch and chain with the bartender, and then walk into town, unarmed and with your hands in the air.” “By golly, that’s the town I’ve been looking for,” says he. “Thanks.” “Mister, she’s a great place for freaks,” says Dirty. “You won’t be in that place long until you’ll join P. T. Barnum.” “Barnum?” says he. “Barnum is dead.” “Sure—I know it.” “Yes,” says he, after a while. “You’re going with me. I’ll disguise you so nobody will know you, you understand? I must have you with me.” “Mister,” says I, “are you just a —— tenderfoot who wants to be a bad man, or what’s all your talk about banks and bullion?” “I am a realist, as I said before. The West has never been depicted as I feel it really is and I am going to show them something new. I have a story, ‘The Twilight Trail,’ which has been partly done, but I want realism. I want the spirit of the old West in it. I want a stage hold-up, a bank robbery, with real people in it, in a Western town—real West. Now, do you understand?”