That took team work, if anybody asks you. I reckon the buzzards were the only ones who enjoyed it. Somebody hit me between the eyes, and I up-ended in a mesquite bush, where I found a snag, about two feet long and as big as my wrist. So I waded right back into the conflict. Then somebody handed me an encore in the same spot, and I got used as a welcome mat. Then somebody laid down on top of me and pushed me into the dirt, but I got out, found an unoccupied boot and hit that somebody several times over the head. My eyes don’t permit me to judge distance, but I felt out my target and made no misses. Then I laid down, too, and went to sleep. After a while I woke up and sat there, looking around. I can see Telescope’s legs sticking up over the top of a mesquite, and Chuck is setting in the shade of the same bush, crooning to himself while he tries to light a cigaret on the sole of his boot. Muley is beside me, snoring sweetly, and setting there beside us on a dilapidated white mule is Wick Smith. Wick sure looks like he had been someplace and met something awful. The mule’s head is hanging down weary-like, while Wick slouches in the saddle, with his jaw hanging down about three inches. He weaves in the saddle and his mustache acts nervous-like. “Find anything?” he asks like the weak croak of a frog. “Not yet,” I whispers back at him. He nods, slaps the mule side of its head and turns into the road. “I’m still looking,” he whispers, and I says: “That’s fine. So am I, but I can’t see nothing, Wick.” And when I laid down beside Muley, I saw Wick and Solomon fade off up the road toward Paradise. After a while we all got up and sort of stood around. Chuck yawned and looked at his watch-chain. Pretty soon Telescope cleared his throat— “I’m—I’m all through—with all of you—the whole danged bunch!” says he hesitating-like and starts limping toward town. “Me—me, too,” says Muley and follers Telescope. Chuck looks at me mean-like and says—“Me too.” He pilgrims after Muley. Then the whole danged bunch limped in behind Chuck. I passed Chuck in a few minutes, and then I made Muley eat my dust. Telescope has contracted a limp, which causes him to weave across the road a lot and makes it hard for me to pass him. But I made it. Nobody said anything to me, and, when folks don’t speak to me as I go past, I get snobby, too. I hobbles into Mike Pelly’s saloon and sets down. There ain’t nobody there except the bartender. Pretty soon Telescope weaves in and sets down in the other corner. Chuck points straight for the pool-table, and then Muley stumbles in. He looks to have lost twenty pounds, and his feet have swelled until he’s had to slit his boots. “You fellers quitting the Cross J?” asks the bartender. “Thought maybe you was,” he continues when we don’t answer, “’cause I seen your boss leading four horses behind the wagon when he left last night.” “Last night?” asks Muley. “Wagon?” “Uh-huh. Borrowed Mike’s team and wagon.”