I am struck that LaBoeuf is shot, trampled, and nearly severs his tongue, and not only does not cease to talk, but spills the banks of English!
The chinaman is running them cheap shells on me again.
I mean to kill you in one minute, Ned. Or see you hanged in Fort Smith at Judge Parker’s convenience. Which will you have?
The ground’s too hard. If they wanted a decent funeral, they should have got themselves killed in summer.
If he is not in a shallow grave somewhere between here and Fort Smith he is gone. Long gone! Thanks to Mr. LaBeouf, we have missed our shot. He barked and the birds have flown. Gone. Gone. Gone! Lucky Ned and his cohort gone. Your fifty dollars gone. Gone the whiskey – seized in evidence. The trail is cold, if there ever was one. I’m a foolish old man who’s been drawn into a wild goose chase by a harpy in trouser and a nincompoop. Mr. LaBeouf, he can wonder the Choctaw Nation for as long as he likes. Perhaps the local In’jins will take him in and honor his jibberings by making him chief. You, sister, may go where you like. Our engagement is terminated. I bow out.
At The Green Frog, had a billiard table. Served ladies and men both, mostly men. Tried running it myself for a while, but couldn’t keep good help. And I never did learn how to buy meat. Is it him?
That’s when I went out to the staked plains of Texas. Shoot buffalo with Vernon Shaftoe and a Flathead Indian named Olly. Well, the Mormons, well they run Shaftoe out of Great Salt Lake City, don’t ask me what for. Call it a misunderstanding and leave it go at that. Well, big shaggies, about all gone now. Damned shame. Give three dollars right now for a pickled buffalo tongue.
Ground’s too hard. If them men wanted a decent burial, they should have gotten themselves kilt in summer.
You go for a man hard enough and fast enough, he don’t have time to think about how many’s with him; he thinks about himself, and how he might get clear of that wrath that’s about to set down on him
I’m a foolish old man who’s been drawn into a wild goose chase by a harpie in trousers and a nincompoop.
That was “Johnny in the Low Ground.” There are very few fiddle tunes I have not heard. Once heard they are locked in my mind forever. It is a sadness to me that I have sausage fingers that cannot crowd onto a fretboard… Little fat girls at a cotillion. “Soldier’s Joy”!
It astonishes me that Mr. LaBoeuf has been shot, trampled, and nearly bitten his tongue off, and yet not only does he continue to talk but he spills the banks of English.
I’m not a sharper. I am an old man sleeping on a rope bed in a room behind the Chinese grocery. I have nothing.
I don’t have to buy that, I confiscate it. I am an officer of the court. Ah, thank you. $100, that’s the rate.
