“It ain’t because she’s old, it’s because she’s a witch woman,” Billy replied, sounding a little vexed.

“It’s foolish to waste time worrying about things that haven’t happened,” Joe Lovelady said. “If they happen, they happen. Then worry about them.”

“You and me will never agree, Joe,” Billy said, a little sadly. “I don’t know why we’re even sidekicks.”

“There’s no why to that,” Joe said. “We just are.”

There was a sad tone to their talk, at times. It made me nervous when I heard it; I would try to swing them off the subject, even if I had to make up a story or tell a lie.

Usually they would listen brightly, too—and even indulge me in my little exaggerations. I think they were glad to have me along, useless as I was in most respects. Still, I could talk, and I had seen more of the world than they had. They both had some curiosity and were tired of having only their own experience to discuss.

Besides, I was a famous dime novelist, not tight with my adjectives. I could splash some color on a story.

I splashed plenty on the story of my stage ride, though in fact I had sunk into a stupor of fatigue just west of San Antonio and could remember nothing about the rest of the trip. When consciousness returned I was lying on the floor of a barroom in El Paso, too tired even to lift my head off the floor. All I could see, when I forced my eyes open, were dusty boots with big silver Mexican spurs attached to them. I have no idea how I got in that barroom; I suppose I fell out of the stage and some kindly soul dragged me inside. I’m told I’d lain there for three days, with no one knowing or caring whether I was alive or dead.

It seemed to me that my sufferings had been lavish, and lavishly was how I described them, but despite my best efforts, the account seemed to fall flat with Billy and Joe. The hard young men of the West seemed more amused than sympathetic.

“My gosh, Sippy, you should have just got out and walked, if you was that picky,” was Billy’s only comment.

I felt a little hurt—I suppose I expected more rapport.

But we had crossed the Arroyo del Macho, and were skirting the white scars of the Bitter Lake. The setting sun was like a ball of gold behind us when we trotted into Greasy Corners.

From then on I had little time to brood about old adventures. Neither did Billy or Joe. Within a few hours we had plenty of fresh ones to keep us occupied.

PART II

The Whiskey Glass War

1.