Thar's nothin' much
to engage Steve's faculties, an' he's a-settin' on his bronco, an'
both is mighty near asleep. Some women people--from the far East, I
reckons--as is camped in town, comes over on the bridge to see us
cross the herd. They've lined out clost up to Steve, a-leanin' of
their young Eastern chins on the top rail.
"'Which I don't regyard this much,' says one young woman; 'thar's no
thrill into it. Whyever don't they do somethin' excitin'?'
"Steve observes with chagrin that this yere lady is displeased; an',
as he can't figger nothin' else out quick to entertain her, he gives
a whoop, slams his six-shooter off into the scenery, socks his spurs
into the pony, an' hops himse'f over the side of the bridge a whole
lot into the shallow water below. The jump is some twenty feet an'
busts the pony's laigs like toothpicks; also it breaks Steve's
collarbone an' disperses his feachers 'round some free an' frightful
on account of his sort o' lightin' on his face.
"Well, we shoots the pony; an' Steve rides in the grub wagon four or
five days recooperatin'. It's jest the mercy of hell he don't break
his neck.
"'Whatever do you jump off for?' I asks Steve when he's comin'
'round.
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