bows and thrown it over the goods in the wagon. Six pair of hasty
hands dragged it off and grabbled beneath the sacks and blankets for
the cases of tobacco.

Long Collins, tobacco messenger from the San Gabriel outfit, who rode
with the longest stirrups west of the Mississippi, delved with an arm
like the tongue of a wagon. He caught something harder than a blanket
and pulled out a fearful thing--a shapeless, muddy bunch of leather
tied together with wire and twine. From its ragged end, like the head
and claws of a disturbed turtle, protruded human toes.

"Who-ee!" yelled Long Collins. "Ranse, are you a-packin' around of
corpuses? Here's a--howlin' grasshoppers!"

Up from his long slumber popped Curly, like some vile worm from its
burrow. He clawed his way out and sat blinking like a disreputable,
drunken owl. His face was as bluish-red and puffed and seamed and
cross-lined as the cheapest round steak of the butcher. His eyes were
swollen slits; his nose a pickled beet; his hair would have made the
wildest thatch of a Jack-in-the-box look like the satin poll of a
Cléo de Mérode [63]. The rest of him was scarecrow done to the life.

[FOOTNOTE 63: Cléo de Mérode (1873-1966) was a beautiful Parisian
ballerina whose hair style caused a sensation when
she danced in a production at age 13.]

Ranse jumped down from his seat and looked at his strange cargo with
wide-open eyes.

"Here, you maverick, what are you doing in my wagon? How did you get