The Funeral Of Old Holt

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Title:     The Funeral Of Old Holt
Author: Alfred Henry Lewis [More Titles by Lewis]

"That Turner person! Does he remain in Wolfville long?" The old cattleman repeated my question as though feeling for its bearings. "Well, he don't break no records. Which I should say now he sojourns with us mebby it's six months before he ups stakes an' pulls his freight back East. Oh, no; it ain't that any gent who's licensed to call himse'f a molder of public opinion, sech as Enright or Peets, objects to the Turner person's further presence none. Speakin' gen'ral, the heft of feelin' is in his favor. Not but what he has deeficiencies. It's no easy shot, offhand, to tell you preecisely whar this Turner person is camped in common esteem. Perhaps it's enough to say he's one of them parties who, while they don't excite your disapproval, is shore to keep you loaded with regrets.

"Ain't you met up frequent with that form of horned toad? Thar's nothin' you can lodge ag'inst 'em, nothin' at which a vig'lance committee can rope an' fasten; they're honest, well meanin', even gen'rous; an' yet thar they be, upholstered by nacher in some occult way with about the same chance of bein' pop'lar as a wet dog. Speakin' for myse'f, I feels sorry for these yere onforchoonate mavericks, condemned as they be at birth to go pirootin' from the cradle to the grave, meetin' everywhar about the same welcome which awaits a polecat at a picnic.

"Thar's no predom'natin' element of evil in this Turner person. Which in his case the trouble swings an' rattles on the way he's built. His crownin' deefect, mighty likely, is that he's got one of them sidehill minds, an' what idees he does evolve can't find no foothold, but is robbed at the start of everything reesemblin' perm'nancy. I watches his comin's in an' goin's out for months on eend, an' I'm yere to say--at the same time ascribin' to him no ill intentions--that onder all condition an' on all o'casions he's as onreli'ble as a woman's watch.

"About that weddin' he goes east to consummate?

"Which it looks like, speakin' mod'rate, he quits winner. He travels back to Sni-a-bar as tame as tabby cats in persooance with Enright's commands, an', once thar, old man Parks an' the rest of 'em whistles him through the marital chute a heap successful. When he shows up among us, his blushin' Peggy bride on his arm, he's wearin' all the brands an' y'ear marks of a thor'ughly married man; to sech degrees, indeed, as renders Texas oncomfortable.

"'It recalls,' says Texas, 'them honeymoon days I passed with my Laredo wife before she wins out that divorce. It's like a icicle through my heart to look at him,' he goes on, aloodin' to the Turner person an' the fatyoous fog of deelight he's evident in. 'Thar he is, like a cub b'ar, his troubles all before him, an' not brains enough onder his skelp-lock to a'preeciate his awful p'sition.'

"'Why, Texas,' remonstrates Nell as, the turn comin' trey-nine, she picks a stack of bloos off the trey an' puts it in the check rack, 'you talks of wedlock as though that sacriment's a brace. Plenty of folks has beat the game. Thar's Tutt an' Tucson Jennie.'

"'Them nuptials of Dave's an' Jennie's, Nell,' returns Texas, shakin' his head a heap gloomy, 'ain't far enough to the r'ar to afford a preecedent. Wait till Dave wakes up.'

"'Till Dave wakes up?' says Boggs, who's busy at the lay-out, an' has jest planted a stack of reds coppered in the big squar'. 'Sech pess'mism, Texas, is reedic'lous. Bein' married that a-way, I takes it, is somethin' like walkin' a tightrope. It reequires care, but it can be did. To be shore, if anything happens, you're in for a jo-darter of a jolt. Still, the resk don't render the feat imposs'ble, an' a brave man disregyards it.'

"'That's whatever,' comments Nell, as, the king fallin' to win, she draws down Boggs's reds.

"Thar's no chill on the reception we confers on the Turner person an' his Peggy bride. Monte has orders, in case they're aboard, to onlimber his shotgun a mile or two outside of camp, so's we gets notice an' is not caught off our gyard. For once the old drunkard is faithful to his trust, an' when we hears him whangin' away with both bar'ls, we turns out, as they say in Noo York, en masse. Every gent empties the six chambers of his gun as the stage pulls up, an' the Turner person he'ps out his Peggy bride into the center of a most joyful foosilade. We couldn't have done more if she's the Queen of Sheba.

"The Turner person an' his Peggy bride is in right from the go. Missis Rucker declar's that the bride's a lady; Nell proclaims her as 'shore corn-fed,' while Tucson Jennie allows she's a whole lot too good for sech a jack-rabbit of a husband as she gets.

"Her beauty?

"Which you couldn't say it's calc'lated to blind.

"For mere loveliness she ain't a marker to Nell. To be frank, it's somethin' more'n a simple question that a-way if she splits even with Tucson Jennie. As for Missis Rucker, that matron bein' past her yooth ain't properly speakin' in the runnin', an' to go comparin' her with girls would be injestice.

"Once landed, an' havin' escaped from that ovation we prepar's, the Turner person an' his Peggy bride moves into the wickeyup okyoopied former by Cash Box Billie an' Missis Bill, an' opens up their domestic game. Hearin' nothin' to the contrary, no howls of anguish from him, no yelps of complaint from her, it's safe to say that in what joys is supposed to attend the connoobyal state, they coppers all of them loogubrious forebodin's of Texas, an' gets at least as good as a even break.

"Old man Parks back at Sni-a-bar?

"It looks like the Turner person, him bein' nacherally timid, exaggerates the perils which lurks in that aged cimmaron. Leastwise, old Parks don't offer no voylance to him, neither at the weddin' nor later. Some waifword does come creepin' along that durin' the cer'mony two of the guests has to hold old Parks, an' that he's searched for weepons by the preacher before ever said divine consents to turn his game at all. Which I'm free to say, however, I never lends no creedence to them yarns.

"The Turner person, now he's established as a married gent an' a cit'zen in full standin', gives himse'f horn an' hide to business that a-way. He's as prompt about openin' his coffin emporium as ever is Black Jack in throwin' wide the portals of the Red Light. Once thar, he stays ontil the evenin' lamps is lit, layin' for a corpse to use his new hearse on.

"Also, the Turner person has hopes: an' equally also he ain't without foundations wharon to build. That's an uncle of Armstrong who has come totterin' into camp, as he says himse'f, to die. Likewise, it's the onbiased view of every gent in the outfit that this reelative of Armstrong possesses reasons. He's a walkin' wreck. Peets concedes that he's got every malady ever heard of, besides sev'ral as to which science is plumb in the dark.

"Nacherally, not alone the Turner person, but the public at large, figgers that this yere uncle'll shore furnish employment for the hearse, an' at no distant day. But it looks like that onmitigated invalid is out to test our patience. Mornin' after mornin' he comes scufflin' into the Red Light on two canes to get his matootinal nosepaint, an' this he keeps up ontil it begins to look like malice. Ree'lizin', too, the pecooliar int'rest we-all is bound to take in him onder the circumstances, he puts on airs, an' goes by us when he meets us as coldly haughty as a paycar by a tramp. Or, ag'in, he's prone to grin at us plenty peevish an' malev'lent, an' this he does partic'lar if the Turner person's hoverin' round.

"'Which I shore deespises to keep you boys waitin',' he'd say, with a cacklin', aggravatin' laugh; 'but the way I feels it'd be prematoore to go greasin' up the hubs of that hearse.'

"Sech taunts he flings forth constant, ontil he comes mighty near drivin' Boggs frantic.

"'It seems,' says Boggs, 'like simply livin' ain't good enough for that old hoss thief. To be wholly happy he's obleeged to make his stay on earth a source of mis'ry to other folks. Which he ought to've been in his tomb ten years ago. Every day he draws his breath is so much velvet; an', instead of bein' thankful, all he thinks of is makin' mean reemarks an' sayin' bitin' things. He'll keep on till some over-provoked sport bends a six-shooter on his insultin' head.'

"Weeks of waitin' goes by. Armstrong's old badger of a uncle hangs on, an' no outside corpse falls in, Arizona, as you doubtless savvys, bein' scand'lously healthy that a-way. So far, too, from any el'g'ble subject arrivin' in the usual way, the town never experiences sech a period of rippleless an' onruffled peace. As showin', too, how far the public is willin' to go to he'p along the play, I need only mention that on two o'casions Boggs leaves out his best pony all night, himse'f sprawled in behind a mesquite bush with his winchester, hopin' some Mexican'll prove weak enough to want it. All is in vain, however. Thar we be, framed up to give a fooneral from which Cochise County could date time, an' nothin' in the line of raw mater'al wharwith to pull it off. Which I never sees the gen'ral feelin' more exasperated. It's as though in a sperit of sarcasm our destinies is mockin' us.

"The Turner person, in the face of this yere disheartenin' idleness, takes refooge in a trottin' hoss, which form of equine is as strange to us as camelopards. Shore, we has our runnin' races, pony ag'inst pony, a quarter of a mile dash; but that's as far as we goes.

"The Turner person says that for himse'f he prefers trottin' races, an' after seein' him ride once I shore quits marvellin' at that pref'rence. You could no more keep him on a pony than you could keep him on a red-hot stove. We ties a roll of blankets across the horn of the saddle, an' organizes him with buckin' straps besides, an' in the face of all them safegyards he rolls off that hoss same as you'd expect some chambermaid to do.

"Accordin' to the Turner person, trottin' races is the sport of kings, an' actin' on this feelin' he sends back East for a hoss. He drives it in one evenin' behind the stage, an' we-all goes over to the corral to size it up. It's consid'rable of a hoss, too, standin' three hands higher than the tallest of our ponies. Also, it has a ewe neck an' lib'ral legs. It's name is 'Henry of Navarre,' but we sees at once that sech'll never do, an' re-christens him 'Boomerang Bob.'

"When this hoss arrives Boggs gets excited, an' him an' the Turner person lays out a track all around town like a belt. Boggs allows it's a mile long, or near enough, an' after a passel of Greasers cl'ars away the cactus an' mesquite an' Spanish bayonet, the Turner person hooks up Boomerang to a mountain wagon, an' sends him 'round an' 'round an' 'round at a pace that'd make your eyes stick out so far you could see your sins. Old Boomerang is shore some eevanescent! When that Turner person shakes the reins an' yells 'Skoot!' you could hear him whizz. On sech occasions he's nothin' short of a four-laigged meteor, an' looks forty feet long passin' a given p'int.

"The big drawback is that thar ain't no quadrooped anywhar about to race Boomerang ag'inst. Leastwise, we don't hear of none for goin' on some months, an' when we do it's as far away as Albuquerque. Some consumptive tenderfoot, it looks like, has got a trottin' hoss over some'ers between Albuquerque an' Socorro, sech at least is the word which comes to us.

"When this pulmonary sport hears of Boomerang, which he does by virchoo of the overblown boastin's of the Turner person, he announces that his hoss, Toobercloses, can beat him for money, marbles or chalk. Then comes a season of bluff an' counter-bluff, the pulmonary party insistin' that the Turner person bring Boomerang up to Albuquerque, an' the Turner person darin' the pulmonary sport to fetch his 'dog,' as he scornfully terms Toobercloses, down to Wolfville.

"It's to be said for the Turner person that he'd have shore took Boomerang, an' gone romancin' off to Albuquerque, lookin' for that weak-lunged reprobate an' his hoss, only sent'ment is plumb ag'inst it. We-all don't propose to lose the camp the advantages of that contest, an' so to put an eend to discussion, we urges upon the Turner person that we-all'll shore kill him if he tries. This yere firmness gives us the pref'rence over Albuquerque, an' the pulmonary sport allows final that he'll come to Wolfville, but don't say when.

"While eevents is thus a-whirl, an' the camp's all keyed up to concert pitch over the comin' race between Boomerang an' Toobercloses, the long-hoped for comes to pass an' the Turner person, as fooneral director, receives his 'nitial call. Over in Red Dog is a party named Holt. He ain't standin' none too high, him havin' married a Mexican woman, an' even them Red Dogs has the se'f-respect to draw the social line at Mexicans. One sun-up, however, she goes trapesin' across the line to visit her people down near Casa Grande, an' she never does come back. It looks like she's got enough of old Holt, which to gents who knows him don't go trenchin' on the strange.

"The long suit of this yere Mexican wife of old Holt's is thinkin' she's sick, she holdin' that she's got as many things the matter with her as is preyin' on Armstrong's uncle. When she breaks out of the corral an' goes stampedin' off to her tribe, she leaves behind mebby it's a hundred bottles or more of patent med'cine, rangin' all the way from arnica to ha'r dye.

"Followin' her flight that a-way old Holt goes to takin' an account of stock by way of seein' what she cabbages an' what she leaves, an' the first flash he blunders upon this yere bushel or so of drugs. He's too froogal to throw 'em away, old Holt is, bein' plumb pars'monious that a-way, an' after revolvin' the play in his mind for a spell, he ups an' swallows 'em to save 'em.

"No one ever does figger out jest what individyooal med'cine bumps old Holt off that time, an' thar's no sayin' whether it's the arnica or the ha'r dye or some other deecoction, or simply the whole clan-jamfrey in comb'nation. Not that any gent goes to reely delvin' for the trooth, the gen'ral interest pitchin' camp contentedly on the simple fact that old Holt's been shore put over the jump. Doc Peets? Old Holt's packed in before the Doc's half way to Red Dog. Shore; some of them bottled med'cines is as ack'rate an' as full of action as a six-shooter.

"Of course we-all is pleased to think the Turner person, as fooneral director, ain't been born to bloom onseen, but the rift in the floote is that the corpse belongs to Red Dog. Old Holt ain't ours none, an' from whatever angle we looks at it it appears like Wolfville ain't goin' to get a look in.

"It's at pinches sech as this that Enright shows his genius for leadership. While all of us is lookin' bloo, to see how Red Dog beats us to it for our own hearse, our fertile old war chief is ribbin' up a game for pop'lar relief.

"The Red Dog del'gation, headed by the Red Dog chief, comes over to round up the Turner person an' his hearse to entomb old Holt. At their showin' up Enright begins to onkiver his diplomacy.

"'Which we symp'thizes with you-all in your bereevement, gents,' says he to the Red Dog bunch, 'but it's ag'inst our rooles for this yere hearse to go outside of camp.'

"'Ain't you actin' some niggardly about that hearse?' asks the Red Dog chief coldly.

"'Not niggardly, only proodent. Death cometh as a thief in the night, speshully in Arizona, an' we-all'd be a fine band of prairie dogs to go lendin' our only hearse all over the territory, an' mebby have it skallyhootin' 'round som'ers up about the Utah line jest when we needs it at home. However, as refootin' your onjest charge of bein' niggards, if you-all Red Dogs wants to bring deceased over yere, our entire lay-out is at your disposal. Allowin' you can find your own sky-pilot, we stands ready to not only let you have our hearse, but furnish you likewise with moosic from the Bird Cage Op'ry House, cha'rs from the dance hall, the Noo York store to hold serv'ces in, to say nothin' to considerin' you-all as our guests from soda to hock, with every Red Light thing said term implies.'

"'Also,' observes Peets, who, from his place at Enright's elbow, is ridin' circumspect herd on the play--'also, we presents you-all, without money an' without price, a sepulcher in our buryin' ground on Boot Hill.'

"This yere last provokes a storm of protest, the Red Dog del'gation takin' turns exposchoolatin'. But Enright an' the Doc stands ca'mly pat.

"'Which now,' says the Red Dog chief, an' his tones is bitter--'which now I begins to ketch onto your plot. You savvys as well as I do that old Holt don't ought to go into your pile at all. He belongs in our pile--to Red Dog's pile. An' let me reemind you intriguers that Red Dog owns its own cem'tery over in Headboard Hollow, an' ain't askin' graveyard odds of any outfit west of the Spanish Peaks. This is a fine idee,' he concloods, turnin' sneerin'ly to his cohorts; 'not content with tryin' to grab off these yere obs'quies, they're brazenly manooverin' to purloin the corpse.'

"At these contoomelius reemarks Boggs, Tutt, Moore an' Cherokee takes to edgin' to the fore, but Enright reepresses 'em with a admon'tory wave of his hand.

"'Gents,' he says, to the Red Dog hold-ups, 'as vis'tors, even though se'f-invited, you're entitled to courtesy. But thar's a limit goes with courtesy even, an' you-all mustn't press it.'

"This last sets the Red Dog outfit back on its apol'getic ha'nches, an' after a few more footile but less insultin' bluffs, they retires to consult. The wind-up is that they yields to Enright's terms, incloosive of Boot Hill, an' after libatin' at the Red Light they canters off to freight over old Holt, so's to be ready to hold the fooneral next day.

"As I looks back to them prep'rations thar's no denyin' that as a fooneral director the Turner person proves himse'f plumb cap'ble of gettin' thar with the goods. Once he reeceives the word, everything goes off as measured an' steady as the breathin' of a sleepin' child. Even the Red Dog chief is moved to softer views, as gents frequent be followin' the eighth drink, an' whispers to Enright, confidenshul, that when all's in the only thing he deplores is that old Holt is bein' planted on Boot Hill instead of in Headboard Hollow. At this Enright, meetin' the Red Dog chief half-way, whispers back that later, if Red Dog desires the same, we'll jump in an' move old Holt a whole lot to Headboard Hollow. At this lib'ral'ty the Red Dog chief squeezes Enright's hand a heap fraternal, an' chokes with emotion. He sobs out that this is the one thing wanted to reestore them former friendly reelations between the camps.

"The procession is one of the most exhil'ratin' pageants ever seen in the Southwest. At the head is the ploomed hearse, old Holt inside, the Turner person on the box. Next comes the stage coach, Monte drivin', an' Nell, Missis Rucker, Tucson Jennie, little Enright Peets, the Turner person's Peggy bride an' other ladies inside. The balance of us attends on our ponies, ridin' two an' two.

"As we're waitin' for the preacher sharp, who's goin' in the stage, to get tucked in among the ladies, a hollow-chested, chalk-cheeked, sardonic-lookin', cynical-seemin' bandit, drivin' a lean-laigged hoss to one of them spid'ry things they calls a quill-wheel, comes pirootin' along over to one side of the fooneral cortege at a walk. He's p'intin' in from over Red Dog way, but I savvys from the wonderin' faces of them Red Dog sports that he's as new to them as us. The cynical bandit skirts along our procession ontil he's abreast of the hearse. Then he pulls up, we-all not havin' had the word to start as yet.

"The Turner person has hooked up old Boomerang to the hearse, so as to confer on this his first fooneral all the style he can. Havin' halted his quill-wheel, the hectic bandit, coughin' a little, p'ints his whip at Boomerang an' says to the Turner person:

"'Is this the skate you're tryin' to match ag'inst my Toobercloses?'

"'Grizzly b'ars an' golden eagles!' exclaims Boggs, who's ridin' next to me, 'if he ain't that lunger from Albuquerque!' An' Boggs pulls out to the left, an' crowds up towards the hearse for a closer look.

"'As fooneral director,' the Turner person replies to the hectic, quill-wheel bandit, whom he fathoms instantly--'as fooneral director, I must preeserve the decorums. But only you wait, you onblushin' outlaw, ontil I've patted down the sods on old Holt yere, an' I'll race you for every splinter you own.'

"'That's all right,' retorts the hectic bandit, givin' another little cat-cough. 'Which you needn't get your ondertakin' back up none. Meanwhile, I'll nacherally string along with these obs'quies, so's to be ready to talk turkey to you when you're through.'

"Enright gives the signal an', with Boomerang an' the hearse at the head, the procession lines out at a seedate walk for the grave.

"Boot Hill's been located about a mile an' a half off, so as to give our foonerals doo effect. As we pushes for'ard, everything mighty solemn, the hectic bandit, keepin' a few feet off to one side, walks his hoss parallel with the hearse. Every now an' then his hoss, makin' a half bolt as if he's been flicked by the lash, would streak ahead a rod or two like a four-laigged shadow. Then he'd pull him down to a walk, an' sort o' linger along ontil the hearse comes up ag'in. He does this a half dozen times; an' all in a hectorin' sperit that'd anger the pulseless soul of a clam.

"One way an' another it stirs up the feelin's of old Boomerang, who's beginnin' to bite at the bit an' throw his laigs some antic an' permiscus. The Turner person himse'f acts like a party who's holdin' onto his eemotions by the tail, so as to keep 'em from breakin' loose. His face is set, his elbows squar'd, an' he's settin' up on his hearse as stiff an' straight as a rifle bar'l, lookin' dead ahead between old Boomerang's two y'ears. So it goes on for likely half a mile, the hectic bandit seesawin' an' pesterin' an' badgerin' old Boomerang, now dartin' ahead, now slowin' back to let the hearse ketch up.

"As I yeretofore explains, the Turner person ain't arranged mental to entertain more'n one idee at a time. My own notion is that as the hectic bandit, with Toobercloses, commences to encroach more an' more upon his attention, he loses sight that a-way of old Holt an' the fooneral. Whatever the valyoo of this as a theery, thar comes a moment, about a mile from Boot Hill, when, as sudden as the crack of a rifle, away goes Boomerang with the rush of a norther. Toobercloses ain't a second behind. Thar they be, Toobercloses ag'inst Boomerang, quill-wheel ag'inst hearse, old Holt inside, racin' away to beat a royal flush.

"As hearse an' quill-wheel go t'arin' down the trail Monte gets the fever, an' sets to pourin' the buckskin into his three span, an' yellin' like forty Apaches. The six hosses goes into their collars like lions, an' the stage takes to rockin' an' boundin' an' bumpin' in clost pursoote of the hearse. Nor be we-all on ponies left any behind, you bet. We cuts loose, quirt an' spur, an' brings up the r'ar in a dust-liftin', gallopin' half-moon. It's ondoubted the quickest-movin' fooneral that ever gets pulled off.

"Old Holt, an' put it lightest, is a one hundred an' eighty pounder, an' the hearse itse'f is as heavy as a Studebaker wagon. From standp'ints of weight pore old Boomerang ain't gettin' a squar' deal. Which the old hero ain't got no notion of bein' beat, though. He's all heart an' bottom; an', game?--bald hornets is quitters to him!

"The load begins to tell at last, though, an' inch by inch Toobercloses starts to nose Boomerang out. It's then the flood-gates is lifted. Nell, head out of one of the coach windows, starts screamin' to Boomerang; Missis Rucker's got her sunbonnet out of another, expressin' her opinion of the hectic bandit an' Toobercloses; Tucson Jennie is shoutin' for Dave to come an' rescue her; the Turner person's Peggy is shriekin' with hysterics; the preacher sharp--who's tryin' to get at Monte--is talkin' scriptoorally but various, while little Enright Peets is contreebutin' his small cub-coyote yelps of exultation to the gen'ral racket.

"Back among us riders the bets is flyin' hither an' yon as thick as swallow birds at eventide, we offerin' hundreds on Boomerang an' them Red Dogs backin' Toobercloses. It's as the tech of death to the Wolfville heart when we sees Toobercloses slowly surgin' to the fore.

"Half-way to Boot Hill Boggs spurs up on the nigh flank of Boomerang.

"'Yere's whar we puts a little verve into this thing!' he roars; an' pullin' his guns he begins shakin' the loads out of 'em like roman candles.

"Wolfville an' Red Dog, every gent follows Boggs' example. It sounds like a battery of gattlings, the whole punctchooated by a whirlwind of 'Whoops!' that'd have backed a war party of Apaches over a bluff. They almost hears us in Tucson.

"Old Boomerang reesponds noble to Boggs's six-shooters. They was the preecise kind of encouragement he's been waitin' for, an' onder their inspiration he t'ars by Toobercloses like a thrown lance. We sweeps on to Boot Hill, makin' a deemoniac finish, old Boomerang leadin' by the len'th of the hearse.

"Nobody's hurt, onless you wants to count that hectic bandit from Albuquerque. After he's beat cold, Toobercloses gets tangled up accidental in a mesquite bush, the quill-wheel swaps eends with itse'f, an' the hectic Albuquerque bandit lands head on in a bunch of cactus. He's shore a spectacle; an' Peets says private that for a while thar's hopes he'll die. As for the parson, who's the sorest divine in Arizona, he allows that the only bet he ever knows prov'dence to overlook is not breakin' the hectic bandit's neck.

"Nacherally, the Red Dogs feels some grouchy at the way things has gone, an' while they gives up their orig'nal thought of lynchin' the hectic bandit, they're plenty indignant at him for turnin' old Holt's fooneral into a hoss race. It ain't old Holt that's frettin' 'em so much as that they feels like it's a disgrace on their camp.

"This yere Red Dog feelin' prodooces a onlooked for effect. They goes gloomin' an' glowerin' 'round, an' talkin' to themselves to sech a hostile extent it ups an' scares the Turner person. Plumb timid by nacher, he gets afraid the Red Dogs' indignation'll incloode him final, an' eend by drawin' their horns his way. It's no use tryin' to ca'm him. Argyooment, reemonstrance, even a promise to protect him with our lives, has no effect. The Turner person, in a last stampede of his nerve, is for dustin' back to Missouri--him an' his Peggy bride. He says it's more peaceful, more civ'lized thar, which shore strikes us as a heap jocose. In the end, however, we has to let him go.

"The hearse?

"We keeps the hearse, that an' Boomerang; Armstrong's uncle buys 'em. He says he don't aim to be sep'rated none from the only hearse within a hundred miles, an' him on the verge of the grave.

"'Which my only reason for livin' now,' says he, 'is to lac'rate Boggs, an' even that as a pastime is beginnin' to pall.'

"What time does Boomerang make?

"No one preetends to hold a watch. Thar's one thing, though, which looks like he was shore goin' some. Tutt on the way back picks up a dead jack-rabbit, that's been run over by the hearse."

[The end]
Alfred Henry Lewis's short story: Funeral Of Old Holt

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