The Devil's Drum

This one, the Devil's Drum. In our part of the West, a man can get into the strangest complications just by taking a shortcut through the hills instead of going the long way around. Like the time California and I were on our way into a little cow town of Saguaro, not far from the Mexican border.

Hoppy, are you from certain this new freck's gonna get us to Saguaro? Sure, unless they moved the towns since I was here last. That's the Drumming Mountain on our right. We should be there another half hour.

I don't know if I can hold out that long. All I had for breakfast was a view of the sunrise. California, I told you not to move down all your drub last night. Well, that's funny.

What is? Well, whether beaten cabin back there among the trees. Nobody's living in it for years, but there's smoke coming out of the chimney. There is? You sure get charified? Maybe we'll get you something to fill that empty spot after all.

Let's go. I don't see anyone when I smell something cooking. I hope it's a nice juicy to win steer steak. Ha ha ha ha ha. Oh that's strange.

Anybody here? Food on the table. It's still warm. Food? What is it, Hoppy? A steak? A dog on. Bean. Yeah, somebody's just sitting down to eat. Hello there. Kinda ee, we ain't it, Tim. Like it was, uh, haunted?

Ha, ha, ha, never heard of a ghost eating beans. Well, in a case of emergency, I eat them. California, that food doesn't belong to you. Oh, no, Hoppy, just one little taste won't hurt nobody.