Gunfighter in Short Pants

About our story. Well, it's one called Gunfighter in Short Pants and began one morning as California and I are on our way back to the bar 20 after delivering some brood mares to a ranch in their Albuquerque, Mexico.

We'd crossed the Rangeal Old Mountains and stopped to water our horses at the headwaters of Yaki Creek. California was proving himself a giant in the field of tall tales. So far I'd listened to his exploits with Wild Bill Hickock, cocks, wire-terp and bat-mathesum. Then he worked up the sheriff's path, Derek.

Hoppy, a young, never believed it, but Pat and me was closer than two armadillers in one's shell. Why, Pat, they depended on me, pom-toms. How do you think he could get his reputation? Well, shooting Billy the Kid helped a little. Yeah, sure it did. Only, who do you think, Really sharp, but he's...

Oh, now wait, California. Me, California cars and nephews. Two gun cars and, in them days, deadliest gunsling in west of the people. Sit like you two. Or I'll put the next one on the seat of Grand Pappy's bridges.

Grand Pappy? Well, Grand Pappy. Why, I'll show you all our... Poppy? Well, you're gone, it's just a boy. Yeah. Hey, son, aren't you a little young to be so unfriendly? I'll be 14 come spring. Why are you here?

We were just watering our horses and getting ready to move on. You're ready. Yes. Young and you're acting mighty smart. Smarter than you. You wish good old Armadillo. Armadillo? Why? Why, I'm smarter. I got plenty of brain jobs.

Yeah? In which head? Why, huh? Oh, and you stop it. Good thing. One more move toward me and out of boarding. Crang, Pappy. On, McGill, which? Hoppy, young man. Scattered, draw the line in someplace.