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"Is thar any good fishin' about yere?" he asks. "Which I shore yearns to fish some." ""Does this yere landscape," I says, wavin' my arm about the hor'zon, "remind you much of fish? Stranger," I says, "fish an' christians is partic'lar sparse in Arizona." "'Then this person Davis la'nches out into tales deescriptif of how he goes anglin' back in the States.
But Coyote never wilts. He moves so quick no one ever does locate the darkened recess of his garments from which he lugs out that knife; the first p'inter any of 'em gets is that with the same breath wherein Peets puts the six-shooter on him, Coyote's organised in full with a bowie. "'Make a centre shot, you villyun! roars Coyote, an' straight as adders he la'nches himse'f at Peets's neck.
Whatever partic'lar wagon-track do you-all follow off, may I ask? "It's then this old gent an' I la'nches into a gen'ral discussion onder the head of mes'lancous business, I reckons, an' lie puts it up his long suit, as he calls it, is `moral epidemics. He says he's wrote one book onto 'em, an' sw'ar:; he'll write another if nobody heads him off; the same bein' on-likely.
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