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Yere she comes, final, a-rattlin' an' a-creakin'; that old drunkard Monte a-poppin' of his whip, the six hosses on the canter, an' the whole sheebang puttin' on more dog than a Mexican officer of revenoo. When the stage draws up, Old Monte throws off the mailbags an' the Wells-Fargo box, an' gets down an' opens the door. But nobody emerges out. "'Well, I'm a coyote!
The Boy sat down, still staring about him, taking note of the well-hewn logs, and of the neat attachment of the timbers by a saddle-joint at the four corners of the roof. "Who built this?" he inquired of Nicholas. "Ol' father, an' ... heap ol' men gone dead." "Gee! Well, whoever did it was on to his job," he said. "I don't seen a nail in the whole sheebang." "No, no nail."
There was a sort of sheebang you couldn't call it a hotel if you had any regard for the truth on the outskirts of Walsh, for the accommodation of wayfarers without a camp-outfit, but most of the time you couldn't get anything fit to eat there. So I was mighty glad to hear about Bat Perkins.
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