Excerpt: "“‘Magpie,’” says I, “if my corns wasn’t hurting —— out of me I’d have tears in my eyes from such sentiment. I’m all choked up—with alkali.” “You’ve got to admit that she rhymes,” says Magpie Simpkins, spitting out a mouthful of dust and lifting his canteen to his lips. “I done figured ’em all out of my own head, Ike.” “You better leave off taking things out of your own head,” says I. “First thing you know, old-timer, you’ll be taking out what prompts you to chaw your grub, and I’ll have to feed you with a stummick-pump.” Then we pokes off the mountain and hits the trail toward Piperock. For you who ain’t never heard of Piperock, I’ll say this much: Piperock was the place the feller was thinking about when he wrote “Let sleeping dogs lie.” Piperock looks like a siesta settlement, but she sure is deceiving. Few folks ever get killed in the town. The good old village usually invigorates ’em to a mile-a-minute clip, and we makes it a point never to shoot anybody in the back."
