The drover, his shirt tail flapping, heard the voices from the landing and fired the pistol through the window. Wilber leaped backward, slamming into Archie. The combination weight of the two men shattered the guardrail and both men tumbled to the ground.

Mrs. Simpson, and her daughter Emily, were passing by at the time. Mrs. Simpson clapped a hand over Emily’s eyes and hurried off, tossing back the words, “Shameful Whore-sons.”

“Help,” Archie cried. One hand squeezing his thigh and the other feebliy waving in the air.

“Damn, that drover is pissed,” Wilber said, standing and brushing himself off. “Get up, Archie. That loco might take another shot at us.”

“Wilber, listen closely, you need to go get Doc Vincent. I think my leg’s broke.”

The next afternoon, Archie was sunning himself outside the Longhorn saloon. His leg in a cast, his crutch leaning against the hitching rack.

“Psst, Archie,” Wilber called from the alley. “Mable’s hanging her bloomers out back. You wanta come look?”