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Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips), 1866-1946

"The Black Box"

Hey boys, all
together, tie 'em up against that wagon."
A dozen willing hands secured them. The two men spluttered wildly, half in
anger, half in fear of their tormentors, but in a few seconds they were
secured firmly against the canvas-topped wagon.
"Now sit easy, gentlemen, sit easy. Nothing's going to hurt you." Long Jim
shoved fresh cartridges into his forty-five. "That is, unless you're
unlucky. Line up there, boys, one at a time now. Bud, you and Tim and
Dough-head give them guys a singe, their hair's getting too long. The rest
of you boys just content yourselves doing a fancy decoration on the canvas
all around 'em. I'll deevote my entire attenshun to trimming them
lugshuriant whiskers, Mister Harris is a-sporting. All ready now,--one,
two, three, let 'em whistle!"
The two deputies gave a simultaneous yell as several bullets sung by their
ears.
"Whoa, old horses," drawled Long Jim. "Flies bothering you some, eh? Sit
easy, sit easy. Too dangerous hopping around that way. You might stick
yourselves right in the way of one of them spitballs. Some nerve tonic
this! A.X.X. Ranch brand, ready to serve at all hours, cheap at half the
price. Ah ha, pretty near shaved your upper lip that time, didn't I,
Mister Harris. My hand's a bit unsteady, what with all the excitement
hereabouts. Say, put a stem on that chrysanthemum you're doing,
Cotton-top."
The two men, racked with fury and terror, ridiculous in their trussed-up
state, motionless and strained, crouched in terror while the bullets
passed all around them.


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