He's laid out in splendid shape in the
New York Store, with nothin' to complain of if he's asked to make
the kick himse'f. He has a new silk necktie, blue shirt an' pearl
buttons, trousers, an' boots. Some one--Benson Annie, I reckons--has
pasted some co't plaster over the hole on his cheek-bone where the
bullet gets in, an' all 'round Jack looks better than I ever sees
him.
"'Let the congregation remove its hats,' says Peets, a-settin' down
on a box up at Jack's head, 'an' as many as can will please get
somethin' to camp on. Now, my friends," he continues, "thar ain't no
need of my puttin' on any frills or gettin' in any scroll work. The
objects of this convention is plain an' straight. Mister King, here
present, is dead. Deceased is a very headstrong person, an' persists
yesterday in entertainin' views touchin' a club flush, queen at the
head, which results in life everlastin'. Now, gents, this is a
racket full of solemnity. We wants nothin' but good words. Don't
mind about the trooth; which the same ain't in play at a funeral,
nohow. We all knows Jack; we knows his record. Our information is
ample that a-way; how he steals a hoss at Tucson; how be robs a gent
last fall at Tombstone; how he downs a party at Cruces; how that
scar on his neck he gets from Wells-Fargo's people when he stands up
the stage over on the Lordsburg trail.
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