The last day I hauled up about twenty good buckets of water and threw her up against the cabin.

My buyer was settin' his hoss waitin' for me to get ready.

He didn't say nothin' until we'd got down about ten mile or so.
"Mr.Hicks," says he, hesitatin' like, "I find it a good rule in this country not to overlook other folks' plays, but I'd take it mighty kind if you'd explain those actions of yours with the pails of water." "Mr.Jones," says I, "it's very simple.

I built that shack five year ago, and it's never rained since.

I just wanted to settle in my mind whether or not that damn roof leaked." So I quit Arizona, and in about a week I see my reflection in the winders of a little place called Cyanide in the Colorado mountains.
Fellows, she was a bird.