It was in this peculiarly Texan atmosphere that I came upon Jimmy Calton.
He was standing by the open hood of one of those mechanical miracles known as a "tin lizzy," holding a sooted spark-plug in a cloth in one hand and attempting to clean it with the other. He was swearing the while, dispassionately, in a curious mingling of good Anglo-Saxon and 'dobe Spanish.
"Hello, Jimmy," I said listlessly.
He looked up and nodded.
"Say, you look hot," he observed. "Come on an' ride a ways with me. Lizzy heah'll be runnin' in a minute, an' you can tie yo' pony on behind."
"Going anywhere in particular?" I asked.
"Over t' see th' coroner," he told me. "Ol' Abe Martin got shot th' other day an' folks are say