“Where ya going Word?”
“What’s it to ya Well?” Wordy eyed his friend spiciously over his shovel plate of cold beans.
“Might wanna come along,” Well said right neighborly.
“Gol dangit Well,” Wordy said slapping his sides so that dust swirled up offin his breeches like sawdust in a grist mill. Some of the dust settled back in his beans but Wordy didn’t notice.
“Cain’t you ever just let me go somewhere along?!”
Well was patiently quiet a moment after Wordy’s antipenchant display. As he usually was when Word went off on one of his ineffectual tangential tirades. Then Well threw his head back and finished his drink before leaning forward and spitting out the swill-mash that had settled at the bottom of his glass. After that he straightened.
“So does that mean I’m coming witcha, or not?” he finally asked.
Wordy looked at Well as sasperated as a flied walleyed rout, and then shook his head slowly as if he had just watched a hell-bent bull pull loose from his plow.
“Oh git your damn saddle Well… I ain’t totin you on my back.”
from my Western novel, The Letter Men
Wyrdwend 