He was lying under an azalea bush, in pretty much the same attitude in which he had fallen some hours before.

How long he had been lying there he could not tell, and didn't care; how long he should lie there was a matter equally indefinite and unconsidered.
A tranquil philosophy, born of his physical condition, suffused and saturated his moral being.
The spectacle of a drunken man, and of this drunken man in particular, was not, I grieve to say, of sufficient novelty in Red Gulch to attract attention.

Earlier in the day some local satirist had erected a temporary tombstone at Sandy's head, bearing the inscription, "Effects of McCorkle's whisky--kills at forty rods," with a hand pointing to McCorkle's saloon.

But this, I imagine, was, like most local satire, personal; and was a reflection upon the unfairness of the process rather than a commentary upon the impropriety of the result.

With this facetious exception, Sandy had been undisturbed.