“Bosco, do you know anything about this circus of ours?”
“You ain’t got no circus,” says Bosco. “I seen this aggregation when
she was at her best and she wasn’t worth a whoop.”
Magpie nods and considers Alcibiades.
“What good was that elephant? He didn’t travel on his looks, did he?”
“Him? Naw! They used to give him soft rubber balls to throw into the
audience—if there was any audience. Oswald never played to capacity.”
Magpie picked up a stone about as big as his fist and walked over to
the elephant. He held out the stone and Alcibiades took it. He seems
to sort of take a good hold with his trunk and then swings it back and
forth, like he was weighing it. Then he whirls his trunk up and
sideways, lets out a little grunt and away went that rock.
_Crash!_
It bored right into the eaves of “Old Testament” Tilton’s shack about
fifty yards away. We hears the crash and a moment later here comes Old
Testament out of the door.
He’s got his hands folded and we can see his lips moving. Over one ear
is a lump the size of a egg.
“Howdy, parson,” says Magpie, but Old Testament don’t hear nor see us.
As he walks past us we hears him singing soft and low—
“Rockavages clef’—rockavages cl’—Rockavages——”
Then he shakes his head and starts all over again.
“He can’t get over the rock!” says Magpie, awed-like, and we watches
the old preacher turn into the street out of our sight.
“Magpie,” says I, “this here circus is getting in bad. You can do a
lot of things around here, but any time elephants start hitting
preachers with rocks, it’s going too far. I feel within me that
there’s going to be a reaction.”
* * * * *
We sets down to consider things, when here comes Yuma, Wick and
Big-Foot. They’re sneaking along like they was afraid we’d fly away.
Yuma has a sack in his hand, while the rest of ’em packs guns. They
stares down at Bosco and contemplates deep-like over our wild man.
“You—you’re the snake-eater the judge told us about?” asks Yuma.
“I am,” says Bosco. “Eat ’em alive! Greatest sensation of the age!
Scientists has pondered over my marvelous powers to withstand the bite
of poison reptiles. Yessir, I am Bosco! I eat ’em alive!”
“You sure must be a awful handicap to the snakes,” opines Yuma.
“You’ve got St. Patrick beat, feller. All he done was chase ’em. You
eat pizen ones?”
“Always! The flavor of poison is vanilly to me.”
“Not rattlers?” says Big-Foot. “Not them spotted devils?”
“Rattlers? Ha! Ha! Ha! I love ’em. I’m sorry I haven’t any left,
gents, but I ate the last one day before yesterday. I suppose I’ve got
to go back to eating ordinary food.”
“Rise up and cheer!” says Yuma joyful-like, holding up the sack. “You
sure get banqueted, feller. In this sack is a ol’ diamond-back with
sixteen rattles and a button. Fat as a fool and you gets him free
gratis for nothing.”
“A-a-a-alive?” gasps Bosco.
“Betcha! Ain’t even bruised nor shy a button. Me and Big-Foot caught
him under the sidewalk. He’s a humdinger. We’ll watch you eat him.”
“Wait!” yelps Magpie. “You fellers think I’m running a free show? This
layout costs me money and I only lets Bosco eat snakes after you has
paid one dollar per each to see the feeding. _Sabe?_”
“If we furnishes the eatables?” asks Yuma.
“You can’t noways furnish what you don’t own, Yuma,” states Magpie.
“That snake is part and parcel of nature, and you can’t own one unless
you raises same from your own stock. _Sabe?_ That snake don’t belong
to nobody, so you might as well give it to me.”
“This snake?” asks Yuma, holding up the sack. “This belongs to ——”
Alcibiades has edged over close and when Yuma holds up the sack, he
just reaches over, wraps his trunk around it and yanks it away.
Alcibiades begins swinging that sack back and forth, playful-like.
“Look out!” yelps Magpie. “He’s going to throw it at somebody!”
Wick was wise enough to gallop straight away, but Yuma and Big-Foot
seemed to think that height was salvation. They bounces straight for
Cleopatra’s cage, being as that’s the highest thing at hand, and they
begins to claw their way right up the bars.
That cage wasn’t built for no such a stunt, and when they’re about
halfway up the side Cleopatra lets out a woful wail and slams herself
up against the bars. The cage sways for a second and then over she
comes off the wagon, and two perfectly unreliable horse-thieves and a
antiquated tiger bite the dust together, with the horse-thieves
underneath.
Allah was almost in the way of the crash and the next thing we know
our shipwreck of the desert gets the stampede fever, too, knocks me
and Magpie flat into a tangle of canvas and poles, and away he went
into the desert. His two humps weave in different directions as he
gades away, and it reminds me of two drunken punchers riding double.
Bosco took a high-dive the other way, and I sees him setting there on
the ground, investigating some cactus he dove into.
Me and Magpie gets our breath and sets there looking at each other,
when here comes Judge Steele, Pete Gonyer, Art Miller, Doughgod Smith
and Old Testament. They groups near us and the judge clears his
throat.
“Magpie Simpkins, Ike Harper _et al._: We, the sober and industrious
citizens of Piperock, has gathered in serious conclave this day and
date and has adjudicated that we will not have the glorious morrow
sullied or marred by a circus or circuses.
“In the name of the parties responsible for Old Home Week, I hereby
delivers this here ultimatum: Get your danged circus hence! We are not
empowered to arrest you and have no jail to lock you in if we were,
but we still got ropes and willing hands. We’ve got enough to cope
with tomorrow without dry nursing denizens of the jungles. For once in
its glorious existence Piperock is playing safe. _Sabe?_ This here is
our final——”
“My ——!” interrupts Pete. “Looky!”
The tiger cage begins to rise up and them ultimatumers backs into a
compact body and pulls their guns. Then out comes the remains of
Big-Foot. His hat is smashed down over his eyes but he don’t care
where he goes.
Then out comes Yuma. He don’t seem to see us. He tips his hat over one
eye, does a few fancy jig steps and then reaches in under that cage.
Then he straightens up and away he goes, dragging Cleopatra by the
skin of her neck.
Cleo has had the shock of her old age but she’s still alive. She spits
and slaps, but Yuma goes merrily on his way ahead of a cloud of dust
made by a grandma tiger which is digging deep into her soul for sounds
to tell us how exasperated she is.
This conclave of indignant citizens stands there and gawps at the free
show, until—
_Swish!_
Alcibiades whales away with that sack and hits the old judge right in
the back of his neck. He lands on his hands and knees but skids back
to his feet.
“Who hit me?” he wails. “Who threw that?”
_Z-z-z-z-z-z-zee!_
The string had come off the sack and right at their feet coiled the
rattler, indignant as thunder over things in general.
“Ah-h-h-h-h-h! Wow!” yelps Doughgod.
The monkey cage must ’a’ got busted up in the fracas, ’cause just then
a mangy little member of the missing links hopped from a wagon-wheel
and lit on Doughgod’s shoulder. Doughgod stiffens like he was hanging
on to a electric battery and then lets out another whoop and tries to
buck the monk off. Doughgod collides with Old Testament and the two of
’em goes down in a heap.
“Make it a good one,” says Magpie and kicks the staple out of the lock
on the dog cage.
Doughgod and Old Testament got up just in time to trail the others and
lead that yelping bunch of mongrels away from us. Then we flops,
weary-like, down upon our canvas again. Magpie slips his gun loose and
shoots the head off that snake, which is hunting for a place to hive
up under our tents.
“Five hundred and eighty dollars, Magpie,” says I. “She’s going fast.”
“Yes,” he admits, “she’s fading out, Ike. The Simpkins’ Stupendous
Shows is about scattered. Nothing left but a snake-eater and a
elephant. Sorry you missed your meal, Bosco.”
“My ——! Did you think—I—say, that snake still had its fangs!”
“Oh!” says Magpie. “I see. You—you sort of commit suicide with a empty
gun, as it were, eh?”
“As it were,” nods Bosco. “I’m going away from here pretty soon. I
ain’t got nothing to wear, no place to go and nothing to ride upon.”
“There’s lots of places to go,” says Magpie, “and you can ride that
danged elephant if you want to.”
“Like ——!” says I. “I’m going to have something out of this. I’m shy
two hundred and ninety dollars, Magpie.”
* * * * *
Then cometh old Judge Steele and Yuma. They’ve got a white rag on a
stick. Yuma is half out of clothes and they both seem chastened in
spirit. They halts fifty yards away.
“We come more in sorrow than in anger,” states the judge. “Sorry we
didn’t kill you fellers early this morning. Which of you deplorable
jassacks is the tiger-trainer?”
“I wash my hands of the tiger,” replies Magpie “I may have Yuma
arrested for stealing it but that’s all.”
“It’s in the saloon,” says Yuma, bowing apologetic-like. “Buck is in
there and so is Old Testament, and we ain’t heard from them for quite
a while.”
“Half-Mile’s bronc is in there, too,” adds the judge. “Half-Mile roped
it and then fell off his bronc as it went into the door.”
“Gosh!” grunts Magpie. “I feel sorry for the bronc.”
We walks down to the flag of truce and like a pair of danged fools we
let ’em get the drop on us. They takes our guns and throws away the
flag. Then they prods us down in front of the saloon, where all of
Piperock stands or mills around. They gives us three cheers—we already
had a tiger.
“Now,” says Judge Steele, “we’ve got these hombres. Wick, you hold the
watch. Now we’re going to give you hombres just five minutes to get
your danged tiger out of our late friend Buck Masterson’s place of
business.”
“Late?” asks Magpie. “Is Buck late?”
“Well,” says the judge, taking off his hat, “maybe I was a bit hasty
in that statement but I will say this much: He’s danged tardy.”
“Old Testament is tardy, too,” says somebody in the crowd.
“One minute is passed,” states Wick.
“The consequences is what?” I asks.
“Your case is parallel with horse-stealing,” states the judge.
Magpie looks at the crowd and grins.
“You horse-thieves suffering any to speak of?”
“Two minutes gone,” reminds Wick. “You know best.”
“Can I have a gun?” asks Magpie, but the judge shakes his head.
Magpie tightens up his belt and spits on his hands.
“Come on, Ike!”
I wonders at the time what Magpie spits on his hands for. He sure
wasn’t afraid the tiger would slip through his hands. Cleopatra was
awful old and old age naturally makes her childish and cross. Reminded
me of that poem about the woman who knew by heart from finish to start
the book of iniquity. Cleopatra was that kind, I reckon.
We pilgrimed up to the front door, but all is still.
“You better go around to the back door, Ike,” whispers Magpie.
“Speak up loud!” says I. “What you trying to do, sneak up on her? Why
should I go to the back door, Magpie? We don’t want to catch her, do
we?”
“Three minutes gone,” drones Wick.
Magpie turns to the crowd and takes off his hat. “Feller citizens, I
regret I have only one tiger to die for.”
Then he opens the door.
We walks in like Daniel into the lions’ den or Joner into the whale.
The bronc is plain and visible, standing between the pool table and
the wall, with the reins looped around its feet. The card-tables are
upset and the place shows that there has been a certain amount of
action.
Sudden-like, up behind the top of an unset table come the head of Buck
Masterson. He squints at us and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down like
it was practising to hop out the first time he opens his mouth.
“Howdy, Buck,” says Magpie. “How’s each little thing with you?”
“Tut-tolable,” says he hoarse-like. “Just barely so, so.”
“Where’s the tiger?” I asks and Buck’s eyes get round as nickels.
He’s so scared he can’t speak for a minute; then he whispers:
“Uh-under me! I can’t let loose!”
“Still alive?” asks Magpie.
“I—I don’t know. It ain’t moved for a minute. My ha-hands are
paralyzed from squeezing the blasted thing!”
“Get up easy-like,” advises Magpie, “and then jump back.”
“I—I may do it,” whispers Buck.
He takes a breath, eases his feet under him and then jumps high and
handsome. He falls over a chair, bumps his head against the bar and
collapses on the rail.
“My ——!” he wails. “That was a close shave!”
Then up comes a tangle of green cloth off the card-table, mixed with a
striped blanket. It rises to the height of a man and instead of the
roar of a man-eating tiger comes these words—
“Let us all arise and sing hymn number sixty-seven.”
The cloth falls away. He stands there, hands folded, and on his face
is the look of a man who has made his peace and don’t care what
happens.
Buck gets to his feet and weaves forward.
“Tut-testament,” he quavers. “I—I’m sorry I ch-choked you.”
“Take a front seat, brother,” says Testament. “All sinners are
welcome.”
“Five minutes are up,” states Wick Smith’s voice.
“Go to thunder!” yells Magpie. “Everybody’s all right. There ain’t no
tiger in here.”
I felt sorry for that poor bronc, so I goes over, untangles the reins
from its feet and led it out of the door. The crowd splits to let us
out and just as we gets out of the door somebody yells.
I whirled and looked back. From the saddle-horn runs a rope back into
the saloon and she sure is pulled tight. Somebody slaps the bronc and
Cleopatra came among us. I reckon she must ’a’ been behind the bar.
She came out of the door, ducked behind the crowd like a flash and the
next second about thirty citizens of Cowland are tangled with our
tiger.
* * * * *
I slipped the rope off the horn and let nature take her course while I
took mine—around back to the remnants of our circus. Bosco is there.
Some of that gang must ’a’ lost a quart of hooch, ’cause I finds Bosco
trying to reach a point where he can see snakes that he don’t have to
eat. I takes it away from him and charms a few for myself.
There’s a lot of noise around on the street but I ain’t curious.
Alcibiades stands there like a rubber statue. He sure was about the
laziest elephant on earth. Then cometh more noise and here comes the
mob, Magpie in the lead, and around his neck is a rope.
I starts to explain things to ’em and I got a rope too. Bosco tried to
hide but they roped him from several directions to once.
“Rope the elephant and you’ll have the whole works,” says I.
“What will we do with ’em?” asks Yuma. “There ain’t no trees.”
“It ain’t exactly a hanging matter,” states the judge and I could love
him for them words. “They ought to be in jail—blast ’em! If Scenery
only had some way to get out and ——”
“He will,” states “Ornery” Olsen.
“‘Dynamite’ Davidson and ‘Calamity’ Calkins went down there a while
ago and they said they’d get him out or kill him in the attempt.”
“Where is the tiger?” I asked.
“Dead!” snaps Wick. “Seventeen men fell on her and she died of old
age!”
“I’ve got a scheme,” yelps Pete Gonyer, “a dinger of a scheme. Let’s
rope ’em on to the elephant and take ’em to jail. Have pe-rade, eh?”
There wasn’t any need of a vote. It was unanimous. Even me and Magpie
and Bosco voted “aye.” Jail looked like a happy hunting ground beside
of all these ropes and tree talk.
Alcibiades looked on, mean-like, during the roping. Magpie was in
front, then me and then Bosco. Somebody tied a rope to the elephant’s
trunk and then we strung out like a cross between a funeral and a
pe-rade. It sure attracted a lot of attention. Then we hove in sight
of the jail.
There is Dynamite and Calamity, busy at something. Dynamite is on his
hands and knees, while Calamity stands over him. Beside Dynamite is a
wooden box with the cover off. Just then they rise up, sort of
hurried-like, and see us.
Alcibiades ain’t had nothing to eat for so long that I reckon he
hankered for the contents of that box and he don’t stop when the rest
of the pe-rade does. The rope slips off his trunk and we stopped
against the jail wall.
“Look out, you danged fools!” yelps Dynamite. “Get away from there!”
The crowd stampedes a little ways but Alcibiades don’t move, and we
can’t.
“Ain’t you got no sense?” wails Dynamite. “That fuse is only three
feet long!”
We looks down and under the corner of the dobie wall is a spitting
fuse. We hammers Alcibiades but he don’t respond.
“Get away from there, you danged fools!” whoops Calamity.
“Don’t talk English—talk elephant!” yells Magpie. “We hear but can’t
heed.”
_Swish!_
Alcibiades whirls his trunk sideways and we sees a stick of dynamite
whiz right into Judge Steele’s stummick. The judge lit all doubled up,
and the crowd gasped audibly.
“Too bad,” says Magpie. “They won’t always go off.”
Alcibiades digs into that box and roots out another stick.
_Swish!_
The next stick sailed high over the crowd and we watched it drop out
of sight behind Pete’s blacksmith shop.
_Bang!_
That one went off. We seen a wagon-wheel hop up and roll off the top
of Buck’s place and a lot of horseshoes scatter around over the
house-tops.
The next one was a line shot at Wick Smith’s wood-shed, but that one
didn’t bust. The next one did. Alcibiades just gave it a nice little
toss, and she busted behind the crowd, causing some to go prostrate.
“Good boy!” says Bosco, and then Alcibiades picks up the rest of the
powder, box and all. Everything is as quiet as a graveyard and we
hears Old Testament say—
“In the midst of life we are in——”
_Swish!_
Up went the box of dynamite straight for the crowd, and just then
Magpie throws himself sideways on the elephant, and the rest of us has
to foller suit. We’re about half-way down the side of that elephant
when Dynamite’s blast goes off. I’d plumb forgot that blast. I’d say
that Dynamite knowed how to use powder, ’cause the whole corner of
that jail moved out to meet us. It knocked Alcibiades down but he got
right up. He’s so thick-skinned that nothing could hurt his feelings.
I can’t hear a danged thing. I look out at the crowd. Most of ’em are
still prostrate on the ground, but I can see the dynamite box, so I
know she didn’t bust. The ropes has slipped and we are no longer on
top of the brute. I’m hanging on the side like a pack-sack; Bosco is
draped over its rump and Magpie has one leg over its neck, while the
rope holds him under the other knee, and he’s hanging on to the
elephant’s ear with both hands.
Out of the ruined side of the jail comes an apparition. It is covered
with dobie dust and great wonderment. It weaves up to us with both
hands in the air.
“Don’t shoot!” it squeaks. “I give up!”
“All right,” nods Magpie. “Don’t shoot, boys; they’re dying.”
Maybe Alcibiades was shocked, too; maybe he had acquired man-eating
propensities from associating with Cleopatra, but anyway he whirled,
let out a mean _Hur-r-r-r-r-rump!_ and started after Scenery Sims.
Scenery ducked straight for the crowd, and Alcibiades follered him
like a bloodhound. We went some.
* * * * *
We didn’t go very many miles per minute, but we went awful strong. We
went through Wick Smith’s yard and we took two clothes-lines full of
clothes with us. We got so tangled up in washing that we didn’t know
where we went. Every one who took the time tried shots at us but we
ignored such trifling things.
I managed to get a suit of flannels out of my eyes in time to see our
animated vehicle pointing straight for the door of our horse stable.
The door is too narrow for elephants, being as we only had horses in
mind when we built it, and I starts to yell a warning but the flannels
came back and shut me up.
Comes a ripping jar, the snap of a rope and I hit the earth with
Magpie on top of me. He got up, dazed-like, and shut the door.
“We’ve got him, Ike,” says he.
_Crash! Rip-p-p-p! Smash!_
The front logs of the stable goes squeegeed, and from the rear comes
the rattle of falling logs and a cloud of dust. We limps to the
corner. Out of the cloud of dust comes Alcibiades and on his back is
Bosco. The elephant skids to a stop, whirls and points straight into
the desert.
“Bosco!” yelps Magpie. “Good-luck! Look out for snakes!”
Magpie stares at me and then at the ruined stable.
“I—I wonder if Bosco really did eat them snakes?” he asks
foolish-like.
“He—he did,” states a voice, and out from the squeegeed doorway pokes
the hairy head of Bosco. “He sure did, gents. I am the only original
snakeeating——”
He stops and rubs his hand over his eyes. He looks all around and then
whispers—
“Which way is the city of Piperock?”
Magpie points toward the town.
“Sure?”
“Sure. Why?”
“That’s a —— of a question to ask,” says Bosco, and we watches him
blend into the mesquite, going away from Piperock.
“That must ’a’ been Scenery on the elephant,” says Magpie awed-like.
“Scenery must ’a’ lost his clothes in the crash.”
“Speculation has ruined a lot of men,” says I. “Why stop to
speculate?”
We saddled our broncs and we didn’t hit the main road until we’re in
shooting distance of Paradise. Then we turns a corner and runs slap
into Jay-Bird and Hassayampa. They’re packing just enough to feel
glad. They hands us a bottle.
“You fellers going to the celebration?” I asks.
“You betcha,” agrees Hassayampa. “Looking forward to a _hyiu_ time.
How’s the circus?”
“Only thing of it’s kind on earth,” says Magpie between swallers.
“Piperock is going crazy over it.”
“Bet they are,” agrees Hassayampa. “Piperock deserves it. Don’t want
to sell out, do you?”
“Sell it?” asks Magpie. “Hadn’t thought of such a thing. Who wants to
buy it, Hassayampa?”
“It ain’t worth no more than you paid for it, Magpie,” says Jay-Bird,
“but we’d pay that much, eh, Hassayampa?”
“Pshaw!” grunts Magpie. “I just got started, gents.”
“You ain’t got no use for it, Magpie,” says Jay-Bird. “Me and
Hassayampa can afford a circus better than you and Ike. We’ll pay you
back in the same checks you paid us, eh? Is that a go?”
“As you said, we can’t afford it,” nods Magpie. “We’ll trade.”
Magpie puts the checks in his pocket. We take another round of good
cheer and ride on.
“See you at the celebration,” yells Jay-Bird.
“If you’ve got second sight,” nods Magpie, and we pilgrimed straight
for Silver Bend.
We ain’t done nothing wrong in selling out. Believe me, that money
sure looked good. I wondered if Hassayampa and Jay-Bird had gone
crazy, but Magpie said if they hadn’t they soon would.
* * * * *
We got into Silver Bend after dark and hived up in a hotel. We’re so
sore and tired that we don’t wake up until noon. Magpie opines that we
better draw our money and go over to Powder River for a spell, so we
pilgrimed down to the bank.
The curtains are down tight, and on the door hangs a card printed in
big letters:
TO TRUST IS TO BUST.
TO BUST IS ——.
NO TRUST,
NO BUST,
NO ——.
A feller comes along and stops beside us as we read the sign.
“The cashier runs away with the contents,” says he, “and she’s busted
flat. They may pay ten cents on the dollar in a year or two.”
Magpie twists his mustache and stares at me.
“Hassayampa and Jay-Bird knew that,” he snorts. “The danged crooks
knowed them checks wasn’t no good, Ike!”
“What did we know about the circus, Magpie?” I asks.
He looks at me, scratches his head for a moment and says:
“Piperock ought to be glad, Ike. Don’t you know it? They ought to rise
up and sing a song of thanksgiving and vote us a medal.”
“What for, Magpie?”
“To think we didn’t buy out P. T. Barnum.”
Which we hope Piperock appreciates.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the December 18, 1919 issue
of Adventure magazine.]