“—and in the glorious land of our forefathers, where the—the—sun never
sets and the—the——”
“Ike,” says Dirty, “a man is of few days and full of trouble, but right
now I’m a mockin’-bird, with spreadin’ pinions and a dazzlin’ top-knot.
I may die tomorrow, but right now I’m a feathered songster, light of
heart and sound of limb. O death, where is thy stinger?”
“The devil has it on the grindstone, Dirty,” says I, “and by ten o’clock
tomorrow she’ll be sharper than a serpent’s tooth.”
* * * * *
The next morning we sure slept peacefully, while Magpie goes uptown.
He’s one of the leading lights, as usual. I reckon it’s about nine
o’clock when me and Dirty gets something to eat. Dirty is a danged long
ways from being a mocking-bird. We can’t eat. Maybe it’s from looking
too much into the future, but I think it’s from looking too much into
the bottom of a glass.
“If they sees us before we gets them broncs, Waldemar’s moving-pitcher
is going to be a failure,” says I, as we puts on our own clothes, after
soaking them beards loose.
“Waldemar?” says Dirty. “My gosh, Ike, you are getting temperamental,
like a regular primmydonner. His pitcher a failure? What’s his danged
pitcher beside my breath of life? If them or’nary saddle-slickers see us
before we reach them broncs—Waldemar gets a regular necktie pitcher.
They’ll hang us to that tree right near Sam Holt’s porch, Ike.”
“That’s too bad, Dirty. Where’ll we go if we get away with it?”
“There yuh are!” wails Dirty, flopping his arms. “No place to go.”
“Well, we’ve got to go, anyway; so it might as well be now.”
We went out of there and sneaked up on the town of Piperock, like it was
a wild thing. Maybe that statement ain’t far wrong. We crawls in behind
Buck’s place, and gets behind a pile of cord-wood. Me and Dirty has both
got watches. Mine says ten minutes to ten, and Dirty’s says fifteen
minutes after ten.
“Mine’s right,” says Dirty, positive-like. “That watch ain’t lost a
second in two years. I can correct the sun with that watch, yuh betcha.
We’re late!”
“Yuh can’t beat a Swiss movement,” says I, “and that’s the kind mine is.
It is now ten minutes of ten.”
“You’re crazy, Ike. Lemme tell yuh something about this—huh—listen to
your watch and see if she’s runnin’.”
“It ain’t,” says I, after listening. “I forgot to wind it last night.”
“Me, too,” says Dirty. “My ——, we’re in an awful fix.”
Comes a few yells and a few shots out on the street and then the clatter
of six-shooter explosions.
“The celebration is on,” says I. “It was due to start at ten o’clock.
Let’s take a chance. I hope to gosh them broncs are there for us.” I
takes my life in one hand, a six-shooter in the other and leads the way.
There’s more than two broncs at the rack, but there ain’t no time to
figure out ownership, et cettery. There’s considerable humanity in
sight.
“Take that gray one, Dirty,” says I, and then I happens to think that we
ain’t figured out who is to go inside the bank.
“Wait a minute,” says I. “Do you go inside or do I, Dirty?”
“It makes no difference who goes in, Ike. We’ll be deader than —— in
about three minutes anyway. You go in, will yuh?”
“A-a-a-board!” says I, and hops on to that mouse-colored bronc, which
looks like it might go as far and fast.
Somehow I don’t no more than hook the right stirrup before I realizes
that I’ve made a mistake. I hears Dirty sort of hiccup a curse, and I’m
betting that he has the same thoughts. I don’t know about that
mouse-colored bronc going fast and far, but I sure know it went high.
Also, I soon realized that my saddle wasn’t cinched tight. Every time we
went high and handsome I can feel the slack in that cinch and it makes
me nervous.
“Git to —— out of the way!” I hears Dirty yelp, and into me comes that
gray bronc, sunfishin’ like forked lightning and whistling like a scared
buck. It’s about sixty feet across that street to the front of the bank.
Know how long it took us to get there? I ain’t there yet, if you’re
curious to know, and this happened a long time ago.
But Dirty got there. Yessir, he got there. At the edge of the sidewalk
his cinch busted and he went right in through one of the front windows.
He went in feet first, into the window with the sign painted on it, and
he stopped with one leg through the cashier’s window and the other leg
waving for help.
My bronc stopped bucking long enough for me to see all that and then we
turns right around—me and that high-minded piece of deviltry—and we
bucked straight for Buck Masterson’s saloon. There’s a big crowd there,
and they sure give us room. Some danged fool must ’a’ tried to kill that
bronc, but missed and one bullet burned my ear, and the other peeled my
knuckles on my left hand. Yes, we went in. By that time the cinch is
back in the bronc’s flanks, and I’m riding wild and free on its rump,
with the saddle going further back all the time.
I didn’t dare to fall off, so I done my dangdest. I got a view of scared
faces as we made a mulligan of a perfectly healthy poker game and then I
went up and jammed my head through the bale of a hanging-lamp, and took
it with us, hanging around my neck.
The back door was partly open and we took it away, hinges and all, and
then we’re out in the open again, with Piperock, et cettery, howling in
our rear. I banged the bronc with my hat and swung him back toward the
street, where I runs into Dirty, backing across the street, shooting
every direction. I skids that bronc to a standstill, and yells—
“Get up behind me!”
Dirty stubs his heel and falls down and danged near shot me. Then he
gets to his feet and runs up to me.
“Get on behind you?” he yells. “How in —— can I? You’re as far back as
you can get! I’ll get on in front.”
Dirty got on. The first jump that bronc made landed him up on its neck,
where he locks his legs around under its jaws and away we went, me way
back on its rump and him almost on its head, while Piperock fired
salutes and cheered in a loud voice.
We turned a corner and bucked around and around until we slammed up
against the jail, where my cinch slid down around the bronc’s hind legs
and I got kicked in the belly with both hind feet. Then the bronc
whirled sideways, and slammed Dirty against the corner of the building.
He just lets loose and drops like a suit of clothes, while the bronc
whistles again and hits for the open country.
I ain’t got no ambition left, but I’ve got sense enough to throw the
saddle and Dirty Shirt Jones inside the jail, and then fall in after
him. I kicked the door shut, but Piperock cometh not. There ain’t no
sign of pursuit. Pretty soon Dirty’s lips open and he begins singing:
“—le-e-e-ft up your voice and see-e-e-e-ng. Ho-o-o-o-o-sa-a-na-a——”
“Shut up!” I croaks. “You ain’t dead—yet.”
* * * * *
He sets up and licks his lips while he feels of his head.
“What did yuh say?” he asks, weak-like.
“I said, you ain’t dead.”
“Feller, there’s a lot of things that you don’t know. Where are we?”
“In the jail.”
“Thank the Lord! This is better than I expected. What are we charged
with?”
“How much did yuh get in the bank?”
“There wasn’t anybody there,” he wails. “I left one boot. It hung in the
cashier’s window and I didn’t have time to get it loose. How did we get
here?”