_Bang! Bang!_
I hears a couple of bullets spin off the sidewalk down by Ricky
Henderson’s barber-shop. I figures it’s about time for me to find an
ambush; so I kicks Wick Smith’s store door open and falls inside. A
couple of bullets whisper to me as I go in, but I don’t reply, ’cause
I don’t know what to say.
Wick is in there, stuffing shells into his pockets, and he tosses me a
new box of .44’s. I sets down behind a keg of nails.
“What seems to be the argument?” I asks.
“Council meeting.”
“Injuns?”
“Naw! Injuns got sense. If you see ‘Tombstone’ Todd, ‘Ornery’ Olsen or
‘Half-Mile’ Smith--kill’m, Ike.”
“You sure are filled with sweet thoughts, Wick,” says I. “Tell me what
council you’re talking about.”
Wick stops stuffing shells into a rifle and stares at me.
“You been away, ain’t you, Ike? Thought so. Piperock is incorporated.
“Yes, sir. Got a mayor, aldermen, et cettery. I’m the mayor.”
“Oh! That’s the reason everybody is trying to kill everybody else, eh?
Political battle?”
“Naw! I makes a motion that we puts a city tax on horse-thieves,
cow-rustlers, et cettery, and them three _hombres_ I mentioned got up
and squalled at me for trying to put the population out of business. I
signed the ordinance, proclaimed it as passed and then fell out of the
second-story window. I went there without a gun, like a danged fool.
“Mighty Jones gets up and states that he is in favor of getting us a
judge who is more addicted to justice than to cactus juice. Judge Steele
hammers Mighty on the head with his cane, the same of which makes Mighty
act childish with his gun. He misses the judge and hits Pete Gonyer in
the watch. Uh-huh. It ruins Pete’s Swiss timepiece, and his anger rises.
Pete and the judge are over in Pete’s shop, shooting at Mighty, who is
under the sidewalk in front of Ricky’s place.
“‘Old Testament’ Tilton asks that we pass an ordinance making it a
felony to sell liquor in the city limits, and now he’s up in Sam Holt’s
hay-mow, while Buck sets down below with a shotgun waiting for Testament
to change his mind.”
“Who is up in the Mint Stairway?”
“I don’t know, Ike, but it’s likely ‘Doughgod’ Smith, the marshal. Every
time somebody shoots at him he resigns. He’s resigned eight times since
I jumped out of the window. Now, Ike, who are you for?”
“Me,” says I, “I’m going to sell ’em life insurance, Wick.”
“For why is that?” asks Wick interested-like.
“Protection. Costs you five per month while you live, and when you die
you get five hundred.”
“After I’m dead? That’s a ---- of a lot of good, after I’m dead.”
“The city won’t have to bury you, Wick.”
“I could pack dynamite in my pocket and get the same results, Ike.”
He shoots a few times at Buck’s place, takes a fresh chew and loads up.
“Nossir, I don’t need protection--but them three does. I sure am going
to blow out their candles.”
“Good!” says I. “Here’s a idea; why not take out insurance for all three
of them and cash in fifteen hundred to the good? You can bury them for
five dollars per head, and that leaves you fourteen hundred and seventy
to the good.”
Wick chaws industrious for a while and then:
“Five dollars ought to bury the three, Ike. Can I take ’em out like you
say?”
“I ain’t plumb conversant with the details, Wick, but I reckon you can.”
“Write ’em out. Them snake-hunters ain’t going to live no month, but you
can keep the difference.”
I ducked bullets to get enough light to write ’em out, and Wick signed
all three. Then I sneaked out a back window and around behind Ricky’s
shop. Some lead is still seeping around so I rolls a smoke and took it
easy. After while I says, fairly loud:
“Mighty Jones! This is Ike speaking.”
“Bring me some .44’s, Ike,” comes a muffled voice. “Help out a good
cause. Play snake or lose your head.”