* * * * *
On Monday night I goes down, plays poker all night, and comes home and
lies to Telescope. On Wednesday night Muley does the same thing. He
tells Telescope that the fe-male spoke well uh him, and he’s pleased.
On Saturday Telescope asks me fer enough to buy some tobacco. Th’ ol’
man is goin’ down-town after supplies.
“Where’s the twenty?” I asks him. “Spend it all last night?”
“Gals shore come high, Hen,” he sighs.
I loans him two-bits this time. The next day, bein’ Sunday, me and Muley
takes the wagon and goes to town after uh stove the ol’ man bought, and
natcherally we horns into uh game uh draw in Dug’s place. Muley has jist
stood pat in uh good pot when Doughgod Smith comes in the door. Him and
Muley sees each other at the same time.
“I’ve shore had uh hard time gittin’ to see you, Muley,” sez Doughgod,
and reaches fer his hip.
Muley shore is some speedy on the draw, and jist as Doughgod’s hand
moves forward, he fans two .45 slugs across the table at Doughgod, and
busts the hinges off the back door gittin’ away.
As soon as the smoke clears away I sees that Doughgod is still on his
feet. He’s starin’ at his right hand some industrious-like. He opens
his mouth several times before he sez uh word, and when he does it’s
some profane.
“----!” sez he. “Wouldn’t that break yore heart?”
He holds up his right hand and lets some scraps uh paper drift to the
floor.
“I asks you all to take notice,” he orates. “I hereby states that I’m
goin’ to pay him that forty dollars or die. First time I tries to pay
him he assaults me with uh bottle uh hoss liniment, and this time he
shoots three tens and two fives into ribbons. My Gawd! There ain’t no
sense in destroyin’ good coin of the realm thataway when there’s lots
uh better targets to practise on.”
“Don’t be stingy, Doughgod,” sez I. “If I ever had as much money as you
got I’d shore rather have folks shoot at my roll than at me.”
Muley ain’t no place in sight when I goes over to the wagon, so I fans
that team out of town and ambles back toward the Cross-J. About two
miles out uh town Muley steps out from behind uh mesquite. He’s got uh
gun in his hand and sorrow in his eyes.
“Did he die?” he asks, sort uh careless-like, as though uh killin’ was
uh daily occurrence with him.
“Muley,” sez I, “you can’t expect nothin’ else when yuh shoots uh man
at close range with uh .45. All pore Doughgod was tryin’ to do was to
git that forty out of his hip pocket and pay his debts.”
“My Gawd!” wails Muley, leanin’ ag’in the wheel, and moppin’ the
perspiration from his brow. “The Jasper what said that honesty is the
best policy was loco. Hereafter I don’t loan money to no blamed man
unless he’s dishonest. It’s dangerous! Where’s the posse, Hen?”
“Organizin’. I figgered that they’d overtake me before I got this far.
You better hop right into the wagon here with me, Muley.”
“That’ll do uh lot uh good!” he wails. “Do yuh think fer uh minute that
you can outrun uh posse with uh dead-ex wagon?”
“Muley,” sez I, pityin’ like, “no wonder yore uh fugitive from justice.
You ain’t got no ideas a-tall. See them ol’ sacks in the bottom of the
wagon? There’s yore getaway. I’ll pull one over yore head and one over
yore feet and pile the rest on top. Then I’ll roll yuh under the seat.
If they asks me I’ll say it’s some spuds I’m takin’ home.”
Muley’s willin’ to take uh chance on anythin’, so I fixes him up. As I
rolls him under the seat I hears uh muffled voice opine:
“Hen, yore awful good to me. Do the same fer you some time.”
“Don’t mention it, Muley,” sez I. “I know yuh would.”
I drives along fer uh spell, and Muley rides comfortable. Then I gits uh
happy thought.
“Muley!” I yells. “The posse’s in sight, and I got to leave the road.
Hang on!”
“_Ooof glubb mmff!_” I hears emanatin’ from the roll, so I opines that
he’s thankin’ me some more.
I swings the team off the road and over some of the worst goin’ yuh
ever saw. Part of the time I’m on the seat and part of the time in the
air. You can imagine what it was like to the man on the bottom of the
wagon--uh wagon without no springs. When I unrolls Muley down back of
the barn he’s shore uh sight. Take uh man what tilts the scales at two
hundred and forty, wrap him up in uh lot uh dirty gunnysacks, bounce
him in the bottom of uh lumber wagon fer eight miles and then unroll
him, and you’ve got uh pitcher uh Muley Bowles.
“Did we--huh--dodge ’em?” he wheezes, tryin’ to rub the kinks out of his
legs, and peek around the corner at the same time.
“So far,” I replies. “You shore got to give me uh lot uh credit, Muley.
I shore have done uh lot fer you on this day uh the month.”
“I know it, Hen. I appreciates it uh heap. Where do I go now?”
“Under the bunk-house fer you, Muley,” I replies.
When the ranch-house was built fer the Cross-J, the ol’ man opines to
build uh root-house. He gits it dug about three feet deep and he runs
into solid rock. Not havin’ any blastin’ powder he abandons that place
and digs in another. In order to cover up the hole with the least labor
he builds the bunk-house over it.
“Close quarters,” complains Muley. “Dog-gone, uh feller ain’t got room
to breathe in there, Hen.”
“Easier’n breathin’ with uh rope around yore neck,” I orates, and Muley
agrees. “You got to crawl all the way on yore stummick, though,” sez I.
“Yuh shore got to keep low, cause fer all we knows the posse may be up
talkin’ to the ol’ man.”
He did jist that li’l thing--crawl. I hauls him in the back window,
pushes him under the floor and nails him down. I manages to smuggle
some grub and uh canteen full uh water from the cook-shack, and eases
it under to him.
“The posse’s hot on yore trail, ol’-timer,” sez I, consolin’-like. “You
better lay plumb still fer uh spell.”
“Cripes!” sez he. “How soon do yuh reckon I can git away, Hen?”
“I don’t know much about law, Muley, but I do know that some debts is
outlawed in seven years. Mebby it takes longer to cover uh killin’.”
* * * * *
That evenin’ me and Telescope plays seven-up in the bunk-house.
Telescope feels uh heap bad, out loud, about Muley.
“Pore ol’ Muley,” he mourns in uh high key. “Play yore jack on that
ace, Hen Peck. Do yuh reckon they’ll hang him? They say that Sheriff
McFee allus gits his man, so there ain’t much use uh Muley tryin’ to
git away. I got high, low and the game. That puts me out. Wonder
where pore ol’ Muley is tonight, Hen. This will shore break the set.
Did yuh ever see uh man hung?”
“Uh-huh,” sez I. “They shore kicks hard. What are we goin’ to do about
the courtin’ agreement? This kind uh busts it up, don’t it?”
“Shore does,” agrees Telescope. “If I had some money I’d go down to see
her tonight.”
“I ain’t got none,” I states. “But I got uh good idea, Telescope. Muley
thought uh heap uh you, and he allus said that you could have anything
he had. I seen Muley put some money in his war-sack yesterday, and I
know if he was here he’d let yuh have it in uh minute. Money ain’t goin’
to do him no good no more, so yuh might as well take it. Here it is,
Telescope--thirty-five simoleons.” I talks in uh loud tone all the time,
and oncet I hears the floor squeak.
“I hates to take it,” sez Telescope, puttin’ it in his pocket. “But
it’s jist as you say, Hen--where Muley’s goin’ they don’t use gold,
except to pave the streets. I wonder if I hadn’t better sell Muley’s
saddle? I hears Pete Pickett offer Muley fifty dollars fer it uh few
days ago. Pete can’t git uh tree big enough, and that one jist fits.”
“Sell it,” I advises. “It would jist dry up and spoil hangin’ up here,
cause it’s too blamed big fer uh ordinary man.”
Telescope saddles up and pulls out, and Muley tries to bust through the
floor.
“Lay still, yuh animated lard can!” I yells. “Ain’t yuh got no sense
a-tall, Muley? The sheriff’s up at the house.”
“Don’t let Telescope sell that saddle!” comes in muffled tones through
uh knothole. “I can’t never make my getaway in uh small saddle.”
“You shut up, Muley!” I advises. “I’m goin’ up and see how much the
sheriff knows.”