by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “The Hand of Providence,” “Pie for Magpie,” etc.
Once in a while you’ll meet a feller that you couldn’t help liking, even
if he took a shot at you, and that’s how me and Magpie felt about
Franklyn Burt. He sure knowed minerals sixteen ways from the jack, but
he didn’t act like he knowed a whole lot more than the rest of us old
sourdoughs at that.
His card said that he was a mining engineer. He just poked around our
prospect, putting me and Magpie wise to a lot of new things on timbering
and so forth, and what he didn’t find out about our mine wasn’t much.
Said he was from Redfield, that he was quite well, thank you, and we
made him as welcome as a mess of trout.
One day Magpie has been to Piperock, and when he comes back he’s got a
letter for Franklyn. It’s the first one he’s got since he came, which is
more than Magpie and me gets in a whole year unless somebody sends us a
catalog, telling us where we can get a suit of clothes for seven dollars
and eighty-eight cents, and an extra pair of pants free.
Franklyn peruses that letter, while me and Magpie throws a feed
together, and all of a sudden he groans and spits out a man-sized cuss
word.
“I’d say that Frankie has been reading the news,” says Magpie to me.
Frankie throws down the letter, disgusted like, and stares into space.
“Uncinch, son,” advises Magpie. “There ain’t nothing broke so badly that
it can’t be helped. Give us a look at your cards.”
“She’s going to marry a duke,” says he, in a far-away voice, “a blasted
duke, with one foot in the grave.”
“Pshaw!” says Magpie. “Maybe we can push him the rest of the way.”
“You don’t understand, boys,” says Frankie, shaking his head. “It isn’t
her so much—it’s her aunt.”
“Yes’m,” says I, “her aunt is going to marry the duke.”
“No, Ike, I wish she were. Marion White and I were raised together, went
to the same school and college, and we’ve—well, I wish you could see
her, and then you’d know why I don’t want her to marry a duke.”
“Why specify any certain breed?” grins Magpie. “You means that you sort
of browses around the same range. I don’t blame you, son. I’d go back
there and scare him so bad that he’d swim back home without even taking
time to put on a bathing-suit. Does her folks cotton to this duke stuff,
and where does auntie horn into the game?”
“Her family consists of Wilberforce Van Veen and wife, Marion’s uncle
and aunt. They are her mother’s sister and brother-in-law, and they act
as guardians to Marion, and run the household. The bread-winner of the
family is her father’s brother, Samuel White, known as ‘Whispering’
White.
“He made a mint of money down in Brazil, died and left it all to Marion.
Of course, being guardians for Marion, the Van Veens sure did horn into
society, and—well, they spoiled things for me. They filled Marion’s
curly head with foolish ideas, and——”
“Left you holding the sack,” grins Magpie, sympathetic like. “Now this
Whispering White——”
“He didn’t die,” states Frankie. “His wealth was practically all in the
States, and the estate was settled up right away after he was reported
dead by the Brazilian Government, and the Van Veens dove into society.
One day Marion got a letter from her uncle. He had seen the papers, in
which his obituary was printed, and the settlement of the estate. He
told her that he was so glad to be able to read the sad news that she
could keep the money—it would be hers, anyway.
“He’s down there making another stake. It seems that a couple of natives
broke into his place and stole some clothes and some emeralds, or
something like that. He nailed the clothes thief, while he was after the
jewel robber, and the authorities, finding the body clothed in
Whispering’s clothes, took it for granted that it was he, reported the
death, and buried the remains. It was about two weeks after Whispering
had caught him, and they didn’t make a very thorough identification.”
“He must think a heap of the girl,” says I, and Frankie nods.
“Yes, I suppose he does, in a way. He never saw her in his life. In fact
he never saw either of the Van Veens. He’s been a rover all his life,
mostly in foreign lands and in the West, and he never was in Redfield.”
“Now, about this here duke,” says Magpie, waving us up to the table.
“Where does he hail from, and why?”
“The Duke of Northmore,” says Frankie. “Never saw him in my life, but I
know the type. A perfect lady, scented from his bawth, cawn’t stand
excitement, and thinks that everybody wild enough to eat meat is a
bounder and a beastly bore, don’t you know?”
“Aw-w-w!” drawls Magpie, screwing a dollar into one eye, and twisting
his face out of plumb in order to hold it there.
“That’s it!” whoops Frankie. “Where in the world did you ever see the
like, Magpie?”
“Shot one once,” laughed Magpie. “Dang near got arrested for it, too. It
was closed season.”
* * * * *
Magpie Simpkins was built after the plans and specifications intended to
be used to build a memorial to a Norway spruce. He’s the longest,
boniest, wisest-looking person in seventeen States. He’s got a
rail-splitting face, a tired-looking mustache, and a desire to prove to
the world that when brains were passed around he got more than his
share.
I was christened Ike Harper, and I ain’t never been ashamed enough or
scared enough to change it. I got bow-legs, make tracks in the sand like
an Injun, and the best disposition on earth. I know when I’m licked, and
there’s a lot of men who can pull quicker and shoot faster than I can.
Me and Magpie have been puttering around our little mine for quite a
long time. She starts out to be a silver proposition, but after a
certain depth she turns yaller. We hammers out enough free-milling gold
to keep us in bacon and beans, and prays that some day a millionaire
will drive up in a shiny hack and offer to buy us out.
Frankie don’t say much about our mine, but he puts in quite a lot of
time puttering around, and writing letters. A few days after he gets
that letter he borrows a burro to ride to Piperock. When he comes back
we’re eating supper, so he fills up a plate with bean soup, and then
hauls out a yaller sheet of paper.
“Take a look at this, boys,” says he, smoothing the sheet out on the
table. “What shall I answer?”
It reads:
Regarding Your Report Offer Fifteen Thousand Cash Limit Twenty.
ADAMS.
“Just about what is the puzzle?” asks Magpie, and Frankie grins.
“That’s up to you, Magpie—you and Ike. That’s a bona fide offer for your
little prospect. The wire is from Hartley Adams, the man I’m working
for, and he offers you a limit of twenty thousand dollars for your mine,
on my report.”
“Son,” says Magpie, “I’ll go back there and kill that duke for you.
What’ll you do to please him, Ike?”
“Me? I’ll count a coup, and wear his hair for a watch-charm. When do we
paint up for the war trail?”
“Thanks,” laughs Frankie, but there ain’t a lot of joy in his laugh. “I
appreciate the spirit, but you can’t shoot a man—not even a duke, just
because he wants to marry the same girl you do. That’s East, boys. It
isn’t fashionable to kill folks back there.”
“Haw!” grunts Magpie, with his mouth full of beans, “sometimes a good
scare is better than a bullet. I sort of pines for the East like a bear
for a bee-tree. Let’s me and you go East, Ike. A change will do us a lot
of good. Let’s go with Frankie.”
Frankie looks us over, and nods sort of pleased like.
“Love to have you,” says he. “Why not go? I can wire for a draft on the
bank of Silver Bend, and we can settle up things later, in case you
accept.”
“Accept?” asks Magpie, smoothing his mustache, and looking at me.
“Does a trout accept a fly hook? No, sir, he jumps at it. Consider us as
having jumped, Mister Franklyn Burt.”
“You and me both,” I agrees. “But what’ll we do back there, Magpie, and
where will we go? We ain’t got nobody to visit.”
“I have,” says he, hitching his belt around, “I have.” He pats himself
on the chest, and twists his mustache. “Look at me. Give you three
guesses who I am, and bet you ten dollars per guess that you’re wrong. I
am Whispering White!”
“My ——!” says I, and Frankie drops a cup of hot coffee on his knees.