Author of “Sparing the Family Tree,” “Figures of Speech,” etc.
In this here vale of tears where a person ain’t got but one way out and
has to die to find that exit, I’ve met a lot of fools. Yea verily, they
have come from the ends of the earth to do injury to my nervous system,
but while I may never look the same, I have managed to keep my carcass
out of the loco-lodge in spite of their having done unto me things which
I could never have done unto them.
Some of them have been of the common or hillside variety, which you
may bust with a six-gun and not figure that you’ve ruined any of God’s
beautiful works; while others has been of educated stock, peculiar to
look upon and listen to. But to all ye fools, whether ye be shepherd
or scientist, I say unto thee: there is a place at my table--come and
get it! But, all ye of absent mind--vamoose!
A fool is merely one who is destitute of reason; but an absent-minded
man is anointed of the devil, and his days are few and far between if
he gets in range of my wickiup. Tell yuh why I’m against everybody who
forgets to remember.
“Tippecanoe” Seeley was one of the reasons. When it came to forgetting
he was seven thousand degrees in the shade. He never thought of anything
with more than one syllable, and his back-trail was littered with things
he’d forgotten to do.
Everything he done was with a reverse English. If he wanted his dog to
follow him he’d throw rocks at it instead of whistling. He’d cook mush
for his supper, thinking it was breakfast, and then sit up all night
kicking about the dark days we’re having in this Western country. He
packed a .45 Colt and filled his belt with .45-70 rifle cartridges.
He was a peculiar-looking _hombre_. Eating his own cooking had just
about finished up what Nature was ashamed to do to him. Mostly always
he’d have his pants on backwards or his shoes on the wrong feet. One
nice thing about him was the fact that he never repeated what was told
to him--he never remembered it.
Me and “Magpie” Simpkins, my pardner, are doing a little work on our
alleged gold-mine on Thunder Creek about five miles from Piperock.
We cut out a road to our cabin and she’s some road, I’d tell a man.
Beyond our cabin is the Thunder Creek trail, which hugs the side of
an awful steep mountain for several miles.
Our cabin was built on the only place where we could find room to
hook it on to the side of the hill, and we’ve got about fifteen feet
of ground for a front yard, and the rear of the cabin sets back into
the hill.
Beyond our front yard the landscape just falls for a mile. We’ve sure
got a restricted building-site, a wonderful view and nothing to see.
One morning I’m sitting in the cabin cooking a pot of beans, when all
to once I hears a awful noise coming up the road. I pokes out my head
and sees an automobile heaving and twisting towards the cabin. That
road is barely out of the pack-trail age, which means she’s still
within the Stone Age and noways appropriate for horseless carriages.
Anyway, they got to the cabin and stopped.
The feller who is doing the driving is one of them cadaverous-looking
little persons, long on glasses and short on chin. Somebody has sold him
a suit of clothes which must ’a’ been ordered for a African explorer,
even to one of them front-and-back-porch hats. The other person in the
seat is Tippecanoe Seeley.
“Howdy,” says I, and the feller nods.
“Is this ‘Hackamore’ Harper or Ike Harper?” asks Tip, peering at me.
I’ve knowed Tip for ten years; so I don’t laugh.
“I’m Ike,” says I.
“By the whiskers on the waumpus, I knowed I was right!” he squeaks. “I
knowed I’d get the right Harper. Can’t fool old Tippecanoe--y’betcha.”
I congratulated Tip on his ability, which was all right and proper, even
if Hackamore had been dead four years.
“Hackamore,” says Tip, “meet Professor--uh----”
“Doctor Aloysius Van Fleet,” says the lion-hunter. “At your service.”
“I can’t use you,” says I. “I’m running things alone now.”
“We comes out to see you about something,” says Tip, “didn’t we,
reverend?”
“Reverend,” snaps the other. “Ain’t I told you plenty of times that I’m
the professor?”
“I thought you said ‘Doctor’,” says I.
The little fellow lifts his hat and feels of his bald head.
“Well, maybe I did. Sure I did.”
Then he turns to Tip. “You know as well as I do that I’m not a doctor. I
am a-- What were we talking about anyway?”
“My ----!” says I. “Two of a kind! What did you want of me?”
Tip and Aloysius looks at each other for a moment and then they look at
me.
“What was it?” asks Aloysius. “You know, don’t you?”
“----!” grunts Tip. “I didn’t hire out to keep track of your wants. I
hired out to--to-- What in ---- did you hire me for anyway?”
Aloysius turns and stares Tip in the face.
“You mean to say you don’t know what I hired you for?”
“Nope,” says Tip, puzzled-like. “Do you?”
Aloysius puckers up his eyebrows and seems to try to remember, but
finally shakes his head.
“My gosh, that’s some gun you got!” says I. “What kind of a weapon do
you call it?”
“Oh that,” says Aloysius. “I forget, but I know it’s a five-passenger. I
must have bent the steering-gear in the rocks.”
“Well,” says I, “you better get out and rest your mind a while.”
They climbs out. Tip picks a rope and walks around to the front of the
machine and then stops and rubs his nose.
“You don’t need to tie it, Tip,” says I, and he nods.
“I forgot that I’d already took the team to the stable.”
* * * * *
They sets down on the steps of the cabin and admires the view. Pretty
soon Tip sniffs and cranes his neck.
“Whatcha cooking in-- That’s it! That’s it, judge! We wanted to hire him
to cook!”
“Ah,” grins Aloysius. “You surely can remember things. I congratulate
you on a wonderful memory. Mister--er--what’s the name?”
“Harper,” says I.
“Ah, yes--Harper. We--er--wish to hire you to act as our guide.”
“That’s it!” yelps Tip, slapping himself on the knee. “That’s it,
professor. I knew I was hired for something, and that’s it. I’m to
guide you.”
Aloysius stares at Tip for a moment and then nods:
“I believe you are right. I wish I had your ability to remember little
details. Yes, you’re the guide.”
“Guide and a cook, eh?” says I. “Where you going?”
“Exactly,” agrees Aloysius, turning to Tip. “Where are we going?”
“Did you speak of any certain place?” asks Tip, foolish-like.
“Why certainly, I did,” says Aloysius, peevish-like. “I certainly did.”
“Oh,” says Tip. “I see how it happened. You was standing on my left when
you said it, and I can’t hear very well in my left ear. Tell me again.”
Aloysius considers it for a while and then clears his throat.
“Ahem-m-m-m! Seems to me that I had some place in mind at the time, but
I must have misplaced it. Now what places have you around here?”
“You don’t happen to be hunting elephants, do you?” I asks, examining
that double-barreled rifle, which had a bore like a twelve-gage shotgun.
“Elephants?” asks Aloysius. “Hunting elephants?”
“There ain’t none,” says Tip, wise-like. “There ain’t been none since
the Custer massacre.”
“The last herd I knowed about was up in the Flathead country.”
“You mean buffalo, don’t you?” I asks.
“Buffalo? Sure. What did you think I meant?”
“Aloysius,” says I, “you’ll do well. You’ve got some guide.”
“Yes,” says he. “I know I have. I saw a man in town and I asked him
where I could find a guide, and he directed me to Mister Seeley. He
said that Mister Seeley had forgotten more about the country than
most anybody knew about it.”
“He didn’t lie to you at that,” says I, and it pleased old Tip a heap.
“By golly, I sure _sabe_ the country all right,” he squeaks. “There
ain’t no place I can’t go.”
“That’s right, Tip,” says I. “You don’t need to worry about finding
places, but you sure can’t remember the way back.”
Sudden-like Aloysius hops up and stares around.
“What’s eatin’ yuh?” asks Tip.
“You’re a fine guide!” whoops Aloysius. “Goodness gracious, where are
the rest of us?”
“Rest of us?” asks Tip. “Oh, you mean them folks what was with you?”
“My wife! Where is she? Where is the rest of them?”
“I dunno,” grunts Tip. “There was some folks got out of that blamed
machine when you stopped at my place. Was they intending to stay with
us?”
“I think so. In fact I’m almost certain they intended coming with us.
Why, we must go right back there at once.”
“Not me,” says Tip, shaking his head. “Not in that thing. Go ahead if
you wants to.”
“You refuse to go? Very well then, I’ll go.”
He hops into that machine, fusses with it a moment, and she begins to
heave and grunt.
“You can’t go out that way,” says I. “The road ends here.”
“Turn around, can’t I?” he snaps.