by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Dirty Work for Doughgod,” “The Color of His Boots,” etc.
Me and “Dirty Shirt” halts our burros and peers at the proclamation.
There she is, tacked to a tree beside the trail for all men to see. We
spells her out loud, and then we sets down to try and figure out the
meaning.
VOTE FOR
LINDHARDT CADWALLADER SIMS
FOR SHERIFF AND
DEFEAT THE DEMON RUM
Me and Dirty looks at each other.
“Lindhardt Cadwallader!” snorts Dirty. “My ——, what a name!”
“For a sheriff,” I admits. “Yaller Rock needs us, Dirty Shirt.”
“And defeat the demon rum,” peruses Dirty. “Who’s he, Ike?”
“Not being a mind-reader, Dirty, I has to remain silent. I feel that we
will find our answer in Piperock town.”
Me and Dirty Shirt Jones are just getting over our annual hunch that we
know where there’s some gold. Said hunch takes us away from the
flesh-pots in the gentle Springtime, and there’s almost a smell of snow
in the air when we returneth back, chastened in spirit, short on
spondulix and hairy as to face.
Our faith in our own county is about on par with our hunches when we
reads that “Scenery” Sims is candidate for sheriff. Scenery is only a
cipher in a country where men talk in figures. He’s knee-high to a tall
Injun and has a voice that sounds like an asthmatic fiddle.
He used to be a practising shepherd, but he got scared and sold his
flocks when the cowmen declared war on the woolies. Then he purchases a
lot of alleged cows, builds him a house on top of a hill, where he can
see all directions, and tries to become a citizen.
Me and Dirty punches our long-eared rolling-stock in the direction of
Piperock. A little farther on we finds another notice on a tree.