“You out again?” he squeaks. “You out on bail?”
“Not guilty,” grunts Buck. “Soaked me five for criminal negligence. Said
I ought to ’a’ used a rifle.”
And then he steps between Scenery and the door.
“Don’t you touch me, Buck!” squeaked Scenery. “I’m a pizen pelican when
I’m peeved, and you’re making me rile all over.”
“You said you’d herd sheep in my place,” says Buck. “You said that, dang
your hide!”
Scenery tries to run past Buck, but he didn’t make it. Buck got him by
the back of his neck and the slack of his pants and cast him out.
Scenery skids along on his hands and knees and then crawls to his feet.
“I said it!” he yelps, shaking his fist at Buck. “You’re going to find
out that you’ve done assaulted one of our prominent citizens, dang you!
What I said about them sheep goes double now, and you’ll likely be
herding them yourself.”
The last me and Dirty seen of that pair, Scenery was still in the lead
but Buck was running a close second, and in Buck’s hands is the remains
of that can of molasses syrup.
* * * * *
Then comes “Polecat” Perkins. Polecat is our most odoriferous citizen.
He only comes to town to vote or get his keg filled. He hives up in a
dugout in the hills and raises skunks for their fur. He stumbles into
the door and peers at me and Dirty.
“Haw!” says he, working his jaws. “Everybody gone loco around here, Ike?
I comes down to see about election and finds that our liberty is in
jeopardy. I feels that us strong citizens has got to do something.”
“Strong is the right word,” says Dirty, opening the window.
“They asks me to the show this evening,” continues Polecat. “Testament
Tilton asks me to come and join in their song of thanksgiving over what
is going to happen to hooch. I’m here on business, but I don’t miss any
singing. What are they trying to cause this country to do, gents?”
“Polecat,” says Dirty, “this country is almost in the hands of a
receiver. Us old-timers will have to make moonshine or drink milk.
_Sabe?_ While there is yet time, I will buy a drink.”
“I’ll sing my song of thanksgiving right now,” grins Polecat, and the
two of them walks down-town.
I scrubs for about an hour to get some of the larder out of my hair, and
then I pilgrims down-town, where I meets Wick Smith, waving his arms and
talking to himself like a shepherd.
“Better hire out as a windmill, Wick,” I advises.
“Hire, ——!” he roars. “Listen to this, Ike. The law, as interpreted by
Magpie Simpkins, has grabbed half the chairs from the Mint Hall and has
moved ’em over to Buck’s place, where the disciples of the demon rum
opine to have a rally this night. We’ve got a regular show and only half
enough chairs to set upon.
“Things is in an awful state. Buck Masterson has gummed Scenery all up
with molasses. When I comes down, Polecat Perkins is down behind a
wagon-box, exchanging lead with Pete Gonyer, who has sided in with us.
Magpie got sympathetic with Scenery and tells Scenery that lye will take
the syrup out of his hair, but he didn’t tell Scenery what else it would
take, and now Scenery is making medicine against Magpie for scalping
him. Your sympathy is still with us, ain’t it, Ike?”
“I ain’t got none to waste, Wick, ’cause I need it all for Ike Harper,”
says I, and then I went back to the cabin.
As soon as it gets dark, I girds my hips with a pair of guns and walks
down the middle of the road. I’ve got a feeling that I ought to stay at
home, but I never did have sense enough to foller a good hunch.
Buck’s place is all lighted up, and so is the Mint Hall. I stops and
tries to figure out which side to support, when all at once a pane of
glass right beside my head gets shattered, and I sees the flash of a gun
over by the saloon.
I want you to understand that I didn’t go into the Mint Hall because my
sympathies was with the local optionists but because it was the first
place I could duck into. Old Testament meets me at the door and shakes
me by the hand.
“Brother,” says he, “I felt that you’d show up. Where is your ticket?”
“Ticket to where?” I asks. “Are you the conductor?”
“Ticket to the show, Ike. Ticket or a dollar.”
“Ike comes in free, Testament,” states Fog-Horn over Testament’s
shoulder. “Ike’s a actor in the play.”
I’d let a man call me most anything to save me a dollar; so I follers
Fog-Horn. All the remaining seats are taken, and some folks are standing
along the walls. I sees “Yuma” Yates and “Big Foot” Forrest setting down
in front. I don’t like them _hombres_. I hates to be a actor in front of
two unnecessary evils like them, but I figure I’ve got an even break,
being as I know where they are.
Fog-Horn leads me up behind the curtain, where there’s a lot of females
milling around. They’ve got a home-made bar up there and a lot of empty
bottles and kegs, which makes it look like a real saloon to anybody who
ain’t never seen one.
Setting on a box on one side of the platform is Polecat Perkins, and he
appears too drunk to move. Polecat ain’t what you’d call fastidious as
to fashions, and he sure is a sight for to see.
“How comes Polecat to be a actor?” I asks.
“He offered his services to us, and we can’t refuse,” says the Widder
Sanders. “We are going to use him as an example of what liquor can do to
a human being.”
“What am I supposed to be in this here theater?” I asks.
“You are to be,” says Miss Mudgett embarrassed-like, “you—Uncle Ike, I
hope you won’t feel offended, but we had to have somebody play the part
of the bartender, and we thought you—you might be willing to do it.”
“You won’t have to handle any real liquor,” states Mrs. Tilton. “All you
will have to do is to stand over there behind the bar and just serve the
drinks as they are asked for. You won’t have no talking to do.”
“Brought m’ own box ’long,” mumbles Polecat foolish-like. “Hear there
ain’t seats ’nough, and I brings m’ own. Yessir. When do we drink
again?”
Just then the orchestra starts out in front, and I loosens up both of my
guns. Some female starts wailing about Scenery not being there to play
his part, but that didn’t bother me. When I went over to stand behind
that bar, I’m praying that the light will be good enough so I can kill
Froggy Deschamps. A jew’s-harp is bad enough as a musical instrument,
but when a fellow like Froggy gets one between his teeth, it gets plumb
out of the realm of music and enters the category of such things as
ulcerated teeth or earache.
* * * * *
Them females gets real busy placing the actors to suit the play, and,
when the curtain goes up, we’re ready for anything. On each side, out of
sight, is females with books, who are supposed to tell us actors what to
say in case we slip off the trail. I’m behind the bar, wiping a glass.
Old Judge Steele is standing at the bar with his tall hat on his head
and is facing Pete Gonyer and the Rev. Algernon Pettingill Parsley.
Setting on his box on the other side of the room is Polecat, snoring
plentiful.
I hear somebody snicker out in front as the judge lays his tall hat on
the bar.
“Ten years ago,” orates the judge, “I had two manly sons. Where are they
now?”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” whoops Yuma. “Ten year ago, eh? And you never got
married?”