“Ba-a-a-a!”
_Rip-p-p, rip-p-p-p!_
Something seems to hit me in the rear, and I come back to earth on my
shoulders, I seen the Rev. Parsley do a flip-flop, and I seen Old
Testament plumb off the floor, reaching back like he was searching for
something.
I hears the crash of Buck’s shotgun, and many feet seem to go over me
and on me. It all seems like sort of a dream to me. I seemed to sort of
get up on my hands and knees, and then I gets invigorated in the hip
pockets. I skidded under the pool-table on my hands and knees, went out
the other side and got hammered right back again. I can’t see very well,
on account of having hit the bridge of my nose on a chair.
Then there seems to come a lull in the confusion, and I peers out. Buck
is setting there in the middle of the floor with his shotgun in his
hands and a fool look on his face, and standing there facing him is
Lindhardt Cadwallader Sims. They glares at each other for a moment, and
then:
“I told you I’d do it,” proclaims Scenery at the top of his voice.
“Didn’t I tell you I would? I couldn’t find any sheep; so I borrowed
half of Mighty’s goats. Same thing, ain’t they? Any old time you insults
one of our prominent citizens——”
While I listens to Scenery’s oration of hate, I sees an animated bock
beer sign tiptoe into the front door, and, as Scenery leans forward to
hammer home his war talk, the goat accepts the invite.
Scenery turned over in the air and landed between the rail and the bar,
where he stands on his head for a few seconds before he slips down. The
goat shakes his head at Buck, but Buck don’t show fight; so it wanders
out of the door just as the Rev. Algernon starts to come in.
Algy don’t know goats. He makes a dive at this one and gets his knees
knocked higher than his head. He crashes down in a heap and sings off
key—
“I held four aces, which is quite a lot, But his Colt had me topped and
took the pot, With a hiyi and a hiyi and a hiyi yippi-i-a!”
“You ain’t always been a preacher,” says I, and just then Scenery slides
loose and turns his feet around so he can face Buck.
“You’re going to get the worst of it,” says he, starting in right where
he left off.
Buck raises his shotgun to cover Scenery. They glares at each other for
a minute, and then—_click-click_ goes both hammers of the shotgun.
“I—I told you I’d kill you,” mutters Buck.
Scenery nods and seems to sink lower.
“Man of your word, Buck,” says he slow-like. “Good-by.”
“Take care of yourself,” says Buck foolish-like.
I got up and walked out of the door. I’m sick of the whole campaign. I’m
so sprained in my hips that I walk in circles, and out in the moonlight
I finds Dirty Shirt.
* * * * *
He’s on his hands and knees in the dirt and has got both arms around the
neck of a goat.
“Dirty Shirt,” says I, “you’re either drunk or loco.”
“Nothing like it, Ike,” he replied. “I’m playing safe. _Sabe?_ Can’t
fool me no more. I let loose twice, and now I’m numb from my belt on
down. Hold the danged thing while I get up, will you?”
I took the goat by the neck while Dirty gets up painful-like, and then
he limps away down the street, leaving me there holding the goat. I
takes a good grip on its neck, gives its head a twist and kicks its legs
out from under it at the same time.
That’s the way to humble a goat. It gets all befuzzled over such
procedure. Of course, you want to go away from there as fast as you
can—which I didn’t do. I stumbled and fell on my hands and knees when I
started to run.
That goat wasn’t particular. Every time I tried to get up it moved me on
down the street, and, when I sat up, it butted me in the neck. After a
while I laid down flat, and the goat pulled out.
Then I sure cut some circles down that street. I reckon that goat busted
my rudder, ’cause I sure made a curved trail.
“Oh, Uncle Ike, I’m so sorry!” exclaims a voice beside me, and here is
the Widder Sanders and Miss Mudgett. “You were doing wonderfully, and we
want to thank you.”
“Yes’m,” says I, “I done wonderfully.”
“I—I only wish we had the chance to show what we could have done,” says
the widder sad-like. “It was over so suddenly.”
“Maybe it looked that way to you,” says I, rubbing myself. “You’re
welcome to show what you can do, ladies, but don’t ask me to look on.
That goat is still alive, but, if you takes my advice, you’ll go right
home. _Sabe?_”
Then I weaved on. I found Dirty Shirt out in the corral putting a pack
on his burro. I didn’t ask no questions. I packed mine and got my rifle,
and we piked away in the night. Me and Dirty seemed to limp a heap. We
came to them proclamations on the trees, and we stopped to spell ’em out
again without comment. We made camp about morning and slept all day.
We’re too sore to go on; so we lays there until the kinks go out of our
muscles. Then we packs up, looks at each other and then off at the blue
haze of the hills.
“Might take a peek at Powder River,” suggests Dirty.
“Might,” I agrees, and we swings our jassacks north.
Later on we pilgrims down the one street of Powder River, ties our
burros in front of Fog-Horn’s saloon and went inside.
“Brothers, will you have plain spirits or ginger ale?” asks a familiar
voice behind the bar.
Me and Dirty looks at him and at each other. It is Algernon Pettingill
Parsley. He’s got a black eye, and, when he moves, he sort of squeaks in
the joints.
“You?” asks Dirty foolish-like.
“Uh-huh—me,” says Algy. “Never again do I help prohibition. If that’s
what happens to clergymen in Piperock, what would happen to an
honest-to-gosh sinner?
“I’ve been an actor,” says he, leaning on the bar and grinning at us,
“and Fog-Horn hankered for prohibition in Yaller Rock. You see, gents,
if it’s dry over there, it makes big business over here. _Sabe?_ All
they needed over there was some one to lead ’em. I’m all through,
though. Any time they brings goats, I’m all through.”
“Uh-huh,” says I. “Me, too.”
Just then Fog-Horn drifts into the place and dumps his saddle on the
table. He looks like he’d had a hard year.
“How did the e-lection go?” asks Dirty, wondering-like.
“She’s an issue, gents,” says Fog-Horn. “Won by one single vote.”
“What is a issue?” I asks.
“Local option, Ike. They’ll decide it at the regular election in
November.”
“Uh—who was elected sheriff?” asks Dirty.
“Nobody was elected,” says Fog-Horn. “Magpie and Scenery both got
nominated, ’cause nobody ran against ’em. It wasn’t no fight.”
“It—it wasn’t n-no fight?” stutters Dirty. “Say it wasn’t?”
“Nope. The real fight will be in November. Don’t you snake-hunters know
anything about elections?”
Me and Dirty looks at each other and then shakes our heads.
“Well,” says Fog-Horn, “this is the first year they uses the direct
primaries, which is a heap like the regular election, and——”
But me and Dirty Shirt didn’t wait to hear the rest. We untied our
animals and poked ’em off up the street.
“The Rev. Algernon Pettingill Parsley wasn’t no regular preacher,”
states Dirty Shirt like he was telling me something.
“Won by one vote, Dirty Shirt, and we had two,” says I, “but it wasn’t
no regular election. It’s a issue.”
“The real fight will be in November, Ike. We can go quite a ways before
November.”
“Yes,” says I, slapping a burro so it will show more speed. “Yes, and it
won’t be in no circle, either, Dirty Shirt.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
July 18, 1919. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]