“Ike, just what did that female hear I said about her?”
“Just the opposite of what I told you, Magpie.”
“You lied to me, Ike?”
“Did she tell you to tell me she wanted me to take her home?”
“Nope.”
“Well we’re even, ain’t we?”
“Did she tell you she had money, Ike?”
“Nope—but she must have. She said she had lots of chances to get married
back East, and it ain’t reasonable to suppose that anybody would want to
marry her for her looks.”
Magpie sets there and stares at me while I dresses, hauling on my pants
with one hand while I grips my six-gun with the other.
“I’ll go home with you, Dirty, if you don’t mind,” says I.
“I don’t mind,” says Dirty, rubbing some of the purple ink into his
ears. “My ——! I feel like a printin’-press.”
Me and Dirty left Magpie setting there with the bucket still on his
head. We rides about half-way to Dirty’s place when he stops his bronc,
and says—
“Ike, if a feller marries a woman with money—does he get any of it?”
“After she dies, I reckon, Dirty.”
“Oh, ——! Get up, bronc. A twenty-year endowment has got that kind of a
marriage beat four ways from the jack.”
* * * * *
It’s the middle of the next afternoon when me and Dirty rides into
Piperock. We finds Mighty Jones and Wick Smith setting tipped back in a
pair of chairs in front of Buck’s place. They sure look sad and dreary.
“How’s every little thing, Mighty?” I asked, and Mighty spits very
expressive-like.
“Small items ain’t in my line, Ike, but the larger things of life is
giving me a itch in my trigger-finger. Judge Steele and that danged
schoolma’am has combined in restraint of my trade, seems like.
“That homely female mul’plication table has figured that I’m due to make
about fifty per each on my turkeys, the same of which they considers a
e-normous profit. The judge has adjudicated that I ain’t to sell chances
on my birds unless I agrees to let ’em have the use of ’em in what he
calls a tableau.
“’Pears to me that I’ve for to honkatonk my turkeys or lose what I paid
for ’em.”
“You feelin’ sorry for Mighty?” asks Dirty, peering into Wick’s sad
features.
“Mighty ——!” snaps Wick. “I ain’t sorry for nobody but me. I’m a Injun,
I am! I’m a blood-hungry savage of 1620. I eat ’em alive and hide behind
stumps on Sunday. Yah! My wife says to me—
“‘Wicksie, it’s educational, and I’ll be sore at you if you don’t do
it.’
“What’s a feller going to do, I asks you? Am I to have a grouchy wife in
my wickiup or will I shave off my whiskers, drape my form in a
gee-string and hide behind an alleged stump while the Pilgrims walk home
from worship?”
“Does you mean that we appears naked, Wick?” I asks.
“Accordin’ to the pre-vailing fashions of such a period. Magpie has got
a picture of us savages doing a war-dance in the Winter-time, and all
we’ve got is a gee-string, a roached foretop and a tommy hatchet. I
reckon that me and you and Dirty has to bow to the fashions, Ike.”
“Some day,” observes Dirty, “I’m going to kill Magpie.”
“Common sense teaches us such thoughts,” nods Wick. “Let’s all go up and
surround him, gents. There is a chance that we can make him change his
mind.”
Magpie must ’a’ figured on such a thing ’cause he’s setting on the front
steps, and when he sees us he reaches inside and hauls out a Winchester.
“We comes more in sorrow than in anger,” states Dirty.
“Be sorry about fifty feet away,” says Magpie. “What do you want?”
“This is the Injun delegation,” says I. “We bows to superior
intelligence to a certain degree, but beyond that we howls at the top of
our voices. We’ll show ourselves without a shirt, and maybe we’ll agree
to abolish boots for the time being, but we’ll be gosh-hanged if the
public of Piperock will get a chance to gaze upon our legs divine.
_Sabe?_ Now you speak, Wick.”
“Magpie heard you, Ike.”
“Three is a crowd,” admits Dirty. “The crowd is against you, Magpie.”
Magpie caresses that Winchester and we hears the hammer click.
“Regarding same,” says Magpie soft-like, getting to his feet, “turn
around! March! We’ll stop at Ricky’s shop and get you _hombres_ trimmed.
_Sabe?_”
“My ——!” grunts Dirty. “Got to be nude in the face too, eh?”
Ricky uncoils himself from his chair and grins like a fool.
Magpie hands him the leaf out of a book, and they examines same.
“_Sabe_ that kind of a haircut?” asks Magpie, and Ricky nods.
“Uh-huh. Just leave a top-knot about two inches wide and four inches
long on top. Scalp-lock, eh? Shall I remove the hair from the face?”
“Clean as a hound’s tooth, Ricky.”
“Not me!” yells Wick. “You ain’t got no right——”
“Unhook their guns, Ricky,” says Magpie weary-like. “Can’t trust a
Injun. Now shut up—all of you. Maybe I ain’t got no right to make you do
this, but you’re going to have it done just the same.”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Mighty. “Some haircut! Haw! Haw! Haw!”
“Like it, Mighty?” grins Magpie.
“Great stuff!” explodes Mighty.
“Glad you like it,” says Magpie. “You’re next, Mighty.”
Mighty bucked against it but got trimmed just the same. Magpie ducked
out with our guns about the time Ricky got through, and then Ricky asks
us for four bits per each.
“Charge it to Uncle Sam,” says I. “We’re wards of the Government.”
Ricky howled like a wolf, so we tied him to his chair and left him. We
meets Miss Finney at the corner, and we all takes off our hats to her.
Dirty looked back at her and gasps:
“My ——! We must look awful, gents. She walked into the pump and fell
down!”
We finds Judge Steele over in Buck’s place, and he’s orating loud and
free.
“I hereby adjudicates that Mighty Jones be outlawed on the grounds of
humanity and good cheer. He refuses us the usage of his acquired
property to be used as part and parcel of our glorious entertainment; so
I asks you to refrain from purchasing chances on his raffle.”
“I has suffered a change of heart, judge,” says Mighty. “My conscience
hurts me, and I repents in gunny-sacks and ashes.
“How many chances does you folks desire on my exclusive birds? This deck
is for Hiawather and the other is on Evangeline.
“Step up, gents, and take a chance. You can’t get stung for more than
one dollar per chance.”
Piperock folks are the kind that take chances. All that Mighty had to do
was to spread his tickets and take the money. Even Old Testament spent
about a dollar. Hassayampa Harris grabbed a handful of Hiawather, and
then him and Tombstone Todd almost got to the shooting stage over who
owned a Evangeline chance that fell on the floor. “Jay Bird” Whittaker
and his Cross J bunch got there in time to get the leavings.
Several more punchers drifted in and howls loud because they’re late.
Whereupon Buck suggests that we start a poker game, a ticket to be worth
its face value in the pot.
Me and Dirty Shirt loses ours in the first jack-pot and then Wick
Smith’s three treys bumped in “Big Foot” Forrest’s seven-full, which
eliminates Wick from the festivities. Then the three of us gathers in a
corner and talks over the wrongs of the redskins.
Wick is a strong prohibitionist. In fact he’s so strong that he didn’t
stock his root-house with anything but raw alcohol. He gets a quantity
of it and we goes up to my shack, where we proceeds to get ready for the
war-path.
We’ve fought over the battle of the Big Horn, and are just about to
reject any peace offer that might come our way when Magpie comes home.
He grins at our top-knots, but we sets stoical—like Indians always do in
stories.
“Pshaw!” says Magpie. “You fellers ain’t got no kick coming. I gave your
heads their first sanitary moment they’ve had since you was born.”
“Don’t laugh at him, Dirty,” says I. “He’ll get killed before morning—I
hope.”
“Not this holiday, Ike,” grins Magpie. “This is a real one. Got a lot of
new and novel features. Feller by the name of ‘Cut-Bank’ Campbell, who
lives up by Bill Thatcher’s place, has joined Bill’s orchestra, and he’s
got the dangedest musical utensil you ever seen. I thought I’d heard
mostly everything in the music line, but right now I feels that I ain’t
begun to hear things.
“Say, Miss Finney wanted to know if you fellers couldn’t do a little
war-dance. Know what I mean? Kinda open the show thataway.”
“I won’t danch!” says Dirty. “Shing a shong, but no danch.”
“I’ll do th’ shootin’ if shomebody wants to dance,” says Wick.
“You won’t have no guns on you,” reminds Magpie. “All you’ll have will
be hatchets.”
“Tha’s all right,” says Wick. “Messy but satisfying.”
“I’m goin’ home,” says Dirty. “Goin’ home t’ eat.”
“I’ll go with you,” says I.
“You fellows be here in time to dress for that tableau,” says Magpie.
“Tomorrow you can have Ricky clip off them top-knots. Clipping is good
for the hair.”
“Yash,” says Dirty. “Sheep-dip is good for sheep—try it on yourself.”
We rides out of town, and then Dirty gets a brilliant idea. Dirty does
get the brightest thoughts when he’s inoculated with delirium tremens.
“We’ve been imposh’t upon, Ike,” says he. “We been maltreated. Let’s go
past Mighty’s shack and steal his turkeys. Goo’ joke, eh?”
“No,” says I. “We’re honest men, Dirty. Let us not sully our alabaster
pasts. None of the Harper tribe has ever been beheaded for stealing, and
I won’t break the set. Nossir!”
* * * * *
We had a —— of a time getting that crate out of Mighty’s window. It’s
about three-by-three-by-four, but it was danged lucky for us that the
window was big enough. Dirty crawled out and took the crate off my neck,
and then we prepared to carry it away.
Any old time you starts to carry a crate like that on a half-broke
bronc—don’t. I had to help Dirty on his bronc, and then I can’t get on
mine, so he gets off and helps me on.
“Now,” says I, “we’re back where we started from, Dirty.”
“Tha’s good,” applauds Dirty. “We’re holding our own. I’ll hand the
crate up to you, and then you can—well, let’s get the crate up to you
firsht.”
Dirty’s intentions were good. In fact he surprized me by showing such
good sense. All would have been well, but when he got about three feet
from me he stumbled. The crate hit my bronc in the knees and Dirty
butted into its flank, and when I shook the stars out of my eyes I’m
half in and half out of that window.
“Your horshes,” says Dirty wondering-like. “Your horshes went away
without you, Ike; all three of ’em.”
I crawls out and adjusts my ribs. It is some time before speech cometh
to me, and then I says:
“Well, we’ll have to ride double, I reckon.”
“Tha’s good idea, Ike. Bes’ idea you ever had. My, my! That is
wonderful. But what will we ride upon?”
“Where’s your bronc?” I asks.
“Oh, he’s gone. I still got the bridle.”
We sets down and considers things.
“I reckon we’ve got to be pall-bearers for two turkeys,” says I.
“Shall we each take one?” asks Dirty. “What shay?”
“I don’t know nothing about ’em,” says I. “Do you?”
“Nawsir. I know there is turkeys, Ike, but that’s all.”
“Tell you what we’ll do,” says I, taking a two-bit piece out of my
pocket. “I’ll flip this two-bits. Heads we carry crate and all; tails we
separate ’em.”
Heads came up. We each took one end of the box, and started for—— Come
to think of it, we didn’t have any place in mind. We came to the
foot-log across Medicine Creek and sat down to think it over.
“I won’t pack one end of that box across that log,” says I, but Dirty
didn’t care.
“Pack it alone,” says he. “I’m balancher, you know it? Demonstrate to
you, Ike. Go alone firsht. Jones’s has all been tight-rope walkers ever
since the—— Who-o-o-o-up!”
Sure he fell in. I saved his life—I think. Anyway we both washed out on
a sand-bar and crawled through the brush back to our crate.
Then we took the crate on our shoulders and waded the danged creek. Then
we sat down to talk it over and pour the water out of our boots, when a
voice says—
“Well, well!”
Here is Magpie and Scenery Sims, our useless sheriff.
“Turkeys, eh?” squeaks Scenery. “Bringing ’em in for us, eh?”
“Mighty must ’a’ found a prohibition cache ’cause he ain’t in no shape
to come after ’em,” explains Magpie. “Might as well pick up that crate
and come on, boys.”
“Me?” asks Dirty. “Nawsir. I’ve been packing two-thirds of it and
hauling Ike, too. I’m all through. _Sabe?_”
“You’re a liar, Dirty,” says I. “I’ve been packing all of it and yelling
at the top of my voice to keep you from falling asleep.”
“Just pick up the crate and come along,” says Magpie sweet-like.
“You’re crazy if you think so!” says I. “No danged squeaky imitation of
an officer, and a long lean muzzler like——”
I looks up at Magpie. I want to see if I can think of something new to
call him—but I just picks up my side of the crate, and away we went.
Them two snake-hunters are uncoiling ropes, and I’d rather walk and pack
a box than I would to be dragged—and pack a box.
They made us carry that box into the Mint Hall and place it on the
stage. It’s pretty dark by this time, and I reckon nobody seen us come
into town.
Me and Dirty hadn’t got our guns back yet, so we didn’t yowl at Magpie,
but we waited for a chance at Scenery and kicked his feet out from under
him when Magpie went outside. We took his gun and threw it into the back
yard, and then went over to Buck’s place, where we find Mighty setting
on the steps. He sure is alcoholic.
“Welcome, li’l strangers,” says he. “Set down and cogitate on the sins
of iniquity. Wonderful world—know it?
“’Low me to ask question? Will, eh? Know what a me-nag-i-ree is?”
“What in —— is a me-nag-i-ree?” asks Dirty.
“There y’are. Animules, Dirty. Peculiar and rare animules. I’m goin’ to
start one.”
“Good!” says Dirty. “Show me and Ike where your stuff is planted and
we’ll donate every freak animal we discover. Las’ time I sheen a pink
collywimpus. You got any of them, Mighty?”
“Naw!” says Mighty disgusted-like. “You shpeak of seein’ things. I’m
nacheral hishtorian. _Sabe?_ You unnerstand wil’-cats?”
“Oh, them patient little darlings,” says Dirty; but just then cometh
Magpie and the judge.
“Come on, fellers,” says Magpie. “It’s time to get ready for the show.”
We left Mighty cogitating on the sins of iniquity—whatever that is—and
went behind the scenes. The floor of the stage is covered with cotton,
and they’ve anchored a small pine-tree in the middle of the stage. They
nailed bark on three beer-kegs to make ’em look like stumps, and Pete
Gonyer is fussing with a bedtick full of chopped-up paper.
“Snow,” grins Pete. “I get up above the curtain and sift it down. _Sabe_
the idea? Looks more like snow than the real stuff.”
They’ve got a place for us Injuns to dress. Mrs. Smith looks like
something that just came over and can’t find her way back. Wick has been
into his root-house again and don’t care what happens.
We didn’t have to wear them gee-strings. The committee gets together and
decides that being as this is supposed to be cold weather they’d better
let us Injuns dress warmer; so they gives us breech-clouts instead.
Them Pilgrims sure look the part. They’ve got tall tops built on their
sombreros, and Miss Finney made ’em paper collars that stick out like
they had their head through a dish-pan. Their pants are cut off at the
knees, and they’ve cut off their boots at the ankle and sewed some big
harness buckles on ’em.
Magpie is packing a sawed-off shot-gun, while Testament and the judge
are armed with Sharps rifles. Old Testament is packing a Bible, Magpie
has a mail-order catalog, and the judge has the State registry of
brands. They sure look pious.
“Ike, do you know why the Pilgrims came from England?” asks the judge.
“After looking at you three, judge, I’d opine they got chased out.”
“No, Ike; there was too many kings,” says Testament wise-like.
“Defective deck,” says Dirty, fussing with a safety-pin. “Once over in
Mesquite I held five kings. Two kings of hearts. New deck, too.”
“Did you win?” asks the judge.
“Nope; I ate ’em. Think I’m a fool?”
* * * * *
Just then somebody announces that the raffle is about to start, so we
all crowds at the end of the curtain to watch it. Buck Masterson has
been appointed to conduct the drawing, and Scenery Sims is going to draw
the numbers from the hats.
“Ladies and gents,” announces Buck, “in these two hats reposes the mates
to the tickets you holds on Hiawather and E-vangeline, two noble
turkey-birds. If anybody knows of any reason why we can’t start this
raffle let ’em speak now or forever hold their yap.
“Nobody got any kick? All right. Mister Sims will now settle the
ownership of E-vangeline.”
Scenery grabs a ticket out of the hat and hands it to Buck.
“Number—uh—sixteen wins E-vangeline. Number sixteen! Now for Hiawather.
Number eighty-one wins Hiawather.”
“I wins the female fowl!” yelps Tombstone Todd, standing up and waving
his arms. “I wins the female fowl!”
“I got eighty-one!” whoops Hassayampa Harris. “Hurrah for Curlew!”
“Now,” says Buck, “we will proceed with the programme.”
Buck squints at a sheet of paper and clears his throat.
“Ahem-m-m-m—Mrs. Wick Smith will recite ‘Tear-Drops.’ This poem was
wrote by Muley Bowles. I heard it once; so she don’t interest me none.”
Mrs. Smith waddles up to the platform. She’s got sort of a Mother
Hubbard on over her Pilgrim clothes. Buck helps her get up, and then she
faces the audience.
I don’t reckon she ever recited much, ’cause she sure is nervous. She
licks her lips and whispers like she was letting ’em in on a secret—
“It was a dewy—dewy—dewy——”
“Sh-h-h-h-h!” hisses “Half-Mile” Smith. “It’s the battle of Maniller!”
“The birds was flying high,” says Mrs. Smith like she was afraid she’d
scare the birds. “I—I—I——”
And there she stuck. She looks around sort of wild-like, and then she
croaks:
“Wicksie! Oh, Wicksie! Darn it, have you got that paper?”
“Maw, I ain’t got it,” chokes Wick. “Never mind it! Bow and back up,
can’t you?”
She could. She backed into our curtain and almost ruined it, but we
managed to skid her to one side. The crowd sure applauded that poem.
“I’m through!” she wails. “I’ll never recite again.”
“Maw,” asks Wick, “is that a threat or a promise?”
I hears Buck talking again, so I peers out. Down in front with Half-Mile
is “Pinky” Parsons and “Speedy” Wheeler. Them two last-named _hombres_
are always just one jump ahead of a sheriff. Buck is making another
introduction.
“Ladies and gents, I hereby introduces to you Mr. Campbell. He will solo
for your edification. He is willing to take a chance, such as they are,
and I asks you all to remember this. You didn’t pay a danged cent to get
in—and the door is open. Amen.”
This bow-legged red-headed _hombre_ climbs up on the stage. He’s got his
arms full of what looks like a lot of hoochie-koochie horns stuck into a
balloon. He begins to blow, the balloon begins to swell, and our ears
gets handed a mulligan of music, the like of which never was heard on
this range before.