by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Loco or Love,” “Making Good for Muley,” etc.
“Lodestone, you flea-bitten, long-eared ancestor of a jack-rabbit,
take a look at the best place the Lord ever made, and rejoice with
me.”
Lodestone wiggles his ears, kicks at a hoss-fly, narrowly missing my
head, and looks with sad eyes down at the city of Piperock. Then he
goes to sleep. Which shows that a burro ain’t got no finer feelings.
We been away for quite a while—me and Lodestone. We pilgrims up the
Bitter Root range to where old Blue Nose sticks into the clouds,
crosses over and pilgrims back the other side, all of which takes up
several months, and don’t net me nothing but blisters and blasphemy.
I misses “Magpie” Simpkins a heap, and I welcomes the day when I can
shake the hand of that long, loose-jointed hombre. Magpie is one of
the leading citizens of Piperock, and until a few months ago, my
pardner.
When I left to make my fortune he was setting there in his
office—Magpie is the sheriff—and wondering how he can square things
with the populace to get reelected.
He’s of the lodge-pole type, and wears a goodly length of hair on his
upper lip. He pleads with me not to leave him but for once in my life
I turns a deaf ear to his siren voice, and herds my burro out of
hearing.
Piperock ain’t what a stranger would call a paradise on earth, and she
don’t qualify for the milk and honey, but she’s a man’s town—all up
and down the street.
Me and Lodestone pilgrims through the dust up to “Buck” Masterson’s
saloon, and I goes inside. Buck and “Tellurium” are there, and they
welcomes me like a lost brother. Buck salutes me with the proper
ingredients, and we exchanges pleasantries.
After we sort of gets used to each other again Buck hauls out a sheet
of paper, and smooths it out on the bar.
“Take a look at that, Ike,” says he. “There’s something new.”
I sizes her up. It’s what resembles a newspaper—in some respects—but I
can’t seem to read it none to speak of. The label across the top
resembles this—