Mrs. Peaceful is staring into my face and I says:
“For my husband. He’s timid about smoking in company.”
“Oh!” says she. “Certainly. How much?”
“Enough for about thirty cigarets,” says I, and just then I hears
Magpie’s voice:
“Wine is verily a mocker, brethren. I shall devote my time in stamping
out the evils of wine, women and—er—cigarets. Them little paper rolls,
innocent as they may look, are the torch of the devil.”
“How many did you say, Mrs. Meek?” she asks.
“Ma’am, you can use your own judgment. I ain’t afraid of the devil.”
This may sound foolish to some folks, but anybody who smokes them
“torches of the devil” will appreciate my feelings. I ain’t had a smoke
since that misguided posse shot a hole in the cantle of my saddle, and
right now I’m receptive to lynching if I can just have one little chance
at a cigaret before they yank the rope.
I’m in a trance, thinking about a nice little smoke, when I hears Mrs.
Peaceful saying to Magpie:
“Reverend Meek, can you spare your wife for one night? The fact is we’re
a little shy on sleeping accommodations. We only have two beds. My
sister is with us, so you will have to sleep with my husband. Mrs.
Jackson has kindly offered to take Mrs. Meek home with her for tonight.”
That long, lanky female speaks up.
“Yes indeed, it will be a pleasure for me to entertain Mrs. Meek.”
“Only for one night, of course,” says Mrs. Peaceful, “Tomorrow we will
fix you up in permanent quarters. You won’t mind, will you, dearie?”
says she to me, but I can’t speak.
Gosh a’mighty, there is questions that Solomon couldn’t answer.
“What’s the matter, Reverend? Don’t you feel well?”
I looks over at Magpie. I can see him sort of get tight all over, and
his Adam’s apple ducks up and down his throat one hundred and fifty
ducks per minute.
“Can I bring you-all a drink?” asks Peaceful.
“Ug-ug-ug—” gasps Magpie. “Uh-huh-uh-uh-huh. About four-fingers in a
washtub.”
Me and Magpie stares at each other until Peaceful brings him a dipper of
water, and then the darn fool stood right there and washed his face.
Never took his eyes off me all the time. Just splashed the water on his
face, like he was in a trance, and all this time I’m digging into the
bosom of my dress, trying to get that blamed six-gun loose from a bunch
of lace. I’m keyed up to kill without regrets.
“Do—do you-all have attacks like that very often?” asks Peaceful.
“No,” says Magpie weak-like, leaning against the wall, “not very—thank
Gawd!”
“Amen!” says Mrs. Jackson. “Flesh is weak.”
“You’re danged right,” I whispers. “And she’s getting weaker.”
“Well,” says Mrs. Jackson, “we might as well say good night. I know Mrs.
Meek must be tired.”
I know we shook hands. I was just about as happy over it as a feller
would be who was shaking hands with a jury that had convicted him of
murder in the first degree. I stumbles around that room, shaking hands
like a darn fool, and then I hears Mrs. Peaceful saying—
“Kiss your wife good night, Reverend.”
Most of ’em giggles like a lot of locoed loons and Magpie staggers over
to me. He didn’t kiss me, but they didn’t know it.
He hooks on to me like a grizzly bear and hisses in my ear:
“Think of something! Dang your hide, think fast!”
“Good night, Moses,” says I. “Take care of yourself.”
Then my knees got so weak that I tripped in my skirt and fell off the
front porch.
I hears everybody expressing sympathy and crowding around me in the
dark, but I got to my feet.
“Gracious!” exclaims one of them females. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Skinned one leg all to thunder!” I snaps and walks out of there with
Mrs. Jackson trailing me.
Think? My gosh, I thought of everything in the past and a lot of things
in the future. She led me to her house, and shoved me inside. I guess
she had furniture—I don’t know.
“Will we have a prayer before we retire?” she asks.
My brain seems to have got so hard that I can’t shake it, so I reckon I
nods. I looks all around and then I says—
“You got two beds?”
“No, just one.”
“Good night!” says I. “This won’t work a-tall. I can’t sleep a wink with
a stranger. I’ve either got to hive up with my—uh—husband or sleep
alone.”
“Pshaw!” says she. “Now, ain’t that too bad? I don’t see what we are
going to do.”
Then I gets a inspiration.
“Why not have Mrs. Peaceful’s sister sleep with you?”
“Well! Of course she can! You sure can figure out things, Mrs. Meek.”
“Uh-huh. A preacher’s wife has to.”
“I suppose so. How long have you been with Mr. Meek?”
“Off and on for twelve years.”
“Off and on?” she gasps.
“Yes’m. Two years ago me and ‘Dirty Shirt’ Jones——”
Then I remembers that I’m a lady.
“Yes, yes!” says she. “Tell me about it!”
“Tomorrow. She’s a long, long tale, ma’am.”
“Uh-huh, I suppose even ministers’ wives have their troubles.”
“You know it,” says I. “A dang sight more than you think.”
The Pearce family was surprized to see us back, but when we explains
things they sees my point of view and agrees to it.
* * * * *
Magpie stole the makings of cigarets from Happy Harmon, and we laid on
that bed and smoked ourselves black in the face.
Every time Magpie looks at me he chokes. After he gets through having
convulsions, we starts figuring out things.
“We’ve got to get away,” says Magpie. “Honest to gosh, Ike! There ain’t
never been a preacher in War Bonnet, so Peaceful tells me. Greasewood
manages to hire one and they crows over War Bonnet.”
“I suppose everybody what wants to get married has to go to Greasewood,
and if they wants to hold a funeral they has to call on the same city
for help, eh?”
“Help ——! War Bonnet hates Greasewood so bad that they’ve held off their
marriages for seven months! Down at the undertakers is two corpses
waiting for a preacher, and they’re figuring on holding revival services
all the rest of the week.”
“Peaceful told you all that, Magpie?”
“Yeah. War Bonnet hankers for a preacher like a calf for its maw. Holy
henhawks, look what I’m up against! I can’t preach!”
We smokes a while and then I says— “Magpie, did you ever read the
Bible?” “Read it? Part of it, Ike. I’ve read the dictionary, too, as far
as that goes, but I can’t repeat any of it. Darn this suit of clothes!”
“You ought to be proud of them clothes, Magpie. A darned old cow-thief
like you ought to be glad to have folks mistake him for a preacher.
Piety fits you like the diamonds on a rattlesnake.”
“Yah!” he snorts. “Maybe. More than I can say for you, ’cause you can’t
be described in words, Ike. Them women looks you over, and I hears one
of ’em say: ‘The poor thing! A woman like that couldn’t help being
good.’ Haw! Haw! Haw! Woman, you sure got some figure! It won’t never do
to let ’em see you in the daylight.”
“Aw, ——! Let’s get away, Magpie. The farther we are away from here in
the morning the better it will be for us and for War Bonnet. Let’s leave
our baggage here and sneak away.”
“We don’t want no useless impediment, that’s a cinch, Ike. Them valises
are empty, I reckon.”
Magpie picks one of ’em up and shakes it.
“Something in it, Ike. I can hear it swish.”
He picks up a pair of shears off the dresser and rips a hole in the top.
He stares inside for a while and then rips a hole in the top of the
other one. Then he stumbles over to the bed and sets down.
“My ——!” he gasps. “I—I thought the mint was in Washington!”
“It sure is, Magpie.”
“Like——it is. It’s in them satchels!”
I sneaked over, like I was afraid they’d fly away, and peers inside.
Then I digs in with both hands. Greenbacks! Everything from fives to
twentys. They don’t weigh much, but—oh man! I dumps one of ’em on the
bed and wealth spews all over the place.
Me and Magpie stares at each other for a while and then Magpie begins to
grin.
“Well,” says I, “what’s so danged funny about it?”
“Don’t you see it, Ike?” Magpie smooths his mustache and looks wise as a
old owl. “Don’t you see it? I ain’t the only fake preacher in the
county. Haw! Haw! Haw! Murder will out, as they say.”
“Let her out then!” I snaps. “I want to laugh too.”
“Ike, that Greasewood preacher is the _hombre_ what robbed the bank.
Last person on earth to be suspected, don’t you see? He just puts it in
his old valises and goes on preaching. _Sabe?_ The son-of-a-gun!”
“Circumstantial evidence, Magpie.”
“Circumstantial ——! Nothing circumstantial about it, Ike. Where would a
preacher get all that money?”
“If they catch us with it he’ll likely get a chance to pronounce ‘ashes
to ashes and dust to dust’ over us,” says I. “What will we do with it?”
Just then somebody knocked on our door.
Magpie looks at that money, slips his gun loose, walks over to the door
and opens it about an inch. It’s Peaceful.
“Reverend,” says he apologetic-like, “I sure hates to disturb you-all,
but ‘Shirtpocket Bill’ has done got a slug inserted under his
vest-pocket, and I reckon he’s needing a preacher mighty bad. Can’t
you-all come up to the Golden Glow and ease him off? He can’t last very
long and—Shirtpocket’s sort of religious—sort of.”
Magpie hesitates and looks back at me.
“Go ahead, Mose,” says I. “If you need help, send for me.”
“Dawg-gone good of you-all,” says Peaceful. “A woman’s hand might soothe
him a heap. Don’t reckon that Shirtpocket ever had a decent woman speak
to him. Be awful dawg-gone nice if you’d both come.”
“Just as soon as I can get my pants—skirt on,” says I. “Tell Shirtpocket
Bill to wait for us.”
He shuts the door and Magpie hops on to me.
“Dang you, Ike, you’ll give us away yet! Why didn’t you tell him we were
sick or something? Shirtpocket Bill’s demise don’t mean nothing to me.”
“Me neither, old-timer, but you got to play or get out of the pot. Cheer
up, Moses Meek, he may die before we get there. This will give us a
chance to see where some broncs are tied.”
We fixed up a little and walked out to where Peaceful waits for us.
“This sure will tickle Shirtpocket all to thunder,” says he.
“Reckon he’ll be sorry he didn’t get shot before.”
“Yes,” says I, “a long time before.”
* * * * *
We pilgrimed up-town and went into a place where there seemed to be
plenty of life—lot of dance-hall females, et cettery, and they sure
looked me over. Likely I’m the first decent woman they ever seen in the
Golden Glow.
We walked up to the bar and Peaceful says to the bartender:
“I done brought a little Gospel aid for Shirtpocket. Has he passed out
yet?”
The hooch-handler looks us over and nods.
“Uh-huh. About ten minutes ago. Said he was coming back.”
“Said he was coming back?” I asks.
“Yep. Jim Freeman, the _hombre_ what shot him, is still here, and
Shirtpocket said he was coming back to get him.”
“Haunt him?” asks Peaceful.
“Haunt him?” The bartender slides a bottle and glasses in front of us.
“Haunt him? I don’t know—he didn’t say.”
“Whoa, Emily!” snorts Magpie and I stops that glass just short of my
mouth. I puts it down, while they stares at me.
“Let the old girl have a shot if she wants it,” says somebody behind me,
and then Peaceful says—
“My ——! I thought you was killed, Shirtpocket!”
That _hombre_ has the crookedest face I ever seen. He’s got a gun on
each hip and enough ammunition to exterminate the human race.
“Naw!” he grunts. “Slug hived up in a four-bit watch and knocked all the
air out of me.”
“Meet Reverend Meek, Shirtpocket. The lady is his wife. They comes up
here to ease your last moments.”
“My ——! They did? I’m going to have that busted watch set with diamonds
and have it packed in a plush case. Ease my last moments? Well, well! I
sure am eternally obliged—to the watch. Pleased to have metcha—alive and
well.”
Just then we hears a racket near the door and I turns to see that
Greasewood sheriff and his deputies coming straight for the bar. I kicks
Magpie in the ankle and digs into my bosom for my gun. Peaceful sees
’em, too. He loosens his gun and walks right across the room to where a
bunch of fellers are playing roulette. There ain’t a thing for me and
Magpie to do but stand still.
“Shoot ’em in the neck, Ike!” hisses Magpie. “They might have watches in
their pockets.”
That fool gun stuck again! I yanks the bosom of my dress up around my
neck, but the gun won’t let loose, so I reaches over and picks the
bottle off the bar.
The sheriff stares at me and Magpie and we stare right back at him.
“You-all better go back to Greasewood,” states Peaceful’s voice and the
sheriff turns.
There is Peaceful and several others and they’ve all got their guns out.
The sheriff stares around and just then I sees Shirtpocket Bill yank a
gun with each hand. I glances at the door and there stands a _hombre_
with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands.
“Stand back!” he yelps. “There ain’t four-bit timepieces enough in the
town to stop all this lead!”
He yanks the gun to his shoulder just as Shirtpocket begins to heave
lead from both guns. I dropped flat when Shirtpocket opened up, and just
as I hits the floor I hears that shotgun roar twice and about all the
illumination in the saloon gets busted.
Then I hopped to my feet. I knew where that sheriff stood when the
lights went out, so I pops him over the head with that bottle of hooch.
Then I grabs Magpie by the arm and starts for the door. Somehow I gets
that gun loose this time. I feels that the upper part of my dress is up
around my neck and the lower part is down around my feet, but this ain’t
no time for modesty.
“Straight ahead!” I yelps. “Get your gun loose and help me cut a trail!”
“Whoo-ee!” I hears Peaceful yelp. “Try to take our preacher back, will
you?”
_Bing! Bang! Boom!_
We plows straight for that door. Evidently we ain’t the only ones
hunting for the open air, ’cause when we hits the crowd coming from the
other side—blooey! They knocked me over backwards and I hit the keys of
the piano with both elbows as I comes down. Magpie was behind me, and
when we stops falling I’m setting on him with my feet over the piano
stool.
The fighting has moved out into the street. One kerosene lamp hangs like
a drunken bird on a perch and flickers like it was about all in. I
blinks the stars out of my eyes and then a voice under me begins to
sing, soft and low—
“It’s a long ways back to de-e-e-e-ear o-o-o-o-old mother’s knee-e-e.”
He held that last note until I turned over and peered into his face.
Then I got up and staggered over in front of the bar. There is Magpie,
setting with his back against the rail. He don’t even look at me, but
his lips seem to move, and so I leans closer to hear:
“It’s—as—good—or—as—bad—as—any—other.
If—it—wasn’t—as—for—circumstantial—evidence—we—wouldn’t——”
“Be here,” says I. “Wake up, you asinine arguifier!”