MAGPIE SIMPKINS
PIPEROCK
MONTANA
We reads it over several times, and then Magpie steps back, cocks his
yaller hat over one eye, sticks his thumbs in his belt and snorts—
“That is Cassie!”
“Make it Caspar,” says I. “It’s uh male cassowary, Magpie.”
“Huh!” snorts Chuck. “You wise guys knowed all the time what it was,
didn’t yuh? What yuh going to do with the thing? What in —— is it
anyway?”
“That thing, Chuck,” says I, “is what uh man buys in the East when
he’s drunk up seven hundred dollars’ worth uh mixed hooch. Cassowary
is uh French word what means, ‘something yuh bought when you’re too
drunk to consider the expense and necessity.’”
“I always did like the French language,” states Chuck. “It sure is
expressive that-away, ’cause yuh don’t have to say much to mean uh
whole lot. My mother was French. Name was Jones. Yuh pronounces it
‘Hones,’ the J being silent like the Q in cassowary.”
“Well,” says I, “we got to do something, and, being as it belongs to
you, Magpie, I reckon yuh better suggest.”
But Magpie sucks away on that cigaret, and shakes his head.
“I’d admire to hear all about it,” states Chuck. “There must be uh
deep and dark mystery about that bird, Magpie. If I knowed the details
about that bird’s past, maybe I could help yuh out.”
Magpie is willing to receive help—as usual—so he sets down there and
tells Chuck all about it —what he can remember.
“How much do yuh think yuh paid for it?” asks Chuck. “You sure ought
to remember that part of it.”
“Dang me if I know,” replies Magpie. “Couple uh hundred, most likely.
What yuh got on your mind, Chuck?”
“Say, what good is uh cassowary? If she was worth something to
humanity we might peddle the blasted thing. If folks had an idea it
was—cripes!”
“What’s the exciting thought, Chuck?” I asks, but Chuck begins to roll
uh fresh cigaret and grin to himself. Pretty soon he busts out
laughing and slaps his quirt across his chaps.
“By cripes,” he chuckles. “It won’t cost nothing to try.”
“Try what?” asks Magpie.
“Say, if you gets your two hundred back will yuh give me all I can
make over that?”
“You answered your own question, Chuck,” declares Magpie. “You get us
two hundred for that overgrown fool-hen and you can have the rest.
What yuh going to do?”
“That’s my business, Magpie. You and Ike go along about your business,
and don’t peep—no matter what happens. Sabe? Here comes the stage.”
Art Miller swings his four broncs around in front of us, and looks us
over, sort uh grouchy like.
“Howdy, Art,” says Magpie. “What yuh doing these days—distributing
poultry?”
Art spits over his off-wheeler, and considers the busted crate.
“Did yuh see what comes in that there box?” he asks, and we nods. “Did
ye ever hear it crow?”
We all shakes our heads, and Art puts his hat on the brake lever and
fumbles for his tobacco.
“Sounds like ——!” he snorts. “We was going along, sleepy like, when it
crows. Runaway. Lost the crate out the wagon.”
“Uh-huh,” agrees Magpie. “Crate busted and canary flew.”
“Canary!” Art spits out the word like he’d pulled uh slug from his old
pipe. “Magpie Simpkins, you can get the dangdest things sent to you.
What yuh going to use that thing for?”
“Art,” says Chuck, chiding like, “you neglected your duty as uh
stage-driver when yuh let that piece uh valuable freight get away.”
“Well, go ahead and say it,” replies Art, resigned like.
“Can you forget that you ever had that bird in your care?” asks Chuck.
“Audibly or mentally, Chuck?” asks Art.
“Audibly.”
“I hope to some day.”
“Be worth uh five spot, and no questions asked, Art.”
“I never seen it,” states Art. “What’s the idea?”
“You fellers are as inquisitive as an old maid,” replies Chuck. “All I
asks is silence, and plenty of that. I’ll pay the bills.”
“We’re as silent as the tomb, eh, Magpie?” says Art. “You ain’t got
nothing against me.”
“Nothing but admiration, Art. Chuck, do what you please with that
hooch-hen, and we’ll go on to town. I don’t sabe your play, young
feller, but I’m for it all the way from the ace to the deuce.”
We got our stuff at Piperock, and pilgrims right back home. The crate
and bird are gone when we returns.
“I wish I knowed what Chuck aims to do?” says Magpie, as we goes past
the spot.
“And bust up our chances to get back that two hundred,” says I. “If
you didn’t hunger and thirst for information so hard, Magpie, I’d be
living uh life uh ease right now. You always wants to monkey with the
wheels uh progress.”
* * * * *
About five days later “Scenery” Sims and “Dirty Shirt” Jones pilgrims
up our way and stops to eat. They asks the usual questions and gets
answered.
“Magpie, did yuh ever see uh railami?” asks Dirty Shirt.
“Uh-uh which?”
“Uh railami. Didn’t yuh ever hear of one?”
“Oh, yes. I used to raise ’em.”
“You did not!” squeaks Scenery “There’s only one specimen left on
earth today. Sabe?”
“Meaning you, I reckon, Scenery,” says I. “You’re the only specimen I
ever seen that might fit that cognomen.”
“No, not me!” snaps Scenery. “If yuh don’t know and recognize one when
yuh see it, maybe you’ll wish yuh did.”
There ain’t much left to say, except unpleasant things, so they says
“Klahowya” and departs.
“Railami,” says Magpie, after they’re gone. “Never heard the name
before. The way Scenery pronounces it makes it sound like uh
hare-lipped Piegan with hay fever trying to make uh noise like uh
blowsnake.”
“It can’t be uh serious condition,” I replies. “It sure can’t amount
to much if Scenery and Dirty Shirt knows what it is, so I ain’t
worrying about it none, Magpie.”
The next day bringeth forth “Half Mile” Smith and “Tellurium” Woods.
They rides in and partakes of bacon and beans.
“What you fellers doing up this way?” asks Magpie. “Seems like me and
Ike is being honored lately. Scenery and Dirty Shirt was up to see us
yesterday.”
“Crazy as bedbugs, too,” says I. “They was looking for—say, Magpie,
what was that word?”
“Railami.”
Half Mile and Tellurium looks foolish like at each other and then back
at us.
“You know what it is?” asks Tellurium, but me and Magpie has to plead
total ignorance.
“You looking for it, too, Tellurium?” I asks.
He rubs the bald spot on top of his head, and grins.
“Uh-huh. She’s worth looking for.”
“We hate to have to ask questions,” I states.
“Worth uh thousand dollars,” says Tellurium. “Uh cold thousand.”
“So is sixty ounces uh gold, too, but that don’t tell nothing but the
value,” orates Magpie. “Speak up, you’re among friends.”
“I wouldn’t,” states Half Mile. “No use letting everybody in on it,
Tellurium. If they don’t know about it we hadn’t ought to lessen our
chances by telling.”
We thanks ’em heartily for the information, and they rides away.
Magpie gets out his dictionary and ponders deep like over it, but
shakes his head.
“It ain’t in the book, Ike. Must be uh foreign substance.”
The next day comes old Judge Steele and Ricky Henderson. They salutes
us, and gets off to rest their saddles.
“How’s law and justice, Judge?” asks Magpie. “You fellers hunting for
uh railami?”
“Huh!” snorts the judge, like he didn’t hear, and glances at Ricky.
“Railami,” repeats Magpie.
“Why—uh—you seen any?” asks the judge.
“I’ve quit drinking, Judge,” says Magpie. “I’m sure I’d uh seen one
next, and I tapers off just in time.”
“Well, well!” exclaims the judge. “Ricky, I reckon me and you had
better be going on. We’re looking for uh couple uh strays. Two red
cows. Seen anything of ’em up here, Magpie?”
We disclaims all credit for seeing two red cows, and they departs.
“Somebody’s uh heap crazy around here, Ike,” states Magpie. “Either
they’re crazy to look for uh thing with uh name like that, or we’re
crazy for not looking. Let’s me and you go over on Roaring Crick
tomorrow and do uh little gophering on that quartz seam. Maybe we’ll
meet uh railami on the trail, eh?”
Me and Magpie gets enthusiastic over the way that quartz seam shows
up, and when we leaves there we’re out uh grub. Magpie suggests that
we pilgrims to Piperock and get uh banquet uh ham and aigs, and I’m
right with him, so we points our burros toward town.
Magpie is still wearing that yaller hard hat. The burro he’s riding
turns its head once in uh while and looks back. It sizes him up,
shakes its ears, sad-like, and pilgrims on. Magpie sure is dressed up
like uh plush horse, and all he needs is uh cane to be uh cripple for
life.
There seems to be uh certain degree of excitement in Piperock, when we
arrives. Chuck Warner is setting on his bronc out there in the middle
of the street, and he’s surrounded with uh crowd. Lying down in the
dusty road is that blasted bird that Magpie bought, and uh rope runs
from Chuck’s saddle to its long neck. The bird seems to be the coolest
thing in town.
“What do yuh reckon to do with it, Chuck?” asks Dirty Shirt, and
everybody seems interested.
“Danged if I know,” replies Chuck. “I ain’t never seen nothing like it
before. It just comes busting along down the road, and I hangs my rope
on it. Wish I knowed what she is.”
“How much do yuh want for it, Mister Warner?” asks Judge Steele,
looking the critter over, and fumbling in his pocket.
“You don’t want it, do yuh, Judge?” laughs Masterson. “You couldn’t
eat it.”
“I don’t know what she’s worth, Judge,” states Chuck. “Ain’t she some
whopper of uh piece uh poultry? What do yuh reckon she’s worth?”
“I’ll give yuh ten dollars for it,” squeaks Scenery Sims. “I’d give uh
ten just to own uh thing like that.”
“The —— yuh would!” snorts Half Mile. “I’ll give fifteen.”
“Fifteen—fifteen—fifteen,” chants Chuck. “Who’ll give twenty?”
“I’ll make it twenty,” yells Ricky Henderson.
“Poultry’s going up!” whoops Chuck, standing up in his stirrups.
“Who’ll give Ricky uh raise?”
“I makes it worth thirty,” states the judge.
“Forty!” yelps Tellurium.
“Whoa!” whoops Chuck. “Wait uh minute. What’s the idea uh getting all
heated up over uh overgrown fool-hen on stilts. First thing we knows
there’ll be sorrow in our city. I got uh good scheme. I’ll make a
hundred tickets at five dollars each, and raffle the blamed thing. You
fellers can gamble your heads off if yuh feels inclined.”
That seems to suit the crowd, so Chuck puts the bird in Buck
Masterson’s stable, and him and some of the rest gets busy on making
tickets.
Me and Magpie sets there on the sidewalk and wonders what them Jaspers
want of that bird. Art Miller comes over, but he don’t know any more
than we do.
“How comes it that everybody covets that monstrosity, Art?” I asks,
but Art shakes his head, and digs his toes in the dirt.
“Danged if I know, Ike. I never seen folks so crazy before. I felt
that there’s something in the wind for several days. Tellurium, Half
Mile, Scenery, Ricky, Dirty Shirt and Judge Steele has been in
conference several times up in the judge’s office. Here comes
Tellurium. Maybe he’ll tell us what it means.”
* * * * *
Tellurium sets down with us for uh minute, and then gets up and turns
around three times, like uh losing gambler does to change his luck.
“I’d admire to know what you wants that freak bird for, Tellurium?”
states Art.
“You would, eh?” chuckles Tellurium, hauling some pieces uh paper out
of his pocket, and putting ’em into another. “You would, eh? Don’t you
know, Art?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I did.”
Tellurium fusses around in his inside pocket, and hauls out uh piece
uh writing paper.
“I reckon the tickets are all sold now, so it won’t do no harm to let
yuh know,” says he, handing Art the paper. “I done invested
seventy-five on my luck, but I reckon you fellers are too late to even
buy one ticket. When I left Judge Steele and Half Mile was quarreling
over who gets the last number. Read that letter and be sorry yuh
didn’t buy no chances. We don’t know who it was written to, but we
figures that it was some uh them citified prospectors what was through
here uh short time ago. We found it on the floor in Buck’s place, and
that’s what brought us up to your place that day, Ike.”
The three of us groups there on the sidewalk and reads what is left of
that epistle. The top and one corner is torn off, but that is how she
reads from that on down:
—little information. Some geologist friends of mine were
down in that country last Summer, and they brought me the
track of a bird—dried in alkali mud. The measurements and
peculiar arrangement of the toes show it to be the track
of a Railami, a bird that is believed to have been extinct
for many years. The imprint is of recent times—not over
six months—and without a doubt, in the vicinity of the
town of Piperock lives and roams a specimen of this rare
bird. It greatly resembles an ostrich in size and
characteristics, but as there are no ostriches in that
country, it would be difficult to mistake anything else
for this rare bird. I would be willing to give one
thousand dollars for this specimen alive, and will gladly
welcome any information you can send me. Very truly yours,