Author of “Precedents in Piperock,” “Another Ace for Ananias,” etc.
Me and “Dirty Shirt” Jones stops there in the trail and watches
“Scenery” Sims gallop up to us, wild-eyed and weary. He almost falls
over one of our burros, and stands there blowing and heaving, looking
back up the trail like he was scared plumb to death.
Scenery is one of them squeaky little half-baked hunks of humanity
who everybody feels so sorry for that they won’t kill. Right now he’s
the sheriff of Yaller Rock County, and from the looks of him he ain’t
figuring his official title as much protection.
Then cometh a larger figure of a man, galloping down the trail towards
us. He’s hitting heavy on his left foot like he’d come quite a ways,
and when he skids up to us we recognize “Wick” Smith, our general
merchandiser of the city of Piperock. Wick is about seven-eighths out
of wind. He grabs a mouthful of mountain air and chaws it plentiful
while he glares at poor little Scenery.
“Kuk-keep off’n mum-me,” pants Scenery, waving his arms.
“You-you bub-buster of huh-huh-homes!” weeps Wick, the tears running
into his whiskers. “You--you----”
“I ain’t,” wails Scenery. “I ain’t none such, Wick.”
“Spirits don’t lie, ---- yuh,” howls Wick. “They can’t lie, I tell yuh.”
“That one did,” wheezes Scenery. “I’d tell it to its face, too.”
“Look out,” warns Wick. “You can’t monkey with the dead, Scenery.”
“Aw, ---- you and your living ghosts,” howls Scenery, and then the race
starts all over again.
Scenery ducks between two of our burros and starts back towards town,
and Wick lets out a whoop and starts after him.
Wick had plenty of time to go around them burros, but I reckon he
figured he could go where Scenery did. Wick was wrong. That Lodestone
burro must ’a’ felt sorry for Scenery, or maybe he wasn’t set, but he
sure was primed when Wick tried to pass his south end. We propped Wick
up against a rock and felt him over for busted bones, but found none.
“Shall we pack him to town?” I asks, but Dirty Shirt shakes his head.
“Let him rest in peace, Ike. We don’t know what this is all about, so
we’d better keep neutral as much as possible.”
We stirred up them burros and topped the hill, when we meets Scenery
Sims once more. Scenery is shy one sleeve of his shirt and seems to be
running regardless. I have my doubts if he even seen us this time.
We stops and watched him fade off down the trail, towards where we left
Wick, and then we turn to meet Mrs. Wick Smith. Mrs. Smith is too fat to
run, but she can hurry. Dirty Shirt flagged her with his hat, and she
shuffled to a stop. She’s got Scenery’s sleeve in her hand, and she mops
her forehead plentiful with it and wheezes wofully.
“Tryin’ to reduce?” asks Dirty Shirt, respectful-like.
“Huh-huh-huh-huh--” she pants.
“Warm today, Mrs. Smith,” says I.
“Whu-whu-where’s--huh-huh-huh--Wicksie?” she whistles. Dirty points down
the trail.
“Dud-dead?”
“Not dead, but sleepin’,” says Dirty.
“Did-did he catch Sus-Scenery?”
“Not the first time,” says I, “but Scenery seems to have gone back to
give him another chance. What in ---- is it all about?”
But Mrs. Smith shoved them burros to one side and waddled off down the
trail, waving that shirt sleeve and puffing like a compound engine.
Me and Dirty looks foolish at each other and then pokes on up the trail
towards Piperock.
If you don’t know where Piperock is--be happy in your ignorance. It’s
a town where ignorance is bliss and where it’s disastrous to have your
gun stick. Old “Half-Mile” Smith says that Piperock is one place where
nobody has ever been hanged by mistake--they all deserve it.
One thing you can say for Piperock: She never does anything half-way.
When that town starts to pull off something--it’s pulled. It may cost
suffering and regrets, but she’s there to the bitter end, like a dose
of quinin.
Me and Dirty Shirt had been hunting for placer up around the head of
Whisperin’ Creek and are just getting back home. As usual we didn’t
find nothing but indications of hard work.
Why Scenery Sims, Wick Smith and Mrs. Smith are seeking each other’s
gore is beyond us, but we don’t marvel much, being as anything is apt
to happen in Piperock.
We drifts into the main street, where we meets “Mighty” Jones.
Mighty don’t welcome us as he should, so we chides him about it.
“I ain’t got no cheer in my carcass,” says Mighty sad-like. “I’ve just
had a message from my wife.”
“Your wife?” grunts Dirty Shirt. “You ain’t got no wife, have yuh?”
“I dunno.”
Mighty scratches his head and squints at us. “I dunno, Dirty. I ain’t
never been married as I knows about, but you can’t get messages from
somethin’ yuh never had, can yuh?”
“From your wife?” I asks.
I’ve knowed Mighty for ten years, and he’s never had any wife during
that time.
“That’s what the message said, Ike.”
“What did she say to yuh, Mighty?” asks Dirty.
“She said, ‘Go to ----; this place is full.’”
“Must ’a’ been your wife,” admits Dirty, “or somebody what knows yuh
well.”
* * * * *
We left Mighty standing there in the street, feeling bad about his
message, and pokes up to my cabin--mine and “Magpie’s.” Magpie Simpkins,
my pardner, is another misfit of humanity, being as he’s so tall that he
has to sew an addition to the ends of his pant legs to enable said pant
legs to enter the tops of his boots.
He’s thirty inches around the waist, wears hair on his upper lip, and
the top of his head is a vast storehouse of ideas with parts missing.
Me and Dirty prods the burros up to the open front door and looks
inside. There sits Magpie and “Buck” Masterson the saloonkeeper, facing
each other.
On their laps is a flat board. On top of that is a smaller board with
three spindling legs. Magpie and Buck have got their finger-tips on
this little board, and are both setting straight and stiff, peering at
the ceiling.
Sort of setting between them and on the far side is Judge Steele. The
judge has got a pencil and paper, and he watches the game real close,
putting something down on the paper every little while. Pretty soon he
says:
“ ‘Hard-Pan’ Hawkins is talking. Dirty Shirt Jones stole calves----”
“Just a minute,” interrupts Dirty Shirt. “Who is passing out all this
information, judge?”
The three of them turn around and looks at us. Dirty Shirt is sort of
toying with a .45 Colt and acts like he is wishful to be answered.
“Howdy, boys,” says Magpie sad-like.
“Howdy ----!” snaps Dirty Shirt. “Who says I stole calves?”
“Hard-Pan Hawkins,” replies the judge.
“Lay it on to a dead man,” grunts Dirty. “What’s the matter with you
snake-hunters?”
“You must ’a’ stole calves, Dirty,” says Buck accusing-like. “The dead
don’t lie.”
“They don’t need to,” explains Magpie.
“Hard-Pan Hawkins never needed any cause to lie,” says Dirty. “He’s a
---- liar--alive or dead.”
“Just a moment,” interrupts the judge. “We can prove things, can’t we?
We’ll have Hard-Pan answer Dirty’s accusations.”
Magpie and Buck put their fingers on that contraption again, and Judge
Steele says--
“Hard-Pan, did Dirty Shirt steal calves?”