“Dirty Shirt also stole cows.”
_Bang!_
I seen Magpie and Buck yank backwards, and Judge Steele fell backwards
under the bunk. I seen pieces of board splinter against the wall, and
when Magpie stood up a lot of splinters fell off his knees. He glares
at Dirty and then howls--
“What did you do that for?”
“----!” yelps Dirty, waving his gun. “What did yuh think I was going to
do? Now, you danged liars, stand up on your hind legs and talk fluently.
What is that dingus?”
“That thing you busted was a method of communication between us and the
spirit world,” says Magpie. “It brought us in touch with them what ain’t
visible, but you busted ---- out of it, and there’s only one more in
Yaller Rock County.”
“Who’s got that other one?” I asks.
“ ‘Hassayampa’ Harris and ‘Tombstone’ Todd.”
“Where did yuh get ’em?” asks Dirty.
“Fortune-teller sold ’em to Scenery Sims, and he sold ’em to us for
fifty dollars per each. Dang you, Dirty, what did yuh want to shoot
it up thataway for? That was a awful thing to do.”
“I hope Hard-Pan heard the shot,” says Dirty. “I hate a dead horse-thief
what can’t keep his danged mouth shut.”
“You’re going to get in bad with the hereafter, Dirty,” proclaims the
judge, poking his head out from under the bed. “I won’t be surprized if
Hard-Pan haunts you, being as you cut ---- out of his conversation.”
“How does the danged thing work?” I asks.
“It ain’t no ‘danged’ thing, Ike,” says Magpie. “That was a wee-gee
board, the same of which puts us in touch with them what is beyond the
veil. Honest to gosh! Mighty Jones had a message from his wife.”
“I reckon Wick Smith has had one from his wife by this time,” says Dirty
Shirt.
“Is she dead?” gasps the judge.
“Not unless she runs herself to death after Scenery Sims.”
Just then a shadow darkens the door, and we looks around to see
Hassayampa and Tombstone. They acts sort of awed-like, and then
Tombstone says--
“We made the thing work, Magpie, and it said that Hard-Pan Hawkins had a
message for you.”
“Hard-Pan Hawkins?” gasps Magpie, and the two nods.
“You ought to go to him, Magpie,” says Dirty Shirt.
“Why, he’s dead,” says Magpie.
“Sure,” says Dirty, “and you ought to be.”
“Wait just a minute,” says the judge. “This is interesting. Where’s your
wee-gee, Tombstone?”
“Me and Hassayampa put it in the bank, judge.”
“Keep it there. I’ve got a scheme. Does Curlew or Paradise know anything
about spirits?”
“Spirits frumenti,” says Buck. “Educated above the average.”
“The scheme,” says the judge solemn-like, “interests Magpie, Buck,
Hassayampa, Tombstone and myself. The rest of you are _e pluribus
unum_.”
“Where is your board?” asks Hassayampa.
“Dirty Shirt split it with a bullet,” says Buck. “Busted it all to ----”
“My ----!” gasps Tombstone. “Busted it? I’d sure hate to have that deed
upon my soul.”
“No danged hunk of lumber can accuse me of stealin’ cows,” complains
Dirty Shirt. “You and your messages from the dead can go----”
But they shut the door by main strength, and me and Dirty Shirt sets
down on the steps.
* * * * *
Just then cometh Scenery Sims. Poor Scenery looks like he had been too
close to an accident when it happened. He sets down and wipes the tears
off the end of his little blue nose. He looks behind him like he was
plumb scared of his life, and then he whines:
“I’ve been hounded too danged much--you know it? What in ---- does
Hard-Pan Hawkins know about the condition of my heart? No ---- rustler
ghost can slip over anything like that on yours truly, Lindhardt
Cadwallader Sims, E-squire.”
“Rustler?” asks Dirty. “Why for rustler ghost, Scenery?”
“That--squeegee thing,” squeaks Scenery. “Know what I mean? Either
Hard-Pan is a ---- liar or don’t know what he’s talkin’ about.”
“You might tell us about it,” says I.
“Hassayampa and Tombstone was doin’ the herdin’,” says Scenery, like
he was giving us a page out of his wicked past. “Me and Wick Smith
was lookin’ on. _Sabe?_ Ricky Henderson was taking down the message
from the dead. Well, it hasn’t much to talk about until it said that
Hard-Pan had a message for Wick Smith. That ---- horse-thief said--
“‘Your wife is in love with somebody else.’”
“Wick pulled his gun and leaned over the board and says--
“‘What’s his name?’”
Scenery licks his lips and takes a deep breath.
“What name did it give?” I asks.
Scenery squints at me and rubs his nose.
“What in ---- do you reckon I’ve been doin’ all this runnin’ for?”
“Are Wick and his wife reconciled?” I asks.
Scenery seems to let the question soak in, and then says:
“I dunno what you mean, Ike, but they’re anything you want to call
’em. Hard-Pan is plumb loco if he thinks for a minute that I covets
Mrs. Smith.”
“Ike,” says Dirty Shirt, “it appears to me that Piperock has been stung
with the ghost bug. They’re monkeying with the dead too much to suit me.
Let’s me and you go over to my cabin and hole up until they gets through
takin’ advice from them what has passed on.”
We did. Dirty’s cabin is far from the maddening strife, but we gets
echoes from the dim and distant past even out there. “Sad” Samuels
drifts in from Curlew and eats with us. Sad appears very despondent,
and we asks why.
“Revelations,” says Sad. “Why don’t they let sleepin’ dogs lie? Tomorrow
night is Revelation Night in Piperock. Ain’t yuh heard about it? Yeah,
that’s what they call it. Them bills says:
“This is the Night when the Souls of the Departed Comes Back to
Answer all Questions. Nothin’ is Concealed from Them Beyond the
Veil. Get a Front Seat and Hear Strange Truths. Admission One
Dollar and Four Bits. Come One. Come All. Music by Thatcher’s
Orchester. Singing.”
“Who starts all the revelation stuff, Sad?” asks Dirty.
“Magpie, Buck, Hassayampa, Tombstone and Judge Steele.”
“That was the scheme Judge Steele had,” says Dirty. “Dog-goned law-shark
saw a chance to make money out of the dead.”
“Why are you despondent, Sad?” I asks.
“Whyfor? ’Cause it ain’t nobody’s business to listen to dead ones. I’m
ag’in’ this here message stuff--me. Yuh can’t go gunnin’ for no lying
corpse, can yuh? Ain’t no way to make ’em admit they lied.”
“Suppose they don’t lie?” says Dirty, and Sad nods.
“That’s the ---- of it. You fellers better get tickets if yuh want a
chance to set down.”
Then cometh Magpie. Deep in my heart I can see disaster coming my way.
Any old time that _hombre_ comes looking for me I can hear the grass
growing over me, and know that Ike Harper’s future is in the sere and
yaller leaf.
This time I steeled my nerves and shook my gun loose. He leaned
against the side of the door and contemplates us more in sorrow than
in anger. His eyes fills with emotion as he gazes upon my face, and
I turn away--to see if my gun is loaded.
“How’s the dead ones coming along, Magpie?” asks Dirty Shirt.
“All right,” says Magpie; “but I’d be more respectful if I was you.”
“Respectful for who? Hard-Pan Hawkins?”
“You ought to respect the dead.”
“Not when they accuse me of rustlin’,” says Dirty Shirt. “If you gets
any more messages from Hard-Pan you tell him for me that he’s a liar,
and that I’ll bet he’s stealin’ ghost cows every chance he gets.”
“There are no cow-thieves in the hereafter, Dirty,” says Magpie
solemn-like.
“Then that wasn’t Hard-Pan, that’s a cinch.”
“How and when did Hard-Pan demise out?” I asks.
“I dunno. Slim Hawkins, who is his cousin, said that Hard-Pan went to
Canada and outwitted the Mounted Police by dying before they caught
him.”
“There ain’t nothin’ concealed from the dead,” pronounced Magpie. “They
can look right through anything. _Sabe?_”
“It was danged hard to conceal anything from Hard-Pan when he was
alive,” says Dirty, “and I’ll bet that _hombre_ works overtime where
he is now.”
The three of us sets there and sort of thinks it over. Then Magpie
says--
“Ike, have you heard about Revelation Night?”
“Seems to me Sad Samuels was weepin’ about something like that.”
“It’s going to be a wonderful revelation,” says Magpie soft-like. “It is
going to----”
“All right!” says I. “Let her revelate, Magpie. Me and Dirty----”
“You mean you’re not interested in this chance to hear something that
you never heard before? Ain’t you got nobody what has gone hence that
you would like to ask a question of some kind?”
“Nope. I know too danged much now, Magpie.”
“I was sent over here by the committee,” says Magpie slow-like, “to ask
you to assist us, Ike. There has been rumors that me and Hassayampa,
Tombstone, Buck and the judge is liable to sort of cold-deck folks on
the result of said messages, and we figure that your reputation for
square dealin’, upright methods, et cettery, might allay their
suspicions. Curlew and Paradise are coming in bunches. We want you to
take down and read them messages as they occur. I reserved a front seat
for Dirty Shirt.”
“I read them messages from the dear departed and announce to whom and
from which they emanates, eh?” I asks, and Magpie nods.
“That’s the idea, Ike. It will be interesting and instructive, and the
same of which is new, novel and interesting to all mankind and women
adults.”
“What assurance has I got that I won’t be scalped by some cowboy who
ain’t respecting the dead?”
“Shucks, this is too solemn a occasion for such levity, Ike. Can’t yuh
just set and wonder what spirit hands is guiding them messages? Uncanny
but wonderful in the extreme. I longs for tomorrow night to come. Will
ye act as messenger between the dead and the livin’, Ike?
“There will be music and singing, and speeches too numerous to mention.
Piperock is leadin’ the country in entertainment, and this will put us
so far in the lead that none of ’em can even trail our dust.”
“Nobody ever helped themselves much by monkeying with the dead,” states
Dirty Shirt. “My idea is to let ’em alone, but if yuh won’t--I’ll take
that front seat, Magpie, and help stir up a few skillingtons myself.”
“What in ---- is a skillington?” asks Magpie.
“The dried framework of a human being, also animiles,” says Dirty.
“My gosh, you ought to study astronomy before you monkey with spirits.”
“Astronomy means stars,” says Magpie disgusted-like. “There ain’t going
to be no stars. _Sabe?_”
“I dunno,” says I. “I never monkeyed with a Piperock entertainment
without seeing a few, Magpie.”
“This is too pious for arguments, Ike. There won’t be no hurrah stuff.
The hall will be darkened, and everything will be still as possible.”
“How did Scenery and Wick Smith come out?”
“Scenery ain’t come out yet, Ike. He’s inside the jail, and Wick waits
on the steps for him. It don’t pay to monkey with affections, you
betcha.”
* * * * *
Then cometh Revelation Night. Yaller Rock County surprized me. I never
knowed there was so many people in the county what was interested in
messages from the dead.
“Hair-Oil” Heppner and “Liniment” Lucas pilgrims plumb from Granite to
be in on the deal, and I figures it’s something of interest to pull a
couple of rawhides like them.
Bill Thatcher brings his orchestra, which holes up near the old town
of Yaller Rock. Curlew and Paradise percolates into town, and by dark
the hamlet of Piperock has more folks on the street than ever before.
Buck does a thriving business, being as Yaller Rock folks believe in
internal spirits a heap.
“Old Testament” Tilton holds forth in discourse, but don’t get much of a
audience, being as he’s antagonistic to spiritual things thataway.
“You know danged well that no one ever hears from the dead,” says he.
“I heard from my wife,” says Mighty Jones. “I sure did, Testament.”
“You never had a wife,” declares Testament.
“Which makes it more wonderful than ever,” whoops Mighty. “Proves that
it’s able to do more than the directions says it can. Dawgone it, I
expects to have a family before I gets through.”
They’ve got a sheet across the front of the stage in the Mint Hall, and
behind the sheet they’ve got a few chairs for the main ingredients of
the show to set upon. Magpie and Buck are to handle the contraption,
while me and Judge Steele reads her off as she writes.
Then I’m to announce the results. Hassayampa Harris sets on one side of
the stage and Tombstone Todd on the other. In front of the stage sets
the orchestra, and from there on to the back of the room is Yaller Rock
humanity.
The room is sort of twilight, and everything is so silent and solemn
that I’m almost ready to believe that she’s going to pass into
history as the one time that Piperock got past without casualties. I
say “almost.”
We’re just about to pull back the curtain when I hears Hair-Oil
Heppner’s hooch-husky voice drawl out:
“Whew! I didn’t know you was going to bring ’em here to speak for
themselves.”
“What’s the matter?” asks somebody.
“Matter? Smell, you danged fool! The dear departed are among us.”
Tombstone pulls back the curtain, and we looks into that gloomy
audience.
“Say,” says Hair-Oil, standing up, “I paid one dollar and four bits to
get in here and set down, but if you don’t make ‘Pole-Cat’ Perkins keep
his boots on I wants my money back. _Sabe?_”
“I’ve got a bunion,” complains Polecat. “Feet dang near kill me.”
“Dang near ----!” grunts Hair-Oil. “I’d tell a man that you’ve been dead
for over a week.”
Old Judge Steele stand up and walks to the edge of the stage.
“Feller mortals, this is a solemn occasion and should be respected. Let
all earthly things drift for a while and silently help us peer behind
the veil from which nobody ever returneth back.
“Up here on the stage we have the means of getting word from dear
departed souls which are locked in the bosom of eternity. Everything
is an open book to the spirits. Now has anybody any departed soul
which they’d like to talk with?”
“Ask Polecat Perkins why he didn’t die with his boots on,” says
Hair-Oil.
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Pete Gonyer. When Pete haws it shakes the whole
hall.
“Lay off that ‘haw-haw’ stuff!” yelps Tombstone. “Ain’t yuh got no
respect for the dead?”
“Could I get another message from my wife?” asks Mighty Jones.
Magpie and Buck puts their fingers on that little three-legged table,
and Judge Steele says--
“Wee-gee, is there any message from Mrs. Mighty Jones?”