“That windy son of a gun again!” wails Dirty. “Tell him to get off the
wire and give an honest ghost a chance.”
“What does you wish to ask, J. B.?” inquires the judge.
“Ask him,” says J. B., “whether he stuck up the Paradise bank last
Summer or if not, who did?”
“Wait a minute,” says “Half-Mile” Smith from the back of the room.
“Natcherally he’d lie about it if he done it, and anyway it’s all done
with and forgotten long ago. I don’t see why you _hombres_ can’t ask
up-to-date questions.”
“I’m up-to-date myself,” opines “Cactus” Calkins, “and such questions
make me mad. Might as well ask Hard-Pan who built the Spinks of Egypt.
Shucks, this here entertainment makes me tired.”
The door opens and Half-Mile and Cactus went outside.
“Has anybody got a up-to-date question to ask?” queries the judge.
Bill Thatcher stands up and clears his throat.
“Last Spring I rode a pinto bronc into Piperock, and some son of a
gun stole my saddle. I rose up and howled loud-like against such
proceedings, and then went on the hunt for the saddle, which I didn’t
find. When I came back the bronc was gone. Maybe Hard-Pan knows
something about it; eh?”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” whoops Pete Gonyer. “That’s Bill’s idea of a up-to-date
question. Haw! Haw! Haw! I’m tired of such fool questions; ain’t you
‘Ricky’?”
“Bored plumb to death,” admits Ricky Henderson, and the two of ’em
crawls back through the crowd and went outside.
“Never mind the question, judge,” says Bill. “I’m beginnin’ to be a
mind-reader.”
_Biff! Swat!_
Comes the commotion about half-way to the back, and then Hair-Oil’s
husky voice--
“I’ve stood all I can--bunions or no bunions!”
“Did you ask a question?” asks Buck, who is a little hard of hearing.
“You might ask Hard-Pan if he has met Polecat yet,” says Hair-Oil, and
goes outside.
“This here meetin’ don’t seem to come out right,” states the judge.
“We’re failin’ to entertain because folks don’t ask the questions
right. Is there anybody what wishes a word or two with dear departed
to be sent through the medium of Hard-Pan Hawkins’ ghost?”
Old Sam Holt stands up and clears his throat.
“Yuh might ask my wife what she’d advise me to do.”
“What about?” asks Magpie.
“She’d know what I got on my mind. I ain’t got no faith in that ghost
stuff, but I’ll take a chance.”
Man, that little three-legged jigger sure spelled out that message fast.
I stood up and read her aloud.
“Mind your own ---- business.”
“That’s Emmeline!” gasps old Sam. “By ---- that’s her all right!”
“I’d sure hate to have my wife pussyfootin’ around with a ghost like
Hard-Pan Hawkins,” observes Bill McFee.
“Easy there, Bill,” warns old Sam. “Your wife is dead, remember.”
“My wife is in heaven,” pronounces Bill.
_Bang!_
I sees the flash of that six-shooter, and immediate and soon makes a
little prayer for the soul of Bill McFee, but I was a little previous.
I reckon old Sam was too mad to hit Bill, or somebody jiggled his arm,
’cause I seen “Hoot” Gillis rise up from among the orchestra. Hoot is
tall and willowy, and has arms about five feet long, and he swung that
squeeze organ from the floor and crowned old Sam with it.
Comes the swish of the organ, a jumble of notes mixed with the crash,
and old Sam Holt forgot his insult.
“He drilled my accor-deen from end to end!” wailed Hoot. “Gosh hang him!
It won’t never play another note!”
“Yuh might get Hard-Pan to send yuh a few notes,” opines “Telescope”
Tolliver. “I reckon a dead accordion has as good a chance for the happy
huntin’-ground as a horse-thief.”
“Speakin’ of hoss-thieves,” observes Zeb Abernathy, “reminds me that
maybe this here Hard-Pan can tell me something about them eight horses
what was stole from my corral over on the Picket Rope about a month
ago.”
“He wouldn’t know,” says “Chuck” Warner, “’cause he left here a year
ago.”
“Yuh can’t expect a dead horse-thief to know everything, can yuh?” asks
Telescope.
“Nobody’d believe him anyway ’cause it would be guesswork,” wheezes
“Muley” Bowles, who weighs too much to ride and is too fat to walk.
“Aw, shucks, let’s go home,” yawns Henry Peck. “It’s bad enough to have
to talk with live horse-thieves, let alone talkin’ with a dead one.”
And four of them get up and files out of the hall.
“I had certain suspicions,” says Zeb, and then sets down.
“As long as questions is being asked,” remarks Hank Padden, owner of
the Seven A outfit, “I might rise to ask if the departed but unlamented
Hard-Pan can give me a list of the men in Yaller Rock who ride with
runnin’ irons or extra cinch-rings on their saddles.”
“That’s a ---- of a question to ask!” snorts “Weinie” Lopp, and he
walked out of the door in the lead of about twenty upright citizens.
“That wasn’t hardly a fair question, Hank,” says Magpie.
“It sure as ---- got a direct reply,” grinned Hank Padden. “I takes off
my hat to the name of Hard-Pan Hawkins.”
“Feller citizens,” says the judge, “so far the spiritual end of this
here entertainment is null and void. We ain’t had no chance to
demonstrate the ability of the spirits to talk to us. Give us a
question.
“How many calves will my outfit brand next year?” asks Padden.