Ike Harper and Dirty Shirt Jones return in a hilarious
story of the Christmas Season
Dirty Shirt Jones and Scenery Sims got religion. That in itself ain’t of
much interest, unless you knew these two. I’ve knowed lots of men who
got religion jist like Dirty Shirt and Scenery got it. Remorse, that’s
what she was--not religion. Too much liquor on an empty stummick. I’ve
felt the error of my ways from the same cause.
Dirty Shirt Jones wasn’t very big. His face was kinda antegodlin’, and
one eye sorta roamed around indefinite-like, usually comin’ to rest with
the pupil lookin’ down the length of his nose, as though amazed at the
crookedness of said organ. Dirty Shirt had some quaint ideas of humor,
and as far back as I can remember, he’s harbored a deadly hatred against
the towns of Yaller Horse and Paradise. Bein’ a loyal Piperocker he
couldn’t do otherwise.
Scenery Sims is smaller than Dirty Shirt. He’s a hard little devil, this
here Scenery Sims, almost bald, square above the ears, with eyes like a
pair of faded shoe buttons, one flarin’ ear--and a sense of loyalty to
Piperock.
It’s December in Piperock. There’s only one tree between Piperock and
the North Pole, which don’t noways temper the wind to the shorn lamb.
Piperock ain’t no metropolis--but, gentlemen, she’s a town. We sink or
swim, live or die, survive or perish together. As Magpie Simpkins says,
“We’re one and indigestible.”
Me and Dirty Shirt have been tryin’ to wrest some wealth from the bosom
of Mother Nature on the headwaters of Plenty Stone Creek, but the
weather drove us back to the fleshpots, where we’re doomed to spend the
rest of the winter. I’ve been spendin’ two days against a stove, tryin’
to git some heat inside my frozen carcass. When I does pilgrim uptown, I
finds old Dirty Shirt settin’ on the sidewalk in front of Buck
Masterson’s saloon. He’s humped up there, with his old mackinaw collar
above his ears, hands shoved down inside his old yaller angora chaps,
settin’ there in the snow, the thermometer below zero--and right behind
him is the saloon, where boot heels are sizzlin’ against the old base
burner, and water gittin’ hot for the next round of drinks.
* * * * *
Magpie had told me that Dirty and Scenery were paralyzed drunk the day
before, and I had a hunch that Dirty had froze to death. But he wasn’t
dead. His active eye does a few loops, steadies down to a strained
contemplation of that crooked nose, and he says to me--
“The way of the transgressor is pretty damn’ tough, Ike Harper.”
“All depends on how heavy your underclothes are,” says I. “How about a
shot of hot liquor?”
“Strong drink is ragin’, Ike.”
“So’s the thermometer.”
“I’m repentin’ of my sins.”
“Well, you’ve shore got a long hard season ahead of you, Dirty Shirt.
Where does it hurt you worst? You ain’t done got religion, have you?”
“My sins are heavy among me, Ike. I’ve shot and slashed and cut and
cussed pretty much all m’ life.”
“Not countin’ horse and cattle stealin’, card markin’ and other forms of
malignant sins,” I reminds him. “But freezin’ to death ain’t goin’ to
wipe ’em out none to speak about. Why not try goin’ to the penitentiary
for life?”
“Wouldn’t pay me out, Ike; I’m half through livin’ right now. Me and
Scenery got it together. He’s repentin’ in sackcloth and ashes right
now.”
“Yea-a-ah--but I’ll bet he ain’t sucker enough to freeze along with
’em.”
“Old Testament Tilton told us--”
“You ain’t takin’ his word for it, are you, Dirty?”
“He’s our preacher, ain’t he? Me and Scenery went to church.”
“How in hell did anybody ever git you two in church?”
Dirty’s eye wobbles a lot, but pretty soon she jerks back to attention.
“They ain’t got no bell,” he says kinda sad-like. “No bell on the
church. Don’tcha know it’s a shame--no bell on the church. Fact of the
matter is, it don’t look like no church. It’s a shame for a place to not
even look like a church. I tell you I’m goin’ to do somethin’ for that
church. I’m goin’ to fix her up so she’ll look and sound like a church.”
“What’ll you use for money?” I asks.
“I’ll sell my horseless carriage to the highest bidder.”