“My Gawd!” says an awed voice in the audience. “You shot his head off,
Tombstone; I heard it hit the floor!”
Somebody yanked the curtains, and they began turnin’ on the lamps.
Magpie took the shotgun away from me and shoved me into a corner.
“This is one of the best shows I ever did see,” declares Hair Oil
Heppner. “Two singers done got knocked out, one bull fiddle busted, and
a Piperocker minus his head--and this is only the first act.”
“I’ve won that prize,” declared Tombstone. “Jist somebody try to stop me
from claimin’ it. Eighty-one wins.”
“I’ve got ten tickets,” says Dog Rib. “If eighteen was the number, I’ve
got as much right to have it as you have, Tombstone. I’m from Yaller
Horse the same as you and I--”
“You’re _from_ Yaller Horse,” admits Tombstone, “but if you don’t shut
up, you won’t never go back there, Dog Rib.”
Dog Rib is settin’ right behind Tombstone. Comes a dull thud, a sort of
a scramblin’ noise, and then Mrs. Todd’s voice:
“Git up and take to him, Tombstone. Git up, can’tcha? He hit you with a
boot. Did he hurt you, honey?”
“Honey’s in the comb,” says Hair Oil. “You shore do lift and drop a
wicked boot, Dog Rib. But you ort to have removed the spur. Common
etikette will tell you that it ain’t ethical to pet a man over the head
with a loose boot and not remove the spur first. I’ll betcha he’ll part
his hair in the middle for a long time to come. Well, the show gits
better as we go along, don’t it, folks?”
“The danged murderer’s got some of Tombstone’s tickets!” wails Mrs.
Todd.
“You had that boot off all the time, didn’t you?” asked Hank Padden.
“Shore did. How’d you know it?”
“You wouldn’t appreciate my reply, ’cause you live with ’em all the
time. Well, let’s go on with the show. What’s holdin’ us back? I paid
four bits to see a show, and all I’ve seen yet is small arguments. If
all we’re goin’ to do is fight--let’s build up a good one, and then go
home.” Magpie hauled me off the floor and led me back, where they’re
fixin’ up that stable scene.
“They’re about to do battle out there,” says I.
“That’s fine. If they fight among themselves, they won’t have time to
start trouble with us. Climb right up the ladder, Ike. I’ll tell you
when to come down, but it won’t be until the next act.”
* * * * *
I started to climb up the ladder, when all at once I seen the rear end
of an old red steer below me. The lower part of my chimbley is fixed up
like a stall, and they’ve got a mean lookin’ old steer, with jist his
head showin’. The rear end is in the clear, but his head is locked
tight. On the other side of the scene is that danged whisker eatin’
camel, also caught by the head. They’ve got lanterns to light this
scene. I’m pretty sore and stiff, but I climbs up my ladder and sets
down on the edge of my chimbley. Anyway, I’m too high up for anybody to
bother me, which ain’t such a bad position, but I didn’t realize that I
stuck up above the top of the curtain.
Out in front, they’re still quarrelin’, but I ain’t interested. I’ve
made up my mind to buy Dog Rib a drink for hittin’ Tombstone Todd. That
old steer kinda starts weavin’ back and forth, tryin’ to git his head
out, and I’m doin’ a balancin’ act on the top of that chimbley.
“You better calm that cow down there,” says I. “I’m no damn’ canary.”
“So-o-o-o, boss,” says Magpie. “Somebody git behind that damn’ steer
with a hunk of two-by-four, will you? Go out and explain this part of
the show to them ignorant sheepherders, will you, Testament. They won’t
know what it’s all about, unless you diagram it for ’em.”
“Go ahead with your prep’rations,” says Dugout Dulin. “I’ll calm this
steer. Whoa, you bald-faced hunk of rawhide. Stop weavin’ or I’ll knock
your rear end out of line with your ears. How’re you comin’, Ike?”
“Feet first, if I have m’ choice,” says I, hangin’ on tight.
Testament Tilton’s voice comes to my ears, and he’s shore exortin’
somethin’ about somebody bein’ born in a manger, and the wise men
bringin’ gifts.
“That part of it’s all right,” says Mrs. Todd, “but that don’t help
Tombstone none. He’s done recited all his mul-pi-cation tables, and that
damn’ Dog Rib Davidson done stole over half of his tickets. Ain’t there
no law in this place? I’ve been a lady all through these proceeding, but
I’m shore goin’ to forget m’ bringin’ up. Git up, honey, and poke him in
the nose.”
“Little mul-pi-cation won’t hurt him none,” says Dog Rib. “He don’t know
eighteen from eighty-one. He may be honey to you, but he’s shore
horseradish to me, ma’am.”
“There ain’t no law against hittin’ a man with a boot, is there, Judge?”
asks Hair Oil.
“Not specific, Hair Oil. It may be a breach of etikette.”
“When he wakes up, he’ll kill somebody,” says Mrs. Todd.
“Not with his own gun,” chuckles Dog Rib, “ ’cause I’ve got it.”
“He’ll run you out of Yaller Horse, you sneakin’ thief.”
“Tootms two is eight,” says Tombstone. “Tootms three is--is--”
“Eighteen,” says Dog Rib. “Let’s go ahead with the show.”
“I came out here to explain the scene to you,” says Testament. “Unless
you understand what it all means, you won’t know what it’s about. In
this scene, we aim to depict and duplicate a scene--”
“What happened to me?” chirps Tombstone, holdin’ his head in both hands.
“Where’d all this blood come from? I crave to know who hit me, that’s
what I’d crave?”
“Dog Rib hit you, honey,” says Mrs. Todd. “He stole your tickets and
your gun.”
“I’ll git your ears for this, Dog Rib!”
“You’ll need ’em to replace the ones I got from you. While you’re at it,
you might as well stock up on other parts of m’ anatomy, ’cause when I’m
through with you, you’ll need plenty fixin’, Tombstone.”
“Did he git number eighty-one?” asks Tombstone of his wife.
“If I didn’t, I’m shore cockeyed,” laughs Dog Rib. “Folks, I’ve shore
pulled the fangs out of this old sidewinder. He’s bossed Yaller Horse
jist as long as he’s goin’ to. From now on, Dog Rib Davidson is--
Dog Rib is standin’ up to make his proclamation, when Telescope
Tolliver, barytone of the Cross J quartette, flung a chair halfway
across the room at Tombstone, and hit Dog Rib right on the head. Dog Rib
shudders, folds up like a hat rack and disappears behind Tombstone
Todd’s chair.
“Si-eye-lent ni-i-i-i-ight,” sings Telescope, startin’ in where he left
off when Tombstone knocked him out.
“Set down!” snorts Muley Bowles. “We’re three murders and a homicide
past that song, Telescope. Set down, before somebody kills you. This
here peace on earth stuff means to keep down and protect your own head.”
“And Tombstone Todd still bosses Yaller Horse,” grunts Tombstone, as he
helps himself to Dog Rib’s gun and his own, while Mrs. Todd recovers
most of the tickets.
I can see and hear all this from my perch on top of the chimbley, where
I’m swayin’ like a jaybird on a limb.
“Git ready to yank the curtain,” says Magpie. “Put all them lanterns
inside the manger. Makes it look better. Somebody blow out the lights
out in front.”
“Somebody calm this here bo-veen, will you?” I asks. “I’m gittin’
seasick.”
* * * * *
I see the lights go out over the audience, and then I hears the curtain
go rattlin’ back. Every bit of light from all them lanterns is reflected
upward, and there I set on that swayin’ chimbley top, like an
illuminated buffalo coat, decorated with brass sleigh bells, which are
jinglin’ every time that restless steer weaves back and forth.
I’m gittin’ so dizzy I can’t look down, and the rest of the world is all
black to me.
“It’s Ike Harper,” says a voice out in the crowd. “The catspaw of
Piperock!”
“Don’t shoot, Tombstone! You might be mistaken!”
“I’d know him among a million. Don’t jiggle m’ arm.”
“Stand still, you bald-faced oreano!” yelps Dugout Dulin, and then I
hears the splat of that two-by-four across the rear end of the old
steer. _Wham!_
That bullet picked off one of my numerous sleigh bells and sent her
jinglin’ up among the rafters, and I let loose with both hands. It
wasn’t quite the longest fall I ever had, and I lit sittin’ down, for
the simple reason that the chimbley kept me from turnin’ over.
But I didn’t reach the floor. That old steer’s withers was between me
and terry firmy, as you might say, and I lit a-straddle of ’em. I reckon
I lit jist ahead of Dugout’s next attempt to pacify the steer from
behind, and we was both goin’ ahead at the impact.
My nose and chin knocked the front out of that fireplace, and we came
right out into that manger. I seen one horn of that steer hook into
Dirty Shirt’s curtain, and he seemed to kinda open up, like a newspaper
in the wind. It must have scared Araby, ’cause in what short time I had,
I seen that old camel’s shoulders and hump comin’ out through the wall,
and the camel’s mouth was wide open in a perfect “O”, like somebody
tryin’ to blow smoke rings.
“Hook’m, cow!” screams somebody out in that dark audience, and that
steer starts sunfishin’ right across that platform, headin’ for the
audience, head down, tail up, and foghorn blowin’, while behind us comes
Araby, kickin’ at everythin’ in sight, but follerin’ me and the
bald-faced steer.
It’s about eight feet drop to the floor off that platform, and I’ve got
both knees locked right behind that steer’s horns, when the fall
started. I gets a flash of Paradise and Yaller Horse and Piperock, goin’
backwards over their seats in the dark, and then we landed.
It shore was one awful jolt, but you can’t discount the Harper fambly,
when it comes to bulldoggin’ a steer. I took that animile to the floor
in one blaze of glory, as you might say. There’s only a few shots fired.
There was two fired close to the ceilin’, and I think it’s Judge Steele
up there with his shotgun, judgin’ from the sound of it. He was right in
the path of Araby the last I seen of him.
I’m pretty much shook to pieces, but I still retain my fightin’
instinct, and I got that steer by the horns, holdin’ his head close to
the floor. We knocked over all the chairs in reach, both of us growin’
weaker and weaker as the battle progressed.