“Friends and folks from Curlew and Paradise----”
I heard that gun click and so did Magpie, ’cause he covers the crowd and
looks us over serious-like.
“Scenery Sims,” says he, “you put that gun back in your holster or I’ll
heat the muzzle and brand you with the double-doughnut! _Sabe?_ I put
Paradise in front of Curlew the first time.”
Magpie lowers his gun and faces the crowd.
“I don’t want no blame for what you’re going to see, folks. There’s a
difference of opinion as to who is to blame for this glorious date, so
in order to keep everlasting peace in the county we lets each and every
participating city show their patriotism in their own way and according
to their own beliefs. The sign will tell the tale. Let ’er go!”
The flaps of the tent swing open. I don’t know how she looks to anybody
else but this is as she was viewed by Ike Harper.
There stands Mike Pelly in the middle of the platform. He’s got on Old
Testament’s long black coat which fits him at no place except around the
bottom, being as Old Testament is built like a lodge-pole and Mike is
fashioned after the specifications of a hogshead. On his head balances
Judge Steele’s stovepipe hat; in his hands is an ax, while he stands all
spraddled out over a couple of poles.
The sign reads:
ABRAHAM LINCOLN ACCORDING
TO PARADISE HE DONE IT
_Bung!_
A six-gun busts right by my ear, and I sees that tall hat hop off Mike’s
head and sail back into the tent.
“Punch a preacher, will you?” whoops Hassayampa. He’s got a reserved
space in the back of the crowd, and there he stands, rocking back and
forth on his heels.
“Hey!” Old Judge Steele worms his way to the front of the platform and
scowls up at Paradise’s donation. “Where’d my hat come from?”
Mike scratches his head with the handle of the ax and stares down at the
judge.
“Come from?” he asks. “You mean went to, don’t you?”
_Bung!_ goes Hassayampa’s gun again.
“I wishes to call your attention,” explains Hassayampa belligerent-like.
“Do I have to kill somebody to get noticed?”
Hassayampa’s bullet must have cut the rope, ’cause the flaps dropped
down and saved Mike.
“That wasn’t the judge,” states Dirty to Hassayampa.
“Nobody else wears election hats,” mumbles Hassayampa. “I know that
hat.”
Then Magpie’s head protrudes from between the flaps, and he yelps at me:
“Ike, you take that codfish from Curlew and stake him to a tree. He’s a
trouble-breeder!”
“Will he?” yells Hassayampa. “Nobody but me to protect the ministry from
a bunch of heathen hop-heads, is there? Who’s going to take me?”
Hassayampa’s voice wails with rage, and you can’t blame me for not
taking him, can you? I swore to do my duty, but a man has got a right
to define duty as he sees fit. I figured I’d be worth a lot more to
posterity if I ignored Hassayampa.
* * * * *
I didn’t care for the statue of Lincoln. Mike looked about as much like
Lincoln as a fish-pole looks like a bucket of water, and deep down in my
heart I wished that Hassayampa hadn’t held so high. Of course Hassayampa
has to get cocky about it. He yells--
“You bow-legged, star-wearing, grinny faced son-of-a-duck, come and get
me!”
“I don’t want you,” says I. “I ain’t collecting antique eggs today. I’m
going to get me a drink.”
“I was just funning, Ike,” says he. “I’ll go peaceful, ’cause I’m dry,
too.”
Then me and Hassayampa runs into an argument. We finds Ricky Henderson,
“Three Star” Thorndyke, Art Miller and “Coyote” Calkins arguing with
Doughgod Smith. Doughgod holds forth thusly:
“You’ve got to show a little becoming class, ain’t you? I’m bossing the
music end of the program, and she can’t fall below the rest, can she?”
“She can’t,” agrees Ricky. “She sure can’t, Doughgod.” And the four of
them walks away.
Doughgod looks at us and sort of grins.
“Them is the Paradise brass band,” explains Doughgod. “Been tooting
for two weeks for this celebration. Everything is sort of out of the
ordinary, so I wishes my end to show up well. A band is just a band
unless they rides horses, which makes ’em a mounted band. _Sabe?_
Them _hombres_ is going to dispense music from their broncs.”
We looks back at the speaker’s tent, and here comes an apparition which
we deciphers to be Mike Pelly. Mike sure looks like the breaking up of a
hard Winter. He’s got the brim of that stovepipe hat around his neck and
in his hand he carries one of them rails he was posing over. He’s still
got on portions of that tight coat. He’s got a bump on his forehead, and
in his face is memories of long ago. He weaves up in sort of waltz time
and pauses to look back.
“Who done it, Mike?” I asks.
“Lincoln,” says he sweet-like and weaves on.
“Lincoln was a great man,” states Doughgod.
“Was?” grunts Hassayampa. “If he hung that bump on Mike I’d say he is,
not was, Doughgod. Almost as great as Custer. My gosh, I done forgot all
about my contentions, Ike. Let’s go back and see Custer.”
“All right,” says I. “Why stop at modern history, Hassayampa? Let’s go
further back and see Caesar or the last of the Mohicans.”
We found a fairly peaceful bunch in front of the tent. Old Judge Steele
wanders up to us. His face sure looks like something had tried to erase
his nose, and in his hand is the remnants of that high hat. Just then
I’m grabbed by the arm, and Magpie’s voice grunts in my ear--
“Feller wants to see you, Ike.”
I suffers him to lead me around back of the tent, where he lifts the
canvas enough to let us both under. I was glad to get away from the
judge right then, ’cause I don’t know what Mike might have told him.
In there I meets the worst freak I’ve seen this day and date. It happens
to be Sad Samuels, but he sure is disguised. I reckon he’s dug up all
the fringed buckskin in Yaller Rock County and hung it on his lanky
carcass. He stands there, leaning against the platform, puffing away on
an extinct cigaret.
“Ike, meet General Custer,” says Magpie.
“Howdy, Cus,” says I. “How’s all your little Big Horns?”
“Poorly, Ike. You ain’t sore at Curlew, are you?”
“Not at the town itself, Sad. The town ain’t to blame.”
“Let me explain it,” says Magpie. “Curlew has ideas of her own as to who
is to blame for the Fourth, Ike. Being a free country and peace on earth
to all men we lets each city worship as they see fit. _Sabe?_ Curlew
opines that General Custer is the one.”
“All right with me,” says I. “Make it anybody you want, just so you
keeps the name of Harper out of the list. I won’t have my good name
sullied, Magpie.”
“We’ll respect your wishes, Ike,” says Magpie. “Now here’s what Sad
wants of you; he’s shy one actor for his living picture, and you’re
the only person he can depend upon. He honors you, Ike.”
“Yeah?” says I. “Honor of that kind is like beauty--it don’t get under
my skin. I won’t have a danged thing to do with it. Not a danged
solitary thing! Rest in peace is my motto, and I don’t care where the
chips fall. I will not do it!”
Well, they got me into that disguise, and I’m betting that nobody ever
looked like me.
“Not so danged bad at that,” states a voice, and I turns around.
It looks like a cross between an Injun painted for the war-trail and an
accident in a paint factory. It’s wearing the headdress of the Sioux,
the breast-plate of a Cheyenne and the pants of a Digger medicine-man,
which consists of a pad at the knees and feathers at the ankle--nothing
more. He’s got a wooden knife about three feet long. His face is painted
like the rainbow, one end of his mustache being pink and the other
green.
“My ----!” says I. “That last drink broke the camel’s back!”
It is “Mighty” Jones.
“Shake hands with your paw,” says he. “I’m Rain-in-the-Face.”
I looked at Magpie and the tears are flowing down his cheeks. Any man
must be tender hearted to cry at a time like this.
“Who in the ---- am I?” I asks.
“My daughter,” says Rain-in-the-Face. “You’re Pokyhontas.”
All the history I ever knew stood on its head and skidded out of the
picture. I looks at General Custer and then at my paw.
“With a mustache?” I asks foolish-like.
“Your face don’t show,” says Magpie choking-like. “You assumes a bowed
attitude over Custer, who is about to get carved by Rain-in-the-Face.
Curlew may be wrong in the main facts, but that part is historical.”
“It will be,” I agrees. “I feel that this celebration will be wrote up
for posterity--if anybody is left to write it.”
Just then somebody shows their impatience by shooting twice through the
ridge-pole, so we wobbles up and takes our position.
Sad is on his hands and knees with his chin on a block of wood, and they
places me on my knees, with my nose muffled in the back of his neck, and
my hands are raised as in prayer. Over us stands Rain-in-the-Face, with
his soft-pine sword raised aloft. I’ve got my head toward the audience
and I gets a glimpse of the sign as the curtain goes up. It reads:
CUSTER DONE IT AFTER
POKYHONTAS SAVED HIM
FROM HER PAW. FROM CURLEW