_Bang!_ goes a gun. I glances behind me. Mighty is standing there
looking at his sword, which ain’t nothing but a splinter now.
“Don’t never try to split up no ladies around here, dog-gone your
painted picture!” whoops Dirty Shirt’s voice. “Don’t you never do it!”
Dirty is right up against the platform and appears to be trying to get
up with the living pictures.
“_Yo-o-o-o-ow!_” yelps a voice from the rear of the crowd. “Bust up my
donation, will you!”
* * * * *
Hassayampa has got a horse, and just as I glance up he sails a loop of
rope to try and circle Dirty Shirt. He didn’t. That was the second time
he shoots high. I tries to move quick, but my costume was made more for
show than for speed. That loop of rope settles right over the rear of
me, tightens behind my knees and over the small of my back, and poor
Pokyhontas got uplifted.
I reckon that Pokyhontas didn’t want to leave Custer there even if
Rain-in-the-Face didn’t have no more sword than a toothpick, ’cause
when that rope hit me I got a strangle hold on Custer and we both
moved away from there.
Me, I’m jack-knifed so that my toes are tickling my mustache and Sad
is yelping like a trapped coyote pup. We turned over just once, swung
in under the railing, where we seem to sort of hang up, and then, as
far as I can see, the railing, platform, tent and all went with us.
Man, I’d say that the strain was great. I seemed to feel every muscle in
my body stretch a foot and as we sailed into the air somebody reached up
and took one of my moccasins off.
I lost Custer at an altitude of about forty feet and when I landed I
picked a tub of lemonade to stop in, and then it seems that I took the
tub along with me on a voyage of discovery. I’d say that Hassayampa
and his bronc went regardless and nobody knows whither we might have
wandered if that rope hadn’t busted.
Anyway, I think it busted, ’cause all to once I gets relief from the
cramps and the sandman visits Ike Harper.
Then along comes a million needles to penetrate my carcass and I feels
my nervous system yank me to a sitting position.
I’ve got my back against a tent and right in front of me is Judge Steele
and Old Testament. The sky pilot is kneeling in a prayerful attitude,
while the old judge squats on his heels in an attitude of deep thought.
The judge has got a piece of the busted platform in his hands and on his
head, cocked over on one side, is a gallon tin bucket. A curl of lemon
peel sticks out from under the edge and I opines that the judge must ’a’
mixed with the retail end of the lemonade business.
“We--we will open with a pup-prayer,” whispers Old Testament.
The old judge rocks on his heels and fondles that club.
“We will open with a spup-speech by me,” he whispers right back.
“Prayer!”
“Speech!”
“Dearly beloved, we----”
_Bam!_
The old judge surges forward and taps Testament on the head and our
preacher shuddered deep-like and pokes his long nose into the dirt.
Judge Steele pokes his nose toward the sky, shoves one hand inside his
torn vest and begins--
“Friends, Romans and feller----”
_Clank!_
I sees that lard bucket hop off the judge’s head and the rock nestled
right up against my shin.
“He-heathen!” stutters a voice and I turns to behold what is left of
Hassayampa. He’s got his head through one of the armholes of his vest,
which makes him look like he had a stiff neck. The belt of his chaps
has busted, and the two halves of his leather panties are wrinkled
down around his feet. His hat is gone, and if his mind ain’t gone too
his eyes sure lie to me. He’s got another rock in his hand.
“Pup-pick on a preacher, will you?” he yelps.
The old judge sets there on the ground, looking sort of dazed-like, and
then he seems to fuss around inside of his bosom. He hauls out a long
six-shooter, cocks it deliberate-like and takes aim at Hassayampa.
Hassayampa don’t mind. He sways on his heels and grins at me.
“How’s every little th-thing, Ike?” he asks hoarse-like.
_Bung!_
The old judge ain’t got much grip in his hands, and I sees the gun hop
plumb over his head when it exploded.
“_Woof!_” grasps Hassayampa, swaying backward, and he sets down so hard
that he bounced. He sets there making funny faces at me and hanging on
to his equator.
The judge twists his neck and peers at his gun. Then he gets up and
weaves away past a tent, talking to himself like a shepherd. I looks
over at the suffering Hassayampa and says:
“Every little thing is all right, Hassayampa. How’s it with you?”
He shakes his head and hugs himself some more.
“Think you’re going to die?” I asks.
He takes a deep breath.
“_Hoo-o-o-off!_ Hit me-uh-in the-uh-hoof! Belt-buckle. What do you know
about that? _Hoo-o-o-off!_”
“Not much,” says I. “He can’t shoot no straighter than you can.”
“Lead us not into temptation,” states Old Testament, sitting up sort of
jerky.
“Amen,” says I and then I got up, shook the hoops and staves from around
my neck and limped away.
I’m a peaceful person and I don’t want to do anything to sully the
atmosphere of this glorious celebration.
Then I runs in to Dirty Shirt--or rather I stumbles over his boots
which are protruding out from under a tent. I hauls him out, and along
with the haul comes Rain-in-the-Face. They’re locked in each other’s
embrace, and from the looks of them I reckon it was a case of united
we fell. I pries ’em apart and Dirty sets up. He looks at me and then
at Rain-in-the-Face, who is sniffing at me with his swollen nose.
“Pokyhontas, you smell sour,” says Rain-in-the-Face and then he scowls
at Dirty Shirt.
“You here yet?” he asks.
“In spirit,” agrees Dirty Shirt. “Physically I’m dead from my boots
to my dandruff. How do you feel, you cross between a polecat and a
totem-pole?”
“Feel of me!” snaps Mighty Jones. “Ain’t you had enough yet? Maybe you’d
like to bust up another historical group.”
“Go home and put on some pants,” advises Dirty. “You look like ----!
Come on, Ike. Let that delirium tremens Injun set there and make patent
medicine if he wants to.”
* * * * *
Don’t ask me all that happened that day. I’m just telling you what
happened in my immediate vicinity. Some day I hope to be an innocent
by-stander and be able to tell you everything, but as it is you’ve
got to guess that the others didn’t come out unscathed.
Me and Dirty found the remains of General Custer sitting near the
location of the defunct speaker’s stand. He looks up at us as we go
past, but there ain’t no recognition in his eyes.
“How goeth the battle, Cus?” I asks.