by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Law Rustlers,” “The Spark of Skeeter Bill,” etc.
I never seen anything like her before--not alive. One time I found a
piece of an old fashion magazine, and there was a picture of a female in
that--a female that some feller drawed; but I just figured that it was
all imagination with him. I take one look at this live female and then I
takes off my hat to the artist.
She said she was an artist. What in ---- anybody could find to draw in
Yaller Rock County--except guns--was more than I could see. Me and
“Magpie” Simpkins was down at Paradise, setting in Art Wheeler’s stage,
when she got on, headed for Piperock.
Art got one look at her and then jackknifed his four horses in trying to
turn around and go the wrong direction. Magpie Simpkins never took his
eyes off her. Magpie’s old enough to know better, but he didn’t seem to.
Art’s eyes don’t foller the road much, with the result that he runs a
front wheel off Calamity grade and danged near sends us all to our final
destination.
She said her name was Henrietta Harrison. Art pulls up for a breathing
spell at Cottonwood Crick, and we stops in the shade of a tree. She
looks at the big tree and then she says--
“Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat----”
“Me,” says Magpie, kinda foolish-like.
“You!” snorts Art. “Tune your merry note! Haw! Haw! Haw! You could
‘lie----’”
“Mebbe you could!” says Magpie, mean-like. “But your wife wouldn’t let
yuh.”
“Set down, you ancient he buzzards!” I yelps. “Ain’t yuh got no sense?”
“I don’t understand,” says Henrietta.
“Nobody does,” says I, consoling her. “If we did, we’d know whether to
lynch ’em or send ’em to the loco lodge, ma’am.”
“Magpie makes me tired,” declares Art. “Any time he wants to tune his
note----”
“It’s my note, Mister Wheeler. If I want to tune my own note----”
“I was merely quoting Shakespeare,” says the lady.
“Giddap, broncs!” says Art Wheeler, and we rocked on into Piperock.
I’ll tell you right here and now; beauty ain’t even skin deep in
Piperock. We’ve got wimmin folks--that is, some has--but nobody ever
kidnaped any of ’em.
If they belonged to me I’d trust ’em with any man.
There’s Mrs. “Wick” Smith, who jars the hay-scales to two hundred and
seventy-five, and wheezes plentiful. Art Wheeler’s better half tasted of
life and found it sour, and never got the acid out of her system. Mrs.
“Testament” Tilton looks upward for guidance in all matters except when
it comes to flattering Testament’s head with a skillet. When Mrs. Pete
Gonyer is in sight, Pete’s voice sinks seventeen inches below a whisper.
Somebody remarks one day that Pete’s kinda henpecked.
“Henpecked, ----!” says Pete. “Orstrich--if there ain’t nothin’ bigger
what wears feathers.”
Mrs. Steele, the wife of our legal light, is six feet two inches tall,
and she’s always oratin’ about the sanctity of the home, whatever that
is. One cinch, the prize never hands down any decisions in his own home.
Mrs. Sam Holt goes through life worrying about somebody alienating the
affections of old Sam, who can barely hear himself yell, and has to eat
his spuds mashed or miss the taste of ’em.
There’s the Mudgett sisters, who must ’a’ been the originals of the
first cartoon of “Miss Democracy.” Cupid would have to use a .30-30 if
he went to work for them. Scattered around the range is a occasional
female, but nothing that you’d bet your money on in a beauty contest.
Annie Schmidt is cooking for the Triangle outfit, but the same don’t
seem to cause any of the other ranches to go short of help.
* * * * *
Henrietta Harrison horns into Piperock. Piperock takes a deep breath.
Bad news travels fast, and it ain’t long before there’s a need of
another hitch-rack in Piperock. Sam Holt runs the hotel--or thought he
did; but Ma Holt got one look at Henrietta and shut up the book.
“Every room is taken,” says she.
“Who by, Ma?” asks old Sam.
“Me!”
“Ma’am,” says Magpie, “I reckon mebbe Mrs. Smith will take a boarder.”
Wick said she would. Wick locked up his store and took the valise in one
hand and Henrietta’s elbow in the other, kinda rubbing Magpie and me
out. We sat down on the sidewalk intending to speak unkindly to Wick
when he came back, but Henrietta came back with him. Wick sets the
valise down on the sidewalk.
“Ma said she was goin’ to have company, and won’t have no room.”
“This Summer?” asks Magpie.
“I ain’t no hand to argue,” says Wick.
Pete Gonyer comes over, and Magpie asks Pete about taking a boarder.
“Y’betcha,” says Pete. “Pleasure’s all mine. Mrs. Gonyer’d be plumb
tickled stiff. Live all your life with us, ma’am.”
Pete almost stands on his head, bowing and scraping like a ground-owl;
but just then Mrs. Gonyer comes down the sidewalk, but Pete don’t see
her.
“Pete!” she snaps.
“My ----!” gasps Pete. “The rope broke!”
Mrs. Gonyer looks at Henrietta and then at Pete.
“I run out of horseshoes,” says Pete. “I had to come to the store----”
Pete goes on into the store and Mrs. Gonyer follows him inside.
“I must find a place to board,” says Henrietta, kinda sad-like.
“Eatin’ part’s easy,” says I; “but it begins to kinda look like yuh
might have to hive up under that greenwood tree.”
“I’ll take her in before I’ll let her sleep under a tree,” says Magpie.
“You’ll take her in?” says I. “You mean, we’ll take her in, don’t yuh?
Half of that cabin is mine.”
“It was my idea, Ike.”
Just then Testament Tilton and his wife drives into town. Testament is a
sanctimonious-looking old pelican. He looks at Henrietta, and his lips
move, but I know they don’t move in prayer.
“Miss Harrison needs a place to stay,” explains Magpie. “Have you folks
got any extra room?”
“Brother Magpie, we have,” says Testament. “We have.”
“Where?” asks Mrs. Tilton.
Testament turns and looks at her kinda queer-like for a moment and then
back at us.
“That’s the question,” says Testament. “I thought we had room, but where
is it?”
“Well, get out of the wagon,” says Mrs. Tilton, nudging Testament. “Me
and you have got to do shoppin’.”
“I think it is an insult,” says Henrietta. “I’ve half a notion to
leave.”
“I’ve got a ---- good notion to leave with yuh,” says Magpie.
“Let’s make it a trio,” says I.
“What are you insulted about?” asks Magpie.
“I ain’t so danged particular that I’d mention any one little thing.”
“I came here to recuperate,” sighs Henrietta. “I escaped from every one
and went to one country where they would never expect to find me, and I
am not welcome, it seems. I thought I might find a new theme in the wild
dances of aboriginal tribes. That sort of thing is new and original, I
think.”
“I think so too,” nods Magpie. “They sure do dance wild around here.”
“Often?”
“Every time we can find somebody what can call a quadrille. Round dances
don’t go very good, ’cause there’s always some woman accusin’ her
husband of huggin’ some other man’s wife----”
“I don’t mean civilized dances.”
“Neither do I,” agrees Magpie.
* * * * *
Then cometh “Muley” Bowles, “Chuck” Warner, “Telescope” Tolliver and
Henry Peck, the four disgraces of the Cross J outfit. Muley, the poet,
is too fat to work. Telescope, the tall thin tenor, is too proud to
work. Chuck Warner wiggles his flexible ears, lies fluently to every
one, and proves an alibi every time “Jay Bird” Whittaker, his boss,
tries to make him work. Henry Peck has kind of a dumb way of going
through life, and plays a banjo.
They sees us and don’t lose no time getting off their broncs and
investigating. Muley takes a look at Henrietta and swallers real hard.
Telescope stumbles over Chuck’s foot and almost falls into her.
“Will you introduce me?” asks Henrietta.
“Well’m,” says Magpie, “Miss Harrison, I makes yuh used to Muley,
Telescope, Chuck ’n’ Hen. They’re jist common or ordinary cow-punchers.
Cowboys, meet Miss Harrison, a artist.”
“T’ meetcha,” says Telescope. “Mr. Simpkins misinformed yuh, ma’am. My
name is Tolliver--one of the Kentucky Tollivers, ma’am.”
“Oh!” says she.
“I’m named Bowles,” wheezes Muley. “One of the Oklahoma Bowles.”
“His paw was a famous man,” says Chuck. “He’d ’a’ been greater, but the
posse roped him just short of the State line. I’m named Warner--a name
made great by some doctor who built a patent medicine. Pleased to
meetcha.”
“Speak up for yourself, Hen,” urges Magpie. “Tell the lady about
yourself.”
“I’m named Peck,” says Hen. “I can’t think of any smart thing to say
today.”
“I am Miss Harrison. For a reason,” says she, “I am incognito.”
“My ----!” gasps Telescope. “Is that so? I used to know a family of that
name. They was Eyetalians--or Mexicans. Good family though.”
“I detest a _nom de plume_,” says she, smiling.
“Me, too,” agrees Muley. “I never had one, but the looks of one was a
plenty for me.”
“The lady can’t find a place to live,” says Magpie. “Nobody is willin’
to sleep her.”