“Better go home. Testament Tilton says that Piperock is goin’ to run a
dead heat with Sodom and Gomorrah, whatever pair of horses them two is.”
“What’s the matter with Piperock?” asks Dirty.
Mighty hitches up his pants and spits very expressive-like.
“High-toned. Yessir, Piperock is gettin’ uppity--part of ’em, and the
rest are packin’ two guns per each. Tonight means trouble in that town,
y’betcha.”
“Tonight? Why tonight, Mighty?”
“Social affair tonight, that’s why. Two dollars per ticket, and not a
gun allowed into the hall. I’ve got a ticket, which I’ll sell yuh.”
“Goin’ to save my money for ca’tridges,” grunts Dirty, and we pilgrims
on.
We went right down the street of Piperock, looking neither to the right
nor left, and heads straight for Magpie’s cabin. Looking into the open
door we sees Magpie bending over the cook-stove, frying meat.
“_Klahowya_,” says Dirty.
Magpie drops the pan on the floor and whirls with a gun in each hand.
“Dancing makes you jumpy?” I asks.
Magpie shoves his guns back inside the waistband of his pants, kicks the
hunk of meat into the skillet and turns back to the stove.
“How’s Miss Harrison?” I asks.
Magpie turns and squints at me.
“She’s gone, Ike.”
“De-mised?”
“De-parted.”
“Kinda busts up the show, don’t it, Magpie?”
“Like ---- it does!”
“How comes she to de-part thataway?” asks Dirty.
Magpie flops the meat and sets it on the back of the stove. Then he sets
down on a bunk and combs his mustache.
* * * * *
“You ain’t heard, have yuh, Ike? No. Well, here’s the how of it all. You
left hereabout the time that all the married womin are faunchin’ around,
organizin’ a vigilance committee to hang their own husbands, didn’t yuh?
Well, Wick and Pete and Old Testament and Art Wheeler and Judge Steele
decides that Piperock and posterity needs ’em more than jealous wives
do, so they up and orates that for th’ interests of the furtherance of
Piperock they’re goin’ to stick to their original idea of learning the
latest thing in dances.
“Them womin combines against such proceedings, and locks their doors
against said husbands, with the result that we puts up bunks in the Mint
Hall for all them errant husbands. Miss Harrison hangs on to her room at
the hotel and Mrs. Holt enlists with the belligerent wives and hives up
at Judge Steele’s.
“Inside of three days them husbands are plumb anxious to go to their
wives, but wifie has nailed the front door shut. Them there dancin’
lessons has improved us wonderful, Ike. I gets old Sam Holt to dance in
your place.
“Then we finds out somethin’.
“Judge Steele goes sneakin’ around home late at night after our lessons,
and he peeks under the curtains in his house, and he sees Miss Harrison
teachin’ them womin to dance, and the judge swears that they ain’t got
enough clothes on to flag a hand-car.
“The judge so forgets himself that he raps on the window, and he gets a
lot of bird-shot sprayed into the seat of his pants.
“Miss Harrison has double-crossed us, and the next night we chides her
about it. She gets kinda woolly and informs us that the ladies invited
her to teach them so they could do their part in the performance. She
was teachin’ ’em the ‘Dance of the Raindrops.’
“‘My ----!’ grunts Wick. ‘My wife ain’t no raindrop.’
“‘I ain’t goin’ to permit Mrs. Tilton to appear in no mosquito nettin’
and bare feet--not in public,’ declares Testament.
“Things got kinda deadlocked, Ike. The tickets are all sold for the
performance, and the church realizes over two hundred dollars. Me and
the judge goes as a committee to confer with Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Tilton,
and they refuses to arbitrate. They opines that what’s good enough for
their husbands is good enough for them. Mrs. Tilton says:
“If Testament can wear a gee-string and imitate a willer-tree, why can’t
I wear a porous-knit undershirt and imitate a drop of rain?’
“What could we do? We went back and held a council of war. Pete said
he’d be ---- if his wife was goin’ to be a spectacle. They all declared
that they wasn’t goin’ to let the world at large gaze upon their
property in the rough. Miss Harrison declares that it must go through.
There yuh are, Ike.
“Miss Harrison was taken to Paradise this morning and was put aboard the
train. Art Wheeler drove the stage, and Pete Gonyer, Judge Steele and
Testament Tilton acted as shotgun guards. Our premier dancer has went.”
“Which busts up the show, eh?” says Dirty.
“Not while Magpie Simpkins roams the plains, it don’t. Piperock is goin’
to get a look at interpretive dancin’, y’betcha. How much civic pride
has you two snake-hunters got?”
Me and Dirty don’t say a word, being as we don’t _sabe_ his wau-wau.
Then he hauls out a jug of pain-killer and we sets down to do homage.
* * * * *
After all danger from drought is a long time past, Magpie points out the
duty of a real honest-to-grandma citizen. He orates openly that the
future of a city is only as broad as the inhabitants will allow. He asks
Dirty Shirt if his views are narrow.
“Wide as the ocean, and beggin’ to expand,” says Dirty.
“I’m the widest human bein’ yuh ever seen, Magpie. Dog-gone me if I
ain’t wider than anythin’ anybody ever seen. How about you, Ike?”
“I’ve got you skinned about four ways from the jack,” says I, and
somehow I believed it.
Magpie got in between us and took Dirty’s gun away from him.
“Killin’ ain’t expansion,” explains Magpie. “Piperock has entertained
too many times in the interests of the undertaker. Piperock is so far
behind the times that the seventeenth generation of Montana’s human race
has started and finished and we’re still runnin’ the wrong way of the
track.”
“Are we that far behind the rest of the world?” asks Dirty,
tearful-like.
“Further,” assures Magpie.
“Then let’s be up and doin’,” urges Dirty. “My ----, I never realized
that we was runnin’ in the dust. How does we start in to speed up the
old buggy?”
“I,” says Magpie, “I am the little jigger who is goin’ to lead Piperock
to th’ promised land. I am the pelican which is goin’ to make Piperock a
place of honor and glory and a social center. I has been throwed down by
the best citizens, you know it? Puttin’ their personal feelin’s ahead of
the best interests of the city, they has laid down upon their labors,
willin’ to let poor old Piperock slumber and waller in the dust of
decay; but the womin can see what it means to the city, and they’re firm
as rocks. I have got one of the best dances yuh ever seen, gents.
“The ordinary poetry of motion is the weavin’s of a drunken Siwash with
a sprained ankle beside this here dance of mine. Miss Harrison said it
had anythin’ beat she ever seen.”
“Do yuh have music for this kind of dancin’?” asks Dirty.
“Well, kinda,” assures Magpie. “Frenchy Deschamps’ jew’s-harp and Bill
Thatcher on his wind-pipe. Bill bought it a short time ago. Said that
ever time he got a bull-fiddle busted it cost him ten dollars for a new
one; so he buys him a wind-pipe. If anybody shoots holes in that thing
he can patch it up.”
“That’s a new instrument on me,” says Dirty.
“That’s it,” says Magpie. “We’re so far behind the times, Dirty, that we
don’t recognize things that the rest of the world has been usin’ for
years.”
“My ----!” wails Dirty. “This is awful, Magpie. I’m grateful to yuh for
callin’ my attention to same. Ain’t you grateful, Ike?”
“Remains to be seen, as the feller said when he dug into a Injun grave.”
“Ike’s grateful,” says Magpie. “Ike’s the gratefulest human bein’ on
earth.”
“That ain’t no ways true,” objects Dirty. “I’m the most gratefulest.”
I gets between Magpie and Dirty and makes ’em put up their guns. Then we
all took a last look at the inside bottom of the jug of pain-killer.
Piperock appreciates art, there ain’t no question about that. There’s
fellers in town for this social event that ain’t been outside their
dug-outs since the big blow. Plain and fancy horse-thieves, unsuccessful
rustlers, hairy old shepherds that says “Ya-a-a-ss” and “No-o-o-o,” just
like a sheep, and others too numerous and or’nary to mention.
Scenery Sims is setting in front of the Mint Hall with a sawed-off
shotgun on his lap, but he lets us in.
“How does she look, Scenery?” asks Magpie.
“Well,” squeaks Scenery, “everythin’ is all right so far, but them
ex-dancers is all back from Paradise. The women is all up there in the
hall now. Bill Thatcher is drunker’n seven hundred dollars, and somebody
has hit Frenchy in the mouth and kinda crippled his part of the
orchestra. Shouldn’t be s’prized if there’d be buzzards circlin’
Piperock in the mornin’.”
* * * * *
We went up into the hall, which is all fixed up for the social doings.
They’ve got the stage all curtained off and the room is full of chairs.
Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Tilton, Mrs. Gonyer, Mrs. Holt, Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs.
Steele are there. Magpie leads me and Dirty up to the stage and in
behind the curtain.
“My ----!” gasps Dirty. Sheep!”
“There’s four sheep tied up back there--all rams.”
“Sheep--yes,” agrees Magpie. “Them is what Miss Harrison calls
‘atmosphere.’”
“At---- Oh, my!” gasps Dirty. “What’s she mean, Magpie?”
“Accessories to my dance,” explains Magpie. “I’m the star performer in
‘The Shepherd’s Awakening.’”
“What do we do?” asks Dirty.
“You fellers are fauns.”
“I’m the old buck deer--me,” declares Dirty. “You’re more cockeyed than
me, Magpie, if you can see me with four spindle legs and a spotted
hide.”
“A faun,” says Magpie, “a faun is a thing that looks like a human bein’,
but ain’t. It wears skin pants, but from there on up it’s plumb nude. On
its head is little horns, and it’s got a tail like a goat. It plays a
tune on a wooden whistle.”
Me and Dirty looks at each other, kinda foolish-like.
“I think it’s lovely of you two gentlemen to step in the breach,” says
Mrs. Tilton.
“Step in the--oh--!” croaks Dirty, wild-eyed. “This is terrible!”
“It will be a big thing for Piperock,” says Mrs. Gonyer, “and it will
teach the male sex that the women are the real progressives. Don’t you
think so, Mr. Harper?”
“There’s goin’ to be a lesson taught,” says I. “Experience is a great
teacher, but I ain’t never learned much. I thought I was wise, but I
finds that-- Well, I ain’t never wore a tail like a goat and blowed on a
wooden whistle yet.”
“I hope that Testament’s skin pants will fit Mr. Harper,” says Mrs.
Tilton. “Mr. Harper is a little wider across than the Reverend.”
“Mr. Jones will be a little snug in Sam’s,” opines Mrs. Holt, “but he
don’t have to do only one little dance.”
Dirty’s bad eye rolls a complete circle and then stops with a dead
center on the tip of his nose. He grabs me by the arm and flops down in
a chair.
“Ike,” he gasps, “Ike, shoot me while there is yet time.”
“Shoot yourself--you’ve got a gun,” says I.
“I know it, bub--but I’m so nervous I’d miss.”
Dirty just sits there and sweats.
“Them sheep--has they been trained?” I asks.
“They’ve been here two days,” says Magpie. “They ought to be used to the
stage.”
* * * * *
Sudden-like we hears a crash down-stairs, the sound of loud voices
raised in anger, and then up the stairs comes Judge Steele, Wick Smith,
Pete Gonyer, Art Wheeler and Sam Holt. They’ve got Scenery Sims in their
clutches, and he’s squeaking like a rusty gate. They files into the
door, and Magpie greets ’em with a gun in each hand.
“Come ye in anger?” asks Magpie.
“Kinda,” admits Pete. “This whangdoodle tried to stop us.”
“Put your hands up!” snaps Magpie, and the whole gang reach upward.
“Take their guns away, Scenery.”
“Now,” says Magpie, “what’s eatin’ you backsliders?”
“Ma-a-a,” wails Testament. “You ain’t aimin’ to carry out your threat,
are ye?”
“I’m goin’ to dance--if that’s what you mean,” says Mrs. Tilton,
mean-like.
“Arabellie, does you mean that you womin--” begins Wick.
“Wick Smith, you started this,” says Mrs. Smith. “You told me I was
narrer. You said I was fifty years behind the times, didn’t you?”
“That ---- Magpie Simpkins put them words in my mouth, Arabellie.”
“I won’t stand for it!” yelps Pete. “No woman of mine can----”
“Pete, you shut your face!” whoops Mrs. Gonyer. “If you don’t want to
see me imitate a raindrop--vamoose. I sure am goin’ to rattle on the
roof.”
“I’ll git out a injunction,” says Judge Steele. “By mighty, I’ll declare
it a public nuisance! I’ll stop this here----”
“You’ll set down and keep your face shut,” says Magpie. “You five
pelicans are goin’ to set right down and look and listen. Has you all
got tickets?”
None of ’em has bought a ticket, and they opines they won’t.
“Scenery,” says Magpie, “take two dollars from each of ’em.”
Them five arose up an yelped like a pack of wolves, but Scenery got ten
dollars out of the bunch, and then we made ’em take front seats.
We hears some gosh-awful sounds coming up the stairs, and into the door
comes Bill Thatcher. He’s got one of them Scotch wind-pipe instruments
and it’s wailing like a lost soul. Behind him comes Frenchy Deschamps.
Neither of ’em are in any shape to make music for anything except a
dog-fight, but they flops down in their chairs at the front of the stage
and acts like they meant business.
Scenery recovers his sawed-off shotgun and sets down on the corner of
the stage, where he can watch them disgrunted husbands.
Me and Dirty follows Magpie to a place he’s got partitioned off for a
dressing-room. Through the curtain we can hear Yaller Rock County
beginning to come in. Me and Dirty are just sober enough to kinda be
indifferent to death or taxation.
Magpie gives us our costumes, which consists of cowhide pants with a
tail tied on, and a jigger made like a cap, with yearlin’ calf horns
sticking out the side. He also gives us each a little whistle made of a
willer.
“Where’s the shirt?” asks Dirty.
“Fauns don’t wear shirts.”
“What do you wear, Magpie?”
Magpie holds up a mountain-lion skin and a breech-clout. Dirty looks
things over and then says to Magpie:
“If you escape, Magpie, will yuh do me a favor? In my cabin--in a old
trunk, is a suit of clothes. I paid sixteen dollars for it the year
Bryan run for free silver, but I never wore it. Will yuh see that they
lays me out in it? Lawd knows I don’t want to be buried in a outfit like
this.”