* * * * *
If Mrs. Smith knew anything about dancing she forgot every step. She
trots out on the stage and starts something like Kid Carson used to call
“shadow-boxing.” Then she turns around about three times, stubs her toe
and falls down. Standing in a line across the stage is the rest of them
females, with their hands up in the air like they was being held up by
somebody with a gun.
“A-arabellie!” wails Wick. “My ----, woman, git out of sight!”
Mrs. Smith gets to her feet and yelps back at Wick:
“Git out of sight yourself--if you don’t like it! I’ll teach you to
flirt with a dancer. Start the music over again, Bill.”
“Em-m-m-i-lee!” shrieks Sam Holt. “Ain’tcha got no modesty? Go put on
your shoes and socks!”
Bill Thatcher starts squealing on his instrument again, and Mrs. Smith
starts doing some fancy steps.
Wow! Here comes Judge Steele, Art Wheeler, Pete Gonyer, Testament
Tilton, Wick Smith and Sam Holt, climbing right over the top of folks.
“Git ba-a-a-ck!” squeaks Seenery, waving his shotgun. “Stop it! Whoa,
Blaze!”
“Look at the wild man!” howls somebody, and here comes Magpie across the
stage hopping high and handsome.
“Stop ’em, Scenery!” whoops Magpie. “Dog-gone ’em, they can’t bust up my
show!”
Man, I’ll tell all my grandchildren this tale. Them outraged husbands
came up on that stage, while Yaller Rock County yelled itself hoarse and
made bets on whether it would be an odd or even number of deaths. Magpie
hit Pete in the neck and Pete lit with one leg on each side of Bill
Thatcher’s head. Wick Smith got hold of his wife and them two started a
tug of war.
Me and old Sam Holt got to waltzing around and around, which wasn’t
a-tall pleasant, being as I’m barefooted and Sam ain’t. I seen Mrs.
Wheeler and Art locked in mortal combat, and just then I hears Dirty
Shirt Jones yelp--
“Heavy, heavy hangs over your head--”
I whirls just in time to see what’s coming, but I can’t escape. Dirty
Shirt has turned the atmosphere loose. Them four he-sheep--four
ungentlemanly woollies, with corkscrew horns, are buck-jumping across
that stage, seeking what they may hit. I swung around to meet the
attack, and I reckon the leading sheep hit him a dead center, ’cause I
felt the shock plumb to me.
Maybe it hit Sam a little low, because it knocked all four of our feet
off the floor, and the next in line picked us in the air and stood us on
our heads.
I seen Wick Smith, braced against the edge of the stage, trying to pull
his wife over the edge, the same of which is a invitation to a sheep,
and the old ram accepted right on the spot. Mrs. Smith grunted audibly
and shot into Wick’s arms. Scenery Sims starts to skip across the stage,
but a ram outsmarted him, and I seen Scenery turn over gracefully in the
air and shoot, regardless, with both barrels of that sawed-off shotgun.
Them load of shot hived up in the chandelier, the same of which cut off
our visible supply of light.
I heard the crashing of glass, and I figures that the hallway is too
crowded for some of the audience. I lays still, being wise, until the
noise subsides, and the crowd has escaped. Then I moves slowly to my
hands and knees. I feels a hand feeling of my legs, and then a hand taps
gently on my horned cap.
“I--I thought,” whispers old Sam’s voice kinda quavering-like, “I--I
thought they was all old ones, but a sheep’s a sheep to me.”
Bam! Something landed on my head, and I seen more bright lights than
there is in a million dollars worth of skyrockets. Then things kinda
clear up, and I hears old Sam saying to himself:
“Well, I killed one of the ---- things. If I go carefully----”
I can dimly see old Sam sneaking for the front of the stage. I’m mad. I
got up and sneaked right after him. No man can mistake me for a sheep
and get away with it. I jumps for old Sam’s back, and just then he seems
to kinda drop away from me. I reckon he forgot about the five-feet drop
from the stage, and I know danged well I did. I reckon I sort of lit on
my head and shoulders on top of somebody. There comes a squeak from Bill
Thatcher’s instrument, and then all is quiet.
* * * * *
I wriggled loose and starts to get up, but a strong hand grabs me by the
ankle, yanks me off my feet, and I hit my head on a chair. I kinda
remember being dragged down them stairs, and then I feels my carcass
being dragged over rough ground. It was a long, hard trip, and I reckon
I lost about all the skin on the upper half of my body. Finally I bumps
over a step, gets yanked inside on to a carpet, and then I hears a voice
very dimly--
“Sweetheart, I brought thee home.”
Then a light is lit, and I sees Mrs. Smith putting the chimney on a
lamp. Without turning she says--
“I reckon you’ll confine your love to me after this, eh?”
Then she turns and looks at me, setting there on the floor with my back
propped up against a chair. I looks around. Just inside the door,
sitting on the floor, is Wick. Mrs. Smith looks at me and then at him.
Then she wipes her lips and stares at Wick.
“Sweetheart, eh?” grunts Wick, getting to his feet. “Arabellie, ain’t
you got no shame? Dancin’ up there without nothing on to speak of, and
then you has the gall to bring your sweetheart home with yuh.”
“Did--did--didn’t I--bring you home, Wicksie?”
“You--know--danged--well--you--didn’t. I always knowed you was kinda
sweet on Ike Harper.”
“On that!” She actually yelped, and pointed her finger at me. “Sweet on
him?”