“Eyes of the devil! Good-by!”
Of course Maud ain’t no cam-el, but she ain’t so danged far removed as
yuh might think. The next morning Magpie gets a heap enthused over
their meeting.
“We sure planned out some _hy-iu_ festival. Goin’ to be great, Ike.
Sacred, solemn and satisfactory from all points of the compass.”
“Undertakingly speaking?”
“Not this time. There ain’t going to be no guns allowed. Every puncher
will have to leave his gun at the door. See the idea? Bill Thatcher
says he won’t bring no orchestra, but we’ll have one just as good.
Ricky Henderson has mastered the flute, and Wick Smith’s new drum is
due here today.”
“That’s a —— of a orchestra.”
“Yeah? ‘Frenchy’ Deschamps fell out with Bill Thatcher, and he’s goin’
to play his jew’s-harp in our orchestra. That makes three good pieces
for our side, Ike.”
“Tin whistle bass drum and a pheumonia noise.”
“Mm-m-m-m, well, it won’t be no Suzer’s band, that’s a fact, but it’ll
be music. Matilda Mudgett is going to sing something sacred, and Wick
says that his wife wants to recite.”
“Anything that Matilda could sing would seem sacred,” says I.
“She could sing the ‘Lone Star Trail’ and make it sound like ‘Rock of
Ages!’ Magpie, a face like hers would drive the evil from a burro’s
soul.”
“Uh—I almost forgot, Ike. You’re going to be a wise man.”
“You’re danged well right I am. I’m going to be so wise that I won’t
be within seven miles of here on Christmas Eve. I ain’t going to be
wise—I’m wise right now.”
“You and Dirty Shirt and Half Mile Smith.”
“No-oo-o-o!”
“If you’d rather have some other two men—get ’em, Ike. I’m leavin’
that part of it to you.”
“No-o-o-o! I won’t speak to nobody. I’m deaf and dumb. You and your
entertainment can go plumb——”
“Well, now that it’s all settled I feel better, Ike. You corral Dirty
and Half Mile and bring ’em over to the Mint Hall tonight, and you’ll
find out what you’ve got to do.”
“Magpie Simpkins, for gosh sake——”
“Ike, I’d tell yuh if I knowed, but I don’t. Old Testament knows just
what you’ve got to do, so be patient.”
I finds Dirty Shirt in Buck’s place, and he’s inoculated against
rattlesnakes. Dirty is bow-legged and cock-eyed, and wouldn’t be no
beauty if he wasn’t. I tells him what has come to pass, and he listens
close-like. Then he steps inside, yanks out his six-gun, and rings the
little bell on top of the Mint Hall three times in a row. Then he puts
his gun back and cocks his eye at me.
“I ain’t drunk, that’s a cinch. Mebbe my hearin’ is weak, Ike. Say
that all over again, will yuh?”