“Sounded the same both times, Ike. What does a wise man have to do?”
“I don’t know, Dirty. We’ll find Half Mile and then they’ll explain it
to us.”
“Half Mile’s in jail. He shot three times at ‘Scenery’ Sims, and
Scenery put him in jail for it. Here comes Scenery now.”
* * * * *
There ain’t no description to fit Scenery, except that he’s about five
feet tall and his voice squeaks and his mustache only grows at the
corners of his big mouth, like the whiskers on a bobcat. He continues
to be our sheriff, because nobody has took the time to kill him,
except some poor shot, like Half Mile.
We explains the proposition to Scenery, and asks him will he let Half
Mile be a wise man.
“How about me?” asks Scenery. “Half Mile ain’t got no sense. I studied
ellie-cu-shun oncet, and I’ve got a lot of natural sense about things
like that.”
“We don’t give a ——,” says Dirty Shirt, “only we wants to die in good
company, Scenery.”
“Bein’ the sheriff I’ll see that they don’t get rough.”
“Since when has a sheriff been able to intimidate these Yaller Rock
snake hunters?” I asks. “The sight of you up there, Scenery, would be
like wavin’ a red rag at a bull.”
“Nawsir,” squeaks Scenery. “And besides they ain’t goin’ to be allowed
to bring in no guns, so the judge tells me.”
You can’t argue with no tin whistle like that, so we takes him with us
to our cabin, where we finds Magpie, Old Testament and the judge. We
explains that Half Mile is in jail and that Scenery is desirous to be
wise. Magpie says:
“That’s all right, if he keeps his mouth shut, but we don’t want no
wise man with a squeaky voice. We’ll let Ike speak all the words what
is spoke.”
“I can talk,” says Dirty Shirt, “and I’ve studied ellie-cu-shun. I can
make gestures, y’betcha.”
“We ain’t usin’ none in this ta-blew, Dirty,” states the judge.
“She’s to be pulled off almost in the dark, bein’ as she’s a night
pitcher, and gestures ain’t goin’ to do nothin’ but mebbe ruin the
thing. You hang onto your gestures and let nature take her course.”
“Talk ain’t much without yuh gestures,” complains Dirty.
“Your talk wouldn’t be much with ’em!” snaps Magpie. “Shut up.”
“If you knowed anythin’ about ellie-cu-shun, you’d ——”
“If you’re goin’ to be a wise man, Scenery,” says Magpie, soft-like,
“you’ll practise up right now by keepin’ your —— mouth shut. _Sabe?_
Go ahead and gesture if yuh want to, but keep still.”
“Well, if I can’t talk, I won’t, but jist the same—”
“Stop!” howls Magpie. “Scenery, if you don’t shut up you’ll never live
to run for office again.”
“I ain’t goin’ to run again,” says Scenery. “I wouldn’t have the job
again.”
“Judge,” says Magpie, “we’ll let a certain few bring their guns inside
the hall. Now, let’s get down to business. Is Pete Gonyer makin’ the
star?”
“Moon. He had a round piece of glass, but he says there ain’t no
danged way he can cut a star. Moon will do as well, won’t it?”
“If we can’t get a star; but the Bible says they followed a star.”
“Yaller Rock county won’t never know that,” says Dirty. “Not if yuh
don’t tell em.”
“We’re having the stage built twice as big, and then we’ll put dirt
over the boards so it will look like a desert. We’ll have a curtain
built along two sides and the back, and we’ve got to have them stairs
braced up a little before we can bring Maud S up into the hall.”
“Is Maud S comin’ to the show?” asks Dirty.
“She’s the ca-mel,” explains Magpie. “Goin’ to fix up some humps on
her back and yuh never could tell her from a ca-mel. _Sabe?_”
“Suppose she brays?” says Scenery.
“Suppose she gestures?” says Dirty. “My ——, but a mule can gesture.”
“Maud S ain’t got a kick left in her old carcass,” grins Magpie.
Just then Muley Bowles and Chuck Warner shows up, and joins us.
“Hear you’re goin’ to celebrate Christmas,” says Chuck, wiggling his
ears.
“Want the Cross J quartet to sing?”
“Nope,” says Magpie. “This is goin’ to be a sanitary proceedin’, and
there ain’t goin’ to be nothin’ done that might incite violence. We’re
just as much obliged as though you burned your shirt, Chuck.”
“We’d sure be willing to help your ceremony,” says Muley. “We’d sing
free gratis for nothin’, without chargin’ you a cent.”
“Nope. I ain’t got nothin’ against you your punchers—not as individual
human beings, but——”
“I gets your meanin’, Magpie,” says Chuck. “The Cross J ain’t good
enough for your danged old half-baked celebration, eh? Our harmonious
voices don’t fit into your blasted old program-me. We has suffered and
bled that Piperock might make a success of their unusual doings, but
from now on we don’t do a danged thing to help yuh out. Your tone of
voice is a insult to four of the best singers in Yaller Rock county.”
“I’m glad you understand what I meant,” says Magpie, mean-like. Muley
and Chuck turns around and beats it for town.
“I reckon you know best, Magpie, but them four Cross J go-devils might
do us wrong. Yuh might ’a’ let ’em sing one song,” opines Testament.
“Let’s get back to the ca-mel,” suggests Magpie.
“Let’s get away from Maud S,” says Dirty Shirt.
Then cometh Tellurium Woods, the danged old bald-headed bunch of wind.
He’s got a grin on his face.
* * * * *
“I got a idea,” says he. “I’ll be Sandy Claws.”
“Where did yuh get it?” asks Magpie. “This is a Sandy Claw-less
Christmas.”
“Aw-w-w, yuh can’t do that,” wails Tellurium. “Whatcha tryin’ to
do—put the celebration on the bum? Here’s the idea: I’ll dress up like
Sandy Claws, and when everybody is there and the program is about over
we’ll have Wick at the door. _Sabe?_ Somebody will give him messages
from Sandy Claws. Each message will show that he’s that much closer.
Everybody gets excited, don’t yuh see, and at the right time I comes
in. Fine, eh?”
“I seconds the motion,” says the judge, “I remember when I was a
kid——”
“I thirds it,” states Testament. “She’s a pious method, Tellurium.
Beats having Sandy come down the chimbley.”
“Well,” says Magpie, weary-like, “go ahead and do what yuh like, but I
want this tab-lew to be just like I sees it. Testament, will yuh look
up something for the wise men to say, and how we wants ’em to dress?”
“Yea, verily I will, Magpie.”
“I can make me some whiskers out of a horse’s tail,” says Tellurium.
“I hope the horse sees yuh takin’ them,” says Magpie.
Then the meeting broke up, and we adjourned to Buck’s place.
Scenery is tickled stiff to think he’s goin’ to be a actor, but I
ain’t cheering—yet. Me and Dirty Shirt are veterans in this acting
game, and we knows it takes nerve, speed and a strong constitution.
The old Romans and their wild animal arena never had nothing of
Piperock. She’s a place where milk comes in tin cans, and the only
honey is what the sand-hornets puts up for their own use. Her motto
is:
“Hurrah for ——! Who’s afraid of a little fire?”
In Buck’s place we finds Muley and Chuck, and pretty soon Telescope
Tolliver and Henry Peck comes in, which makes the Cross J quartet
complete.
“They won’t let us sing, Telescope,” says Muley, sad-like.
“They won’t?” says Telescope, surprized. “Won’t let us sing?”
“Not a note. Not only that but they insults us a heap.”
“Well,” says Henry Peck. “Well, the nerve of the pelicans.”
“Don’t blame us,” says Dirty Shirt. “We ain’t got a danged thing to do
with it—not even the disposition of our own re-mains after the
massacree is over.”
“They won’t let us sing,” repeats Telescope. “Whatcha know about
that?”
“Not even sing free,” admits Chuck, wiggling his ears real fast. “It
ain’t reasonable. Why, they won’t have no music a-tall. Bill
Thatcher’s orchestra ain’t comin’. Bill said it cost him a new bull
fiddle and a drum every time he played here, and he’s savin’ up to buy
a slip-horn.”
“You ought to be glad,” says Dirty Shirt. “You sure ought to, boys.”
“It’s a insult to harmony,” says Telescope. “We’ve almost got to the
point where we can sing ‘Tentin’ Tonight,’ with variations, and our
‘Sweet Marie’ sure does make the shivers run up your spine. ‘Jay Bird’
Whittaker says it’s got anything beat he ever heard since he busted
the ear tubes of his talkin’ machine.”
“What kind of a act does you perform, Dirty?” asks Hen Feck.
“I portrays Wisdom,” says Dirty. “There’s three of us, Hennery, three
of a kind against a full house.”
“Wisdom,” proclaims Muley, “Wisdom consists of more than three things,
Dirty. No three men can portray wisdom.”
“We’re goin’ to give her a try, Muley. Me and Ike and Scenery.”
“Wisdom—!” grunts Telescope. “You three?”
“And Maud S,” adds Dirty, sad-like.
“Oh,” says Chuck. “Oh, yeah. Well, mebbe you’ll get away with it.”
According to all we can find out, Christmas is the time of peace on
earth and plenty of good-will to everybody. She’s a time when the lion
and the lamb lies down together, and the cowpuncher forgets that there
is such a thing as a sheep-herder. It’s a time when men’s hearts are
filled with love toward their fellermen, and a six-shooter is only a
ornament; a time, when you can say, “Yoo-hoo” to a horse-thief,
without expecting to grab a harp the next minute.
“Yea, verily,” as Testament says. “It is a time when grown men become
like little children. Yeah, that’s a fact—mentally. Piperock ain’t got
any too much sense when she’s acting growed up; but right now—huh!”
* * * * *
There ain’t no reason why a lot of disreputable snake-hunters can’t
spend their Christmas in Paradise or Curlew; but they don’t. Nope.
They clutters up Piperock to partake of our good cheer. Me and Dirty
looks over that aggregation of incompetents, and the sight drives all
wisdom, peace and good will from our hearts.
“Big Foot” Forrest, “Cactus” Collins, “Mex” Mason, “Pole-Cat” Perkins,
“Haw” Harris, et cettery, running the gamut of undesirable
horse-thieves. “Hassayampa” Harris, who is a uncle of “Haw,” brings
his bunch of hard-boiled punchers over from Curlew, and Mike Pelly
heads the aggregation of incompetents from Paradise.
The Seven A, Triangle, Five Dot, Circle C and the Cross J all cometh
to hive up in Piperock and partake of the Christmas cheer, and
everything else that might come to pass. They’ve got the Mint Hall
decorated for the occasion, and so forth. They built the stage out
until she’s about twenty feet square, and about five feet high.
A couple of horse-thieves, who studied art in the penitentiary,
painted the scenery. It’s canvas hung at the back of the stage, and
they painted it black and put on a lot of white stars. Sticking in the
middle of the canvas is kind of a lantern rigging, with a round glass
in it and a lamp inside.
“That’s the moon,” explains Magpie. “When this is pulled off that will
be the only visible light. _Sabe?_ Desert, yuh understand? We’re goin’
to put some rocks and a bunch of cactus on the stage.”
“What do we do?” squeaks Scenery.
“You will be asleep,” explains Testament. “The lamp will be turned low
and have a cover over it. Everything will be still. I’ll have somebody
behind the curtain to take off the cover of the moon, and slowly turn
up the lamp. One of you wise men wakes up and sees the dim light. You
wakes up the rest of the bunch, and you all stands up, looking at the
light.
“Then you—Magpie. I reckon we better have the mule layin’ down, hadn’t
we? Well, you wakes up the mule, and then you all starts walking
slow-like toward the back of the stage, and then we drops the curtain.
That’s all there is to it.”
“We’ll have to throw that mule,” opines Wick. “Better hawg-tie it,
too, and let somebody cut the ropes when they’re ready to go. The
humps are all ready to be cinched on.”
“What do we wear?” I asks.
“My wife is makin’ the costumes out of gunny-sacks,” says Wick.
“We’ve got to have something what looks like presents,” opines
Testament. “I’ve got a picture, which shows a lot of vases and stuff
like that.”
“My wife’s got some stuff that will be just the cheese,” says Wick.
“We’ll use some of her chiny vases.”
“What do we have to say?” asks Scenery.
“Ike will do the sayin’,” says Magpie. “He’ll be the one what wakes up
first and he will say—uh—what was it, Testament?”
“Lo, there shineth a bright light. Let’s go to it.”
“My——!” gasps Dirty Shirt, pious-like. “But save the wimmin and
children first.”
“It’s sure goin’ to be a wonderful thing, and will teach a moral,”
says Testament.
“Yes,” says I. “And the moral is: Let well enough alone.”
“I’d ought to say them words,” squeaks Scenery. “I think a thing like
that needs appropriate gestures, and I’ve studied——”
“Might be better,” says Wick. “Gestures helps a lot. Remember Willyum
Jennins Bryan, when he was preachin’ fer silver. If Scenery would sort
of loosen up his vocal cords a little——”
“Let him say ’em,” says I. “I’d hate to pass out with them words on my
lips. Scenery, you’re elected.”
“All right,” squeaks Scenery. “I’ll study up my ellie-cushun a little.
Feller gets kinda rusty, you know it.”
“Yeah,” admits Magpie, “and kinda squeaks. You don’t need study—you
need some kerosene and then a application of axle-grease, Scenery.”
The next morning we took Maud S up the steps into the hall, and I’m
here to say that Maud S made life miserable for us. A mule is hard to
argue with on the level, but try getting one half-way up a stairs and
have it stop to think. We took Maud S in sitting down, bucked her onto
the stage, where she lays down and refuses to get up.
“Fine!” says Wick. We “won’t have to hawg-tie her.”
“Stage fright,” opines Magpie.
“Safety first,” says I. “Animals have instincts, and hers is to get
below the line of fire.”
Me and Dirty meets the Cross J quartet, and they’re getting cheerful.
“No,” says Muley, “we ain’t goin’ to no celebrashun. They have done us
dirt and we sickens to our soul at their per-fid-i-tee.”
“Sheveral per-fid-i-tees,” nods Telescope. “Group aroun’ me while we
shing a shong of gladness over the merry Chris’mas time. All together
now:
“Oh, the coyote said, I’m better than a puncher,
With a gun that goes blam, blam!
He may die and go up to heaven,
But his skin ain’t worth a ——”
“You sure does get into the Christmas spirit,” opines Dirty. “That’s
one of the sweetest things I ever heard.”
* * * * *
Then I calls Dirty outside, and I says to him, like this:
“Dirty, me and you have got to stay sober. A drunk ain’t goin’ to have
no chance a-tall in there if anything goes wrong. If we hangs around
with them celebratin’ shorthorns we won’t be in no shape to get up and
foller that star. We’ll be just like Maud S, which can’t or won’t get
up.”
“That’s right, Ike. We’ll get a couple of quarts for ourselves and
keep away from them hard drinkers. Don’t yuh reckon Maud S will get up
at the right time?”
“She’s plumb rooted, Dirty.”
“Uh-huh. I know how to do it, Ike. Come on.”
Dirty went over to Wick’s store, and later on I meets him; and we goes
up to my cabin.
We’ve got them two quarts of hooch, so we has quite a little time of
our own, waiting until the afternoon gets to the sere and yaller leaf.
I wakes up and finds Dirty with flour all over his clothes, but he
won’t tell what he’s trying to do.
Magpie hunts us up and acts peevish toward us.
“Gosh a’mighty,” he complains. “Ain’t yuh got no sense? We’re tryin’
to re-hearse and you fellers hide out down here. Come on.”
We just gets to the door, when we meets Muley Bowles.
“F’r th’ lasht time—do we shing?” asks Muley.
“You do not!” declares Magpie. “I thought you knowed that, Muley.”
“May you resht in peash,” says Muley. “May your anchestors rise up and
mock you for bein’ a —— fool. Autographically schpeakin’:
“May your hair wear out
And your nose break off
And your teeth shake loose
From whoopin’ cough.
“Thish is the best wishes of your friend Muley Bowels, E-squire,
December twenty-fourth.”
“Tha’s good,” says Dirty. “That’s fine. Roshes are blue, vi’lets are
pink—uh—no, that ain’t it. Vi’lets are red and roshes are blue—Haw!
Haw! Haw! No knife can cut our love up. Haw! Haw! Haw!”
“Why don’t you say something, Ike?” asks Magpie. “You’re just as drunk
as they are.”
“Yeah, but I’m mean drunk, Magpie. There ain’t nothin’ flowery about
me. I ain’t in no mood to wish whoopin’ cough nor violets on mine
enemies. Let’s go.”
“Sufferin’ sun-fish!” grunts Magpie. “Look at Rip Van Winkle.”
“It’s me—Tellurium,” says the apparition. “Don’t I look it?”
He sure did. He’s got a old bear-skin overcoat on, and about three
strings of sleigh-bells around his waist. He’s got a stove-pipe hat on
his head and on his chin is a bunch of whiskers made from the tail of
a white horse. Personally, I think he’s the dangest-looking thing I
ever saw.
“Well,” says Magpie, “you sure look it, Tellurium, but I’m danged if I
know what you do look like.”
“Sandy Claws,” says Tellurium, proud-like. “I’m him. Come up to show
you what can be done when you’ve got the ambition.”
“Sandy Claws?” says Magpie. “No, no Tellurium. Sandy Claws don’t look
like that. What do yuh want to do—scare folks? You look like a cross
between a item of natural hist’ry and a smallpox germ.”
“I comes into the program as a sort of special thing,” says Tellurium.
“No,” says Magpie, “not into my program, Tellurium. You better go out
and scare coyotes with that outfit. I ain’t using no Sandy Clawses
anyway.”
“I’ve went to a lot of trouble,” complains Tellurium.
“So’ve we,” says Muley. “He won’t let us shing, and now he don’t want
no Sandy Clawses.”
“I’d make a good one, too,” says Tellurium.
“Yeah, you would—not,” says Magpie. “I’d just as soon see a wild bull
come in there dressed like that, Tellurium. You’d ruin the show, you
know it.”
“Let’s not talk to him,” says Muley. “He has no soul, Tellurium.
“He won’t let us shing. Nossir. No Sandy Claws, no shongs—where’s your
ol’ Christmas?”
“Come on, Ike,” says Magpie. “Let ’em wail. I’m goin’ to pull off one
show that Piperock can be proud of, yuh bet your life.”
* * * * *
We went up to Mint Hall. Mrs. Smith and Matilda Mudgett are there,
sort of strutting around like a pair of fool-hens. Ricky Henderson,
Wick Smith and Frenchy Deschamps are there, fixing their orchestra
seats. Wick’s new drum is there, and he’s some proud of it.
“Mr. Harper,” says Matilda, “have you ever heard ‘Spring, Lovely
Spring’?”
“Not since last April,” says I.
“We are going to render it tonight,” says she.
“We?”
“Me and Mrs. Smith. She has a lovely alto.”