Old Runnin’ Wolf claims that he’s the son of a chief. Most Injuns do, as
far as that’s concerned; but Runnin’ Wolf covers too many tribes in his
claim to greatness. On one bottle of kidney cure he can become a son of
Sittin’ Bull. Give him a couple shots extra of hair tonic, and he claims
Chief Joseph, of the Nez Perce tribe, as his father. A pint of corn
liquor drives him plumb back to Pontiac; and I’ve knowed him to mourn a
heap over the death of his sister, Pocahontas.
Runnin’ Wolf is six feet six inches tall, and if it wasn’t for the size
of his nose he could dive out of sight in a shotgun barrel. Nobody knows
how old he is, and nobody cares. He’s jist a mean lookin’ old war whoop,
who lives in a teepee outside the town of Piperock, schemin’ all the
time to get money enough to buy alcohol, and a little left over for a
poker game. Can he play that pastime? Give him two deuces, and he’ll win
more jackpots than any livin’ aborigine.
At one time in his distant past, Runnin’ Wolf traveled with a medicine
show. The owner was one of them sleight-of-hand fellers, crooked as a
snake in a cactus patch, and he taught Runnin’ Wolf how to play winnin’
poker. And that war whoop, comin’ straight from a long line of
horsethieves, et cettery, shore absorbed knowledge. I wouldn’t play him
for a two-bit piece, if he’d let me do the dealin’. Yaller Rock County
knows him so well that he’s in the sere and yaller leaf, as far as
winnin’ anythin’ goes.
Me and Dirty Shirt Jones are settin’ on the hitch rack in front of Buck
Masterson’s saloon one mornin’, like a couple old buzzards, lookin’ for
something to happen. Dirty Shirt ain’t very big, but he’s got a man
sized capacity for anythin’ you might mention. His left eye is his
predominatin’ feature, bein’ as it ain’t noways fixed like a regular
eye, but kinda darts hither and yon, finally comin’ to rest in the
northwest section of his eye socket, peerin’ up at the angle between his
crooked nose and his eyebrow. All of which gives Dirty a cockeyed
expression.
We’re settin’ there, tryin’ to elect a Democrat President, when here
comes old Burnin’ Wolf, headin’ across from the post office, trailin’
his blanket.
“I ain’t goin’ t’ lend that old marrowgut a cent more,” declares Dirty.
But Burnin’ Wolf merely scratches his shoulders against the rack post,
picks up the butt of the cigaret I’ve jist dropped and asks me for a
match.
“Gittum letta,” he says.
“Who got a letter?” asks Dirty.
“Me gittum letta.”
“Who from?”
The old boy fishes out a dirty envelope from inside his shirt and hands
it to me. In one corner of the envelope it says, “Barker Brothers Great
Consolidated Shows”.
“Dirty Dora prob’ly died and they’re askin’ Wolf to take his place,”
says Dirty Shirt. “Open it up--the war whoop can’t read.”