“What say?” asked the chief.
I reads it to him. He scratched his left knee with the toe of his right
moccasin, and then he laughs kinda foolish.
“Who’s Chief Axlegrease?” I asks.
“Long time ago I be with him in medicine show. Him Osage or Cherokee or
somethin’.”
“He’s a hell of a lot like you, eh?” grunted Dirty.
“I’m a Sioux.”
“Yeah--when you’re sober.”
“Pretty damn dry now.”
“Yeah,” says Dirty, “and if you don’t quit drinkin’ hair tonic, you’ll
have to eat moths to keep down the fur. So this here Axlegrease Injun is
comin’ to visit you, eh?”
“Um-m-m-m. Play damn bad poker.”
“I suppose you’ll skin him out of his moccasins, eh?”
“Um-m-m-m. Me no got money. Mus’ have money for play poker.”
“Yeah, we all found that out a long time ago, Mister Vanishin’ Race.”
It might be well to tell you somethin’ about our town of Piperock and of
the rest of Yaller Rock County. Piperock, Yaller Horse and Paradise are
set in a sort of triangle. Yaller Horse grew up from a one shack
horsethieves’ hangout. I mean she growed up in size, but her morals
remained dormant. The town is kinda mismanaged by Tombstone Todd, Yuma
Yates, Hardpan Hawkins and Smoky Potts, knowed by us Piperockers as
Murderer’s Row. Whenever folks enumerate the poisonous reptiles, they
mention them four in connection with rattlers and copperheads.
Paradise is only of more consequence, because of a larger population. A
horsethief got run out of Piperock, hid in a hole down the country, and
out of spite he started a town, which they called Paradise. Bein’ of the
same minds and dispositions, Yaller Horse and Paradise buried the ax
against each other, in order to concentrate against Piperock.
Piperock is a lovable old place, full of memories, tryin’ to get along
in a peaceable way and amount to something. If it wasn’t for the folks
in Piperock it would be a great old town. But even with our failin’s,
we’re united. We don’t need no outside help. We stand for a certain
principle, and we back our own--right or wrong--and there ain’t been an
innocent bystander killed in years. We shoot straight. We go on the idea
that if the law leaves us alone, we’ll leave the law alone. Reciprocity,
Magpie Simpkins calls it.
Magpie is built a whole lot like Runnin’ Wolf, has sad, droopin’ eyes,
like a disappointed bloodhound, and a long mustache. And nature didn’t
cheat him, when it comes to noses. He’s full of quaint ideas, all of
which suffer a heap from missin’ parts, and his main idea in life is to
keep Piperock on the map.
Well, me and Dirty Shirt proceeds to forget all about Chief Axlegrease,
and he ain’t brought to our attention until the next day when a runaway
bronc, bearin’ Mighty Jones in the saddle, comes down through our main
street like Paul Revere spreadin’ his anti-English propaganda. Mighty
ain’t very big, but his hair is long and his voice is plenty resonant,
as you might say.
When he’s about in the middle of the town, wingin’ along on that locoed
animal, which is jist touchin’ here and there, we hears him yelp--
“Ho-o-o-o-old your ho-o-o-orses!”
Jist one more _clickety-clack_, and he’s faded out complete.
“That,” says Dirty Shirt, “is damn’ queer advice, under the
circumstances. But mebbe he’s like Old Testament Tilton, allus preachin’
advice that he won’t foller hisself.”
“I’m pure in heart,” replied Old Testament, who is also built awful high
above his corns.
“Lotta bum watches have plenty good main springs.”
“I’m meek and lowly,” says Testament, pious-like.
“Yea-a-ah--right now.”
“Well, f’r Gawd’s sake!” snorts Magpie. “Will you tell me what this
cavalcade is? Will you tell me--crip-puled crawlers!”
* * * * *
I didn’t blame Magpie for his remarks. This here cavalcade turns into
the main street from the south, and if it ain’t a circus, I’m a hairy
tarantaler. In front is one of them big decorated wagons, with four
horses, and on the driver’s seat is a big fat Injun, all dressed up in a
shiny plug hat, cutaway coat and a high white collar.
Tied behind that wagon is a scrawny lookin’ elephant, behind which comes
another big wagon--one of them Queen of Sheba float wagons--hauled by
two pinto horses and driven by a fat squaw; and in that float is at
least sixteen Injun kids, from one year to sixteen. Towin’ behind that
comes one of them steam pipe pianos, and a tow headed jigger in a red
uniform is playin’ “Sweet Adeline” as loud as he can.
The big Injun drives up along the old sidewalk and stops his team, while
we stands there and gawps at him, until “Sweet Adeline” fades away to a
hoarse whistle. The fat Injun takes off his hat, polishes it on his arm,
puts it on his head and looks us over kinda dignified-like.
“I like see Runnin’ Wolf,” says he.
Dirty Shirt’s eye circles and circles, finally stoppin’ abruptly.
“That,” says he, “must be Chief Axlegrease.”
“Big Chief,” says the fat aborigine.
“Ex-cuse me,” grunts Dirty Shirt.
Them Injun kids sees some candy in Wick Smith’s store window, and they
all puts up a yelp for it. The old boy picked up a rock from the seat
beside him, and the yelpin’ stops. That buck shore knows family control,
’cause even the fat squaw ducked quick.
About that time Runnin’ Wolf comes lopin’ up the street. He heard that
music, I reckon. He stopped and looked at the steam organ, stopped and
looked over the family wagon, and finally arrived among us. Him and the
fat buck looks each other over. The fat one cocks his plug hat over one
eye and looked down at Runnin’ Wolf.
“Hyah?” he snorts, kinda like an explosion.
“Purty damn’ good!” explodes Runnin’ Wolf.
“You git letter?”
“Got.”
“I come visit.”
“Hm-m-m-m-m-m-m!”
The big chief waved a fat arm to encompass his equipage.
“Purty good, eh? Belong me. Oil well gusher. Too damn’ much money. Where
you live?”
It kinda dawned on us that the old chief had made a pile in oil, and
this was his idea of travelin’ in state. I moved down and takes a look
at the greasy faced jigger at the piano. He ain’t very big and he looks
tired.
“What kind of an outfit is this?” I asks him. He shakes his head, spits
out in the dust and blinks considerable.
“Ay am de calli-yupe player,” says he. “My name is Yergens. Das out feet
belongs to de Inchun. Ay am jus’ de calli-yupe player.”
“Rich Injun?” I asks.
“Ay am get pay for dis yob--you bet. Dis damn’ road make me mees notes.”
“Where are you from?” I asks.
“Ay am from Copenhagen.”
“Play!” yells Axlegrease, and the Swede almost blew the tops off them
pipes, and scared every bronc in the county.
Away they went, with Runnin’ Wolf walkin’ in the lead, and the parade
follerin’ him down to his little teepee, while the rest of us sets down
on the sidewalk and laughs ourselves so dry that Buck Masterson does a
rushin’ business in a few minutes.
Some of the boys follered down to the teepee, and they comes back to
tell us that inside the chief’s wagon is a lion and a tiger.
“One of them big Affreecan lions,” says Slim Hawkins. “Cross m’ heart,
if he ain’t. And in the other end is one of them penitentiary
pumas--with the stripes. Take a whole horse to feed them two f’r one
day, not to mention that elephant. I’ve seen a lot of elephants in m’
time, but I never seen one with a worse fittin’ skin. He shore needs
ironin’ out. They got him staked to a tree and he’s eatin’ all the
branches off; while them two buck Injuns are settin’ there in Runnin’
Wolf’s wickiup, smokin’ a pipe. The squaw and all the kids are cuttin’
wood for the whoopee organ, and the Swede is actin’ as horse wrangler
and bull-cook. If that ain’t a outfit, I’m a cow’s nephew!”
About an hour later Yuma Yates, Tombstone Todd, Hardpan Hawkins and
Smoky Potts rides in from Yaller Horse. They stands out there in the
street for a while, lookin’ around, before they invades Buck’s place. It
wouldn’t take no Saint Peter to tell where them four will go when they
die. Them four gents is hard for to get along with. Tombstone is the
ringleader; him and his big buffalo horn mustache. In fact, they all
kinda runs strong to hair, as far as that’s concerned. They has a drink
together, and we can see that they’ve been drinkin’ on the way to town.
“Did it stop here?” asks Tombstone.
“What?” asks Buck.
“That red skinned war whoop and his circus.”
“Oh, yea-a-ah--they’re here. That’s Chief Axlegrease, a wealthy
Nincopoop Injun, who struck oil. Him and Runnin’ Wolf was in a medicine
show together, and he’s come to show off. He’s the first Injun to ever
git fancier than a hearse, when it comes to puttin’ on the dog. He’s got
a whistle wagon, elephant, lions and taggers too numerous to
mention--and a Swede.”
“We seen it all,” says Yuma, yawnin’ wide and lettin’ a full glass of
red liquor drop down his throat. “Every hitch rack in Paradise is in
ruins. Two horses went plumb into Hank Padden’s saloon, and only one
came out. They think the other one is under the bar, but they won’t know
until they git things cleared out. Half-Mile Smith wanted to telegraph
for the militia, but Zeke Whittaker’s wagon team ran straddle of a
telegraph pole and the wires are all down. The last we seen of Hank he
was loadin’ a riot gun, swearin’ that Custer would be avenged at last.”
* * * * *
“You fellers ain’t up here to mop up on the war whoop, are you?” asks
Dirty.
“Not if he’ll listen to reason,” says Tombstone.
“Reason or no reason,” says Magpie, “that Injun is bein’ p’tected by
Piperock, if anybody stops to ask you, Tombstone. He’s a guest of our
fair city, and as such, we stands behind him. If Paradise animiles are
so danged ignorant that they stampedes regardless at sight of a few
chariots and a misfit elephant, they ought to stand their loss.”
“Oh, we don’t mean no bodily harm to the Injun, Magpie. That ain’t in
our thoughts a-tall. But you don’t need to get runty about it, as fer as
that goes. We comes in peace, you understand--but p’pared for war.”
“We shore do love peace,” sighs Dirty, who is achin’ for a crack at one
of them Yaller Horsers, “but if there’s any choosin’ to be done, I’ve
done made my selection.”
“I’ll shake dice with you t’ see which one of us takes two,” suggests
Slim Hawkins to Dirty. “There’s times when I kinda throw back to m’
aboriginal ancestors, and at such times I hankers for hair.”
“Peace,” says Testament Tilton. “Peace, brothers. There’s a time and a
place for all things.”
“Yeah, and I jist mopped this floor,” said Buck kinda sad-like. “C’mon
and everybody have a little drink on the house. No use goin’ to war,
unless we know what the shootin’ is all about.”
That buried the hatchet for the time bein’, and them three thieves from
Yaller Horse starts a poker game with Magpie, Testament and Slim
Hawkins. Me and Dirty Shirt drifts down to Runnin’ Wolf’s teepee, kinda
wishful to see what the layout looks like, and we meets Runnin’ Wolf.
The old buck looks kinda down in the mouth, but he stops and looks back.
“How’re you and the circus comin’?” asks Dirty.
“Big mouth!” snorts Wolf. “Much money. Huh! Like play poker.”
Dirty cocks his hat over one eye and looks at the old buck. Dirty knows
how good the old boy is at poker, and he wonders how much Chief
Axlegrease knows about the great American pastime.
“Likes poker, eh? Good player?”
“Hm-m-m-m-m! Talk too damn’ much. Say I’m poor Injun. Huh! Needum fifty
dolla.”
“Will ten dollars set you up in business?” asks Dirty.
“Plenty. I go buy cards.”
“What do I get out of it?” asks Dirty.
“Runnin’ Wolf honest Injun.”
“You git the ten, old-timer--and may your fingers never cramp. Soak this
fat war whoop plenty.”
“Plenty,” agrees Runnin’ Wolf, almost grinnin’.
Me and Dirty went on down to the teepee, and Chief Axlegrease looks us
over as though we’re poor relations. Them sixteen assorted kids sets on
the edge of that float, like a lot of little mahogany faced mummies,
while the fat old squaw fusses around the stew pot on a fire.
The Swede is busy with a rag, polishin’ his steam piano, and every once
in a while that lean-lookin’ lion almost choked to death over his own
noises. The big striped cat has got his nose against the bars, sleepin’
out loud. The elephant is roped to a tree near the Swede’s musical
wagon, and he seems a lot interested in what the Swede is doin’.