Author of “Hidden Blood,” “The Lovable Liar,” etc.
Some poetical person once wrote:
For East is East and West is West.
And never the twain shall meet.
He was all wrong, that feller--all wrong. And I’ll tell you how I know
he was wrong.
I ain’t no pessimist. Not by a danged sight, I ain’t. If a little kid
burns his fingers on a red-hot stove and keeps away from the fire from
that time on, you don’t call him a pessimist. That’s me--burnt to a
caution.
All the Harper tribe, as far back as I can figure out, was cautious. We
bred more runners than we did fighters. Of course there ain’t as many of
us as there is Smiths. Smiths predominate, as it were. Anyway, the Smith
tribe ain’t got nothin’ to do with this.
I ain’t been in Piperock for several weeks. Me and “Dirty Shirt” Jones
has been prospectin’ back in the Whisperin’ Creek hills, with our usual
good luck--of gettin’ back before all our food was gone. And we finds my
pardner, “Magpie” Simpkins, settin’ at the table in our shack, wearin’
his Sunday clothes.
Magpie is so danged tall that it takes him all day to find out whether
a certain pain is indigestion or inflammation of the kneecaps. He’s
solemn, Magpie is. And when that elongated, pious-faced cross between a
scientific lecture and a ---- fool statement gets pouches under his eyes
and droops his eyelids like a blood-hound--caution cometh to me.
Magpie is writin’. He’s got ink plumb to his elbow and the floor is
plumb littered with paper. Does he welcome us effusively? Like ---- he
does. He just looks at us, kinda reprovin’-like, as if we should ’a’
knocked.
“Well, you old cattywampus, howdy!” greets Dirty Shirt.
Dirty has one eye that kinda oscillates, as it were. Not bein’ what an
astronomer would call ‘a fixed orbit,’ it does a lot of jigglin’ before
it picks up what Dirty’s lookin’ at.
But it don’t noways affect Dirty’s aim, bein’ as he shoots with both
eyes open, and most of the time with both legs workin’. Magpie looks him
over solemnly and says--
“Mr. Jones, I give you good afternoon.”
Dirty spits in the general direction of the stove.
“I’ll take it,” says he.
“Mr. Harper,” says Magpie dignified-like.
I kicks the door shut, slides my gun around where I can get it real
quick and looks my old pardner over. He’s shaved. Yeah, you can always
tell when Magpie has shaved, because he’s got so danged many wounds.
He’s got on a celluloid collar--one of them kind that it ain’t safe to
smoke in. I can smell stove polish, which Magpie has used on his boots.
Take it all the way around, Magpie Simpkins is a dude.
“You ain’t got yore days mixed, have yuh?” I asked.
“Days mixed?”
He speaks like an actor--kinda runnin’ the scale in G flat, as yuh might
say.
“This ain’t Sunday,” says I.
“I am well aware of it.”
“Then what’s the idea of dressin’ up thisaway?”
“The idea? Hah!” He kinda swells up with importance. “I’m the
president.”
I looks quick at Dirty, who is starin’ at Magpie with his mouth wide
open. Then he looks at me and shakes his head.
“Ike,” says he hoarse-like, “I knowed it. By ----, the human brain can
jist stand so much. He’s been feeblin’ up in the head for a long time.
I’ve seen it comin’ on by degrees, and I ain’t a mite surprized. There
ain’t nothin’ yuh can do, except to hopple ’em so they can’t hurt
nobody.”
Magpie looks at Dirty kinda funny and Dirty edges toward the door.
“Better git a rope, Ike,” advises Dirty, backin’ agin’ the door. “Them
high-minded first symptoms is apt to degenerate into vi’lence, and we
don’t want him to hurt nobody.”
“Set down, you ---- fool,” says Magpie. “I ain’t crazy.”
“Proves it on himself,” declares Dirty nervous-like. “They all swear
they ain’t. Look out for his first rush, Ike.”
But I holds firm. To me he’s always been crazy so I ain’t scared of an
extra degree.
“Democrat or Republican president?” I asks. “We didn’t git back in time
for the convention, you remember.”
“Don’t try to be smart, Ike,” says he. “I plumb forgot that you fellers
has been away. Since you was here, Piperock has advanced by leaps and
bounds. Right now I am writin’ a biography of our fair city for all to
read and appreciate how we have advanced. It is marvelous.”
“What is? The biography?” asks Dirty.
“No--our advancement. Gentlemen, we are on the threshold of a wonderful
era for Piperock. No more shall the rest of the world point a finger of
scorn at our community. No more shall they say that Piperock is
uncivilized, unbalanced. From this day henceforth we shall blossom like
the rose. Our ideals shall and will be realized to the fullest
extremity. How is that, Ike?”
“Fits in with what we’ve just heard,” says I.
“And with the dawnin’ of a new day--” Magpie squints at his paper--“all
these--that’s as far as I’ve got.”
“And that’s a ---- of a long ways, if you ask me,” said Dirty Shirt
solemn-like.
“Now about bein’ president,” says I. “Yuh hadn’t ought to go that far,
Magpie.”
“Hadn’t I? Huh! That’s who I am, Ike. Look upon me. I am the first
president of the Piperock Chamber of Commerce.”
“What the ---- kind of a thing is that?” asked Dirty.
“Chamber of Commerce? Dirty Shirt, I’m surprized at you. It is an
organization.”
“It’s the same thing as the Chamber of Horrors,” says I, “only they
deals in commerce mostly. This one will prob’ly have horrors as a
side-line.”
“Nothin’ of the kind, Ike,” protests Magpie. “Piperock is past the age
of swaddlin’ clothes. We has emerged into the sunlight and it will be
well for all other cities to look to their laurels. I wouldn’t be
surprized to see Piperock one of the big cities of the world. We have
everythin’ to make it big.”
“Yeah, we’ve got a lot of country,” admits Dirty Shirt. “Me and Ike came
across twenty miles of it today, and there was more beyond where we
started from. If you want to go east, west, north or south from here yuh
can find a lot of open country. We’ve got room to build, that’s a
cinch.”
“But what would bring anybody here?” I asks. “Folks won’t even come from
Paradise, except to a dance; and then they come to pick a fight. We
ain’t got a ---- of a lot to offer--except to somebody that wants
trouble, Magpie.”
“We will have, Ike. The idea was started in Paradise originally. Me and
Wick Smith was down there last week and we went to see a tent show. It
wasn’t much good and it wasn’t doin’ no business. Me and Wick got to
talkin’ to the feller that owned the show and he told us all about his
hard luck.
“He says that a circus is a drug on the market now, and that animiles
ain’t worth nothin’, except in a zoo. He says that he’s really surprized
that some of our towns don’t have no zoo. He says they’re all puttin’
’em in in the East, and that no town can ever be an attraction unless
it’s got a zoo.
“Well, me and Wick has a few drinks with him and got to talkin’ it over
with him. He says he’s got the ingredients of a first-class zoological
menagerie, and that he’s got a idea of puttin’ the proposition up to
Paradise. He’s got a elephant. Of course it ain’t no first class
elephant, bein’ as it’s kinda run down from travelin’ so much.
“The camel is--well, it ain’t noways in full plumage, but it’s a camel.
The tiger seems to be as good as tigers go. He says he’ll take a
thousand dollars for the whole bunch. ’Course he tells us how much we’d
have to pay if we bought them animiles at retail price; but he kinda
lumps ’em together and gives ’em to us at cost.
“Wick Smith is public-spirited, and after I tells him what we’ll do
about organizin’ a Chamber of Commerce, he ups and buys them animiles on
the spot. The feller throws in the cage free gratis for nothin’; so that
saves us quite a lot. I figures that we can pick up a grizzly and a wolf
and mebbe a mountain lion to kinda add to our zoo. Folks will come a
long ways to look at wild animiles, Ike--a long ways.”
Me and Dirty looks at each other and goes out to unpack, while Magpie
goes ahead on Piperock’s epitaph.
* * * * *
It’s been quite a while since we put our foot on the rail; so we hurries
up to Buck Masterson’s saloon, where we runs into Wick Smith and
“Mighty” Jones. Mighty and Dirty Shirt ain’t no relation. Mighty is a
little jigger, who thinks he’s big enough to hold his own. That’s one
reason why Mighty is mostly always on crutches. He swears in a tenor
voice and chaws his tobacco.
Buck greets us gladly, but Wick don’t seem so happy.
“You fellers been prospectin’ again?” asks Buck.
“Yeah, and we’re goin’ ag’in,” says Dirty Shirt. “This here town is
gettin’ too danged effete to suit me and Ike.”
“It is effete,” agrees Mighty. “Ain’t been nobody killed for two weeks.”
“Cheer up, brother,” says Wick solemn-like. “There’s allus a lull before
a storm.”
“You preparin’ to massacre?” I asks.
“Well, I ain’t been treated right,” says Wick. “I done paid a thousand
cold dollars for some jungle insects, and I’m wonderin’ jist how I’m
goin’ to cash in on said contraptions. Magpie Simpkins got me drunk and
talked me into bein’ a public benefactor, dang his hide.
“Got me to procure the ingredients of a zoological garden, that’s what
he done. Got the whole ---- town heated up over a thing he calls the
Piperock Chamber of Commerce, and then goes out and gits himself elected
president. That’s a ---- of a way to do, ain’t it?”
“You wanted to be president, eh?” I asks.
“Well, ----, why not. I bought the ---- thing, didn’t I? Magpie said
that Piperock would pay me back for it. How’ll they do it, I’d like to
know. Mebbe I’m supposed to raffle ’em off, eh?”
“I won’t buy no chances,” says Buck. “I’ve been down to the
livery-stable and got a look at them there animals, and I’m free to
state that I don’t want none. Magpie orates that we’ll have ’em to
attract more folks to Piperock. My ----, that bunch will drive away what
we’ve got.”
“If I had that elephant,” said Mighty, “I’d shore take a reef in him.
His hide don’t fit him no place. He ain’t no attraction--he’s a
disgrace. From the rear he looks like ‘Polecat’ Perkins in his Sunday
pants. Wick, you ort to give him a belt to take up the slack.”
“That’s why he’s an attraction,” declared Wick. “The feller I bought him
from said that Gunga Din was a rare species of elephant. His name’s
Gunga Din. My ----, he ort to be good. I paid three hundred and
thirty-three dollars and thirty-three and one-third cents for him. That
camel and the tiger cost the same.”
“I think that Magpie’s crazy,” say I.
“How about me?” wails Wick. “I paid for ’em myself.”
“Yore wife’s callin’ yuh, Wick,” observed Buck.
Wick squints toward the door and nods sadly.
“Yeah, I left her to run the store while I talks over my sorrow. Now
I’ve got to go back and git ---- agin’. She don’t believe in Chambers of
Commerce, she don’t; and I’m commencin’ to wonder if she ain’t right.”
Wick pilgrims across the street, while me and Dirty goes down to the
livery stable to see what Wick bought. “Hassayampa” Harris is runnin’
the stable.
“Howdy, Hassayampa,” says I. “How are you?”
“Liver trouble,” says he, diagnosin’ himself. “Spots before m’ eyes,
dizziness and kinda sluggish-like.”
He does look kinda pale and walks antegodlin’.
“How comes you to git them there symptoms?” asks Dirty.
“Ignorance,” says Hassayampa. “I tried to take a bale of hay away from
Exhibit A of the Chamber of Commerce.”
“Meanin’ Gunga Din?”
“That accordion-skinned thing,” says Hassayampa painful-like, kinda
pluckin’ at his Adam’s apple. “I ain’t jist right in m’ mind yet. It
grabbed me by the slack of the pants and took m’ pants plumb off while
I’m still in the air. Them kinda shocks ain’t noways good for the human
form. Then the ---- thing slapped me across the face with my own pants
and knocked me plumb across the stable and into the oat-bin. I ain’t
been right since.”
“You ort to read up on things like that,” says Dirty.
“Read? What in ---- can a man read at a time like that?”
“Wasn’t there no directions with ’em?” I asks.
“No. Direction don’t mean nothin’ to a thing like that, Ike. Do you want
to gaze upon ’em?”
“Yeah, we’ll look,” nods Dirty.
“Cost two-bits per each,” informs Hassayampa. “Magpie says they’re worth
it--and they are. My ----, there ain’t no questions about it.”
“That’s a ---- of a idea!” snorts Dirty. “Two-bits to see a elephant.
I’ll tell you what we will do, Hassayampa; we’ll pay the two-bits to see
you try to take another bale away from Gunga Din.”
“You never will,” sighs Hassayampa. “I’m cured. Anyway, I’m about half
out of hay. I’ve got a bill of seven dollars agin’ them critters right
now. By golly, that tagger c’n go plumb to ----. Meat costs money.”
We left Hassayampa talkin’ to himself and went back up town, where we
leans on Buck’s bar.
We ain’t been there long when Mike Pelly, Ricky Henderson and “Old
Testament” Tilton rides in from Paradise. Mike is the saloon-keeper and
Ricky runs the barber shop. The third member of this here trio
represents the other element of Paradise.
Testament looks a heap like some old buzzard that had been disappointed
in love. He wears one of them beetle-backed coats, a pair of pants that
sure follers the contour of his skinny legs and a pair of boots that sag
a heap at the top and shows that Testament don’t noways pinch his feet.
Mike parts his hair on one side, slicks one side down until she almost
reaches the bridge of his nose, where it retreats some sudden-like. He
smells a heap of heel-yuh-tripe perfume.
Ricky is a barber. He looks, smells and acts like one. When he gets
excited he applauds, like he was stroppin’ a razor. Testament used to
think that he had snatched Ricky and Mike from the burnin’. When
Testament first comes to that country he has an idea that there was a
lot of brands to snatch from the burnin’; but he got scorched a few
times and let things go as they lay.
Them three angles up to the bar, shakes hands with us, just like they
cared to meet us, and asks us to drink. Testament has his usual lemonade
and a wink, and then we discusses conditions.
“How is everythin’ in this village of iniquity?” asks Testament kinda
offhanded.
“Iniquity, ----!” snorts Buck. “There ain’t no iniquity in Piperock.
We’re clean-minded and antiseptic of condition. If there’s any infection
in this city it’s brought here from Paradise. By golly, some day you’ll
be glad to be knowed as bein’ a suburb of Piperock City.”
“Haw-haw-haw-haw!” says Ricky. “Suburb of Piperock. Paradise will be a
mee-trop-polis when Piperock goes back to the prairie-dogs.”
It’s difference of opinion that makes horse races, wars and so many
kinds of whisky--all out of one barrel. Me and Dirty Shirt are plumb
full of civic pride, and we’re willin’ to fight for our fair city--if we
had one--but Piperock and Paradise ain’t worth no supreme effort; so we
slides out kinda graceful-like and pilgrims back to our shack.
Magpie is just goin’ away, carryin’ complete dignity and a lot of
stationery. I tells him about the three men from Paradise.
“The word has reached,” says Magpie, swellin’ his chest. “We shall not
hide our light under a bushel.”
“Then you better hide yore carcass behind a wood-pile,” says Dirty
Shirt. “Them three antagonizers didn’t jist ride up here to git a drink
of liquor.”
“We are a peaceable aggregation,” says Magpie. “No more shall the
war-cry sever, nor the runnin’ rivers be red. We are about to shed the
things that have held us back. Uncivilization must bow to the tread of
wisdom. The wheel of progress is turnin’, and woe unto him who gits
under the tire. The people of Piperock have risen in their might,
unleashed the bonds which have held them in darkness and are comin’ out
into the light of a new day.”
“And,” says Dirty kinda awed-like, “if that ain’t a ---- of a lot to say
all in one bunch, I’ll eat the garment that made me famous.”
Magpie snorts and pilgrims on up the street. In spite of the mighty
proclamation he emits to us, I notices that he’s got a six-gun shoved
into the waistband of his pants. Me and Dirty stretches out on the two
bunks and rolls up a little sleep.
* * * * *
In the course of human events some queer things happen. And the queerest
thing I can think of is the fact that Jasmine Greenbaum came to teach
school at Piperock. Jasmine ain’t the kind you’d imagine would take a
job like that.
She’s plumb decorative, if yuh know what I mean. I ain’t goin’ to
describe her, ’cause I ain’t got words enough. Her eyes would make a man
lift his head when somebody is shootin’ at him. She lives with Wick
Smith’s family while she’s teachin’ the young of Piperock to not shoot
at each other.
Me and Dirty runs into her that evenin’ after we’ve been stationary at
Buck’s bar for an hour or more. Dirty’s active eye jiggles
convulsive-like for a while, and he seems to be wearin’ about six too
many hands.
“I’m sure you remember me,” says she, smilin’ at us.
“If I lives to be a million, I won’t forget,” pants Dirty.
“I am Mister Harper,” says I. “And the Harper fambly has the longest
memories of any fambly on earth.”
“Outside of the Jones’s,” says Dirty. “My old pa could remember before
they started puttin’ aces in the decks of cards.”
“Memories don’t figure,” says I. “We’re glad to meetcha, Miss Greenbaum.
What can I do for yuh, ma’am?”
“Same here,” says Dirty, kinda elbowin’ me aside.
“I told them that you were always willing to do anything for the public
good,” says she, smilin’ sweet-like.
“To whom did yoo tell this, ma’am?” I asks.
Somehow I kinda gets a hunch that everythin’ ain’t just right.
“Mr. Simpkins, the president of the Chamber of Commerce,” says she. “He
and Mr. Smith seemed to think----”
“Since when did they start thinkin’?” asks Dirty. “That shore is a
novelty to my ears, ma’am.”
“Mr. Simpkins is a very brilliant man,” says she. “He has some wonderful
ideas.”
“With parts missin’,” says I.
“Perhaps you do not appreciate what he is doing for Piperock, Mr.
Harper,” says she. “I have just come from a meeting of the new Chamber
of Commerce, where Mr. Simpkins presided and read us some wonderful
plans for the betterment of this town.
“As you know we already have the nucleus of a zoological garden. Mr.
Smith, who is heart and soul in the advancement of Piperock, purchased
these three jungle animals. Our meeting this afternoon was to decide
upon a plan to reimburse Mr. Smith and to acquire the animals for the
city.
“Next Monday is Labor Day. I have been lead to understand that Piperock
has never celebrated Labor Day.”
“They’ve sure celebrated everythin’ else,” says Dirty Shirt. “My ----,
ma’am, don’t let ’em celebrate. You don’t know Piperock.”
“It will be a harmless celebration. I spoke about having you two
gentlemen assist, and Mr. Simpkins and Mr. Smith assured me that neither
of you had any civic pride. They said that both of you were uncivilized,
unprogressive and not at all in accord with any movement that would curb
your savage tendencies. I’m sure it is prejudice on their part.”
“Yo’re danged right!” says Dirty. “Them pelicans sure did lie to you in
fine shape, ma’am. Piperock don’t mean a whole lot to either one of us,
but I’m willin’ to do anythin’ yuh say.”
I’m cautious, as I said before. This here idea of havin’ a pretty school
teacher come to us and hoodle us into doin’ somethin’ that our hearts
tell us is dangerous don’t set so good. I’ve heard this same kind of
stuff before, and so has Dirty; but any old time a pretty girl smiles at
Dirty, it’s just another old Garden of Eden and a lot of apples.
She don’t tell us what we’re supposed to do, but she does ask us to
promise to help ’em out. Well, what can yuh do in a case like that? Me
and Dirty goes back to Buck’s place, where we massages our insides with
Buck’s Best.
And lemme tell you somethin’--Buck’s liquor sure tempers the wind to the
sheared sheep. Ten years ago he bought a barrel of it. He sells on an
average of two or three gallons a day, and that barrel is still over
half-full. It has never weakened, as far as we can taste.
After while Magpie and Wick comes into the place. Dignified? My ----,
they act like a pair of royal flushes.
“Greetin’s, Mr. Masterson,” says Magpie lofty-like. “How goes things
this day and date?”
“Well, all right,” says Buck, bein’ kinda dazed. “How did the meetin’
go?”
“Perfect,” says Magpie. “The die is cast. The ladies’ auxiliary is in
complete accord with us and we all feel that it will be a day to date
time from. Piperock will emerge from her shell and take her place among
the cities of the world.”
“The ladies’ what?” asks Dirty.
“Auxiliary,” explains Wick. “My wife is president. It is an
a-ad--uh----”
“Adjunct,” prompts Magpie.
“I know it,” says Wick. “There’s my wife, who is president, and the
followin’, to wit: Mrs. Wick Smith, Mrs. Pete Gonyer, Mrs. Yuma Yates,
Mrs. Mighty Jones, and Miss Hilda Hansen. Of course the list is not
complete, as it were, and we expect more. However, we have a quorum, et
cettery, _ad libitum_.”
“I s’d hope sho,” says Dirty, gettin’ dignified. “What ’bout Mish Jasm’n
Greenbaum? Ain’t she invited t’ j’in?”
“Miss Jasmine Greenbaum is actin’ in an advisory capacity,” explains
Magpie. “It kinda makes her feel free to do as she wishes. We’re leavin’
a lot of it to her imagination.”
“What was Testament and Ricky and Mike doin’ up here?” asks Buck.
“Kinda gropin’ around,” says Magpie. “They heard that we was due to
progress, and of course they had to come and see what it was about. I
told ’em about Piperock acquirin’ a Chamber of Commerce and three jungle
curiosities. They don’t _sabe_ the idea of the Chamber, but they offers
to take the animals at a slight advance over what Piperock paid.”
“What did you say?” asks Wick anxious-like.
“I told ’em to go to ----. Them animals ain’t for sale.”
“Ain’t they?” asks Wick. “At more’n I paid? Magpie, I’d like to have the
say-so over them critters myself. I own ’em, don’t I? They ain’t
Piperock’s animals until Piperock has a bill-of-sale for ’em. I sure as
---- don’t thank yuh for what you’ve done to me.”
“Where’s yore public spirit?” asks Magpie.
“Thassall right,” complains Wick. “I’ve got more public spirit than most
folks, I reckon; but a thousand dollars is a thousand dollars. If
Paradise wants to pay me more’n I paid--they git ’em, by gosh!”
“You’d make a fine president for the Chamber of Commerce,” says Magpie.
“All right,” says Wick. “If you can think of anythin’ else that’s funny,
I’ll listen.”
“Yore livestock are eatin’ up dollars,” says I.
“Yeah, and that’s another thing,” wails Wick, pawin’ at Magpie’s sleeve.
“Who’s goin’ to pay their board?”
“Gunga Din eats a bale of hay every fifteen minutes,” offers Dirty Shirt
solemn-like.
“He--he does?”
“He--he do,” nods Dirty. “The last bale was two pounds short; so Gunga
Din ate Hassayampa’s pants for dessert. Them there tigers will eat a
whole cow for a meal and you know what cows are worth right now.”
“Magpie--” Wick is almost cryin’ by this time--“Magpie, I asks you as a
friend--what’ll I do?”
“Have patience, Wickie.”
“Have ----! I’ll go down there and massacree all three of them
monstrosities, that’s what I’ll do, by gosh!”
“And lose yore thousand dollars, eh?” Magpie shakes his head. “Wick
Smith, you ain’t hardly fit to help us build up Piperock.”
“It’s for the glory of our fair city,” says Buck.
Wick turns around and walks out. He’s kinda all choked up, but I know
danged well it ain’t emotion. Me and Dirty feels that the fair city of
Piperock ain’t so badly in need of our assistance; so we saddles up our
rollin’ stock and goes to Paradise town.
* * * * *
Paradise runs a dead heat with Piperock, as far as city is concerned.
When P. T. Barnum said that a fool is born every minute, he might have
added that they were all pointed toward Yellowrock County.
We finds several of the above in Mike Pelly’s saloon, and among them is
“Chuck” Warner, “Muley” Bowles, “Telescope” Tolliver and Henry Clay
Peck. These four disgraces are from the Cross J ranch, but claims
Paradise as their native haunt. Also we finds “Liniment” Lucas and
“Tombstone” Todd and “Hard-Pan” Hawkins.
Tombstone is so tough that he can wear tight boots on his bunions, and
“Hard-Pan” Hawkins keeps books on his crimes. Tombstone draws me aside
and gnaws on one end of his mustache, while he cuffs his sombrero
plentiful.
“Ike,” says he hoarse-like, “what’s this I’m hearin’ about the hamlet of
Piperock? Somebody was a-tellin’ me that they’ve convened up there to
respectablize the town somewhat.”
“It’s kinda hard to per-fume the rose,” says I.
Tombstone gnaws a little more and fights his hat.
“Yeah, I s’pose that’s right, Ike. Are you and Dirty Shirt part and
parcel of this here movement?”
“Not knowin’ly, Tombstone,” says I. “You can speak to me with perfect
confidence and go away feelin’ that I won’t exaggerate what you’ve told
me.”
“There has been braggin’ goin’ on,” stated Tombstone. “If there’s
anythin’ Paradise hates it’s braggin’. Piperock orates that she’s
leapin’ ahead like a bee-stung bear. She ain’t, Ike. It jist ain’t no
ways possible for her to leap thataway. She ain’t active like Paradise.
We’re able to do things.
“Whereabouts in ---- does Piperock compare with Paradise, I asks yuh to
answer honestly? She don’t. We’ve got spirit, climate and brain power.
We’ve got courageous men, wimmin and children. Why, our offspring are
equal to two grown men of Piperock. We’ve got everythin’, Ike.”
“Except a elephant, a camel and a tiger,” says I.
“What’s them amount to?”
“And a Chamber of Commerce, Tombstone.”
“Mm-m-m, yeah. Well?”
“Well--right back at yuh. I never started this argument.”
“It ain’t no argument, Ike,” he explains. “Paradise is the legitimate
place for them things. We could do it up right.”
Tombstone invites me back to the bar, which I accepts. Dirty is arguin’
with the Cross J outfit and Liniment Lucas, and from Dirty’s talk I’d
gather that he’s body and soul with Piperock.
“From this day henceforth, Piperock shall rossom like a blose,” orates
Dirty Shirt. “The people of Piperock have rosin in their might, and we
are comin’ out into the dight of a lew day. And if that ain’t a ---- of
a lot to say at once, I’ll eat the garment that made me what I am
today.”
From that time on things get kinda hazy. Mike Pelly peddles a brand that
would make a cotton-tail rabbit grow fangs in his mouth and rattles on
his tail. I’m led to understand that Paradise is jealous of Piperock,
and that Paradise hankers for them three animals, like a calf hankerin’
for its ma.
Me and Dirty balances on the edge of the sidewalk in front of Mike’s
place and begins to cheer for Piperock, when some careless son of a gun
moved a heavy chair plumb out of Mike’s doorway and it hits me and Dirty
Shirt at the same time.
And when we woke up we finds ourselves in jail. Hank Padden, our
estimable sheriff, tells us that we’re in jail for disturbin’ the peace.
“You be ----!” wails Dirty Shirt. “Paradise never had no peace to
disturb. I can prove it to any judge, jury or collection of folks which
has two ideas above a monkey.”
“I done my duty,” says Hank firm-like. “I was hired for this kind of
work. You’ll prob’ly git six months apiece.”
This was sure cheerin’ news. The Paradise jail don’t feed none too good.
We had a idea that Piperock would arise in its wrath and come down to
drag us forth--but they didn’t. I sent word to Magpie, and he answered
it.