“What’s that, Magpie?” asks Dirty Shirt.
“Depictin’,” says Magpie, wipin’ some black paint out of his mustache,
“the progress of Piperock. Pageant means a high-toned parade. There has
been parades before, but this is the first pageant. If you two fellers
will go up to Wick Smith’s house you’ll prob’ly find Mrs. Smith and Miss
Greenbaum workin’ on yore costumes. They was goin’ to make ’em first
thing today.”
“Our costumes?” I asks. “Whyfor costumes for us, Magpie?”
“Have to have ’em, Ike.”
“Oh, well, if we have to have ’em.”
Me and Dirty spells out the next thing on the list:
WHEN EAST MEETS WEST
THE EAST IS AMAZED AT THE PROGRESS OF THE WEST
THEY MINGLE LIKE BROTHERS
THE COMING OF THE WHITE MAN VICTORY
THE SPIRIT OF PIPEROCK--PROGRESS
DON’T FORGET THE BIG DANCE AT THE MINT HALL
THATCHER’S COMBINED ORCHESTRA WILL FURNISH THE STRAINS AND SCENERY
SIMS WILL DO THE CALLIN’
COME ONE AND ALL
TWO DOLLARS PER EACH WILL COVER THE PAGEANT AND DANCE
PIPEROCK CHAMBER OF COMMERCE
MAGPIE SIMPKINS, President
We found Wick Smith at the store. He hoodled Hassayampa into takin’
charge of the animals again and is runnin’ his own store; but he ain’t
cheerful.
“Tomorrow is Labor Day,” says he with tears in his voice. “I ort to be
happy, I s’pose, ’cause the proceeds of the pag-unt is to help pay me
for them animals; but somehow I can’t seem to rend the veil, as Old
Testament says, and see the silver linin’.”
“Aw, it’ll be all right,” says Dirty. “Parades ain’t much to worry
about.”
“Thasso?” Wick squints at Dirty. “You’ve survived some of our parades,
ain’t yuh, Dirty?”
“Yeah, but you’ve got to figure that Piperock is civilized. It ain’t
noways what she used to be, Wick. Right now Piperock is meek and mild.”
“I’ll betcha,” nods Wick. “Well, I still has hopes, but--I dunno. I
can’t quite figure out my wife lookin’ like a statoo of Victory, nor I
can’t figure out Mrs. Pete Gonyer and Mrs. Mighty Jones depictin’
Progress. My ----, my wife don’t look like Victory.”
“You ain’t never won a battle from her yet, have yuh?” I asks.
“No, that’s a cinch. Well, mebbe it’ll be all right. You fellers ain’t
got no easy chore yoreselves.”
“We ain’t?” I asks. “What have we got to do with it, Wick?”
“You two depicts the East, Ike. Anyway, that’s what they’ve proclaimed
for yuh.”
“----, I don’t look like no East!” snorts Dirty.
“I don’t think I do either,” says I. “Anyway, I ain’t seen nobody from
the East that looks a ---- of a lot like me. How does she come that
we’re inflicted with this idea, Wick?”
“Don’t ask me. My ----, it ain’t none of my doin’s. I’ve got all the
grief I can stand. You better ask Magpie or Jasmine. They fixed it all
up between ’em.”
“Do we wear costumes?” asks Dirty.
“Search me. My wife does. Mosquito-bar! My ----, can yuh see my wife in
a mosquito-bar dress?”
“I’d like to,” says Dirty.
And then we left. Wick hadn’t ought to be so finicky. His wife is about
five feet four inches tall and weighs two hundred and fifty. She also
wheezes considerable in her talk. Mrs. Gonyer is six feet two inches
tall, and so danged thin that she rattles when she walks. Mrs. Mighty
Jones ain’t no taller than Mrs. Smith, and she don’t weigh a hundred.
* * * * *
Me and Dirty don’t get much satisfaction around that town. Magpie goes
to Paradise to advertise the affair, and to probably do a lot of
braggin’ about himself. We runs into Scenery Sims, who has his eyes
focused on the wine when it is red, and he ain’t exactly what you’d call
coherent.
“I--I ain’t much,” he tells us tearful-like.
We agrees with him, which don’t help him none.
“I can’t do nothin’,” he tells us.
“----, that ain’t news,” agrees Dirty. “Everybody knows that.”
“In the pay-jint,” says he. “I want to be somethin’.”
“All right,” says I. “You be a hump in the road for the wagons to run
over.”
“That’s all right f’r you two pelicans,” says he. “You’ve got things to
do. I’ve been shoved aside, that’s what I’ve been done to, by gosh.
Mebbe Piperock is progressin’, but I’m right where I was a week ago.
Have a drink?”
We would. In fact we had several. We got to a point where Dirty gets to
braggin’ about bein’ East. He orates that he’s also effete. Magpie comes
back from Paradise, all swelled up over himself, and invades Buck’s
place.
“They’ll come,” he tells the world. “Paradise will be here in copious
gobs. From Curlew we’ll poll a big majority, and there’ll be a
sprinklin’ from Yaller Horse. I prognosticate that Piperock will hold
about all there is in Yaller Rock County. We has spread the gospel of
progress, and the world responds.”
“Has Paradise got her animals yet?” asks Buck.
“Not yet. Mike Pelly tells me that they’re on the way. It’s goin’ to be
nip and tuck between us towns. Well, I’ve got to go and see how things
is goin’. Is Pete and Yuma workin’ on that float?”
“All day,” says Buck. “It’ll be a dinger.”
“Float?” says Dirty. “My ----, they’re ignorant, Ike. There ain’t water
enough in this town to float a cork. We’ve done give our word to see
that this here pe-rade is a howlin’ success; but after it’s over, me and
you starts a pilgrimage. I sicken of the flesh-pots, jack-pots, et
cettery. Long may she wave. Let’s have another libation to old man
Backus.”
And that’s the way she went. Bill Thatcher and his orchestra showed up a
little later on--a bull-fiddle, a squeeze-organ and a jews-harp. Bill’s
boy, Ham, is the squeeze-organist, and old “Frenchy” Deschamps is doin’
the moanin’ on the harp.
“Kinda wanted t’ know what kind of music Magpie wanted us to play,”
explains Bill. “We’ve got all kinds.”
“You fellers graduated from ‘Sweet Marie’?” asked Dirty.
“That’s good music,” says Bill kinda indignant-like. “If yuh don’t like
that, we can play it any old way you want it.”
Some of Paradise comes that night, and among ’em is the gang from the
Cross J. Chuck gets me aside and asks how we’re comin’ on the animal
stealin’. I points out the difficulties, showin’ him how close Piperock
is guardin’ their zoo.
“Get ’em durin’ the parade,” says Chuck. “Everybody will be interested
in that, don’tcha see?”
“Can’t be did,” says I. “I’m part of the parade.”
“What part are you, Ike?”
“I’m half of the east end,” says I. “Now you know as much as I do.”
“Who’s guardin’ ’em now, Ike?”
“I ain’t sure, but I reckon Hassayampa is on duty.”
Chuck goes away, leavin’ me to nod at the bartender and lean against
Dirty Shirt. Then cometh Polecat Perkins and his pack of high-class
mongrels. He’s got eight of ’em, all on ropes, and they proceeds to
tangle themselves around our legs.
“Greetin’s, everybody,” says Polecat. “Lay down, dogs!”
Polecat joins our convention and gets enthusiastic over the fact that
tomorrow is Labor Day and that we’re goin’ to have a jollification.
“Take them dogs outside,” orders Buck. “My ----, this ain’t no doggery,
Polecat. Take ’em away so folks will have a chance to git to the bar.”
Just about that time Hassayampa Harris comes into that saloon. I dunno
how far he jumped from the outside, but I know he scraped his head on
the top of the doorway and landed plumb in the middle of the room
“Yeeow-w-w-w! Look out!” he yelps.
Right behind Hassayampa comes Cleopatra. She comes among us, like a
striped streak, hits in the middle of the room, lands on the pool table
and goes plumb out through the back door, which has just been opened by
Mighty Jones. Mighty’s feet flip up where his hat had been, and over him
goes Polecat’s flock of dogs, each one tryin’ to yell louder than the
rest.
“That’s our tiger!” explodes Buck.
“You--you can huh-have it!” pants Hassayampa.
“How did it get loose?”
“Go and ask it. I--I was talkin to Chuck Warner at the front door of the
stable when all to once I hears somebody yell, and here comes
Cleopatra.”
“Somebody yell?” snorts Buck. “By golly, I’ll bet some of that Paradise
gang turned her loose while you was at the front door. Git down there,
everybody, before they turn ’em all loose.”
They all went down there, except me and Dirty and Buck. They could turn
’em loose as far as me and Dirty are concerned. A few minutes after
they’re gone Old Testament and Muley Bowles comes in. Testament ain’t
got no hat and his coat is split up the back. Muley don’t track very
well and he’s got a swellin’ over one eye.
“‘In the midst of life we are in death,’” says Testament, indicatin’
that he don’t want his lemonade straight.
Buck looks ’em over.
“You two been fightin’ each other?” he asks.
“It--it was a mistake,” says Muley, drinkin’ the water and pourin’ his
liquor in the cuspidor. “I thought Testament was a--a----”
“He thought I was a door,” finished Testament, “and tried to go through
me. Perhaps we had better go home, Muley.”
“Yeah--and stay home,” says Muley painful-like.
They went out just before the crowd came back. It seems that Gunga Din
and Sahara are all right, but they left five guards in the stable.
“We found a hat,” said Mighty. “Hassayampa said that they ain’t fed that
tiger for two days, and I’m kinda scared that we won’t never find the
man to put under that hat.”
I’m goin’ to draw a veil over the rest of that night. It will be
sufficient to say that mornin’ came apace, the sun came up in its usual
way, and among us was brotherly love and the sweet spirit of progress.
Civilization is sweet to the civilized.
Magpie found us the next day. He looks us over, tells us what he thinks
of our ancestors, takes our guns away and leads us down to Wick Smith’s
home. I’m kinda hazy on just what happened to us, but it seems that me
and Dirty went to sleep on a bed.
* * * * *
I dunno what time I woke up, but I suppose it was afternoon. I sets up
on that bed and looks at the dangest person I ever seen. He was settin’
there, lookin’ at me. He’s kind of a dirty, brown-complected _hombre_,
with somethin’ white wrapped around his head, and his body is covered
with a striped gown of some kind.