“Did we get hurt, or somethin’?” I asks.
Before he can answer me, Wick Smith, Yuma Yates and Mighty Jones come
in. They looks us over, and Wick Smith says--
“Thank gosh, they’re sober enough to ride.”
“Who done this to us?” asks Dirty. “I’ll kill the man that painted me
thisaway!”
“There was six of us done it,” says Yuma. “It sure is one good job. By
golly, nobody will know yuh, that’s a cinch. Haw-haw-haw-haw!”
I got off that bed, intendin’ to maul somebody; but Yuma pulled his gun
and backed me onto the bed again.
“The worst is over, Ike,” says he. “Be docile and gain great fame for
yourself--you and Dirty.”
“We better be goin’,” opines Wick. “The crowd is anxious for us to get
started. C’om, you East Injuns.”
“East Injuns?” says I. “Is that what we look like?”
“Accordin’ to the book,” nods Yuma. “C’mon.”
What could we do, I ask yuh? We went out with them, wearin’ bandaged
heads, house-paint and mother-hubbards. That paint is beginnin’ to dry
on my face, and the turpentine stings like a lot of bees. I opened my
mouth and I can’t get it shut.
“H’rah for ----!” wails Dirty. “Who’s ’fraid of fire?”
We follers ’em up to the corner of Holt’s hotel, and there we finds
Gunga Din and Sahara, which are bein’ held by Pete Gonyer, Olaf Hansen,
Hassayampa Harris, Scenery Sims and “Half-Mile” Smith.
“Gunga Din is broke to ride,” stated Hassayampa, “but I dunno about
Sahara. Ike can ride the elephant, ’cause he’s the biggest, and Dirty
Shirt can mount the camel.”
“Just a short moment,” says I. “Nobody asked us. When I ride, I choose a
horse; _sabe_? I ain’t no elephant scratcher.”
“Ain’t yuh?” asks Yuma. “You swore to do what Miss Greenbaum asked yuh
to, Ike. She asks yuh to ride the elephant.”
“But what for?” I asks.
By golly, I ain’t got no idea what it’s all about. I can hear folks
yellin’ out in the street, and when they start to yellin’ in Piperock, I
don’t wish to be there.
“Here’s what yuh got to do,” says Yuma. “You two ride down the street.
About in front of Wick’s store yuh will meet old Chief Cod Liver Oil and
old Runnin’ Dog. They’ll have on their war-bonnets, et cettery, and they
know what to do. They represent the old West; _sabe_?
“They give yuh the peace-sign, and it seems like yo’re all talkin’.
That’s the part of it which is knowed as the West meetin’ the East. Then
comes Pete in an old covered wagon. That is the comin’ of the white man.
The Injuns act surprized. Behind his wagon comes Scenery Sims’
autymobeel, which has been made into a float, and on it is the three
figures, which represent Victory and the Progress of Piperock; _sabe_?
“Then that’s about all, I reckon. I dunno what else there’s to be done,
Ike. Magpie explains that much to me. Thatcher’s orchestra will be
playin’ all the time, I reckon. Anyway, it’ll be good. Hassayampa, you
and Half Mile help Ike up on Gunga Din.”
“It’ll be good all right,” grunts Mighty. “Cod Liver Oil and Runnin’ Dog
done split a quart of lemon extract and a bottle of perfume between
’em.”
I let ’em put me up on the back of that India-rubber ox, which ain’t
wearin’ saddle nor bridle. Behind my animal is Dirty Shirt, settin’ on
the hump of Sahara, his face twisted kinda funny. He’s got a pair of
reins to hang on to.
Just then Gunga Din starts ahead. There ain’t nothin’ I can do but set
there and let things go. We went surgin’ around the corner and into the
main street. Yaller Rock County sure was there. Every hitchrack is
packed with horses, and between the racks and the middle of the street
stands the population of a county, waitin’ for us to show up.
They lets out a cheer when we showed up, and we ain’t more than halfway
to ’em, when up the street comes old Cod Liver Oil and Runnin’ Dog, both
of ’em decked out in war-paint, nose-paint, war-bonnets, and ridin’
painted ponies.
I reckon it was a sight worth seein’. Honest to gosh, I sure did feel
aboriginal. I was stoical, too. The only emotion I can show is with my
right leg--the left one has gone to sleep. Then the East met the West.
We got within twenty feet of each other before them pinto horses got a
good look at Gunga Din and Sahara. Cod Liver Oil’s pinto just spread its
legs, bawled like a calf--and fell down, sendin’ the old buck into a
somersault almost under Gunga Din. Runnin’ Dog’s pinto turns around on
one hind leg, shuckin’ old Runnin’ Dog, and went past us like a streak.
Gunga Din reached down, wrapped his trunk around Cod Liver Oil, and
stood the old boy on his head twenty feet away.
“Yee-ow-w-w!” yelps Liniment Lucas. “Some show!”
And into it all comes Pete Gonyer, drivin’ a team of broncs hitched to a
covered wagon. He is the Comin’ of the White Man. He came--I’ll say that
much for him. The yellin’ is too much for that team of broncs, and here
comes Pete, feet braced against the front-gate of that wagon, haulin’
short on the lines, while behind him billows that wagon-cover, like a
anchored balloon.
Runnin’ Dog has got to his feet, with the war-bonnet over one eye and
blood in the other one.
“_Whoo!_” he screams. “_Hyas masahchie mokst la tet!_”
It was the first elephant he ever seen, and he called it a big evil with
two heads.
There ain’t no chance for me to move Gunga Din out of the path of them
two broncs; so I sets supine and lets death rush down upon us. But it
don’t rush all the way.
About twenty feet away, them two broncs get their first look at the
East, and they don’t like it. They dig their heels into that hard
street, set down in their harness, and out of that cloud of dust comes
Pete Gonyer, all spread out like a flyin’ squirrel, and he lands all
spraddled out on the head of Gunga Din, still hangin’ onto his lines.
As old Judge Steele might say--“Pandyammonium reigns.”
The two broncs regains their equilibrium, ducks sideways and tries to go
around us. They were goin’ pretty good when they took up the slack on
them lines, and Pete Gonyer lifted right off the dome of Gunga Din,
sailed off through the air and butted Dirty Shirt plumb off his camel.
He not only butted him off, but took him along.
Then Gunga Din lifted his trunk high in the air and bugles loud and
free--
“Ra-a-a-a te ta-a-a-a ta ta-a-a-a!”
* * * * *
Right then I want to get down. I don’t reckon that any Harper ever lived
that wanted to get down as badly as I do; but there ain’t no safety on
the ground. Every horse at them hitch-racks are heavin’ and surgin,
folks yelpin’. I want to yell, but that darned paint has set, with my
mouth half open, and all I can do is say--
“Hoo, hoo, hoo!” like a darned owl.
Then cometh Victory--and Progress. Pete Gonyer has made a riggin’ to fit
over the top of Scenery Sims’ automobile, kinda like a platform, and
there’s a railin’ all around it, decorated with flags and colored cloth.
The driver ain’t in sight, and the danged thing looks like a runaway
raft.
On the front of the arrangement stand Mrs. Wick Smith, all gauded up in
cheese-cloth and a silver crown, which is settin’ down over one ear,
kinda rakish-like. One hand is grippin’ the rail, while the other hangs
to a big banner.
Behind her stands Mrs. Gonyer, dressed in white, tryin’ to hold up one
hand, like an Injun givin’ a peace-sign, and hangin’ onto her is Mrs.
Mighty Jones, wearin’ a nightgown and a pair of paper wings, one of
which has climbed up on her shoulder, makin’ her look like a
broken-winged duck.
I seen all this in a lot less time than it takes to tell it. The thing
is comin’ too danged fast, I _sabe_ that much, and I know that an
automobile don’t scare at elephants. A runaway horse goes past me, hits
its rump against the platform of Victory and Progress and skids the
thing aside.
Mrs. Smith goes down in a lump, and Mrs. Gonyer lands on her knees, with
that one hand still up in the air. Then Victory and Progress hits the
East.
They knocked Gunga Din loose from the street, but they didn’t remove
him. I got Mrs. Smith in my arms, but Mrs. Mighty Jones went past me so
fast that I didn’t have no chance to make a collection. Then Gunga Din
got his four feet on to the terry-firma agin’ and started out.
He bowed his head, put it against that float and started for Buck’s
saloon front. I seen Magpie’s head come up from among the wreckage and
he starts hammerin’ Gunga Din over the head with a piece of two-by-four,
but he might as well ’a’ kissed him, for all the good it done.