by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Playing Safe in Piperock,” “Assisting Ananias,” etc.
“It’s an art, like playing a jew’s-harp, turning a jack in a seven-up
game or changing a Bar D brand to a Triangle P,” explains “Chuck”
Warner. “You and George Washington runs a dead heat, ‘Telescope.’ It’s
natural that he beats you out, ’cause in his time the world was very
young and the sheriffs were few and far between.
“You don’t need go kiootin’ around about your honesty. You’ve got to be
good, ’cause you ain’t got the ability to lie. _Sabe?_ Honest to gosh,
tall-feller, you’ll never have nothing in this vale of tears.
“You ain’t got no imagination like me and Henry and ‘Muley.’ We can hang
the Injun sign on you any old time, ’cause you trusts humanity.”
“I’ve got a conscience,” states Telescope, looking up from a
three-months-old magazine. “I can sleep nights. _Sabe?_ Even at that I
have lied—some.”
“Sure—and got caught at it,” grins Chuck. “Your mouth gets so dry you
can’t spit.”
“Honesty is the best policy,” argues Telescope.
“Uh-huh—sure,” snorts Chuck. “Teacher used to keep me in after school
and make me write it a hundred times. She looks good in print, but as a
working policy she don’t assay a trace. Man has got to lie.
“Why, Telescope, a feller even lies with his face when he plays poker.
You look like three aces when you’ve got a bob-tail, and then you
expresses a bob-tail when you’ve got three aces. Sure it’s a art.”
“I hate a liar,” declares Telescope. “Hate ’em like ——!”
“All right, cowboy,” grins Chuck; “go to it. Pick yourself a high hill
and just set there and hate mostly everybody what amounts to anything or
has amounted to anything since the Old Testament was revised by the
stone-cutters.
“Everybody is entitled to their own ideas, but don’t chide us because we
appreciate our art to the extent that we inaugurates an emblem of
superiority. She ain’t gaudy but she’s neat and expressive.”
Chuck holds up a little bronze figure which a storekeeper in Paradise
gets with a supply of cigaret tobacco, and lets the sun glisten on its
horns.
“I swear,” says Chuck solemn-like, “to defend thee with my honor.”
Telescope snorts and goes on reading. Such is art appreciated. I don’t
chide Telescope Tolliver, ’cause I think it’s all right to have one
honest man among us. I don’t figure none on winning that emblem, ’cause
I don’t think there’s a man living who can beat Chuck at the
prevaricating pastime, but as old “Hip Shot” used to say—
“Knowledge is a powerful good thing, but there never was a man wise
enough to know which way a dill pickle is going to squirt.”
“Oh-h-h-h-h-h-h!” wailed Telescope. “Oh-h-h-h-h-h, ——!”
Then he sets down on the sidewalk so hard that his bronc pulled back and
broke a perfectly good head-stall. Telescope sets there paying no
attention to anything while me and Chuck herds that fool bronc into a
corner.
Muley leans against a porch post and wastes several cigaret-papers
trying to roll one one-handed while we ties up that bronc, and then we
all sets down with the suffering Telescope.
“Taking the exclamation into due consideration and observing the extreme
pallor of the patient, I’d say he’s been affected by mail,” observes
Chuck.
Telescope licks his lips and takes a deep breath.
“Somebody died?” asks Muley, fussing with a cigaret-paper. “Dang it all,
I wish I knowed how to roll ’em one-handed. ’Pears that she’s a cowboy
accomplishment, but I can’t do it.”
“You ain’t no cowboy,” says I. “You’re too young, Muley. Remember you’ve
only been punching cows for twelve years. Forty years from now you’ll be
able to keep your rope from tangling, and if your thumbs don’t wear out
you’ll be able to roll a cigaret—two-handed.”
“Where does it hurt yuh, Telescope?” asks Chuck. “Tell yo’ li’l buddie.”
“Gas on his stummick,” declares Muley, opening a fresh package. “Turn
him across your lap and pat him over the kidneys. Don’t jiggle him on
your lap, ’cause that causes colic.”
“Better take him over to Doc Milliken, I reckon,” grins Chuck. “He acts
like a calf what had absorbed too much green clover. He’s got awful
pains, Muley.
“Look at that face, wouldja? Nobody ever gets a expression like that
unless they’re one whoop from a graveyard.”
“A-h-h-h-h-h——!” groans Telescope.
“It talks!” whoops Chuck. “By grab, I know just how Edison felt when he
cut loose his first phonygraft record. Speak again, Horatio.”
“Sing for us,” pleads Chuck. “You’re be-yu-tiful when you sing,
Clementine.”
Telescope jams that letter down in his chaps pocket and walks across the
street to a saloon.
“Something has went crosswise with our first tenor,” says Muley. “Did
any of you see that envelope?”
“I think it was from Kentucky,” says I.
“Ah!” grunts Chuck. “That clears up the mystery. Somebody has died and
left him a million. He hates money.”
“Just like I do my two legs,” says Muley. “Betcha four bits he’s over
there buying a drink for himself. Henry, did you notice what town in
Kentucky it was from?”
“I said I thought it was from Kentucky.”
“Oh—you thought so, eh? You didn’t see the letter?”
“Do you know if he got a letter, Muley?”
“Chuck,” says Muley, “some day I’m going to kill Henry Peck.”
“That’s a good thought,” admits Chuck. “You do think of the cutest
things to do, Muley. Call me in time to hear his last words, will yuh?”
* * * * *
Telescope Tolliver says that he’s from Kentucky. According to our code
of honor a feller has a right to any birthplace he wants, as long as it
don’t conflict with anybody else’s.
Chuck Warner never remembers where he was born the last time. If anybody
says, “I was born in California,” Chuck wiggles his ears and says, “So
was I.”
Maine, Michigan or Mexico is all the same to Chuck. Telescope brags that
his relations are all rich—so does Chuck. Telescope claims that he’s
coming into a fortune some day; Chuck claims he went through one.
Me and Muley sets on Chuck’s wish-bone one day to try and make him admit
that he lied about going through that fortune, but he wouldn’t admit
that he lied. Swore he went through the Bunker Hill and Sullivan mine,
and if that wasn’t a fortune—what was it?
Chuck is an undersized puncher with a Roman-nosed face and such perfect
control of his ear-muscles that we all believe in the transmigration of
souls—of jassacks.
Muley Bowles is f-a-t. He’s about three ax-handles across, writes
poetry, tries to sing and cusses in a high-pitched voice.
I’m a twig on the Peck tree. My folks handed me Henry Clay along with a
good set of brains, and I eventually growed up to be one of the best
cow-hands on earth.
The four of us work for “Jay Bird” Whittaker, who owns the Cross J. He’d
likely object to my statement regarding “work,” but you can’t expect too
much from four talented hired hands. He can cuss for five minutes and
never say the same thing twice and hates women almost as bad as he does
sheep.
Now that I’ve written a description which would be worth money to any
sheriff, I will proceed with this woful tale.
Telescope came out of that palace of vice and drifted homeward. We also
drifted homeward and finds him setting on a bunk, looking like he’d lost
his last friend. So far as we know, Telescope ain’t got no best friend.
When it comes to telling about his family and past history, Telescope
Tolliver is some futurist. At times he brags a heap about Kentucky and
admits he was born there, but nobody on the ranges of Yaller Rock County
ever heard him say anything about his family history.
We surrounds him, pounces upon him from three sides and then sets upon
his carcass while we secures that letter. Muley reads her out loud:
“Mister James Valiant Tolliver, Cross J ranch, Montana.”
“My hero!” squeaks Chuck. “Go ahead with the disclosure, Muley.”
“Ouch!” yelps Muley. “You hold the top end of the critter, Chuck—he bit
me!”
“Aw-w-w-w, hurry up before you gets hydrophoby.”