Chuck slid gently to the floor and sets there, wiggling his ears, while
Muley grabs the post of a bunk and wipes away his tears. Telescope sets
up, tears up that letter and then tries to scratch a cigaret on his boot
while he puffs on a match.
“My ——!” gasps Chuck. “His firstborn! Lowing kine and——”
“You lied to me!” squeaks Muley. “You said you was sing-g-g-g-ul!”
“Liar!” I hisses. “You betrayed our trust, Valiant. You built without
telling us. And we tr-r-r-r-usted you!”
“Oh-h-h-h, —— the whole bunch of you!” wails Telescope.
“Hear him?” yelps Muley. “He curses us. You long, hungry, prevaricating
son-of-a-prairie-dog, ain’t it enough for you to deceive us without
adding profanity to your many crimes? You he-vampire!”
Muley swallers hard, shakes his fist at Telescope and recites:
“You made me love you like the coyote loves a sheep.
You told me that you loved no one but me.
You kissed me in the moonlight on the ri-i-i-ver,
You asked me for my heart and hand to keep.
“You lied to me; you said you’d wed me soon.
You had a wife and kid and lowing kine.
You broke your cinch with me—take back the ring;
I hate you like the coyote hates the moon.”
Chuck fumbles in his pocket and produces the little bronze emblem.
“Take it, James Valiant. For lo, these many moons have I been the prize
liar of Yaller Rock County, and defeat cankers my soul. It irks me sore,
but I recognizes a peer. Be good to the little bull.”
Chuck flaps his arms weary-like and sets down.
Just then Jay Bird comes up to the door.
“Say, you alleged cow-hands, can you mismanage this place for a while?
I’ve got to go over to Billings.”
He looks us over.
“What’s the matter with the human rake-handle? Sick?”
“Yeah,” nods Telescope. “Sick.”
“Sure we can run the place,” admits Muley.
“You can run it,” says Jay Bird. “Anybody can run it; but I wants to
feel that I’ll at least have a branding-iron left when I come back.”
“I’ll hide one where nobody can find it,” grins Muley.
“You might get busy on that new corral fence while I’m gone.”
“We might,” nods Chuck, “but chances are we won’t.”
“Well, anyway, you fellers are honest about it. See yuh later.”
“Honest?” says Chuck after Jay Bird leaves. “Eh, Telescope?”
“I didn’t think it of you, Telescope,” says Muley sad-like. “You sure——”
“Let him tell it,” says I. “He’s dying to get a load off his chest.”
“Well,” says Telescope, “I never amounted to anything in Kentucky——”
“Why designate any certain locality?” asks Muley.
“Wait,” says Chuck. “Hen, you get your banjo and play something soft and
low. We gotta do this right.”
“Shut up!” howls Telescope. “Dang it all, I can’t tell nothing unless
you act right. Make Chuck quit wiggling his ears. Now. My folks died
when they was young. No, I died when they——”
“Now quit lying,” advises Chuck. “You’ve hit a —— of a gait, Telescope,
but no use busting all records.”
“Well, blast it, my folks died when I was young; so I sort of hooks up
with relatives. They said I was the black sheep of the Tollivers. They
told me I was no good and that I’d land in the pen. They——”
“They was able to peek into the future all right,” says I.
“Then I dug out. _Sabe?_ I figured that some day I’d show ’em all up. I
was going to hook a big pot some day and go back there, but seems like
any time I got into a big pot I had three clubs and a pair of spades.
“They sort of gets to writing to me; so I decides that I’ll string ’em
by mail. Maybe I went too strong. I told ’em about getting me this
cow-ranch, and they said I ought to get married.
“Next time I wrote I added marriage. Little later on they gets to
talking about kiddies; so I adds a kid. Could ’a’ got a kangaroo or a
elephant just as easy, but they didn’t suggest it.”
“And they’re coming out to see everything,” says Chuck.
“Oh-h-h-h-h-h, ——, yes!”
“Thy sins have found thee out,” pronounces Muley.
“My relatives will, too,” groans Telescope. “I’m going to pack my
war-sack and hit the trail.”
“How old was you when you left there?” asks Chuck.
“Thirteen or fourteen, I reckon.”
“Look like you do now?”
“Naw. Everybody said I was going to be a runt. Pshaw, they’d never know
me now, but that don’t make me no never mind. All they’ve got to do is
ask questions.”
“They got any money?”
“Gobs of it. Old man owned one of the biggest distilleries in the State.
Yuh see, I figures that if I’m a success I’ll get a cut of that roll
some day—that’s why I write to ’em. But now—blooey! I’m going.”
“Say not so, James,” grins Chuck. “You can lie, but you ain’t got no
imagination. Let me handle this, will you? Hen, are you and Muley
willing to help?”
“I ain’t going to impede you none,” says I, and Muley nods.
“Whatcha aiming to do, Chuck?” asks Telescope.
“Make your lie look like Gospel. Trouble with you ordinary liars, you
don’t see ahead. You don’t hear me contradicting myself, do yuh? I’m a
able liar—which is a rare bird, and helpful in times like these.”
“I ain’t got no ranch,” objects Telescope.
“I have,” grins Chuck, “while the old man is away. I’m James Valiant
Tolliver, a runt what never growed up. I don’t know what in —— them
lowing kine are, but I’ll get some if there’s any laying around loose.”
Chuck beats it for the corral, and the rest of us sets there.
“He—he said he was me, and—and—” stammers Telescope.
“He will be,” admits Muley. “That hump-nosed truth-juggler is wound up
again, and if I was you I’d——”
“What?”
“Hide that little bronze bull, Telescope—if you want to keep it.”
* * * * *
A little later we wanders up to the ranch-house and watches Chuck fog
off down the road.
“I didn’t figure they’d want to come plumb up here,” wails Telescope.
“That kid must ’a’ caused it all. They didn’t whoop when I told ’em
about the ranch, and they didn’t blow off no roofs when I told ’em I was
married, but when they hears about that kid—whoo-o-o-ee!”
“I never did see a poor liar that had any nerve,” says I. “They always
weaken.”
“Weaken! Who wouldn’t? I had a chance to cut in on the family roll, and
now I’ll get nothing but abuse.”
“Well,” says Muley, “you do deserve scolding, Telescope.”
Chuck came home that night and busts right into the bunk-house just as
I’m cutting a jack off the bottom to win six bits, and spoils the whole
scheme. I only needed one point to win, and I had that cinched.
“Got her all fixed,” says he, grinning. “All hunky-dory. Telescope, you
can hang around and count your inheritance.”
“You might tell a feller—” begins Telescope.
“Nothing,” declares Chuck. “You kicked a hole in the boat, and it was up
to me to mend it before you got swamped. You took the honors away from
me, tall cowboy, but I’m right on your trail.”
Chuck pikes up toward the house with Telescope following behind like a
hound pup, hankering for a bone of information. Me and Muley went down
to the corral, where we puts in our spare time trying to induce a bad
bronc to get used to a saddle.
We’re enjoying the spectacle when we happens to glance up and see “Old
Testament” Tilton climbing the fence. He’s got on his Sunday clothes and
is packing a boiled collar in his hand so it won’t get dirty. We desists
in our labors and climbs up to him.
“Howdy, Henry. Howdy, Lemuel,” says he. “Sort of ungodly and wicked
animile you’re fussin’ with, eh? Broncs are like men’s souls thataway.
They r’ars and tears against religion somethin’ scandalous but once you
gets ’em used to packing a load of Gospel, and bridlewise to
Christianity, they’re plumb docile for life.”
“Reckon you’re fairly well saddle-marked thataway, Testament,” observes
Muley.
“I dunno. Sometimes I reckon I’m the top-riding sinner of the outfit,
Lemuel, and again I gets danged awful meek and lowly. I plays the system
the best I can and coppers no bets. Where’s Chuck?”
“Up at the house, I reckon.”
“Primpin’ up a little, eh?” grins the old sky-pilot. “Well, it only
comes once in a man’s life, unless he gits him a de-vorce. Glad I’m able
to be of assistance.”
He slides off the fence and weaves toward the house while me and Muley
sets there and stares at each other.
“Unless he gets a de-vorce,” says Muley foolish-like. “What in thunder
does he mean, Hen?”
“I ain’t no wee-gee board. How do you expect me to know? Anyway I’m
follering a hunch that Chuck has lied again.”
“Yet,” corrects Muley, “just the same I’m going to go up there. I can
look on, even if I don’t feel like asking questions. Come on.”
We finds Old Testament setting on the porch, and in the old man’s
rocker, filling it plumb full, is Hulda Hansen, the Triangle outfit’s
Swede cook. If you ever hear anybody speak of a “shapeless mass”—that’s
Hulda.
She blushes when we walk up.
“Hello, Hulda,” says Muley. “How’s all your folks?”
“Ay got von brudder over on de Vagon Veel o-outfit, and Ay got von onkle
vich is dead, t’ank you.”
“You’re welcome. Did he die easy?”
“He vors powder-monkey on railroat, unt—unt smoked his pipe.”
“Nothing easier,” admits Muley, and just then Chuck and Telescope comes
through the house and out on to the porch.
“Howdy, boys,” says Old Testament, shaking hands with Chuck. “Miss
Hansen didn’t seem to _sabe_ just when this was to be pulled off; so she
asks me to come up here with her.”
“Huh?” gasps Chuck, wiggling his ears. “Whatcha say?”
“Your marriage to Miss Hansen,” says Testament. “She told me——”
“Lucky dog,” says I, shaking hands with Chuck. “You sure——”
“Thank—aw, go to ——!”
Chuck yanks his hand away and grabs for his collar. Telescope starts to
set down on the top step, but catches his heel and lit half-way down.
Chuck gulps and stares at Hulda.
“Say something, Testament,” gasps Chuck. “I—I don’t think I heard you
the first time.”
“Ay coom oop to ved mit you,” explains Hulda, and you could ’a’ lit a
match on her ears. “You say, ‘Hoolda, Ay vish you to be my vife,’ unt Ay
say to you——”
“O-o-o-o-o-oh, mamma mine!” wails Chuck. “Who-o-o-o-o-o-a! Come in the
house a minute while I talk to you.”
She yanks loose from that chair after Muley put his foot on the rocker,
and the rest of us sets there and stares at nothing.
“Has Chuck been settin’ up with her much?” asks Testament.
“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ow!” comes a shriek from the house. “Whoopee!”
Smash! Crash! Bang!
* * * * *
Hulda Hansen comes out of the front door with her hat down over one eye
and the lone feather sticking straight up and half of Chuck’s vest in
her hand. She snorts at us, climbs a barb-wire fence, the same of which
takes toll from her skirt, and goes off across the field, talking
Swedish to herself and waving that piece of a vest like it was a flag of
victory.
We watches her fade out of the picture and then we turns to the door,
where Chuck is down on his hands and knees, peering around the corner.
He’s got a red scratch down the length of his nose, and around his neck
is the frame that once held a picture of Dewey at Manila. He looks up at
us like a bashful pup, and backs out of the frame.
“Ha—has she gone?” he asks.
Muley nods, and Chuck looks cross-eyed at his scratched nose.
“From what I’ve done observed,” remarks Testament, “I’d opine that there
ain’t no pressing need of a marriage service around her.”
“For a preacher,” says Muley, “you has a lot of perception.”
Testament wanders down to his buckboard and drives homeward.
“It don’t pay to lie,” says Muley, easing himself into the rocker. “Naw,
sir, it sure don’t. I knowed a feller once——”
“Aw, I didn’t lie to her!” wails Chuck. “I explained to her that I
wanted her to be my wife for a week. She acted like she knowed what I
was driving at—dang her, but I reckon she never got anything but the
proposal.
“When I took her back into the house I tries to explain the joke to her,
but she—she——”
“Broke down and cried?” asks Muley.
“Yeah! Oh, yeah, like ——! She grabbed me and slammed me so hard against
the wall that a picture fell down, and then she framed me with it.”
“She’d make a durable wife for somebody,” nods Telescope.
“Wife!” snorts Chuck. “She’d make a body-guard for the Regular Army.”
“Shucks, I reckon I’ll pack my war-sack and drift,” says Telescope.
“Set down!” howls Chuck. “One swaller don’t make a Summer.”
“Whatcha want to annex a wife like Hulda for?” asks Telescope. “Can’t
yuh pick a good-looker to hang the name of Tolliver on to?”
“Don’t be finicky, cowboy,” says Chuck. “Here comes Ricky Henderson.
Maybe he’s got an idea.”
“Maybe,” admits Telescope. “Maybe he’s just found out about your putting
emery-dust in that sheepherder’s whiskers. It plumb ruined every razor
Ricky owned; and he swears he’ll kill the man who put the kerosene in
his bay-rum bottle.”
“I’m a little messenger boy,” grins Ricky, hunting through his pockets.
“Gotta telegram for James Valiant Tolliver. Me and the agent reads it,
and then opines it must be for Telescope. You got any relation what is
liable to visit yuh, Telescope?”
Ricky hunts through some more pockets and shakes his head.
“Had the darned thing when I started. Must ’a’ lost it. Anyway it said
something about arriving Saturday morning, and it was signed
by—uh—uh—lemme, see——”
“A-a-alicia?” mutters Telescope.
“That’s it. Alicia. Been looking for ’em, tall-feller?”
Telescope stares at Ricky foolish-like, and Ricky nods, “Honest to
grandma, Telescope,” and then he turns to us.
“What’s the joke?”
Telescope starts for the bunk-house, waving his arms and talking to
himself, while Ricky sets there on his bronc and grins. Muley tells him
all about it, and Ricky is as pleased as a pup with a bone.
Ricky is a little dark feller who cuts hair for a living. He’s one of
them smooth-fingered _hombres_ who keeps his hair greased until she
looks like patent leather, and a joke on somebody else is meat and drink
to his soul.
He listens to the whole tale and then hugs himself.
“I’ve got the idea,” says he. “You never can get a female to play the
part, but I know a male what can.”
“Meaning which?” asks Muley.
“Ever see yours truly impersonate a female?”
“Good night!” yelps Muley. “Fare-thee-well, Molly darling.”
“Think I can’t do it? You watch my smoke, feller. I’ve got a yaller wig
which was part and parcel of a defunct opery troupe, and if I can get me
some female clothes—mamma mine! Get your bronc, Chuck.”
Them two schemers rides away while me and Muley sets there and listens
to the suffering of Telescope Tolliver.
“Cod-liver oil and axle-grease properly mixed will cure any ills that
mankind is heir to,” orates Muley, “but it takes experience, bitter
experience, to cure a liar. A feller can pack his gun handy and lie
about his friends, but any old time he lies about himself——”
“Shut up!” howls Telescope. “Ain’tcha got no feelings?”
“Feel of me,” grins Muley. “Wait until you see Chuck impersonating you,
and Ricky, wearing a yaller wig, impersonating your female wife;
you’ll——”
“My ——!”
Telescope looks at us wide-eyed.
“Ricky—going—to—be—my—wife?”
“In name only,” says Muley. “You’ve got to have some wife, ain’t you?”
Telescope groans and settles back. Muley squints at him, and recites:
“A liar there was and he told a lie,
Even as you and I;
The biggest lie you most ever saw;
It gave him a wife and made him a paw;
Now he weeps and wails and rubs his jaw,
And wonders and wonders why.”
“Muley,” says Telescope soft-like, “I’m going to kill you—some day.”
“Hear him, Hen?” sobs Muley. “Ain’t he the awful example? Going to add
murder to his other crimes, eh? Liar, horsethief, card-sharp, tenor
singer, and now—murderer!”
A feller ain’t always to blame for poor marksmanship, especially when
he’s laying down, but that didn’t excuse Telescope. I was on the
opposite side of the room from Muley, and Telescope never can make me
believe that the boot-jack slipped out of his hand.
I dreamed that a little feller with a peaked cap and a long nose comes
along packing a lantern. He shuffles up to me, peers into my face and
shakes his head sad-like.
“Who you looking for?” I asks.