“Just wait until you see my wife.”
“James!” exclaims auntie. “Where is she?”
“She’s home. You see, she’s too delicate to bounce around in a wagon.”
They all rambles for the wagon, all talking at once, and I’m glad I
don’t have to answer any questions.
Telescope got lit up. I reckon the strain was too much; so he gets his
skin full of weeping-water. While we climbs into the wagon he comes out
of the Happy Days, lets out a war-whoop and tries to lean against a post
of the saloon porch.
That part of it was all right. A feller has a perfect right to lean
against a post if he wants to, and maybe it’s nobody’s business if the
post ain’t there—but it looks bad.
“How perfectly ridiculous!” exclaims Cousin Molly. “He’s so tall.”
“Sh-h-h-h-h-h!” cautions Chuck. “That’s ‘Hell-Fire’ Jones, the worst
horsethief unhung.”
“Oh, a real Western bad-man?”
“The worst,” nods Chuck. “Jesse James was an evangelist beside him. He
ain’t got no honor at all. Why, that _hombre_ will—uh—lie.”
“By gad, the law should deal with the likes of him,” says uncle.
“Law? Shucks, what can they do? He won’t admit any crimes. Get right up
on the witness stand and lie out of everything.”
Just then I happens to think of something. I kicks Chuck on the ankle.
“The baby!” I hisses in his ear.
“Oh, yes, I forgot about the baby,” says he foolish-like, out loud.
“The baby,” echoes auntie. “The——”
“Sus-some kid,” says Chuck. “Yessir, Clarence is some baby.”
“A boy baby?” asks uncle, and I kicks Chuck again.
“N-n-no,” stammers Chuck. “You see, it’s thisaway: We—uh—calls her
Clarence for short. _Sabe?_”
“Why?” asks auntie.
“You see,” says Chuck, staring over where Telescope is sitting on the
sidewalk, “my wife is crazy about boy babies. She ain’t a bit well, and
she wanted a boy baby so danged bad that we frames up on her, and names
it Clarence and so, you see, she don’t know——”
“Do you mean that your wife thinks it is a boy?” gasps auntie.
“Dog-gone it, we had to do something,” wails Chuck. “You see, she ain’t
just right in the head, and we thought we’d let her think——”
“Well,” says Cousin Molly, “I think it was awful good of you.”
“Thanks,” sighs Chuck. “I’m glad somebody appreciates it.”
“I feel sure that she must be a lovely girl, and it’s nice of you men to
see things in that light. Is she a little woman?”
“Yeah. Pretty as a picture. Got yaller hair. Doc Milliken has done all
he can, but you can’t expect much help from a horse-doctor.”
“She ought to have a long rest,” opines uncle.
“Uh-huh,” agrees Chuck. “That’s what the sheriff said.”
“Well,” says uncle, “I suppose we may as well proceed to the farm. I
feel sorry for you, James, and more sorry for your unfortunate wife, and
I wish you better luck in the selection of an offspring next time.”
“The idea!” snaps auntie. “He had nothing to do with it.”
“No,” says Chuck. “Gawd knows that’s the truth.”
They sure knows how to ask questions.
“Do you own all this country?” asks auntie, indicating everything from
the Canadian border to Wyoming.
“Uh-huh,” admits Chuck. “Going to fence it some of these days and see if
I can keep track of my lowing kine.”
“Lowing kine?” asks auntie, looking around. “Where are they?”
Chuck turns and wiggles his ears at me.
“Where are they, Henry?”
“Don’t pass the buck to me,” says I. “I ain’t got ’em.”
* * * * *
Just then we sees an Injun coming down the road. It’s old Two-Sleeps,
riding his pinto to a frazzle. He skids up in a cloud of dust, throws up
one skinny arm and yells:
“Hyah! _Tenas tsolo!_ Wah!” And away he goes, off down the road.
Chuck wiggles his ears at me and brushes some dust off his nose.
“What in the world did he say?” asks auntie.
“He said,” says Chuck, “he said that the Aparejo Indians were on the
war-path again.”
“Is he one of them?” asks uncle anxious-like.
“Him? Naw; he’s a Tapidero. Reckon we better get to the ranch.”
“Does it—it hurt to get scalped?” asks uncle as we bounce along.
“Not after you get used to it,” says I. “Very few people ever complain
about the pain.”
I didn’t quite _sabe_ what the Injun said, but it was something like
“small lost,” whatever that might be. We drove up to the front of the
ranch-house and begins unloading the plunder.
“You’ve a comfortable-looking home, James,” admits auntie.
“Uh-huh; I sure have. I spent a lot of—my——!”
I looks at the door and blinks my eyes three times, but it won’t go
away. There is Muley Bowles with a yaller wig on his fat head and one of
them polky-dot Mother Hubbard dresses on. In one fat hand he’s got a
peacock-feather fan.
Chuck’s knees wabble and he kneels right down at the foot of the steps
and looks up at her—him—like one of them pictures of a Buddha-worshiper.
I leaned on a wheel and slid flat on the ground, while the relation sure
got both eyes full. I’d tell a man that Muley is some female.
“Well!” gasps auntie, who beats us all out on vocal vitality.
“Is—is—this——”
“Uh-huh,” says Muley in a high voice. “It is.”
“By gad!” I hears uncle gasp. “If she’s frail——”
“So this is James’s wife,” says auntie awed-like, fanning herself with
her hand. “I—I—It must be the heat.”
“Well, anyway, we are glad to meet you,” says Cousin Molly, shaking
Muley’s hand. “James said that you——”
“Don’t mind him,” says Muley. “He’s the dangdest——”
“You folks better go inside,” says I. “It’s too hot here in the sun.”