The sticks of wood over the kindling caught my eye. I removed one as I
touched the match. One must betray ignorance to acquire knowledge, so
I carried one out to them.
“Pardon me,” said I, “but is this some new preparation to combat the
scarcity of fuel?”
Dirty Shirt glanced at the stick, then at the smoke coming out of the
small stovepipe, and then he and Ike grasped their hats in their hands
and dashed away. It really was ludicrous.
“Come on, you —— fools!” cried Ike without stopping to explain.
“What an amazing thing to do!” exclaimed Middleton. “Why in the world
are they——”
It is of course ridiculous to say that the world came to an end before
Middleton’s question had been propounded, but that is what seemed to
happen. The earth seemed to vomit dust, flame and smoke, and I seemed
to feel myself being carried away. Ages later I awoke. I turned my
head, and then said to myself—
“Pettingill, you have been knocked topsy-turvy.”
I really had. I seemed to be trying to stand on my head in wet clay,
although in reality I found that I was reclining, head down, on the
side of a bank of what might be termed an abandoned water-course.
Modesty forbids that I tell what clothing is missing from my person. I
managed to regain my natural poise, and turned sufficiently to allow
my feet to slide down.
Near me is a section of the tent containing the red-flannel patch, and
as I take stock of my surroundings that patch seemed to loosen, and
from out through the aperture emerges the head of Professor Middleton.
“My dear fellow, are you all right?” I asked.
He looked at me in a dazed sort of a way, and then spat out—along with
a mouthful of clay:
“Go to ——! What do you think this is—a ladies’ cemetery?”
I could readily see that he was speaking from his subconscious mind,
quoting from Dirty Shirt’s reply to me. He got to his feet, not
without visible effort, and we both looked at Dirty Shirt and Ike.
Their gaze seemed inquiring, but I was as much at sea as they.
“We are still alive, as you may see,” I volunteered.
“Takes a lot of dynamite to kill a shepherd,” nodded Dirty.
“Dynamite?” asked Middleton. “A powerful explosive?”
“Concentrated ——,” nodded Dirty.
“Regular old bustem quick. Some son-of-a-goat loaded the stove on us.
Must ’a’ been several sticks.”
“Five, I believe,” I replied. “Here is the sixth.”
I opened my hand and showed them a mass of what appeared to be fine
sawdust and grease.
“My ——!” cried Dirty, not profanely.
“The old dictionary-digger choked that stick to a mush! Don’t drop
it!”
* * * * *
His order came too late. I suddenly realized what I was doing—what I
had in my hands—and I cast it down as a deadly thing. Dirty and Ike
seemed to sigh with relief, and then Dirty said:
“Lord, I ain’t got much religion. I don’t _sabe_ nothing about Jonah
and the Ark, but I sure hands up thanks to whoever is to blame for
blocking the trigger of that thing. Amen.”
“Have you any special creed or religious affiliations?” asked
Middleton.
“No.” Dirty Shirt shook his head. “Not yet, but if you two are going
to hang around this range for any length of time, I’m going to join
something—that’s a dead cinch.”
“There was a cap in that stick, Dirty,” said Ike. “Wonder it didn’t
go.”
“Uh-huh,” grunted Dirty. “There’s something that protects drunks and
idiots, Ike.”
“Yes, Dirty, you’re right. Even them danged burros was removed far
enough away to be safe. Drunks, idiots and jassacks—all under
protection.”
He certainly was not referring to Middleton or myself, as neither of
us ever touches liquor in any form.
Later on I insisted on knowing the probable destination of the sheep.
“Over in Sandy’s corral,” said Dirty Shirt. “Everything is grist that
comes to his mill. He’ll demand payment for the range he thinks the
sheep ate.”
“Oh, is he a miller?” asked Middleton. Dirty and Ike exchanged
glances, and Ike said—
“That’s what education does for a feller, Dirty.”
Education had little to do with it, as any one would know that no one
but a miller would have need of grist, and he spoke of “his mill.”
Dirty proved adept as a chef, and Middleton and myself enjoyed the
first real meal since we left the dining-car. When it grew dark Ike
kicked out the fire, leaving us in darkness. I remonstrated, but he
said:
“Build you one if you want it, old-timer, but remember this: Any
jasper who will load your stove won’t hesitate to shoot at night.”
We spread our blankets in the dark, and Ike and Dirty immediately fell
to sleep. The novelty of looking at the stars, and the noises of the
night kept Middleton and myself awake. I thought of the stolen sheep
and we conversed in whispers.
“The loss of so many sheep must be greater than they care to
acknowledge,” whispered Middleton. “They are like the American Indian
inasmuch as they are stoical under loss or punishment. It would be
wonderful if we could recover the sheep. I am beginning to like them,
Pettingill.”
We shook hands over it, procured our shotgun and pistol, and stole
away silently, except for the tinkle of Middleton’s spurs.
We crawled out of hearing, got our bearings from the stars and started
on our well-meant errand. We were going in single file along the side
of a hill on a tiny path, which showed white in the dim light, when
suddenly we were confronted by a gigantic figure.
It towered above us, a black hulk, coming at a fast walk. I tried to
avoid the impact, but slipped and fell right into the path of the
monster.
The next instant it fell over me and into Middleton. I retained my
shotgun. I had no way of knowing the fate of poor Middleton, but I ran
a short distance before I stopped.
I saw the silhouette of it against the sky and for the first time in
my life I fired a gun. The impact of the shot threw me into a
cactus-patch, and I feared for a time that it had crushed my lower
jaw. I managed to tear myself away from the clinging barbs, and stood
erect.
“Middleton!” I cried. “Professor Middleton!”
“Well, what in —— do you want!”
You can readily see that he was beginning to acquire the dialect of
our associates.
“I shot it!” I cried. “I shot it!”
“Pettingill—” his voice was a bit sarcastic—“I will always thank the
man who sold me these leather trousers. I didn’t get hit with more
than—let me see— Oh, I am unable to estimate.”
“Heavens! Did I hit you, Middleton?”
“Yes, you did—you—er—pelican!”
“What became of the monster?” I asked. “Did it say anything?”
“It spoke. It knocked me down, got to its feet and said, ‘Aye am de
ship-hoorder,’ and then it went on, Pettingill; it went on—with my
shirt in its hands. If you ever feel that you have to shoot again—hold
lower, old-timer.”
Then we went on. Middleton complained about the effects of the
shooting, while I suffered untold agonies from cactus spines and the
effects of that shotgun.
“We should soon be able to see the mill,” said Middleton, peering into
the night, “but all I can see is a huddle of low buildings. One is
larger than the rest, but none would be suitable for milling.”
We walked closer and closer. Finally a canine barked several times,
and a man came to the door of the larger house. Middleton and I
crouched down behind an old vehicle.
“Some more of those —— coyotes, I reckon,” said the man in the door.
“They smell the sheep.”
And then he shut the door.
“They do not mistrust us,” said I, “which simplifies things. No doubt
they will be enraged at the coyote in the morning.
Do you know what a —— coyote is, Middleton?”
“No, I do not, and perhaps it is just as well.”
Just then we heard the gentle lowing of a sheep. Perhaps it was the
call of one to its mate, and we knew we had come to the right place.
We crossed to a fence, inside of which we found the sheep.
The gate was locked, but Middleton immediately went to work to break
it with a rock. The noise he made seemed to irritate the canine again,
causing it to emit staccato barks.
“I fear that the dog will upset our plans, Pettingill,” said Middleton
as we heard the door open again.
“Not at all,” I reassured him. “We will use strategy. A coyote is a
young wolf, don’t you see? I will dissemble.”
I have never made a study of the cries and calls of wild animals, but
I did the best I could. Clearing my throat, I began a low-voiced
howling, such as one hears in the Zoo at feeding-time.
The dog only barked the louder, and then came voices.
* * * * *
“Coyote ——!” cried someone.
“That’s a banshee with bronchial trouble, Sandy.”