“Pettingill, it is fortunate that you spoke, as I was about to pistol
you.”
“Middleton!” I gasped. “You here in this tree?”
“Yes. I could find no other. I—I thought perhaps you—that perhaps that
sheep had came back; don’t you see?”
“Sheep? Sheep do not climb trees, Middleton.”
“Well, I am glad to know there is some one thing that it could not do.
I would readily believe it could climb, Pettingill.”
“How did you happen to pick this tree?” I asked.
“I claim no credit whatever, Pettingill. As the sheep came out of the
gate, one of them struck me very, very abruptly. I landed outside the
fence, where I tried to conceal myself, but it searched until it found
me, and each time I tried to get up it knocked me down. From there to
this tree was just a succession of hard knocks.”
“That is really too bad,” I replied. “I am physically imperfect
myself, Middleton. I think there is nothing more that could hurt me.
Have you a comfortable seat up there, Middleton?”
“Wouldn’t use it if I had!” he actually grunted at me. “Right at
present I am hanging over a bough like a carpet on a line. Pettingill,
I may never, never sit down again.”
* * * * *
We cheered each other as much as possible through the long night, and
were truly grateful when morning came. Looking at Middleton gave me a
faint idea of my own appearance. He had neither shirt nor hat, and the
upper part of his body was streaked with blood and dirt. His limbs
were so stiff he could hardly walk, and mine were little better.
I still retained my hat, although the crown would open and shut in the
breeze. We wished for the coats we had left at our camp. Then we
walked in what might be the right direction, and suddenly came to a
road. Not a well traveled thoroughfare, it is true, but at least a
roadway. Along this we limped for a while, when we heard the creaking
of a wagon behind us.
“Just suppose there should be some ladies aboard,” suggested
Middleton, and we hastily crouched down beside some bushes.
When the equipage was almost up to us we saw that the team was being
driven by a man, and that there were no ladies. We would ask for a
ride. We stepped into the road and threw up our hands, signaling him
to stop. The driver was smoking his pipe, but as the team halted he
opened his mouth, letting the pipe fall to the ground.
Then he sprang to the ground, grasped his hat in his hand, and ran
back down the road as fast as possible. His limbs were very badly
bowed.
“What a ridiculous thing to do!” exclaimed Middleton. “Abandon his
equipage in this manner before we have an opportunity to question him.
What will we do, Pettingill?”
“We will drive on. No doubt the team will take us some place. It is
reasonable to suppose that a road leads to something. I hope we will
eventually arrive at some place where a physician resides.”
We climbed in, and Middleton took charge of the lines. It was much
better than walking, although neither of us could occupy the seat. All
went well until we came to a steep hill, where the horses seemed
unable to check the speed of the wagon. I spoke sharply to Middleton
about our speed, and he rudely replied:
“Oh, go to ——! If you’re going to be a shepherd, be a regular one—dang
it!” I fear that Middleton would soon acquire a profane vocabulary.
Somehow we seemed to lose the road. I spoke to Middleton about it,
thinking he did not know, and he shouted in my ear—
“Go get it if you want it—you danged pelican!”
I pondered over his apparent rudeness, and the next instant the team
seemed to be taking us straight over a sharp pitch, the wagon swaying
sharply as it crashed over rocks and brush. I caught a glimpse of the
bottom of another abandoned water-course, and then, with a lurching
crash, I was hurled into oblivion.
* * * * *
I dreamed of lying under a plashing fountain, and as I opened my eyes
I looked up at Dirty Shirt, who was pouring water into my face from
his large hat. I heard Ike’s voice say:
“This old pelican ain’t dead, Dirty. He just spat out another tooth.”
“Say, professor, when did you take a job driving a sheep-wagon?” asked
Dirty Shirt.
“Middleton was driving,” I whispered. My voice was strangely weak.
“Well—” Dirty Shirt scratched his head and peered across the
hills—“well, as a driver he’s got more intestines than judgment. He
sure is the short-cut kid.”
After a while Middleton sat up and essayed a grin. Several of his
front teeth were missing, which gave him a leering look. The wagon had
smashed to kindling-wood, but they told us that the team escaped
serious injury. Dirty Shirt and Ike told us to take it easy while they
rounded up the team, which we tried to do.
My gun was in the wreckage, but beyond a deep dent in the barrel it
was in very good shape. There were still four cartridges in it, and I
managed to manipulate one into the firing-chamber. It is well to be
prepared.
Middleton had acquired a pronounced lisp, caused, no doubt, by the
missing teeth. Suddenly we saw a man on horseback coming down toward
us. Ordinarily I would have paid little heed to him, but we were
becoming chary of strangers. I stood up and threw my gun to my
shoulder.
“What in —— is the idea?” he asked, halting. “Put down that gun!”
“Thoot him!” lisped Middleton. “Thoot him if he cometh too cloth.”
“Have a little sense and put down that gun,” said the man.
“Don’t let him ditharm your thuth-pithions,” warned Middleton.
“Go back!” he ordered. “You are in danger.”
“——’s delight!” he exclaimed. “There must ’a’ been a break in the
loco-lodge.”
And we watched him ride back to the top of the hill.
“Nithe generalthip,” applauded Middleton. “Look—thomebody elthe.”
Another rider had joined him, and they both came riding down to us.
“I shall be compelled to fire upon you if you come too close,” I
warned them.
“Thoot —— out of them if they monkey with uth,” said Middleton.
The new one was very tall and grim-looking, with long mustaches and a
very large hat. He appeared to uncoil a long rope, and then showed his
teeth in a snarling grin.
“Going to shoot that thing, _hombre_?” he asked, and I nodded
emphatically.
“You know best,” he answered. “Get all set, ’cause I’m coming to get
you!”
He spurred his horse forward and sidewise, and just then I fired. I
felt that I had wasted the shot, for I pointed where he had been. A
terrific force seemed to crash into me, my lungs filled with smoke,
and somewhere in my consciousness I seemed to hear a deafening
explosion. Then I seemed to feel myself bouncing and sliding over the
ground, only to stop with a grinding shock.
A still, small voice within me seemed to say:
“Pettingill, your sands of time are running low. A human being can
stand only so much, and you’ve had your share.”
And then I came back to life. I heard voices, far, far away, and some
one laughed. The laugh grated upon my nerves; it was as if some one
had laughed aloud at a funeral.
“The barrel was dented two-thirds through and bent bad,” stated a
voice. “Wonder it didn’t blow his fool head off instead of kicking ——
out of him.”
Then I sat up and looked around. I was propped against a rock. Around
my chest and over my arms is a tightly pulled rope, and the other end
of the rope is fastened to the front end of a saddle on a horse. Two
men are standing near me, examining the remains of my shotgun.
Middleton is sitting near me, his hands and feet roped, and as I
looked at him he vulgarly spat out through where a tooth had been, and
winked at me. The two turned, and I saw upon the bosom of the taller
one the badge of a police officer.
“I didn’t think that Olaf had brains enough to go crazy,” said the
other.
“Got to have some brains to start on, I reckon.”
“Never can tell,” nodded the tall one. “They caught him trying to put
dynamite in the stove. He said he was going to blow up the law. Funny
thing about it; somebody had filled his pants with bird-shot.”
Just then we were interrupted by the coming of Ike and Dirty Shirt,
leading the runaway horses. They stared at the strangers.
“Holy henhawks!” exclaimed Dirty. “They’ve roped our shepherds!”
“Uh-huh,” nodded the tall one. “You might say a few words, Dirty.”
“Hello, Adams,” nodded Dirty to the other one. “Meet Professors
Pettingill and Middleton. Gents, this person is Alcohol Adams. The
tall one is Magpie Simpkins, the sheriff of Yaller Rock County. He’s
just as bad as he looks. Magpie, what you got ropes on them pelicans
for? They ain’t done nothing.”
“Well, talk a little, can’t you?” asked the Magpie person.
“Well—” Dirty Shirt rolled a smoke—“we tried our dangedest to fulfil
our deputation, Magpie. These scientific pelicans pilgrim along, and
we take ’em in. _Sabe?_ They wants to know from personal experience
whether it’s sheep or just general wear and tear that puts a shepherd
into that mental condition known as crazy.
“They’ve had a hard time, gents. They sure have herded in the
interests of science. We’ve all had a hard time, Magpie, and I’m off
sheep forever. If Scenery Sims and Alphabetical Allen wants them sheep
rounded up, they’ll have to do it themselves. _Sabe?_ Law or no law,
we’re all done.”
“So?”
The sheriff scratched his long nose, and began a silent laugh that
shook his gaunt frame.
“Haw! Haw! Haw! You poor, locoed snake-hunters! Listen: I didn’t no
more than get started for Piperock when I meets Scenery and Alphy.
They’ve done patched up their differences. We went over to notify you,
but you never showed up. I’ve been looking for you.”
“Haw!” replied Dirty Shirt vacantly.
“You—uh— Say, who in —— owns the sheep we’ve been dry-nursing,
Magpie?”
“I do,” said Mr. Adams. “I had a Swede out here, but he went loco, I
reckon, and tried to dynamite Scenery’s camp, and——”
* * * * *
Ike stepped over and took the ropes off Middleton and myself.
“I met the driver of my grub-wagon,” said Mr. Adams. “He had been
drinking too much lately, I reckon. Said he was held up by twin
devils, and that from now on he’s through with booze or sheep.”
We went down the hill, where Middleton and I recovered our coats.
Dirty Shirt and Ike caught our mules and put on the packs. Then they
gave us each a rope to lead with.
“The road over there will take you to Silver Bend,” explained Ike.
We thanked him heartily, and then shook hands with them all.
“I hope you gents got the information you desired,” said Magpie.
“Nothing like personal experience.”
“Yeth, we got it,” lisped Middleton. “We tholved it.”
“I hope you didn’t jump at it suddenlike,” grinned Magpie.
“No, thir. Not thudden.”
“I reckon it’s a mistake to say that all shepherds are crazy,”
observed Magpie. “Cow-men use that expression more because they hate
sheep than because the shepherd is loco. They figure that any man is
crazy who would herd sheep. _Sabe?_
“What is your scientific opinion, gents? Do you think they’re crazy?”