by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Assisting Ananias,” “Evidently Not,” etc.
Chuck Warner never got drunk like a gentleman. As far as the
intoxication was concerned, I reckon he felt the effects the same as a
gentleman does, but what I mean is this: he always got into bad company.
Give Chuck a quart of hooch and he could find more horsethieves,
burglars, outlaws, et cettery in fifteen minutes than all the officers
in Montana could find in a whole term of office.
Me and “Muley” Bowles and “Telescope” Tolliver usually rode herd on him
when his ears begins to twitch, but sometimes he’d manage to wobble away
and find some reward-dodger to share his bottle and troubles.
Chuck was and is the biggest liar unhung, and just as soon as he gets
three drinks under his belt he hunts for some stranger to listen to him
prevaricate. Everybody believes Chuck—once. He’s got the eyes of a
saint, the ears of a jassack, and his conscience is plumb elusive.
Me and Telescope and Muley are riding down Paradise way, when we meets
Chuck and a stranger. We didn’t exactly meet ’em—we found ’em. They’re
setting in the dust in the middle of the road, and Chuck is trying to
teach the stranger to sing “Just Tell Them That You Saw Me.”
The stranger is sort of fat around the waist and collar, and has a
little stubby mustache. He’s got a derby hat, shoved down over his head
until it makes sails of his ears. They don’t even see us ride up.
“She goes like thish,” says Chuck, making up an awful face, “Jush
whisper if you get a chance to mo-o-o-ther de-e-ar and shay——”
“Thasall ri’,” says the feller. “You’ve tol’ me that sheven times. Is
tha’ all ’v it? How’s thish?” He twists his face all out of shape, and
lets out a few notes, but Chuck slaps him on top of his hard hat, and
begs him to desist.
“What’s the idea, Chuck?” asks Telescope, and Chuck squints up at us.
“The idea,” says Chuck, dignified-like, “is to get the tune and the
words to fit each other. I would I were a bird.”
“I would you were,” says Muley, “and then I would I had a shotgun. Get
out of that dust. You’re drunk.”
Chuck grins and puts his arms around his friend.
“Misser Brady, meet Muley Bowles. He’s inshultin’ us, Brady.”
“Wrong diagnoshis,” says Brady. “This is shock—induced pri—primar’ly by
havin’ horsh walk from under us.”
“Who is Brady?” asks Telescope.
“Take off your hat, Misser Brady,” says Chuck. Brady tries, but the hat
is anchored too tight.
“Never mind,” says Chuck. “Misser Brady’s a detective, ain’t yuh?
Remember Sherlock Holmes, Muley? He used to work for Misser Brady. Fact.
Used to carry Misser Brady’s spyglass. Wonnerful man. Oh, my! Nose like
bloodhound. Fact. Tell’m how you tracked grasshoppers across the ice,
Misser Brady. How many drinks did you have with me?”
“Fi’teen,” says Brady, after thinking a while.
“Wonnerful mem’ry,” applauds Chuck. “Want drink?”
“Um-m-m-m-m,” says Brady.
“Meanin’ ‘yesh’,” says Chuck. “Well educated. Speaks lots of languages,
such as United States, English, profane——”
“What’s he detectin’ around here?” asks Telescope.
“Sh-h-h-h,” cautions Chuck. “Never ask detective questions. I showed him
lot of cow tracks in the shand, but he didn’t know what they was, which
shows he ain’t cattle-detective. He’s from Chicago. I tol’ him I was
born there an——”
“You wasn’t born there, Chuck,” says Muley.
“He don’t know it. I don’t know for sure that he’s from Chicago; so I’ve
got as much right to lie as he has. Can you find our horsh, Muley?”
We did. It was some job getting ’em both on one horse, but we hoisted
them up, and took ’em back to Paradise.
Anyway, Chuck didn’t want to go to the Cross J ranch, because he heard
“Jay Bird” Whittaker say something about digging postholes for a new
corral. Chuck won’t dig. Neither will any of the rest of us, for that
matter. We missed Chuck and Brady right away, but we don’t care, as
Brady’s too drunk for Chuck’s lies to hurt him any.
Telescope Tolliver is a tall, tenor-singing puncher from the Lapover
country where Kentucky laps over into Tennessee. Seems that every
sheriff in every county in a straight line between here and that spot in
Kentucky runs sort of a relay race with Telescope, and he beat ’em all,
and hit Yaller Rock county when the sheriff was hiding out from the
Vigilance Committee. So he was safe.
Muley weighs two hundred and fifty, tangles his feet in his own rope,
and recites his own poetry. Me, I’m Henry Clay Peck, a clean-minded
cowboy, big-hearted, industrious, and I do well on a banjo. I can sing
when the spirit moves me, but it takes about three inches in a wash-tub,
and some one to start the tune.
* * * * *
Chuck didn’t show up at the ranch until the next day, and he’s painfully
sober. We sniffs him over and feels of his pulse, knowing that
everything ain’t right.
“Got tonsilitis?” asks Telescope. “Can’t swaller?”
“Brady reformed him,” says Muley.
“Gather around me, cowboys,” says Chuck. “I’ve got it.”
“You shoot him, Henry,” begs Telescope. “I’ve got a sore finger.”
“Listen, you comedy coyotes,” wails Chuck.
“Use the white of a aig,” advises Muley. “Draw it to a head.”
“I told you I’ve got the biggest idea in the world,” says Chuck.
“Now, go and lay down, Chuckie,” begs Telescope. “I know. In about a
hour you’ll begin to see all kinds of things, but they ain’t really
there. What you been drinkin’—mescal?”
“Oh, all right,” says Chuck. “Go ahead and punch cows for forty a month,
and see if I care. Live and die unhonored and unsung, get drunk on the
last of the month, and then punch cows for thirty days more. I’m goin’
to rise above it—me. I know Opportunity when I see it.”
“Why not rent a hall and put on a revival?” asks Muley. “You sure see
the sweet side of life, Mister Warner.”
“I don’t ask for no help,” says Chuck, sad-like. “I can do it all alone,
but I thinks of our friendship, and——”
“I’m goin’ to forget that sore finger in a minute,” says Telescope.
“Remember, Chuck, you’re talkin’ to folks who know your re-motest
ancestors.”
“Aw, let him tell it,” says I. “It must be an awful lie, ’cause I never
seen him so sad in my life.”
“It’s no lie,” says Chuck. “It’s Gospel truth—unless Brady lied, and he
was too drunk to do that. Seems that a rich man named Jonathan Perkins
up and died. Somewhere in the West is his brother, whose name’s
Archibald. Said Jonathan knowed not of his brother’s whereabouts, but he
not only mentioned him in the will, but spoke plumb out loud. He had
tried to find Archie, but failed. He also had detectives huntin’, and
they had the same luck.
“Then brother Jonathan says, says he—‘I hereby sets aside a reward of
ten thousand dollars for information leadin’ to the conviction of
brother Archibald,’ or words to them effects. They hankers for poor old
Archie. This here bunch of money awaits his comin’, in the town called
Beverley, the same of which is a place near Chicago. That’s why Mister
Brady came here, but he’s returnin’ home without any chance to lift the
reward. He says that Archibald must be dead.”
“Do we cry now?” asks Telescope.
“Cheer, you danged snake-hunters,” grins Chuck.
“Who do we cheer? Archibald, Jonathan or Brady?” asks Muley.
“Me,” says Chuck. “We’re going to get that reward.”
“I know why he came home sober—he’s lost his mind,” says Telescope.
“We’re goin’ to get that ten thousand,” declares Chuck, “and then we’re
going to make Mister Perkins, whose first name is Archibald, double the
ante. _Sabe?_”
“Oh, well, there’s no hopes now,” groans Muley. “When they gets
violent—hope is gone.”
“Hen, make ’em believe me,” wails Chuck.
“I’ll do what I can for them if they’ll turn around and do the same for
me. Where in —— are you going to find this here Perkins person, Chuck?”
“Polecat!”
Muley’s foot slipped, and he fell off the bunk, where he sets and blinks
like a fat owl. “Polecat” Perkins is a scrawny, watery-eyed _hombre_,
who lives in a dugout and raises skunks for their hides. He don’t even
know that Cleveland ain’t President any more. His mustache hangs almost
to his shoulders, and he wears a pair of chaps that only comes to his
knees.
“I do wish that somebody would hog-tie Chuck,” wails Telescope, “Next
thing yuh know he’ll be foamin’ at the mouth. Ten thousand dollars for
Polecat Perkins!”
“His name is Perkins,” argues Chuck, “and this other Perkins is dead; so
there ain’t nobody to say him nay.”
“My gosh!” says Muley, soft-like. “I wonder if it could be done? But we
ain’t got money enough to finance it.”
“I’ve got a hundred and sixty,” says Chuck, “and I’ve got two broncs and
a sixty-dollar saddle.”
“Telescope’s got over two hundred in the bank,” says Muley, “and Henry’s
got somethin’ besides his slicker for a rainy day.”
“And Polecat will have to agree to give us ten thousand more or we won’t
promote him,” says Chuck. “Now, you can see why I stayed sober.”
“Chuck, are you tellin’ us the truth?” asks Telescope.
“So help me God. I’m puttin’ in my own money, ain’t I?”
“I’ve never been East,” says Muley. “I don’t know a darn thing about it,
only what I’ve heard, and most of that was from Chuck.”
“I’ll buy a stack in the game,” nods Telescope, “and I know Henry’s
game, ’cause he’s kept his mouth open ever since Chuck sprung the
scheme, and he’s swallered three innocent little flies.”
* * * * *
Polecat is setting in front of his dugout, perusing a almanac, when we
rides up.
“Howdy, Polecat,” says Telescope. “How’s everything?”
“Ticklish,” says Polecat. “The stars are inclined to be frisky.
Capricorn is ridin’ sign on the Big Dipper, and the Dog Star is chasin’
his tail. It says there’s apt to be a tidal wave in Tasmania. Come up to
buy some pets?”
“No sale,” says Telescope. “We’re here to talk business. How’d yuh like
to get your hands on a lot of money?”