by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Upside Down or Backwards,” “Muley’s Morals,” etc.
“Reckon you fellers will have to take it out in trade,” he states,
leaning on the counter, weary-like, and making funny little figures with
his pencil. “When I sent you fellers out to do that piece uh work I has
money uh-plenty, but right now I couldn’t buy uh humming-bird’s
breakfast. I figured out a new system on the roulette wheel, and played
her last night.”
Me and Magpie looks around the place, and rolls us some smokes.
“Fifty feet at four dollars uh foot comes to two hundred dollars,”
remarks Magpie, looking at the stock. “You got that much worth in here?”
“Uh-huh. I have if yuh both takes uh suit uh clothes and——”
“We’ll take it. I’m glad you ain’t in the piano business.”
Me and Magpie took that contract ’cause we needed the money. We’re on
one of our annual pilgrimages after the filthy lucre in the rough, and
we takes this here job so we can buy uh regular grubstake.
It was Magpie’s system. Magpie is so danged tall that he can’t feel
blisters on his heels, and he’s up so high that he most always gets the
wrong perspective of earthly things.
I’m Ike Harper. I’m meek and lowly uh nature, Magpie’s pardner through
ungovernable circumstances, and I got bowlegs. I’d uh been uh self-made
man if Magpie hadn’t come along and spoiled the plans and
specifications.
Uh burro is uh plumb placid animal. You can abuse uh burro—try to scare
it; starve it and forget to give it uh drink, but all it will ever do is
to give you uh sad look, and kick —— out of you some day for being kind
to it. Lodestone was the most placid burro on earth, and the saddest one
of our four, but when me and Magpie approaches him with our new apparel,
he busts his rope, kicks me in the floating ribs, and _hee-haws_ off
down the street like uh overgrown jackrabbit loaded with loco.
This is all that Ike Harper is going to tell of this story. For once in
my life I’m going to pass the buck. There’s uh hombre named “Sad Slim”
Sanderson, who knoweth this tale full well, and from now on he’s doing
the talking. Sabe?
* * * * *
Did yuh ever hear of Painted Post? It ain’t neither uh city, village nor
uh town. It consists of one side of uh street, one saloon, uh general
store which is closed up, uh place where yuh used to be able to buy uh
meal, but which is also uh memory.
Painted Post ain’t inhabited—it’s infested. I adds my bit uh discomfort
to Painted Post uh few moons ago, and gets acquainted with “Whispering”
Smith, “Forty-Dollar” Fisher and “Lonesome” Larson. The four of us
completes the census. We spends our time on the shady side of Lonesome’s
saloon and figures on how long we can subsist without tarnishing our
sacred honor.
Whispering says that on account of the unsanitary jails in Utah he can’t
live in that State. Forty-Dollar loves his country but hates its
marshals. Lonesome hopes some day to grow enough yaller whiskers to
disguise himself against North Dakota officials. His wife lives there,
on his money, but won’t meet him half-way.
I ain’t wanted—much. I’m peaceable—sort uh peaceable. I was in jail once
for uh minor offense. I licked uh feller ’cause he wouldn’t listen to me
sing, and they throwed me in jail. On the way down to the correction
cabin I glimpses the sheriff from the adjoining county. Having the
feeling that he ain’t down there on pleasure, I proceeds to remove
myself from that jail, by putting uh chair on top uh the bunk and
pushing uh section off the roof. Some folks never think about uh jail
roof being the line of least resistance.
“Gold is where yuh finds it,” states Forty-Dollar, leaning back against
the wall and spitting at uh lizard. “Now take that prospect uh mine, for
instance. It——”
“Yah!” interrupts Lonesome. “That’s all anybody would take it for. You
owes me thirty-seven dollars now. When do I get it?”
“As I was saying,” continues Forty-Dollar, “it——”
“Ain’t there,” laughs Whispering. “My little prospect up on Windy
Gulch——”
“Is on uh par with mine,” says I. “If Lonesome wasn’t such uh good old
scout——”
“Salve!” snorts Lonesome. “Good scouts starve to death. Why don’t some
of you alleged prospectors find something besides uh thirst?”
“What we need,” grins Forty-Dollar, “is somebody who will shoot his roll
on that old saying: gold is where you find it. I’d sell if I had uh
chance.”
“Sell?” squeaks Whispering. “If somebody offered me uh quart uh good
hooch——hear me? I said _good_ hooch. Why, I’d——”
“Mine is good,” defends Lonesome.
“For this country, Lonesome,” replies Whispering. “Yuh got to consider
that I ain’t always lived where uh man has to shock his nervous system
just ’cause he’s dry. I’ve met whisky that was uh drink—not uh jolt.”
“I think it all leads to the same grave,” grins Lonesome. “If you ain’t
too danged stuck on your throat I’d ask yuh all to have uh jolt.”
We all lines up at the bar and gets inoculated with Bright’s disease and
paralysis. We’re waiting the first symptoms, when into the open door
emerges the head of uh yaller burro, and it announces its presence and
discomfort by yodeling uh stanza or two.
“The same to you,” proclaims Whispering, when the song is over.
And then into the saloon pilgrims two specimens uh humanity that beggars
description. The first is taller than I am, and that’s speaking of
elevations.
He’s got uh long, sad sort uh face, with plenty uh hair on his upper
lip. He wears uh black suit uh store clothes, which makes him look like
uh pencil mark, and on his head is uh hard hat. He’s got on shiny
leather shoes—with buttons on. He’s got uh boiled shirt and uh collar
which is at least four inches high, but which is inadequate to conceal
further than his Adam’s-apple. His tie is of many hues, and on his hands
is yaller kid gloves.
The one in the rear is worth uh word. He stands about five feet, eight
inches high, and is garbed in black-and-white checked pants, an
undertaker’s coat, with tails, and shows uh shirt of saffron hue and uh
purple tie. The hat is of the hard variety, brown of color, and his
shoes are yaller with green tops. His legs shows uh decided arc at the
knees. They looks us over, appraising-like, and then the tall one takes
off his hat and polishes it with his sleeve.
“Gents,” says he, “what hamlet is this?”
“Painted Post,” replies Whispering. “The city uh Painted Post extends
you uh welcome.”
“Have uh little jolt,” invites Lonesome, and they shows uh complete
familiarity with such proceedings.
“Strangers?” asks Forty-Dollar, and the tall one looks around slow-like.
“Evidently,” says he.