“Nope. We’re uh pair uh rotten shots—me and Lonesome. Never got uh
feather.”
“You got any scales?” asks Magpie, leaning against the bar, and feeling
inside his shirt.
“Scales?” says Lonesome, absent-like. “Here’s some.”
He sets the scales out on the bar, and blows his nose on the bar-towel.
“Might as well know how we stand, Ike,” grins Magpie, hauling out uh
poke. He pours the scale-pan full and checks off the weight. We stands
there like dummies and watches him weigh it all out and put it back
inside his fancy shirt.
I sees Forty-Dollar feeling of the butt of his six-shooter, but he
shakes his head sad-like, and folds his arms.
“How much, Magpie?” asks Ike, reaching for the bottle.
“Forty-three and uh half ounces, Ike. You must uh spilled uh little this
morning.”
Lonesome watches the operation, and stares at Magpie, as he sets down in
uh chair and rolls uh cigaret.
“Forty-three and uh half ounces uh—uh—uh—” stutters Lonesome, like uh
man half asleep.
“Salt of the earth,” pronounces Magpie, settling that hard hat on top of
his head, and getting up. “Ike, we might as well be on our way. There
ain’t nothing here for us.”
“Even the fool-hens are shy,” grins Ike, and they goes outside, points
their burros north, and strings out in single file. We pilgrims back
inside the saloon, and sets down in uh sad group.
“Honesty is the best policy,” proclaims Whispering, in uh sad voice.
“Being crooked don’t get yuh nothing.”
“Fool-hens is the right word,” agrees Forty-Dollar. “We didn’t need to
hunt ’em, boys. We’re uh whole flock unto ourselves. If we’d uh been——”
Forty’s discourse fades out when he seems to get his eyes focused on uh
certain spot. We all stares at that spot, which is the chair that Magpie
occupied, and which has been partly turned around.
Lonesome starts the rush, and grabs the object to his bosom.
“That poke!” he yelps. “That danged gold poke! He must uh forgot it!”
He dumps the contents on the bar, and with the rush uh yaller metal
comes uh folded paper. Whispering grabs the paper, and peers at it,
close-like.
“Listen!” he whoops. “Listen to this here e-pistle, you fellers: ‘To
Four Fool-Hens: Gold may be where yuh find it, but no man ever found
placer gold in uh quartz ledge, and kept faith in mankind. Also,
according to metallurgy, black powder and felt wads do not appear in
this formation. Remember this golden rule: if yuh can’t be technically
crooked, be honest and keep out of jail.’”
Whispering stops reading and looks us over. He folds the paper up and
puts it in his pocket.
“I’m still shy four ounces and uh half,” reflects Lonesome, and the
three of us takes him down and sets on his stummick.
Some folks are salt of the earth, but there are others who will never be
anything but fool-hens.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
May 3, 1918. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]