“Do you think they will put up a good fight, Magpie?”
“You can’t lose nothin’ by taking a chance.”
“That’s right, Magpie. Verily, I reckon I’ll have to bow down to the
popular clamor. Didn’t think I’d go, but when you’re in Rome you’ve got
to do as the Romans does, I reckon.”
“Yes,” says I. “And when you’re in Piperock, do as the rest of the ——
fools do.”
“Piperock ain’t so bad,” says Testament. “She needs better society,
that’s all, Ike.”
“Yes,” says I, “that’s all —— needs.”
* * * * *
Calamity was one of them cross-grained animals born with a grudge
against everything on earth. He’s sort of a blue-black color and inside
his hide is the spirit of a grizzly and the ambition of a quart of
nitroglycerin. Nobody knows why Zeb Whittaker keeps such an animal.
Calamity is a son of the cow that jumped over the moon and what he can’t
jump he goes through. Zeb has one puncher who don’t have nothing to do
but pack a hammer and some nails and foller Calamity’s blazed trail.
“Weinie” Lopp tried to ride him once—just once. Weinie pulled leather
for a mile, after which the cinch busted. Then Weinie played matador
until he found a tree. About ten hours later we found the bull still
waiting for him.
“Yuma” Yates bulldogged Calamity once. Somehow the bull got his horn
tangled in Yuma’s raiment and started for Canada with him. “Slim”
Hawkins roped Yuma, yanked him loose, and then had to drag him half a
mile to keep Calamity from hooking him. Everybody except Yuma applauded
Slim for his presence of mind.
Then cometh the question of where this heroic contest is to be held.
It’s a cinch it can’t be done in a house.
“She’s got to be bull-strong and lion-proof,” says Buck.
“I’ve got a idea,” says Wick, “and she’s a good idea. We’ll set posts
from the corner of my store to the corner of Buck’s place, and another
bunch from Rickey’s corner to Pete’s blacksmith shop. We’ll set in high
posts and board ’em to the top. We can fix seats on top of the store,
saloon, blacksmith and barber shop. _Sabe?_ There will be plenty of room
in the enclosed street for the fight, and the spectators will be up out
of harm’s way.”
“I rise to applaud our foresighted citizen,” states the judge. “You’ve
got a beautiful thought, Wicksie.”
“I don’t know about the beauty of it, but she’s plausible,” agrees
Magpie.
I meets Dirty Shirt, who is watching the digging of the post-holes, and
he’s seeking information. I explains the idea.
“Labor Day?” he asks. “Contest between a lion and a bull?”
Just then Magpie and the judge comes along.
“Who you fellers going to favor in this exhibition?” asks the judge.
“Does you place your increment upon the chances of the feline or does
you see grand prospects for the domestic quadruped?”
“My money stays in my overalls,” states Dirty. “In a case like this I
may dig a hole and bury it.”
“Me,” says I, “I feel as sorry for the lion as I do for the bull.”
“Well, that settles that end of it,” says the judge, happy-like.
“The question is what?” asks Dirty.
“We needs two neutral witnesses,” explains Magpie. “This here will be
some contest, you understand, and many pieces of silver will be wagered.
Them what has bet their money will be prejudiced in one way or another,
which makes them noways fit to judge upon the outcome. You and Dirty
Shirt Jones are hereby honored with the distinction of being the
referees of said contest and your decision will stand. _Sabe?_”
“Yes, even if the hills do fall,” says the judge. “Judge without fear or
favor and let nature take its course.”
“And,” says Magpie, “we also hereby appoints you both to go with me to
Granite to purchase said lion.”
Me and Dirty Shirt sets down on the sidewalk and looks at each other.
After while Dirty says:
“What do I know about lions? Why ask me to help pick lions? I don’t know
a danged thing about lions.”
“Neither do I,” grins Magpie. “But I’m willin’ to do my dangdest. This
is for the community at large and in the sublime interests of Labor Day.
Be public-spirited for once in your lives. This little task will be a
labor of love. There won’t be no remuneration nor pay. Just a labor of
love, gents.”
“Labor of love sounds poetical,” nods Dirty.
“It will be appreciated.”
“Yes,” say I. “I hope they appreciate it, as the horse-thief said when
the rope broke.”
* * * * *
Me and Magpie and Dirty Shirt and “Whiskers” went to Granite. I don’t
know how Whiskers happens to adopt us, but he does. “Mighty” Jones is
Whiskers’ lord and master, but I reckon Whiskers is one of the noble
souls who arise above such masters as Mighty.
Way back in the dim and distant past Whiskers’ ancestors were blooded
dogs, I reckon, but they associated with the rank and file, the same of
which makes poor Whiskers the mulligan of all mutts. He’s big and hairy
of face and according to Mighty he don’t know “sic ’em.”
We left our broncs at the stable and wandered up-town, with poor old
Whiskers getting between our legs every time a strange dog shows up. The
circus is there all right. It ain’t a awful big circus, but Magpie
argues that it’s reasonable to suppose that their lions are just as big
as the lions in a big circus.
Me and Dirty infests “Hoot” Duncan’s saloon while Magpie acts important
around the outskirts of the circus.
“What brings you here?” asks Hoot.
“Lion,” says Dirty.
“Some folks can’t tell the truth,” agrees Hoot.
“Lion,” says Dirty. “L-i-o-n.”
“To buy one,” says I. “Me and Dirty has been commissioned to buy a
raging lion, Hoot. One of them African ones.”
Just then a feller steps up to us and asks us to have a drink. He’s one
of them slick-looking jaspers, and I sort of loosens my gun.
“I own a lion,” says he.
“Funny how me and you gets together,” says Dirty. “How’s your lion?”
“Very well. I own Pluto, the original man-eating terror of the Congo. He
has killed seventeen keepers. Beautiful black mane and——”
“We ain’t in the rug business, so the state of his mane and tail don’t
cut no figure,” says Dirty. “We just want a lion, thassall.”
“After the show is loading tonight,” says the feller, “I might fix it so
you could drive right away with Pluto in his cage. I wouldn’t want
anybody to know it, ’cause Pluto is the big attraction of the circus.”
“Don’t ruin the circus on our account,” says Dirty. “It ain’t so danged
necessary that we has a attraction, mister. Just slip us a lion.”
“Say, who is buying this here lion?” asks Magpie’s voice, and he horns
into our midst. “I’m the lion-buyer.”
“We was just dickerin’,” says Dirty, grieved-like. “This gent owns a
lion.”
“How much can you pay?” asks the feller.
“I don’t want no second-hand lion,” states Magpie, and I can see that
he’s had several jolts of nerve tonic.
“Pluto ain’t never been scratched.”
“The price-tag says?”
“I’d rather talk privately to you,” says the feller. “Let me and you
take a little walk.”
“Let ’em go, Ike,” says Dirty, tearful-like. “If I can’t buy a lion I’ll
buy little drink. Have little drink?”
It’s the little things in life that count. Dirty Shirt has a peculiar
way of knowing when he’s got enough, and when he finds that he’s up to
capacity you couldn’t get another drop into him even with one of them
hypodermic squirt-guns.
Down in Piperock he always shoots at the little bell on top of the Mint
Hall, and if he misses it three times in a row he quits drinking. Here
he is in a strange place with no bell in sight and the feeling that he
might be imbibing too much.
“C’mon, Ike,” says he, tearful-like. “Let’s go find shomethin’ t’ shoot
at.”
I couldn’t ’a’ hit the other side of the street with a shotgun, but I
agreed that a target was necessary, and we started out with Whiskers
tripping us up every time he hears a noise.
I don’t know where we went, but after while I finds that me and Dirty
are setting on a pile of canvas talking to a stranger. Dirty is crying
like his heart was broke, and after while my ears get tuned proper-like
and I hears some conversation.
“Lions don’t amount to much,” says the feller. “Lions ain’t got no guts
when it comes to fighting. You folks are going to be a lot disappointed.
As I said before, you ought to have a tiger.”
“Tha’s a fact,” sobs Dirty. “Nice li’l striped tagger. Wish we had one.”
“Well, why not buy one?” asks the feller. “Sell you one for a hundred
dollars cash.”
“Zasso? Give you eight.”
“Eight dollars? That would be robbery.”
“Yuh might holler for the sheriff,” says Dirty.
“Sell you one for a hundred dollars.”
“Hunnerd dollars? Thanks. Wouldn’t Piperock applaud us, Ike?”
“If I had a hundred dollars I wouldn’t need applause,” says I.
“Ain’t you got nothing you could sell and get the hundred?”
“Mister,” sobs Dirty, “I ain’t got nothing left but my honor.”
“Which makes you in debt up to your eyebrows,” says I, and then I went
to sleep.
* * * * *
I don’t know how long I slept, but I know it was awful dark and raining
hard when I woke up. My mouth feels raspy and in front of my eyes are
black spots like the patent-medicine advertisements tell about. I finds
a place where they sells glass-covered cheer, and then I hunts for
Magpie and Dirty. They ain’t in evidence, so I goes down to the stable,
saddles my brown mare by the light of a lantern, and I’m just riding
out, when “Foghorn” Foster steps into the door of the stable and says—
“Where yuh goin’ with that animal?”
It’s none of his business, and anyway I don’t feel like arguing. I paid
the bill when I left the horse there, so it ain’t anybody’s business
where I’m going.
Foghorn acts excited and empties his gun at me as I went down the
street. A couple of bullets hive up in the cantle of my saddle, but I
just considers the source and keeps going.
It’s about four miles to Wind River, and I sure fogged some in that
rain. I figured that I’d catch Magpie and Dirty. I skidded down the bank
of the river and into the water, and just then a flash of lightning
gives me a view of something out of the ordinary.
It’s one of them fancy circus-wagons, and it’s stranded in the middle of
the river. I rides out to it, and just then comes to my ears, sad and
low—
“Rocked in th’ cra-a-a-dul of th’ dee-e-e-p I lay me——”
“Dirty!” I yells. “What yuh wailing about?”
“The —— doubletree busted!” he howls, “The team is gone and me and poor
Rajah are stranded in the ragin’ flood.” And then he begins singing—
“Secure I rest upon th’ wa-a-a-a-ve——”
“Shut up, you danged fool!” I yelps. “Who is Rajah?”
“Tagger. Roarin’, ragin’ tagger. Seventeen stripes and whiskers like a
Rooshun.”
“Is there a tiger in that wagon?”
“Signed, sealed and de-livered.”
“Where’s Magpie?”
“I ain’t Magpie’s keeper—I’m tagger’s keeper. Come and have a little
drink, Ike.”
“How did you get the money to buy a tiger? Did you sell your honor?”
“Tha’s a shubjec’ for deliberation. I don’ jus’ know how it comes about.
It was dark and the circus was over and this feller helped me on thish
wagon and he took my money and I—— Well, the wheel hit a rock and the
double-tree busted an—— Aw, let’s have a little drink, Ike.”
“Where did the team go?”
“Tha’s a —— of a question. I’m no palmist.”
Dirty sets there on top of that wagon, humped up in the rain, and every
time the lightning flashes I can see him taking a drink. I rides back
out there, climbs up with him, and turns my bronc loose. I don’t know
why I done that, but it ain’t the first locoed thing I’ve ever done.
We has a few drinks together, and then I humps up there with him. Man,
it’s raining in sheets, and that same old Wind River is one stream what
can rise and shine.
“Sto-o-o-orm-e-e-e th’ night and th’ waves ro-o-o-o-ll high,” wails
Dirty. “Swiftly th’ ship—— Say, Ike, this danged thing’s moving!”
* * * * *
Comes a longer flash of lightning and I notices that we’ve turned around
and are pointed toward the Pacific Ocean.
“The anchor’s busted!” yelps Dirty, and just then we hits a rock and
almost upsets.
“Set still, you danged fool!” I yells.
“Cloud must ’a’ busted!” yowls Dirty.
Man, I’d say it must have busted complete-like. Wind River ain’t
ordinarily a raging torrent, but this storm makes her rise plentiful. A
couple of trees hooks up with us, and we have a regular parade.
“I wish I could get a message ashore,” says Dirty. “Our bottle is almost
empty. I’m so danged——”
But the wind blew the rest of it away.
It almost took me and Dirty with it. I feels a ripping crash under us
and the danged craft whirls over sideways, and we climbs over and over
that thing like one of them squirrel-cage riggings, and the thing sort
of busts apart.
After while she hits her stride again, and me and Dirty has time to get
our breath.
“We lost our runnin’-gear,” cracks Dirty. “Lost our—my ——!” Dirty crawls
over my lap, and I turns my head. There on the end of our craft shines a
pair of eyes. I reckon Rajah’s full to the gills with alkali water and
his soul is sore within him.
“Kittie, kittie, kittie, kittie,” says Dirty squeaky-like. “Nice
kittie.”
“Stop it!” I yells. “Nice little ——! Don’t let on that you see him.”
“We’ve got to ketch him, ain’t we?” wails Dirty. “He cost us a hundred
dollars, Ike, and we’ve got to ketch him, ain’t we?”
“——, don’t let that worry yuh,” says I. “He ain’t going to be no trouble
that-a-way. Tigers are easy to catch.”
Just then the wind spins our boat around and we has a hard time hanging
on. I shakes a lot of water out of my eyes and hears Dirty say—
“Now—now, don’t be so —— tame!”
The boat give another whirl, and I grabs for Dirty—and I think I got
Rajah by the tail. Man, there was something doing about that time.
“_Yar-r-oo-o-o-o-o-o!_” yowls Rajah, and just then we hits a reef, and
everything goes into the flood. I reckon that danged striped cat turned
a flip-flop and lit on top of me in the river.
I ain’t no tiger-hunter. None of my folks as far back as I can hear
about has ever lost any wild animals, but I has presence of mind enough
to drown the danged thing if possible.
First I’m under and then the cat is under. We sure played tag all over
Wind River and it was some embrace, I’d tell a man. There is times when
the danged thing don’t struggle at all, and again it tries to show its
authority a heap.
Then we skids out on a sand-bar and rolls high out of the water. I
knowed I ain’t much on fighting tigers on dry land and with bare hands
and I tries to pull my gun, but finds that I ain’t even got a belt left.
The tiger lays plumb still, so I figures to sneak away as easy as
possible. I’m crawling through the mud when I hears a voice speak, very
low—
“I reckon the —— thing got a plenty or it thinks I’m dead.”
“What —— thing?” I asks.
“Shut up!” hisses Dirty. “That tiger just left me. Keep still and maybe
it will go away. I had it danged near drowned.”
“All right,” says I, weak-like. “I’ll keep still about it, Dirty Shirt.”
“I think we better go somewhere,” says Dirty, after while. “My feet are
all wet.”
“Your feet? Is that all?”
“I said ‘feet’,” says he, peevish-like. “My feet are—oh——!”
I glances around, and there in the dark near where Dirty Shirt must be
is a pair of bright and shining eyes.
“The —— fool don’t know when he’s got enough,” wails Dirty. “Kittie,
kittie, kittie! Nice little kittie!”
“_Wr-r-oof!_”