For the Parson of Paradise
by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Alias Whispering White,” “How Paradise Lost,” etc.
Me and Magpie Simpkins pilgrims into Paradise, ties our burro to a rack,
and looks at the place from an unbiased standpoint. Paradise is a good
little town—to look at; but she ain’t no place to start something you
ain’t prepared to finish. A long time ago they changed the Sixth
Commandment to read: Give him an even break—regardless of ability.
Over in front of the Ace Full saloon sets a lonely figure, which we
decipher to be “Old Testament” Tilton. He was put on earth—or thinks he
was—to save souls. He almost saved one. He prevailed upon “Sad” Semple
to stop his wayward path, and the said Sad person listens
attentive-like, and publicly hugs Old Testament.
Sad makes a date to meet Old Testament at the church, but I reckon that
Sad got to thinking it over and decides that so long as he’s going to
slough all of his sins in a bundle he may as well be steeped, so he went
over to Mike Pelly’s saloon and played a dollar on the wheel.
He lost. Then he rises up and proclaims that, while the wheel is the
invention of the devil, who ain’t noways a visible target, some human
being has been tampering with the mechanism, the same of which makes it
a cinch instead of a gamble. Such remarks lead but to the grave,
especially when directed at “Kid” Kelly, behind the wheel, so Old
Testament’s well-chosen words are spoken over Sad instead of to him, and
Old Testament lost his chance to put a brand on a lost sheep.
He sets there like an old buzzard, dressed in his rusty, split-tailed
coat, with his shiny pants tucked into the tops of his short boots. He
expectorates when he sees us, and straightens out one leg, with a
convulsive jerk.
“Howdy, Testament,” says Magpie. “How moves the world with you?”
“Howdy, Brother Magpie,” says he, sad-like. “Howdy, Brother Ike.
Spiritually, physically or financially? In spirit I am meek and mild,
and physically I am able to nourish at such times as I can secure an
excuse for mastication, but financially—by the butting bull of Bashan,
I’m down to bedrock! Bedrock and no color! The Paradise church ain’t
paying no dividends. She couldn’t pay _ono peso_ on a dobie dollar, and
you can’t lead sheep on an empty stummick. The pastor of Paradise hath
an empty pantry.”
We sets down beside the old boy, and rolls smokes. Old Testament shifts
his quarter-section of spitting-weed, and hits a lizard dead center.
“The women of my church tried to give a sociable to raise a few dollars,
but she wasn’t a success,” he announces. “‘Weinie’ Lopp was the first
one there, and he ate six scoops of ice-cream. Yeap! Mighty nigh died of
cramps, and while we’re resuscitating him they forgot to cover the
freezer, and the whole mess melted. Netted one dollar and four-bits.”
“Which don’t scare no wolf from the wickiup,” observes Magpie. “Ain’t
there no way you can get the money?”
“Yea, verily, I might turn highwayman,” observes the old boy, squinting
at his toes. “I pray daily for relief.”
“And set here in the sun and wait,” says Magpie, slipping a five-dollar
bill into the old boy’s pocket. “You’re a lot like other praying folks
I’ve knowed, Testament. Your pack is full of trust but your ability has
leaked out a long ways down the trail. You’re handy for funerals and
marriages, but outside of that—I ain’t got nothing against you, you
understand. I ain’t going to condemn no man, Testament, but I will say
this much to you. There ain’t no use in asking the Lord to get you
things that you can go out and get for yourself. _Sabe_ what I mean?”
We ambles over to Mike Pelly’s saloon, and left Old Testament there on
the walk, nodding to himself.
We sure runs into a confab in that den of iniquity. The center of
interest is a stranger to us. He’s about as tall as Magpie, and if
anything he’s thinner, which is speaking of the top notes of a fiddle.
He’s got a shiny stovepipe hat on his mop of gray hair, and he’s got a
nose that looks like forty below zero. I’d also like to state that he’s
got a voice. Man, he don’t talk—he roars. Me and Magpie stops in the
doorway, and waits for somebody to kill him.
“Ha!” he rumbles, tapping himself on the chest. “Booth! Barrett! Who
were they? I ask you—who were they?”
“I’ll bite,” says “Ricky” Henderson. “Who were they?”
He don’t answer. He glares at Ricky, and Mike Pelly slips his riot-gun
over the edge of the bar.
“Egad!” he roars. “When I, John McBeth, played _King Lear_ the hirelings
of the press crawled at my feet for the scanty interviews I might
condescend to give. My autograph sold at auction! The autographs of the
king of tragedy.
“What am I doing here? Why do I desert—yea, abandon—the call of Mammon
and the glittering paths which I so lately trod? Why do I hide in
obscurity while the populace clamor my name? I’ll tell you why. You are
the cause. Ye who have never heard my name. I come to you with my
wonderful reputation and repertoire, that those of you who are isolated
may taste of the tales of the Bard of Avon. My art is great but my love
for my fellow man is greater. I thirst.”
Mike sets out the bottle, and this actor person shows us that his last
remark was no idle bit of conversation. Mike sighs deep-like, and fills
the bottle again.
“When do you show?” asks “Telescope” Tolliver, of the Cross J ranch.
“Sho-o-o-o-ow?” He runs from a low note to a high one, and when he
finishes his nose is pointed dead on the ridgepole.
“That was the question,” admits Telescope. “We want to know when to
come, and under what auspices it is to be held. Down at Silver Bend they
mostly always put ’em under the auspices of some strong organization. We
ain’t got no lodges here, and our strongest organization is the
Vigilance Committee. How would that suit you?”
“This one will be under the auspices of the Baptist Church,” states
Magpie.
“Chur-r-r-rch?” roars the tragedian. “Chur-r-r-rch?”
“Beyond the shadow of a single, solitary doubt,” agrees Magpie. “You and
the church splits the purse fifty-fifty. _Sabe?_”
“That’s some good idea,” applauds “Chuck” Warner, another Cross J
puncher, who can wiggle both ears like a mule. “What for kind of a play
have you got, mister, what will be suitable for a church auspices?
Something dignified and not gaudy but appropriate and entertaining.”
“Shades of Hamlet!” he grunts. “Fifty-fifty with a church! Egad, we
might play ‘Ben-Hur.’ But stay! I have no troupe. I am
alone—alo-o-o-one. Again I thirst.”
“We’ve got a lot of talent around here,” says Henry Peck. “I play a
banjo, and me and Chuck and Telescope and ‘Muley’ Bowles can sing ‘Sweet
Adeline,’ all four to once. She sounds great.”
“I doubt me not,” growls McBeth, looking longingly at Mike. “‘Ben-Hur’
requires a large cast, and the trappings of Biblical times. I can not
even think of such an undertaking.”
“Take your own time,” says Magpie. “We’ll wait while you think. No
think—no drink. _Sabe?_”
The old spav does a lot of thinking right there, and then:
“Art willing to help me? Help me? Gadzooks! The talent of the world
would rally to my call, and now I have to beg for assistance. Ah, well,
I will do it. Now I thirst anew.”
To see that old pelican drink you’d bet he was a desert from his wisdom
teeth to his heels. Magpie gets enthused over the old rumbler, but I
can’t seem to appreciate his talents. Magpie tells me that I ain’t got
no art in my soul, and, not knowing just what constitutes art and souls,
I’m forced to agree with him.
* * * * *
I finds “Dirty Shirt” Jones enjoying a siesta in the Ace Full, so I
pulls his chair out from under him and drags him to the bar. We gets
reminiscent and gladsome, and he invites me to visit at his shack.
“To spend the week-end, Ike,” says he.
“Which end is that?” I asks.
“You know your own physical failings better than I do,” says he. “I read
that in a book, Ike. What do you answer?”
“Me? I’ll spend both ends with you, Dirty. Magpie has hooked up with the
King of Tragedy, who goeth fifty-fifty with a church, and he won’t be of
no use as a pardner until it’s over, and some good folks are dead.”
“Your conversation is clear as Yallerstone water.”
“Meaning that Paradise is going to have a show. Tragedy comes to us,
with a stovepipe hat and a painted nose, and opines to enlighten us. He
loves his feller man, Dirty Shirt. Ain’t he a wonder? He cometh with a
reputation, repertoire and a roaring thirst. His voice sounds like a
load of barrels going over a wooden bridge.”
“The name of said show is?”
“‘Been Here.’”
“Before?”
“‘Been Here.’”
“Not since 1895,” declares Dirty. “The first one we had was ‘Uncle Tom’s
Cabin’ and the last one was a return engagement of the same show, and
there ain’t been nothing in between.”
“‘Ben-Hur,’” corrects “Slim” Hawkins, from the doorway. “Some show,
believeth me. I’m going to take a part.”
“Then believeth me, I’m not coming,” says Dirty. “Them there home
talentless things ain’t no good. Pay two dollars and four-bits for a
chance to get killed. Not me!”
The crowd drifts in from Mike’s, and the play is the topic of
conversation.
“This will mark an epoch on local theatricals,” states Muley Bowles, who
speaks in rhyme and gets weighed on the hayscales. “This here is a
religious theme, and will uplift the community.”
“You _sabe_ this here play by heart?” asks Dirty Shirt.
“Not me,” grins Muley. “I ain’t no forecaster. It ain’t been wrote yet.
Somebody wrote it once, and this here famous actor knows a little of it,
but he’s going to write what he can’t remember. He told us a little of
it, and she listens like tinkling brooks.”
“I’m helping him,” states Magpie, important-like. “I know quite a lot
about such things, and him and me can sure lay out an entertainment that
will make you set up.”
“Well,” says Dirty Shirt, “a while ago I remarked that I won’t come, but
I’d sure admire to see anything that Magpie had a hand in. It will
likely give somebody an excuse to kill somebody else. I’ll come.”
“Mike Pelly said he’d donate the opery house,” states Ricky. “Wonder if
we can get old man Thatcher to bring his orchestra?”
“We can,” says Swede Johnson. “He’ll come. He’s got a new bull fiddle
that he wants to try out. Four in his orchestra now. His boy plays the
squeeze organ, and old ‘Calamity’ Clakins can just about blow the keys
out of a mouth harp. And last but not least is ‘Froggy’ Deschamps. He
sure can make that jew’s-harp talk.”
“Sounds to me like a Piegan with the hay fever having a nightmare
through his nose,” says Dirty, disgusted-like. “Sounds awful, Ike.”
“You two ain’t got no love of music no way,” says Magpie. “You can’t
appreciate the tender things of life. You won’t appreciate a Biblical
tragedy, so you may as well not come.”
“What kind of a show is this?” asks Dirty.
“‘Ben-Hur,’” states Magpie, wise-like. “‘Ben-Hur’ is a story of things
what happened before the spinx was built. Know what the spinx was,
Dirty?”
“Sure. Which one are you referring to, Magpie?”
“The one what was built in Greece.”
“Oh, that one,” says Dirty, relieved. “Now I _sabe_. You’re so vague
about things, Magpie, that a feller has to question. Never mind
explaining any more, ’cause I _sabe_ the drift of the thing now.”
Old Testament is still setting in the same place, so me and Dirty stops
to break the gladsome news.
“Testament, good times are coming,” says I. “They’re going to play
‘Ben-Hur’ for you.”
He squints up at us—
“Name of a race-hoss, piece of music or a gambling device?”
“None such,” replied Dirty. “This is a play show. _Sabe?_ A certain
tragic person is going to produce some results, and you get half what he
acquires.”
“Huh!” grunts the old boy, thinking it over. “I _sabe_, brother. If he
gets sixty days in jail I get thirty. Why multiply my misfortunes?”
“Be meek,” advises Dirty. “The meek shall inherit the earth.”
Old Testament shifts his chew, and nods:
“Eventually, but not yet. When doth this play attempt to happen?”
“It is now under construction,” says I. “Being made to Paradise’s
measure.”
“I hope she will fit,” says Testament, earnest-like, “I hope she fits.”
“She will be a fit,” assures Dirty. “Apoplectic, paryletic—some kind.”
Me and Dirty don’t show up in Paradise until the next afternoon. Mike’s
place is closed, and so is the Ace Full. We sets down on the sidewalk,
and wonders, like _Rip Van Winkle_, how long we been asleep. Pretty soon
we hears a noise up in the opery house, over the Ace Full, so we climbs
the squeaky stairs, and looks in.
Looks like a political rally. About all the male population for ten
miles around are grouped around the stage, upon which sets Magpie and
John McBeth. McBeth is discoursing thusly:
“_Ben-Hur_ was a Jew. He——”
“I’ll take that part,” says Slim Hawkins, standing up. “Me and Sam
Rosenstein punched cows together in Custer County, and I _sabe_ the
type. He beat me out of a saddle and——”
“Silence!” roars McBeth. “_Ben-Hur_ was a noble Jew.”
“Sam was a Russian one,” says Slim, apologetic-like. “I’d love to——”
“Slim, you set down,” says Magpie. “This here astute tragedian is
explaining as we proceed. You stay down or I’ll come down there and nail
your chaps to the chair.”
“I suppose you picked that part for yourself, eh?” says Slim.
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Pete Gonyer, of Piperock, and Magpie rises up.
“You’re all through laughing, Pete,” proclaims Magpie. “Go ahead with
the tale, John.”
“Good breeding is rare,” says McBeth. “A fool laughs when wise——”
“Shut up!” yelps Magpie. “You cut out the comment, and explain the show.
Most of these men are strangers to you, and you don’t realize how close
to the cemetery you’re riding. Me—I know them well enough to shoot at
the right time, but I’ve got to save you until the church gets its
split. _Sabe?_”
“What I wish to know is this,” says Chuck Warner. “Is this here to be a
stag show? Ain’t none of the gentle sex included?”
“What do you think this is—a honkatonk?” yelps Magpie. “Go ahead, John.”
“_Ben-Hur_ accidentally knocked a brick off the top of his house, and it
hit the new governor on the head. The soldiers get him, and cast him
into a galley, where he is chained to an oar for years.”
“I’ll throw a brick,” whoops “Mighty” Jones. “But I won’t pack no oar.
Who is the one what gets hit? Pick some of that Seven A bunch.”
Magpie stretches out his long legs, and shifts his gun:
“Go ahead, Mr. McBeth. I ain’t got no brick, but the light is fairly
good. Go ahead.”
“_Messala_ is the heavy,” states McBeth, nervous-like. “He’s a bitter
enemy of _Ben-Hur_, and——”
“I vote for Muley,” yelps Telescope Tolliver, “he’s the heaviest thing
around here, and he can hate anybody like ——!”
“I’ll be _Ben-Hur_,” whoops Weinie Lopp. “I’d love to have Muley hate
me.”
“I quit!” roars McBeth, throwing his paper on the floor. “Ye gods! In
all my years before the footlights I never had less attention. Shade of
General Lew Wallace—I quit!”
“After the church gets its half,” says Magpie. “Remember the love you
hold for your feller men.”
“R-r-r-r-ruff!” he roars, shaking his mane like a buffalo bull. “It is
an insult to my intelligence! Be it so. I proceed. As I said before,
_Ben-Hur_——”
“_Messaly_,” corrects “Doughgod” Smith. “You told us all about
_Ben-Hur_.”
“Ike,” says Dirty, “this conversation will lead to homicide. Let’s me
and you keep our skirts clean. Eh?”
“There is wisdom in your words,” says I, and we went out of there.
* * * * *
Dirty Shirt has got some stuff at his mine what has to be hauled in, so
we spends a couple of days away from the flesh-pots.
And it came to pass, as they used to say in olden times, that when me
and Dirty Shirt again come into Paradise we first meets Old Testament.
He seems shy on enthusiasm, and makes figures in the sand with his toe.
“How goes the auspices?” I asks, and he shakes his head.
“Verily, it is no better,” says he. “Strife is rampant. Art Miller took
a shot at Magpie Simpkins last night. Deplorable—missed him. John McBeth
is in jail, and tonight the play is due.”
“They got the King of Tragedy in jail?” I asks. “What’s he done?”
“Tried to escape. Said he was afraid of the outcome. They put him in
jail until show-time. We’ve sold five hundred dollars’ worth of chairs.”
We congratulate Old Testament, and pilgrims on up-town. Art Miller is
crossing the street, so we asks him where Magpie is.
Art glares at us, and then explodes:
“That hawg? That grasping goof?”
“The same,” says I. “Do I get a reply?”
Art gnawed the ends of his mustache for a moment, and then:
“Him and that cross between a pole-cat and a pail of leaf-lard are up in
Selby’s old cabin, I reckon.”
“Him and Muley?” asks Dirty, and Art nods.
“You _sabe_ the description.”
We pilgrims up to the old cabin, and sets down on the porch. The door is
closed, but through the open window comes this conversation:
“Gadzooks! I would’st fain bust thee over the head with my saber,
_Messaly_.”
“Pshaw! You would so? Thinkest thou could’st bust mine helmet,
_Bennie_?”
“You ain’t got no helmet, Muley, and them ain’t the lines no ways. From
now on I wears my leather cuffs. Dog-gone, I sure have lost some skin!”
We hears the rumble of vocal cords for a minute, and then Muley’s voice:
“Let’s do that race scene over again, Magpie. That’s the part what will
make the big hit. Now you ain’t supposed to be here. _Sabe?_ Now watch
me. I sees the bill of fare on the wall. Now I saunter up, clanking my
sword, and now I’m reading. See? Now I turn, and look a heap like I
smell onions. Now I speak to _Simonides_: ‘_Ben-Hur?_ That Jew?
Impossible. It says here that he’s going to herd three broncs in this
race. Ha, ha! Drive? Why he couldn’t herd a cow down a lane.’”
“That don’t need rehearsing, Muley,” says Magpie. “You get too danged
enthusiastic over that part. Why don’t you get animated over me carving
you up with the sword? This ain’t no comical show, Muley, and you ain’t
no actor, if you asks me. I’ll show you real art. Here’s how I act after
I beats you out in that race. I walk over to you like this, and I say:
‘What ho, you big goof! You fat——’”
“Aw, hang on to yourself, Magpie! The word fat ain’t used. _Sabe?_ That
word is silent and superfluous. I don’t _sabe_ the word goof, so I’ll
pass that. Now, go ahead.”
“What ho, you big fat goof! You——”
“Aw ——!” groans Muley. “What if I am plump? You don’t need to dilate on
it, do you? You get mean in your remarks. I wish that me and Art could
have played together.”
“You and Art? Art couldn’t play a hand of poker. He’d make a fine
_Ben-Hur._”
“Well,” says Muley, “he’s a gentleman, anyway.”
“Which would leave you right where you are now,” says Magpie, and then
there is silence for a while.
“Some job getting the livestock up there,” opines Magpie.
“Some race-track,” says Muley. “Pete’s some carpenter. Windmill.”
“Treadmill,” corrects Magpie. “We’ll sure do well on this show. Or
rather, the church will do well.”
“Old Testament will,” says Dirty to me. “He gets five dollars for a
funeral, and unless I’m mistaken he’ll work over-time, Ike. I’ll buy a
ticket—in the back of the room. How about you, Ike?”
“Me? I’ll prospect the roof for knotholes first, Dirty.”
We pilgrims down-town and has a drink, but there seems to be sort of a
strained feeling about the place, so we goes home. After a while Magpie
limps down our way, and sets down on the steps.
“You fellers don’t show much public spirit,” he states. “Why don’t you
help us a little?”
“We’re neutral, Magpie,” says Dirty. “When do you have your show?”
“It ain’t my show,” says he. “While I’m taking the star part it ain’t
noways to be known to posterity as my show. It will surprise you,
though.”
“I’ll take a gun,” opines Dirty. “You may surprise me, Magpie, but you
ain’t going to bushwhack Mr. Jones’ favorite son.”
“Everybody satisfied with their part?” I asks.
“Them what have them are,” says he, sad-like. “A certain amount of
dissatisfaction is apparent. Art Miller and Pete Gonyer both wanted to
play the star part, and now they’re sore. Pete McCall and Weinie Lopp
wanted to be _Messaly_, and they’re put out a lot. Human nature is a
queer thing. Want to hear me recite some of my part?”
“We bought two seats at two dollars and four-bits per each,” says Dirty
Shirt. “If you’ll hand us back that five dollars we’ll set and listen to
you recite. I’d rather see the show.”
“You won’t regret it, Dirty,” says Magpie. “You sure won’t.”
“Nope. A dead man has no regrets, and if I get out safe I’ll be so darn
happy that I won’t take time to regret, Magpie. I wish you a pleasant
voyage—you and your oar.”
* * * * *
I’d say that everybody in Yaller Rock County was inside them four walls
when me and Dirty Shirt squeaks down the aisle. A lot of folks must have
been shy, ’cause front seats are all we can get, and right behind us are
“Yuma” Yates and “Pug” Peters, two mean _hombres_ from over on the
Little Snake. They’re hairy, loud in their remarks, and exhales odors of
alcohol.
Nailed to one side of the stage is this proclamation:
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
LEAVE YOUR GUNS OUTSIDE
JOHN McBETH WRITES AND
PRESENTS TO YOU
BEN-HUR
A DRAMATIC BIBLICAL DRAMA
THEM WHO TAKE PARTS ARE
Simonides, a merchant John McBeth
Ben-Hur, a Jew Magpie Simpkins
Messala, a villain Lemuel Bowles
Sheik Ilderim, a Arab Judge Steele
Esther, a woman Annie Mudgett
Soldiers, livestock, etc.
Act 1—A housetop in Venice.