by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “No Wonder,” “Sparing the Family Tree,” etc.
They got on the stage at Paradise. “Dirty Shirt” Jones looks at me with
his one good eye, looking like he kinda blamed me, which he had no right
to do. The Lord knows I wasn’t responsible for them taking the stage.
One of ’em is kinda pink-faced and has got the weakest mustache I ever
seen. Looked like somebody had hit him a glancing blow and knocked his
eyebrow under his nose. Maybe I’d better say that he looked like some
kinda delicate fruit which grew on the shady side of the tree and never
got no chance to ripen.
The other one kinda bulges over the eyes, wears glasses and couldn’t see
Sentinel Butte at fifty feet with a ten-power field-glass. As far as
their clothes are concerned—eleet. The pink one got hold of my hand and
said—
“I am Orville Wellington Chatterton.”
“I’m Ike Harper,” says I. “Middle name failed me in infancy.”
“This gentleman is William Burton Suggs,” says he, pointing at his
pardner.
“The pleasure is all mine,” says Suggs, prospecting for my hand. “All
mine, I assure you.”
“I ain’t trying to beat yuh out of anything,” says I. “Both of yuh get
used to Dirty Shirt Jones.”
“What a peculiar middle name,” says Orvie.
“Were you christened Dirty?” asks Suggs.
“Likely was,” says I, and Dirty’s one bum eye made three revolutions
before it pointed back at the end of his nose.
“Gorgeous sunset,” says Orvie. “Do you have them often?”
“Sunsets,” says Dirty, “occur every day hereabouts.”
“Wonderful country,” applauds Suggs. “Makes one want to gambol like a
sheep, doesn’t it?”
“Sheep do not gamble,” says Dirty.
“Cavort?” asks Orvie.
“Never heard of it, pardner.”
“I have seen pictures——”
“I don’t give a dang if you have,” snorts Dirty. “Sheep do not gamble.
Them artists don’t _sabe_ sheep.”
“Are you fellers gamblers?” I asks.
“Oh, not at all,” says Orvie. “Not in the least. Willie Suggs and I are
of the literati.”
“My ——!” gasps Dirty, pious-like. “Religious fanatics.”
“We write books,” says Suggs.
“Books? I had one once. It was called ‘The Revelations of a Countess.’ I
loaned it to the Cross J bunch and they wore it out.”
“We do not write trash,” explains Orvie.
“Not at all,” agrees Suggs. “Not at all, I assure you. We are planning
to collaborate on an adventurous theme. Primitive men and
women—red-blooded creatures, don’t you know?”
“Sons of guns,” nods Dirty. “Regular hellers, eh?”
“People who know not the veneer of civilization,” says Orvie.
“So,” adds Suggs, “we have decided to penetrate the dim places and live
amid our characters, gathering a wealth of local color before starting
our story.”
“They came here to penetrate,” explains Dirty to me. “Huntin’ for a dim
place what ain’t been veneered. My ——!”
“Yes,” says Orvie, delighted-like; “to live amid the primeval hills. I
have a pistol which will shoot five times.”
He produces a .32 bulldog and gives us a peek at it.
“Wait a moment until I take the cartridges out and then you may handle
it.”