“Aw, yuh broke its back!”
“Not at all. Merely the mechanics, I assure you. Would you like to see
it?”
“Not me,” says I. “I’m afraid I might get pinched in the hinges.”
“I could have purchased one that would shoot six times.”
“No use addin’ insult to injury,” says Dirty.
Suggs motioned Orvie to put the pistol back in his pocket and adjusts
his specs.
“Ah—er—perhaps you gentlemen could be of material assistance to us. It
is our desire to become acquainted with a—er—outlaw.”
“With a price on his head,” explains Orvie. “We wish to study him, don’t
you see? We would get his viewpoint and an insight of his feelings—know
how it feels to have a price on one’s head. Do I make my meaning clear?”
“Uh-huh,” says Dirty. “Did you ever wear a derby hat?”
“I have indeed.”
“There yuh are. More uncomfortable than a price.”
“But not at all descriptive,” objects Suggs. “Does not the banishment
from society prey on his mind?”
“He won’t mind if they don’t.”
“I see. Perhaps not; but I would love to experience the mental emotions
of one who has committed a crime against society. I want to feel the
exhilaration of the chase across the hills; eluding the posse, listening
to their exclamations of baffled rage as they find I have escaped their
net. Ah, that would be wonderful, would it not?”
“It would be,” grins Dirty; “but I reckon you’d have to fix it up with
the posse.”
“If they used bloodhounds I could strew pepper in my tracks.”
“And if there was snow on the ground one could walk backward, don’t you
know?” adds Orvie. “You see, we are familiar with a number of
subterfuges; but we desire to get into the spirit of the thing, don’t
you know?”
“Ike,” says Dirty, “these fellers don’t want to just peek at——; they
want to help stir the pitch. What had they better do?”
“Talk to ‘Magpie’ Simpkins.”
“Has he a price on his head?” asks Suggs.
“If he has, nobody’d pay it; that’s a cinch,” replied Dirty.
“Has he ever killed any one?”
“He’s the sheriff,” says I. “He has to kill a lot of folks now and
then.”
“Very interesting,” admits Orvie. “Rather a quaint character, I would
say. I wonder if he could introduce us to some outlaws.”
“Sure he could,” says Dirty. “They’re all friends of Magpie’s.”
If you don’t mind I’ll let Orvie and Suggs tell the rest of this tale. I
reckon Orvie will do most of the telling, ’cause Suggs, being short of
sight, might ’a’ missed some details. Mr. Orville Wellington Chatterton
talking:—
* * * * *
There is no doubt in my mind that Willie Suggs and I were right in
seeking local color for our stories of the Old West. College professors,
both in this country and abroad, have commented on my ability to
describe locale, characters, etc., but I felt at a loss when I decided
to write of the Old West.
Willie Suggs, a writer of witty dialogue—refined humor, I might
say—agreed to collaborate with me in this effort. Reference books did
not give us just the touch needed, so we decided to go to the source of
information.
I do not know why we chose Montana. Paradise seemed a pleasant name, so
we purchased our transportation to this point, where we boarded a stage,
which would take us still farther into the primeval hills.
On this stage we made the acquaintance of two quaint, harmless
characters, Mr. Jones and Mr. Harper. Mr. Jones has one eye, which is
not all reliable, very large wrist-joints and toes inward as he walks.
Mr. Harper’s eyebrows appear to have been set in a quizzical angle, and
his pedal extremities are far from being perpendicular to his torso. I
find that neither of them has the slightest conception of true humor,
caused no doubt from living-conditions, as these people have no means of
relaxation from their humdrum existence.
I asked Mr. Jones where we might find a dashing cowboy, of whom we might
write, using him as a model for our hero. Mr. Jones took up the matter
with Mr. Harper, who told me that very few of the cowboys were doing any
dashing this year.
He also said that it was dangerous to do much dashing. He did not say
why, but I conclude that, from the way he spoke, it is illegal.
They took us down to the sheriff’s office and introduced us to Magpie
Simpkins, who is a very tall person, with long, stringy mustaches. He
tugged at one of these mustaches several times before shaking hands with
us. I noted that his boots were badly run over at the heel, and the
wrinkles of his rough shirt seemed a depositary for loose crumbs of
tobacco. I said to him—
“It is indeed a pleasure.”