Author of “The Keeper of Red Horse Pass,” “Three On and Everybody Down,”
etc.
THE COWTOWN OF SAN PABLO AIMED TO GIVE A PLAY FOR THE BENEFIT
OF PARSON JONES’ CANNIBALS. THOSE ABLE PUNCHERS, PEEWEE PARKER
AND HOZIE SYKES, AIMED TO ACT IN IT. THEY DID--QUITE SOME. BUT
WHEN THE LAST CURTAIN--AMONG OTHER THINGS--FELL, THE CHIEF
WINNER FROM THE RIOT WAS EVELINE ANNABEL WIMPLE.
“Man,” says “Judgment” Jones, “is of few days and full of woe.”
Well, I reckon he’s right. I’m of a cheerful disposition, kinda goin’
through life with a wide grin, tryin’ to see everythin’ in the right
light and do well by my feller man; but when Old Man Woe sneaks up
behind and swats yuh with his loaded quirt--what’ll yuh have?
“Peewee” Parker says that as long as yuh stick to what the good Lord
ordained for yuh to do, yo’re all right. He picked me and Peewee to be
first-class cowpunchers, that’s a cinch, ’cause we ain’t never goin’ to
be no good for anythin’ else, if for that.
And then there’s “Boll-Weevil” Potts, first name Hank. He’s about six
feet six inches lengthways, and with no width to speak of; bein’ built a
heap like a single-shot rifle. Hank’s all right, but nature was in a
playful mood when she laid out his specifications. And he runs to ears
so fluently that he has to wear a six and seven-eighths hat on a seven
and a quarter head to keep it from wearin’ the top off his ears. As a
distinguishin’ mark, he wears a brown derby.
I don’t hold that any man has a right to wear that kind of a war-bonnet
in a cow country. It is jist a invitation to those desirin’ a legitimate
target. But Hank owns the No-Limit Saloon, along with the HP cow outfit,
and that kinda gives him the right to look kinda doggy, as yuh might
say.
Me and Peewee runs the HP outfit for Hank. Peewee Parker weighs two
hundred and fifty on the hoof, and he ain’t so awful tall. I’m “Hozie”
Sykes, one of the real old Sykes family. My folks was in this country
when the Mayflower came over. I’ve heard paw tell about one of his
great, great grandfathers, who was livin’ down in Arizona at that time.
He heard about this boatload of folks comin’ over; so the old man
hitched up his oxen and headed for California. He said the damn’ country
was gittin’ overrun with foreigners.
I’m merely tellin’ yuh this to prove my pedigree. Peewee don’t know much
about his family further back than two generations, but that don’t hurt
his chances to be a good puncher. Owners of cow outfits don’t question
yuh much, when yuh apply for a saddle-slickin’ job.
Hank Boll-Weevil Potts married Susie Hightower. Sometimes I look at Hank
and know dang well he wishes it was merely an unfounded rumor. Susie
weighs two-twenty, and takes after her pa--and that’s takin’ quite a
lot. “Zibe” Hightower is somethin’ for to take after. He ain’t very big,
but if all the rest of the meanness in the world was give him, you’d
never notice the difference in his actions.
Zibe wears flowin’ mustaches, two guns and a scowl. He’s been in the San
Pablo range since long before they built the hills and made the cuts for
water to run off in, and he says he’ll be here long after it’s all flat
land again. Nobody knows how old he is, but I’ve heard him tell how he
showed the cliff dwellers how to build their huts.
* * * * *
Everythin’ was goin’ along all right, except for an occasional fight
among ourselves or with the town of Oasis, that sink-pot of iniquity to
the south of San Pablo, when along comes Eveline Annabel Wimple. Now, I
don’t mean any disrespect to a pretty lady. They’re necessary, I reckon.
Hank showed me her card, and it says, in real pretty gold
letters--Eveline Annabel Wimple, D. T.