by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Alias Whispering White,” “Local Option in Loco Land,” etc.
There comes a time in the life of every danged man when his conscience
hurts him and he wishes to make restitution. Murderers have handed
themselves over to the law, and burglars have been knowed to send back
the proceeds of their burgling on account of them same twinges of
conscience.
Sometimes it’s only a statement made in the time of anger that hurts a
man’s insides and sends him back to square up.
That was the way with me and “Dirty Shirt” Jones. Me and him left the
city of Piperock in anger of mind and agony of body; left the whole
blamed county of Yaller Rock, for that matter. Piperock ain’t so bad
itself. She’s a lot like the feller said about the heated hereafter—
“Hell ain’t so bad itself—it’s the people who live there.”
Me and Dirty participated in a local option campaign in Piperock, the
same of which affects the whole county. In the interests of parched
humanity we puts our best foot forward, and somebody proceeds to kick it
out from under us. Thereupon we holds up our clenched fists and swore by
the horns on the moon that we’re all through, finished and done with
anything pertaining to Piperock or the county in which she lies.
That is September. We points our four burros away from there until we’re
safe from our friends.
Cometh November. Me and Dirty are humped over a fire, trying to make
mulligan out of an ancient fool hen, when Dirty speaks thusly:
“Wonder what Magpie Simpkins will do for a job if ‘Scenery’ Sims is
elected sheriff? When me and you didn’t vote, Ike, local option becomes
an issue. Be funny if Yaller Rock County goes dry by one vote.”
Thus are seeds sown and bear fruit upon the green bay tree. That evening
we’re humped over the fire again. There ain’t been a word said about it
since noon, but we’ve thought a heap, I reckon.
“I reads something once,” says Dirty reflective-like, “and she goes like
this: ‘Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their
party.’”
“We answers them prophetic words in the morning, Dirty,” says I.
“What party, Ike?”
“Well,” says I, knowing whereof I speak, “it won’t be no tea-party—not
in Piperock, Mister Jones.”
Going back was a simple matter. We knowed that somewhere under the north
star lieth Piperock; so all we’ve got to do is to point properly, punch
our burros and wear out our boots. Me and Dirty ain’t got much to hold
converse about, being as we’ve been together long enough to exhaust any
lies we might have thought up, and the truth ain’t of interest—when we
do tell it.
We strikes the road which runs between Eagle and the rest of the world,
and we points toward Eagle. About half an hour later we stops. Dirty is
in the lead, and he walks back to me.
“Somebody lost a letter,” says he, holding out an envelope. “Lost off
the stage, I reckon, and got run over.”
The address proclaims it to be the property of the Honorable Fitzhugh
Peleg Alexander, Deer Lodge, Montana. She ain’t never been opened.
“Honorable!” snorts Dirty, slipping his finger under the flap.
The contents seems of interest to him. He takes a deep breath and hands
it to me. I deciphers it thusly: