“I feel the need of an eclipse.”
His first shot busts the big lamp in the center of the room, and, before
the flying glass hits the ceiling, he plants another slug into the lamp
over the bar, and we has that eclipse.
As old Prof. Phinney would say, “Things got sort of ki-otic.” A slug of
somebody’s lead dusted the dandruff on my head but missed my hat, for
the simple reason that I had it in my hand. I’m so polite that I always
takes off my hat in the presence of the dead. Nobody is dead yet, but
the indications are favorable.
Seems like everybody is exercising their gun rights; so I points toward
the door, shoots twice straight ahead to guarantee an open trail and
don’t stop hopping until I’m at that hitch-rack, mingling with Dirty
Shirt and the burros.
We don’t stop to apologize to anybody. About three miles out we makes
camp, and, about the time we gets coffee to boiling, who comes angling
in but the feller who threw the chair. He sets down and accepts a bite.
“Cleaned?” asks Dirty, and the feller nods.
“Whiter than snow.”
He’s a hefty sort of a _hombre_, born about forty years ago, and he sure
is endowed with vocal cords. He cusses Eagle back to the sixth
generation and then passes around the bottle.
“Clean?” says he. “Gents, I ain’t got nothing but my honor left. My
horse is in hock; my saddle is gone, and all the satisfaction I got was
to hang a chair on that gambler’s head.”
“What can you do?” asks Dirty.
“Anything short of murder.”
“Can you talk like a orator?”
“Me? Go ahead.”
“Listen,” says Dirty, and then he opens up and tells this jasper all
about Piperock.
Then he shows him that letter.
“You can earn that fifty, and me and Ike will give you twenty more.”
“Is that so?” says I. “For why?”
“As a bonus to the Honorable Alexander for getting so drunk that he
can’t make that speech. _Sabe?_ There will be a disappointed and
disgusted crowd, and such will react in our favor.”
“But that letter says he don’t get that money until after the speech,” I
argues.
“Hmm,” muses Dirty. “Ike, am I good for fifty dollars?”
“Not as a investment in live stock,” says I. “But your credit is.”
“I ain’t got a cent,” says the feller. “How will I get there?”
Then me and Dirty assays ourselves and finds that twenty won’t break us,
and he promises to take the first stage north. He stays with us that
night, plants himself beside the road the next morning, and about noon
the stage passes us. Beside the driver is our alleged temperance talker,
but he don’t recognize us, which shows him to be cautious.
* * * * *
Four days from that ancient fool hen finds us poking through the
Medicine Hills, which are the boundary-lines between Yaller Rock and
Custer. We swings out on a big bluff where we can look down upon the
town of Piperock. The sight of a feller’s old home town always brings
memories, and me and Dirty lingers there, gazing down upon the town of
our past wrath.
We sees a tiny speck of a human being cross the street and get on a
bronc. They whirls and goes out of town in a tiny cloud of dust, and up
to our ears is wafted the faint snap of a shot.
“Danged good old town!” applauds Dirty. “Best little town on earth, Ike,
and she ain’t changed a bit.”
“Sure looks peaceful,” I agrees. “Let’s slide down and hold a reunion.”
When we hits the bottom of the hills, we meets “Mighty” Jones, who is
riding through the mesquite. He stops and stares at us.
“You fellers back?” he asks.
“Well,” says Dirty, “are you so in the habit of talking to yourself that
you can’t believe your eyes?”
“You’ve got a lot of gall!” declares Mighty. “Coming back to the town
you throwed down last September. Fine pair of citizens! When I die from
thirst, I’ll think of you two, but prior to that I forgets you.”
“I hope we’ll be in your thoughts soon, Mighty,” says Dirty.
“How are things coming, Mighty?” I asks. “You might tell us.”
“Nope. When I can’t speak cheerful, I keeps still. You fellers will find
out things soon enough.”
He lopes on. Me and Dirty looks at each other and then pilgrims on. The
old town looks all right—externally. There’s a bronc dozing at the rack
in front of “Buck’s” place, and Ricky Henderson is taking a _siesta_ in
front of his barber-shop. All looks serene; so we ties up our
rolling-stock and enters the saloon.
Buck is standing behind the bar, but somehow there don’t seem to be no
welcome in his eyes. We faces the mirror and elevates one hoof.
“Little touch of hooch, Buck,” grins Dirty, but Buck shakes his head.
“Nope,” he says and points at a sign on the wall. We peers closer and
sees this: