THE WISDOM OF THE OUIJA

Me and “Dirty Shirt” Jones stops there in the trail and watches “Scenery” Sims gallop up to us, wild-eyed and weary. He almost falls over one of our burros, and stands there blowing and heaving, looking back up the trail like he was scared plumb to death.

Scenery is one of them squeaky little half-baked hunks of humanity who everybody feels so sorry for that they won’t kill. Right now he’s the sheriff of Yaller Rock County, and from the looks of him he ain’t figuring his official title as much protection.

Then cometh a larger figure of a man, galloping down the trail towards us. He’s hitting heavy on his left foot like he’d come quite a ways, and when he skids up to us we recognize “Wick” Smith, our general merchandiser of the city of Piperock. Wick is about seven-eighths out of wind. He grabs a mouthful of mountain air and chaws it plentiful while he glares at poor little Scenery.

“Kuk-keep off’n mum-me,” pants Scenery, waving his arms.

“You-you bub-buster of huh-huh-homes!” weeps Wick, the tears running into his whiskers. “You—you——”

“I ain’t,” wails Scenery. “I ain’t none such, Wick.”

“Spirits don’t lie, —— yuh,” howls Wick. “They can’t lie, I tell yuh.”

“That one did,” wheezes Scenery. “I’d tell it to its face, too.”

“Look out,” warns Wick. “You can’t monkey with the dead, Scenery.”

“Aw, —— you and your living ghosts,” howls Scenery, and then the race starts all over again.

Scenery ducks between two of our burros and starts back towards town, and Wick lets out a whoop and starts after him.

Wick had plenty of time to go around them burros, but I reckon he figured he could go where Scenery did. Wick was wrong. That Lodestone burro must ’a’ felt sorry for Scenery, or maybe he wasn’t set, but he sure was primed when Wick tried to pass his south end. We propped Wick up against a rock and felt him over for busted bones, but found none.

“Shall we pack him to town?” I asks, but Dirty Shirt shakes his head.

“Let him rest in peace, Ike. We don’t know what this is all about, so we’d better keep neutral as much as possible.”

We stirred up them burros and topped the hill, when we meets Scenery Sims once more. Scenery is shy one sleeve of his shirt and seems to be running regardless. I have my doubts if he even seen us this time.

We stops and watched him fade off down the trail, towards where we left Wick, and then we turn to meet Mrs. Wick Smith. Mrs. Smith is too fat to run, but she can hurry. Dirty Shirt flagged her with his hat, and she shuffled to a stop. She’s got Scenery’s sleeve in her hand, and she mops her forehead plentiful with it and wheezes wofully.

“Tryin’ to reduce?” asks Dirty Shirt, respectful-like.

“Huh-huh-huh-huh—” she pants.

“Warm today, Mrs. Smith,” says I.

“Whu-whu-where’s—huh-huh-huh—Wicksie?” she whistles. Dirty points down the trail.

“Dud-dead?”

“Not dead, but sleepin’,” says Dirty.

“Did-did he catch Sus-Scenery?”

“Not the first time,” says I, “but Scenery seems to have gone back to give him another chance. What in —— is it all about?”

But Mrs. Smith shoved them burros to one side and waddled off down the trail, waving that shirt sleeve and puffing like a compound engine.

Me and Dirty looks foolish at each other and then pokes on up the trail towards Piperock.

If you don’t know where Piperock is—be happy in your ignorance. It’s a town where ignorance is bliss and where it’s disastrous to have your gun stick. Old “Half-Mile” Smith says that Piperock is one place where nobody has ever been hanged by mistake—they all deserve it.

One thing you can say for Piperock: She never does anything half-way. When that town starts to pull off something—it’s pulled. It may cost suffering and regrets, but she’s there to the bitter end, like a dose of quinin.

Me and Dirty Shirt had been hunting for placer up around the head of Whisperin’ Creek and are just getting back home. As usual we didn’t find nothing but indications of hard work.

Why Scenery Sims, Wick Smith and Mrs. Smith are seeking each other’s gore is beyond us, but we don’t marvel much, being as anything is apt to happen in Piperock.

We drifts into the main street, where we meets “Mighty” Jones.

Mighty don’t welcome us as he should, so we chides him about it.

“I ain’t got no cheer in my carcass,” says Mighty sad-like. “I’ve just had a message from my wife.”

“Your wife?” grunts Dirty Shirt. “You ain’t got no wife, have yuh?”

“I dunno.”

Mighty scratches his head and squints at us. “I dunno, Dirty. I ain’t never been married as I knows about, but you can’t get messages from somethin’ yuh never had, can yuh?”

“From your wife?” I asks.

I’ve knowed Mighty for ten years, and he’s never had any wife during that time.

“That’s what the message said, Ike.”

“What did she say to yuh, Mighty?” asks Dirty.

“She said, ‘Go to ——; this place is full.’”

“Must ’a’ been your wife,” admits Dirty, “or somebody what knows yuh well.”

---

We left Mighty standing there in the street, feeling bad about his message, and pokes up to my cabin—mine and “Magpie’s.” Magpie Simpkins, my pardner, is another misfit of humanity, being as he’s so tall that he has to sew an addition to the ends of his pant legs to enable said pant legs to enter the tops of his boots.

He’s thirty inches around the waist, wears hair on his upper lip, and the top of his head is a vast storehouse of ideas with parts missing.

Me and Dirty prods the burros up to the open front door and looks inside. There sits Magpie and “Buck” Masterson the saloonkeeper, facing each other.

On their laps is a flat board. On top of that is a smaller board with three spindling legs. Magpie and Buck have got their finger-tips on this little board, and are both setting straight and stiff, peering at the ceiling.

Sort of setting between them and on the far side is Judge Steele. The judge has got a pencil and paper, and he watches the game real close, putting something down on the paper every little while. Pretty soon he says:

“ ‘Hard-Pan’ Hawkins is talking. Dirty Shirt Jones stole calves——”

“Just a minute,” interrupts Dirty Shirt. “Who is passing out all this information, judge?”

The three of them turn around and looks at us. Dirty Shirt is sort of toying with a .45 Colt and acts like he is wishful to be answered.

“Howdy, boys,” says Magpie sad-like.

“Howdy ——!” snaps Dirty Shirt. “Who says I stole calves?”

“Hard-Pan Hawkins,” replies the judge.

“Lay it on to a dead man,” grunts Dirty. “What’s the matter with you snake-hunters?”

“You must ’a’ stole calves, Dirty,” says Buck accusing-like. “The dead don’t lie.”

“They don’t need to,” explains Magpie.

“Hard-Pan Hawkins never needed any cause to lie,” says Dirty. “He’s a —— liar—alive or dead.”

“Just a moment,” interrupts the judge. “We can prove things, can’t we? We’ll have Hard-Pan answer Dirty’s accusations.”

Magpie and Buck put their fingers on that contraption again, and Judge Steele says—

“Hard-Pan, did Dirty Shirt steal calves?”

The judge watches the thing and puts down the letters. Then he reads—

“Dirty Shirt also stole cows.”

Bang!

I seen Magpie and Buck yank backwards, and Judge Steele fell backwards under the bunk. I seen pieces of board splinter against the wall, and when Magpie stood up a lot of splinters fell off his knees. He glares at Dirty and then howls—

“What did you do that for?”

“——!” yelps Dirty, waving his gun. “What did yuh think I was going to do? Now, you danged liars, stand up on your hind legs and talk fluently. What is that dingus?”

“That thing you busted was a method of communication between us and the spirit world,” says Magpie. “It brought us in touch with them what ain’t visible, but you busted —— out of it, and there’s only one more in Yaller Rock County.”

“Who’s got that other one?” I asks.

“ ‘Hassayampa’ Harris and ‘Tombstone’ Todd.”

“Where did yuh get ’em?” asks Dirty.

“Fortune-teller sold ’em to Scenery Sims, and he sold ’em to us for fifty dollars per each. Dang you, Dirty, what did yuh want to shoot it up thataway for? That was a awful thing to do.”

“I hope Hard-Pan heard the shot,” says Dirty. “I hate a dead horse-thief what can’t keep his danged mouth shut.”

“You’re going to get in bad with the hereafter, Dirty,” proclaims the judge, poking his head out from under the bed. “I won’t be surprized if Hard-Pan haunts you, being as you cut —— out of his conversation.”

“How does the danged thing work?” I asks.

“It ain’t no ‘danged’ thing, Ike,” says Magpie. “That was a wee-gee board, the same of which puts us in touch with them what is beyond the veil. Honest to gosh! Mighty Jones had a message from his wife.”

“I reckon Wick Smith has had one from his wife by this time,” says Dirty Shirt.

“Is she dead?” gasps the judge.

“Not unless she runs herself to death after Scenery Sims.”

Just then a shadow darkens the door, and we looks around to see Hassayampa and Tombstone. They acts sort of awed-like, and then Tombstone says—

“We made the thing work, Magpie, and it said that Hard-Pan Hawkins had a message for you.”

“Hard-Pan Hawkins?” gasps Magpie, and the two nods.

“You ought to go to him, Magpie,” says Dirty Shirt.

“Why, he’s dead,” says Magpie.

“Sure,” says Dirty, “and you ought to be.”

“Wait just a minute,” says the judge. “This is interesting. Where’s your wee-gee, Tombstone?”

“Me and Hassayampa put it in the bank, judge.”

“Keep it there. I’ve got a scheme. Does Curlew or Paradise know anything about spirits?”

“Spirits frumenti,” says Buck. “Educated above the average.”

“The scheme,” says the judge solemn-like, “interests Magpie, Buck, Hassayampa, Tombstone and myself. The rest of you are e pluribus unum.”

“Where is your board?” asks Hassayampa.

“Dirty Shirt split it with a bullet,” says Buck. “Busted it all to ——”

“My ——!” gasps Tombstone. “Busted it? I’d sure hate to have that deed upon my soul.”

“No danged hunk of lumber can accuse me of stealin’ cows,” complains Dirty Shirt. “You and your messages from the dead can go——”

But they shut the door by main strength, and me and Dirty Shirt sets down on the steps.

---

Just then cometh Scenery Sims. Poor Scenery looks like he had been too close to an accident when it happened. He sets down and wipes the tears off the end of his little blue nose. He looks behind him like he was plumb scared of his life, and then he whines:

“I’ve been hounded too danged much—you know it? What in —— does Hard-Pan Hawkins know about the condition of my heart? No —— rustler ghost can slip over anything like that on yours truly, Lindhardt Cadwallader Sims, E-squire.”

“Rustler?” asks Dirty. “Why for rustler ghost, Scenery?”

“That—squeegee thing,” squeaks Scenery. “Know what I mean? Either Hard-Pan is a —— liar or don’t know what he’s talkin’ about.”

“You might tell us about it,” says I.

“Hassayampa and Tombstone was doin’ the herdin’,” says Scenery, like he was giving us a page out of his wicked past. “Me and Wick Smith was lookin’ on. Sabe? Ricky Henderson was taking down the message from the dead. Well, it hasn’t much to talk about until it said that Hard-Pan had a message for Wick Smith. That —— horse-thief said—

“‘Your wife is in love with somebody else.’”

“Wick pulled his gun and leaned over the board and says—

“‘What’s his name?’”

Scenery licks his lips and takes a deep breath.

“What name did it give?” I asks.

Scenery squints at me and rubs his nose.

“What in —— do you reckon I’ve been doin’ all this runnin’ for?”

“Are Wick and his wife reconciled?” I asks.

Scenery seems to let the question soak in, and then says:

“I dunno what you mean, Ike, but they’re anything you want to call ’em. Hard-Pan is plumb loco if he thinks for a minute that I covets Mrs. Smith.”

“Ike,” says Dirty Shirt, “it appears to me that Piperock has been stung with the ghost bug. They’re monkeying with the dead too much to suit me. Let’s me and you go over to my cabin and hole up until they gets through takin’ advice from them what has passed on.”

We did. Dirty’s cabin is far from the maddening strife, but we gets echoes from the dim and distant past even out there. “Sad” Samuels drifts in from Curlew and eats with us. Sad appears very despondent, and we asks why.

“Revelations,” says Sad. “Why don’t they let sleepin’ dogs lie? Tomorrow night is Revelation Night in Piperock. Ain’t yuh heard about it? Yeah, that’s what they call it. Them bills says:

“This is the Night when the Souls of the Departed Comes Back to Answer all Questions. Nothin’ is Concealed from Them Beyond the Veil. Get a Front Seat and Hear Strange Truths. Admission One Dollar and Four Bits. Come One. Come All. Music by Thatcher’s Orchester. Singing.”

“Who starts all the revelation stuff, Sad?” asks Dirty.

“Magpie, Buck, Hassayampa, Tombstone and Judge Steele.”

“That was the scheme Judge Steele had,” says Dirty. “Dog-goned law-shark saw a chance to make money out of the dead.”

“Why are you despondent, Sad?” I asks.

“Whyfor? ’Cause it ain’t nobody’s business to listen to dead ones. I’m ag’in’ this here message stuff—me. Yuh can’t go gunnin’ for no lying corpse, can yuh? Ain’t no way to make ’em admit they lied.”

“Suppose they don’t lie?” says Dirty, and Sad nods.

“That’s the —— of it. You fellers better get tickets if yuh want a chance to set down.”

Then cometh Magpie. Deep in my heart I can see disaster coming my way. Any old time that hombre comes looking for me I can hear the grass growing over me, and know that Ike Harper’s future is in the sere and yaller leaf.

This time I steeled my nerves and shook my gun loose. He leaned against the side of the door and contemplates us more in sorrow than in anger. His eyes fills with emotion as he gazes upon my face, and I turn away—to see if my gun is loaded.

“How’s the dead ones coming along, Magpie?” asks Dirty Shirt.

“All right,” says Magpie; “but I’d be more respectful if I was you.”

“Respectful for who? Hard-Pan Hawkins?”

“You ought to respect the dead.”

“Not when they accuse me of rustlin’,” says Dirty Shirt. “If you gets any more messages from Hard-Pan you tell him for me that he’s a liar, and that I’ll bet he’s stealin’ ghost cows every chance he gets.”

“There are no cow-thieves in the hereafter, Dirty,” says Magpie solemn-like.

“Then that wasn’t Hard-Pan, that’s a cinch.”

“How and when did Hard-Pan demise out?” I asks.

“I dunno. Slim Hawkins, who is his cousin, said that Hard-Pan went to Canada and outwitted the Mounted Police by dying before they caught him.”

“There ain’t nothin’ concealed from the dead,” pronounced Magpie. “They can look right through anything. Sabe?”

“It was danged hard to conceal anything from Hard-Pan when he was alive,” says Dirty, “and I’ll bet that hombre works overtime where he is now.”

The three of us sets there and sort of thinks it over. Then Magpie says—

“Ike, have you heard about Revelation Night?”

“Seems to me Sad Samuels was weepin’ about something like that.”

“It’s going to be a wonderful revelation,” says Magpie soft-like. “It is going to——”

“All right!” says I. “Let her revelate, Magpie. Me and Dirty——”

“You mean you’re not interested in this chance to hear something that you never heard before? Ain’t you got nobody what has gone hence that you would like to ask a question of some kind?”

“Nope. I know too danged much now, Magpie.”

“I was sent over here by the committee,” says Magpie slow-like, “to ask you to assist us, Ike. There has been rumors that me and Hassayampa, Tombstone, Buck and the judge is liable to sort of cold-deck folks on the result of said messages, and we figure that your reputation for square dealin’, upright methods, et cettery, might allay their suspicions. Curlew and Paradise are coming in bunches. We want you to take down and read them messages as they occur. I reserved a front seat for Dirty Shirt.”

“I read them messages from the dear departed and announce to whom and from which they emanates, eh?” I asks, and Magpie nods.

“That’s the idea, Ike. It will be interesting and instructive, and the same of which is new, novel and interesting to all mankind and women adults.”

“What assurance has I got that I won’t be scalped by some cowboy who ain’t respecting the dead?”

“Shucks, this is too solemn a occasion for such levity, Ike. Can’t yuh just set and wonder what spirit hands is guiding them messages? Uncanny but wonderful in the extreme. I longs for tomorrow night to come. Will ye act as messenger between the dead and the livin’, Ike?

“There will be music and singing, and speeches too numerous to mention. Piperock is leadin’ the country in entertainment, and this will put us so far in the lead that none of ’em can even trail our dust.”

“Nobody ever helped themselves much by monkeying with the dead,” states Dirty Shirt. “My idea is to let ’em alone, but if yuh won’t—I’ll take that front seat, Magpie, and help stir up a few skillingtons myself.”

“What in —— is a skillington?” asks Magpie.

“The dried framework of a human being, also animiles,” says Dirty.

“My gosh, you ought to study astronomy before you monkey with spirits.”

“Astronomy means stars,” says Magpie disgusted-like. “There ain’t going to be no stars. Sabe?”

“I dunno,” says I. “I never monkeyed with a Piperock entertainment without seeing a few, Magpie.”

“This is too pious for arguments, Ike. There won’t be no hurrah stuff. The hall will be darkened, and everything will be still as possible.”

“How did Scenery and Wick Smith come out?”

“Scenery ain’t come out yet, Ike. He’s inside the jail, and Wick waits on the steps for him. It don’t pay to monkey with affections, you betcha.”

---

Then cometh Revelation Night. Yaller Rock County surprized me. I never knowed there was so many people in the county what was interested in messages from the dead.

“Hair-Oil” Heppner and “Liniment” Lucas pilgrims plumb from Granite to be in on the deal, and I figures it’s something of interest to pull a couple of rawhides like them.

Bill Thatcher brings his orchestra, which holes up near the old town of Yaller Rock. Curlew and Paradise percolates into town, and by dark the hamlet of Piperock has more folks on the street than ever before. Buck does a thriving business, being as Yaller Rock folks believe in internal spirits a heap.

“Old Testament” Tilton holds forth in discourse, but don’t get much of a audience, being as he’s antagonistic to spiritual things thataway.

“You know danged well that no one ever hears from the dead,” says he.

“I heard from my wife,” says Mighty Jones. “I sure did, Testament.”

“You never had a wife,” declares Testament.

“Which makes it more wonderful than ever,” whoops Mighty. “Proves that it’s able to do more than the directions says it can. Dawgone it, I expects to have a family before I gets through.”

They’ve got a sheet across the front of the stage in the Mint Hall, and behind the sheet they’ve got a few chairs for the main ingredients of the show to set upon. Magpie and Buck are to handle the contraption, while me and Judge Steele reads her off as she writes.

Then I’m to announce the results. Hassayampa Harris sets on one side of the stage and Tombstone Todd on the other. In front of the stage sets the orchestra, and from there on to the back of the room is Yaller Rock humanity.

The room is sort of twilight, and everything is so silent and solemn that I’m almost ready to believe that she’s going to pass into history as the one time that Piperock got past without casualties. I say “almost.”

We’re just about to pull back the curtain when I hears Hair-Oil Heppner’s hooch-husky voice drawl out:

“Whew! I didn’t know you was going to bring ’em here to speak for themselves.”

“What’s the matter?” asks somebody.

“Matter? Smell, you danged fool! The dear departed are among us.”

Tombstone pulls back the curtain, and we looks into that gloomy audience.

“Say,” says Hair-Oil, standing up, “I paid one dollar and four bits to get in here and set down, but if you don’t make ‘Pole-Cat’ Perkins keep his boots on I wants my money back. Sabe?”

“I’ve got a bunion,” complains Polecat. “Feet dang near kill me.”

“Dang near ——!” grunts Hair-Oil. “I’d tell a man that you’ve been dead for over a week.”

Old Judge Steele stand up and walks to the edge of the stage.

“Feller mortals, this is a solemn occasion and should be respected. Let all earthly things drift for a while and silently help us peer behind the veil from which nobody ever returneth back.

“Up here on the stage we have the means of getting word from dear departed souls which are locked in the bosom of eternity. Everything is an open book to the spirits. Now has anybody any departed soul which they’d like to talk with?”

“Ask Polecat Perkins why he didn’t die with his boots on,” says Hair-Oil.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Pete Gonyer. When Pete haws it shakes the whole hall.

“Lay off that ‘haw-haw’ stuff!” yelps Tombstone. “Ain’t yuh got no respect for the dead?”

“Could I get another message from my wife?” asks Mighty Jones.

Magpie and Buck puts their fingers on that little three-legged table, and Judge Steele says—

“Wee-gee, is there any message from Mrs. Mighty Jones?”

The little table moves around sort of foolish like and points to—

“YES.”

“Who is talkin’,” asks the Judge, and it spells out—

“H-A-R-D-P-A-N H-A-W-K-I-N-S.”

“Hard-Pan Hawkins talkin’,” announces the judge.

“Just a moment,” says Dirty Shirt. “Ghost or no ghost, I want to say right now that Hard-Pan Hawkins is a —— liar.”

“Hard-Pan Hawkins might ’a’ lied when alive, but the dead don’t lie,” states the judge. “Hard-Pan was a rustler, and very friendly with certain folks in Yaller Rock County, therefore able to disclose a heap about Mighty Jones. Now, Mighty, what does you want to ask Hard-Pan about your wife?”

There ain’t no answer. Pretty soon some feller from down near Paradise says—

“If you mean the feller who asked about his wife—he went out.”

“Anybody wishful to ask Hard-Pan a question?” asks the judge.

“Ask him who helped him steal them Triangle cows,” says Johnny Meyers, who owns the Triangle outfit.

“Just a moment,” says “Doughgod” Smith, standing up in the twilight.

“ ’Pears to me that we paid our money for entertainment.”

“Which is correct and proper,” agrees “Swede” Johnson. “I don’t like to pay good money under false pretense.”

“I’m all through if this keeps up,” says Art Wheeler. “This ain’t even instructive. Come on, boys.”

Then Doughgod, Swede and Art single-filed out of the place.

“Could you get in touch with Hard-Pan again?” asks Wick Smith.

“You let that —— liar of a horse-thief alone!” squeaks Scenery Sims. “I never coveted your wife, Wick Smith, and I never will. By grab, any old time I want to get married I’ll pick something besides a waddlin’, duck-footed—uh——”

Crash!

“Ow-w-w-w-w-w! Leggo! Leg—ug—ug——”

---

Comes the sound of something falling down-stairs, and then Wick’s voice—

“The —— fool might ’a’ paid some attention to who was behind him.”

“‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’” quotes the judge.

“Especially when they’re husky like Mrs. Smith, judge. Me and her ain’t speakin’ until we has further communication with Hard-Pan. I hope she didn’t hop on him after he lit at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Does you mean to tell me that you can ask that contraption a question and have it answered by the dead man?” asks “Jay Bird” Whittaker, standing up to ask his question.

Jay Bird owns the Cross J outfit and a couple of banks, and a grouch against humanity.

“She is the medium through which we speaks with them what has gone before, J. B.” says Magpie. “Ask and she shall be told to you. Any special ghost yuh wants to wau-wau with?”

“What ones yuh got, Magpie?”

Magpie and Buck gets into position again, and the judge asks the board who’s going to talk. It jiggles around and spells out—

“H-A-R-D-P-A-N H-A-W-K-I-N-S.”

I announces such.

“That windy son of a gun again!” wails Dirty. “Tell him to get off the wire and give an honest ghost a chance.”

“What does you wish to ask, J. B.?” inquires the judge.

“Ask him,” says J. B., “whether he stuck up the Paradise bank last Summer or if not, who did?”

“Wait a minute,” says “Half-Mile” Smith from the back of the room. “Natcherally he’d lie about it if he done it, and anyway it’s all done with and forgotten long ago. I don’t see why you hombres can’t ask up-to-date questions.”

“I’m up-to-date myself,” opines “Cactus” Calkins, “and such questions make me mad. Might as well ask Hard-Pan who built the Spinks of Egypt. Shucks, this here entertainment makes me tired.”

The door opens and Half-Mile and Cactus went outside.

“Has anybody got a up-to-date question to ask?” queries the judge.

Bill Thatcher stands up and clears his throat.

“Last Spring I rode a pinto bronc into Piperock, and some son of a gun stole my saddle. I rose up and howled loud-like against such proceedings, and then went on the hunt for the saddle, which I didn’t find. When I came back the bronc was gone. Maybe Hard-Pan knows something about it; eh?”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” whoops Pete Gonyer. “That’s Bill’s idea of a up-to-date question. Haw! Haw! Haw! I’m tired of such fool questions; ain’t you ‘Ricky’?”

“Bored plumb to death,” admits Ricky Henderson, and the two of ’em crawls back through the crowd and went outside.

“Never mind the question, judge,” says Bill. “I’m beginnin’ to be a mind-reader.”

Biff! Swat!

Comes the commotion about half-way to the back, and then Hair-Oil’s husky voice—

“I’ve stood all I can—bunions or no bunions!”

“Did you ask a question?” asks Buck, who is a little hard of hearing.

“You might ask Hard-Pan if he has met Polecat yet,” says Hair-Oil, and goes outside.

“This here meetin’ don’t seem to come out right,” states the judge. “We’re failin’ to entertain because folks don’t ask the questions right. Is there anybody what wishes a word or two with dear departed to be sent through the medium of Hard-Pan Hawkins’ ghost?”

Old Sam Holt stands up and clears his throat.

“Yuh might ask my wife what she’d advise me to do.”

“What about?” asks Magpie.

“She’d know what I got on my mind. I ain’t got no faith in that ghost stuff, but I’ll take a chance.”

Man, that little three-legged jigger sure spelled out that message fast. I stood up and read her aloud.

“Mind your own —— business.”

“That’s Emmeline!” gasps old Sam. “By —— that’s her all right!”

“I’d sure hate to have my wife pussyfootin’ around with a ghost like Hard-Pan Hawkins,” observes Bill McFee.

“Easy there, Bill,” warns old Sam. “Your wife is dead, remember.”

“My wife is in heaven,” pronounces Bill.

Bang!

I sees the flash of that six-shooter, and immediate and soon makes a little prayer for the soul of Bill McFee, but I was a little previous. I reckon old Sam was too mad to hit Bill, or somebody jiggled his arm, ’cause I seen “Hoot” Gillis rise up from among the orchestra. Hoot is tall and willowy, and has arms about five feet long, and he swung that squeeze organ from the floor and crowned old Sam with it.

Comes the swish of the organ, a jumble of notes mixed with the crash, and old Sam Holt forgot his insult.

“He drilled my accor-deen from end to end!” wailed Hoot. “Gosh hang him! It won’t never play another note!”

“Yuh might get Hard-Pan to send yuh a few notes,” opines “Telescope” Tolliver. “I reckon a dead accordion has as good a chance for the happy huntin’-ground as a horse-thief.”

“Speakin’ of hoss-thieves,” observes Zeb Abernathy, “reminds me that maybe this here Hard-Pan can tell me something about them eight horses what was stole from my corral over on the Picket Rope about a month ago.”

“He wouldn’t know,” says “Chuck” Warner, “’cause he left here a year ago.”

“Yuh can’t expect a dead horse-thief to know everything, can yuh?” asks Telescope.

“Nobody’d believe him anyway ’cause it would be guesswork,” wheezes “Muley” Bowles, who weighs too much to ride and is too fat to walk.

“Aw, shucks, let’s go home,” yawns Henry Peck. “It’s bad enough to have to talk with live horse-thieves, let alone talkin’ with a dead one.”

And four of them get up and files out of the hall.

“I had certain suspicions,” says Zeb, and then sets down.

“As long as questions is being asked,” remarks Hank Padden, owner of the Seven A outfit, “I might rise to ask if the departed but unlamented Hard-Pan can give me a list of the men in Yaller Rock who ride with runnin’ irons or extra cinch-rings on their saddles.”

“That’s a —— of a question to ask!” snorts “Weinie” Lopp, and he walked out of the door in the lead of about twenty upright citizens.

“That wasn’t hardly a fair question, Hank,” says Magpie.

“It sure as —— got a direct reply,” grinned Hank Padden. “I takes off my hat to the name of Hard-Pan Hawkins.”

“Feller citizens,” says the judge, “so far the spiritual end of this here entertainment is null and void. We ain’t had no chance to demonstrate the ability of the spirits to talk to us. Give us a question.

“How many calves will my outfit brand next year?” asks Padden.

Judge Steele puts the question to the board, and I reads the answer—

“Depends on who is looking.”

“Take off your hat to Hard-Pan Hawkins,” says Tombstone. “He sure is one enlightened hombre.”

“Ask him how many of my calves Hank got last year,” says Meyers.

“Never mind, never mind!” howls Hank. “Johnny Meyers lifted my——”

“Easy, easy,” advises Magpie. “Set down—both of yuh!”

“Bein’ wishful to sabe some things, I’d ask Hard-Pan to tell me why my cows all comes in calfless last year while Triangle and Seven A cows all has twins,” states Zeb Abernathy. “If I’ve got calfless cows, all well and good, but if I’ve got to handcuff my calves to their maws I want to know it. Sabe?”

“Same here,” states Jay Bird Whittaker. “I got three calves last year, and I had about seven hundred cows.

“You was —— lucky, at that,” says Zeb. “Lucky to get your cows back.”

“Who hit me?” wails a voice back in the room. “Say, who hit me? Where’s my boots?”

“Ask Hard-Pan Hawkins,” says Liniment Lucas’s voice.

There is silence for a moment, and then Pole-Cat’s voice—

“Zasso?”

Swish!

---

That’s the worst of working in the twilight—you don’t see all the little details. Pole-Cat must ’a’ had his sights raised for about five hundred yards, ’cause he couldn’t ’a’ come anywhere near Liniment Lucas.

I seen Judge Steele drop flat. The boot sailed over him and hits Tombstone right at the root of his nose. Tombstone sort of shivers like he was chilly, and sets up straight in his chair.

“Yuh might give Hard-Pan a rest and get some answers from Tombstone Todd,” states Liniment.

Tombstone sort of chuckles, and pats himself on the knees. Then he gets up, and before anybody can stop him he steps right off the stage and falls into Bill Thatcher.

Comes a crash of brittle wood, the snap of strings, and I knows we’re going to be spared the agony of “Sweet Marie” on the bull fiddle. Bill Thatcher limps out of the mess with the wreck of that fiddle in his hand and glared up at us. Then he holds out the remains.

“Magpie Simpkins, you lied to me!” he wails. “You said there wasn’t goin’ to be no rough stuff. You said—aw——this ghost show!”

Bill must ’a’ been peeved over that busted fiddle. Bill is slow to anger, but a artist like Bill is tempermental. Bill done just what I’d ’a’ done, only I’d ’a’ shot straight and hit Magpie with that remnant of busted chords instead of hitting a innocent bystander—which was me.

It hit me in the Adam’s apple, and I felt the seeds go one way and the core the other, but I kept my balance. I unhooked one string off my right ear, took the thing in both hands and throwed it as hard as I could. I didn’t care who I hit—just so I hit somebody.

You’ve heard of killing two birds with one stone, ain’t yuh? Well, I danged near killed two cow-men with one bull-fiddle neck. Zeb Abernathy and Jay Bird Whittaker must ’a’ been going to leave, and I got ’em both, but I didn’t know much about it until afterwards ’cause Judge Steele tripped me and I fell over the edge and lit on top of “Frenchy” Deschamps, the jew’s-harp virtuoso.

They tell me that Zeb, when he felt that bull-fiddle neck caress his anatomy, picked up a vacant chair and hung it around Hank Padden’s neck, and just then some trouble seems to start.

Frenchy is also tempermental, I reckon, being a soloist on one of them things what sounds like a Digger Injun with congested lungs trying to sing his swan song. Also, Frenchy is large enough to know better, but I reckon I sort of took him by surprize when I lit all over him.

Anyway he got me by the ankle and the cartridge-belt and seemed to sort of pitch me high and handsome. The going up wasn’t so bad, and the coming down was tol’able, but I lit among four disgruntled cow-men who were settling their differences out of court, and the landing was what you’d describe as “kay-o-tick.”

I lit with my legs around Hank Padden’s neck, but before I had time to spur a cinch I hears Jay Bird yelp—

“Here’s a message from the livin’!”

And I gets a flash of a beautiful light and something seems to rattle down along my nervous system. I retained enough of my natural senses to enable me to withdraw from the conflict, and I finds myself crawling down a crooked aisle of twisted seats with a chair around my neck and interfering with my progress.

I finally decides that I’d better get rid of that toggle if I ever expects to get anywhere in this life; so I sets up and yanks at the chair. Just then a voice very close to me says—

“By ——, I’m goin’ to hang on to one end of this’n until I makes a hit.”

I rolls my eyes upward, and there is Pole-Cat Perkins kneeling on a chair beside me, and he’s got his other boot in both hands. He’s got the most wonderful pair of purple eyes I ever seen. He looks down at me and raises up that boot, but stops. He lays down the boot, hitches a little further forward, and then spits on his hands.

“I may be all wrong,” says he soft-like, “but I know I’ve only got stren’th for one wallop, and I’ll make that a good one.”

He picks up that boot, sort of takes a few hitches to relax his muscles, and then lifts the boot, heel down. I know how a fool sparrow feels when a diamond-back gets it hypnotized.

I knowed that Polecat was going to bounce that boot right off my alabaster brow. I knowed he was going to plant that heavy heel, spur and all, upon my lily-white forehead, and I wondered what —— lie he’d figure out to tell the jury. I wondered if they’d ever get any messages from me with their danged wee-gee board, and I mentally boycotted ’em right then.

No messages would they ever get from me; and what was more, I intended to frame up with Hard-Pan to incriminate every danged one of ’em from Scenery Sims to Magpie Simpkins. Ain’t it funny what a feller will think of when he’s about to be booted off this mortal coil?

I figured that Polecat’s face would be the last one I’d ever look upon in this life; so I looked up at him. It’s —— to have to shuffle out knowing that your mortal eyes has got to finish their duties by gazing upon a face like that, but—well, I looked.

Polecat wasn’t looking at me! I dragged myself half out of that busted chair and stared up at Polecat, who is froze solid in one position—with the boot raised over his head, and looking straight toward the back of the room.

I tries to look too, but a leg of the chair got into my ear and handicaps me. I glances up at Polecat again. His mouth drops open like somebody had cut the draw-string out of his lower jaw, and he gasps—almost a prayer, “My ——!” and lets fly with that boot.

Then he hops off that chair and lit right on my neck with his heel, and squashed all the sensibilities out of me for a second.

Somebody stumbled and fell over me and then got up and staggered ahead.

“Keep away from me!” yelps Hank Padden’s voice, and then comes a rattle and a crash, and four or five men wiped their feet on me in passing.

I grabbed the last boot to hit me, and its owner sat down on my face. I twisted out from under him, and looked into the face of Dirty Shirt Jones.

Dirty ain’t looking at me a-tall. No sir, Dirty Shirt ain’t with us, except materially.

“What’s the matter?” I asks, and I finds that my voice is weak as shoestring soup.

Dirty looks at me and licks his lips. He tries to say something, but the words don’t seem to come. Comes a sound of folks moving, and I turns my head to see Magpie and Buck and the judge walking toward the door. They don’t seem to mind the seats which impede them.

I sees Magpie stumble over some chairs, but Buck helps him up, and they goes out the door without saying a word. Everything looks sort of spooky in that weak light.

I turns and looks at Dirty Shirt. His eyes are closed, like he was praying, but pretty soon he shakes his head and looks at me.

“It ain’t no use,” he mutters; “I can’t think of a darned word that fits my case.”

“What do you want—cuss words?” I asks.

“Sh-h-h-h!” hisses Dirty. “Don’t be sacrilegious, you —— fool!”

Then he unhooks from me, crawls slow-like to his feet and weaves out of the door.

I rubs my sore head and gets to my feet. The figure of a man turns from up by the stage and walks down to me. His back is to the light, and I can’t see his face. He stops, sort of weaves on his feet, and says:

“What in —— is the matter around here, Ike? Is this the way to treat a feller when he comes back to his own home town? My gosh, is everybody loco? I tried to shake hands with Magpie, and look what he gave me.”

He holds it out to me, and I took it. Uh-huh, I took it in both hands. I ain’t no hand to monkey with the unknown, but I knowed right then that I wasn’t monkeying with no ghost, ’cause that hardwood wee-gee splintered all to —— on the head of Hard-Pan Hawkins.

Magpie Simpkins says there is lots of things beyond the veil that we don’t know a danged thing about, and all that may be true, but it’s a cinch that Yaller Rock County ain’t never going to take a chance on getting any more messages from departed horse-thieves—they might be dead.