NINE POINTS IN THE LAW
two by two and the cowpunchers put on their own circus.
“Life,” says Testament Tilton, “is fleetin’.”
“Yo’re right,” agrees Magpie Simpkins. “As long as a man minds his own dang business around here his life just fleets. But any old time he horns in on somethin’ that don’t concern him his life assumes a muzzle-velocity of somethin’ like five thousand feet per second, duly describes the usual arc and hits the dirt with a dull thud.”
That’s Piperock. Old Testament started in at one time to write the history of Piperock but gave it up. He said it was a job for the recordin’ angels—not for a human. Sun-bleached, sand-scourged, heat-hardened old Piperock, a cow-town of Montana where only men are vile.
Me, I’m Ike Harper, a long-time resident of Yaller Rock County, through the grace of God and the ability to dodge misdirected bullets. And when I start tellin’ yuh somethin’ about Yaller Rock County yore information comes from a man who knows whereof he speaks. And Piperock is my home.
The main street is so crooked that a rattlesnake got lost there one day and starved to death. And still it’s the county seat of Yaller Rock County, a flesh-pot for the cowpuncher, where ignorance walks hand in hand with wisdom until somebody shoots one or the other—and the records show that Wisdom has been hit five times to Ignorance’s once.
And then there’s Paradise and Yaller Horse, which makes up the Unholy Trinity of Yaller Rock County. The three villages of vice sort of set in a triangle. Paradise is three miles south of Piperock while Yaller Horse sets in all her glory about three miles southeast, which makes her about three miles northeast of Paradise.
And these three towns constitute a three-handed municipal feud, as yuh might say. Yuh can’t be neutral. Either you are for or against. There never was but one neutral person in the country, and the three towns swore a truce, pulled off a big picnic and hung the danged fool.
I don’t want yuh to get the idea that we’re bad. Nothin’ of the kind. In Piperock we’ve got the finest lot of folks that ever was whelped. Of course I can’t say much for Paradise or Yaller Horse. Even Old Testament don’t hold no brief for their souls. He said that it was places like that which made it easy for Saint Peter. He don’t even have to look through the Big Book. Just ask where they’re from—and kick the trap-door loose.
Me and Dirty Shirt Jones has been back on Plenty Stone Creek for about thirty days tryin’ to wrest some placer gold from the bosom of Old Mother Nature. We’ve been doin’ this once a year for ages but each time the old lady is too tough for us; but we go back year after year hopin’ to find the Old Lady asleep—or somethin’ like that. Anyway, as I said, me and Dirty Shirt comes back to Piperock.
Dirty ain’t so very big. He’s got a nose which fits kinda antegodlin’ on his face and he’s got one eye which ain’t noways stationary. It weaves, circles and jerks somethin’ awful until yuh get used to it. When it weaves he’s plumb interested; when it circles he’s amazed; but when it jerks he’s drunk.
Just about now he stops real sudden and his eye does about seven laps before it centers. I bumped into my burro, which is usually equivalent to callin’ the coroner, but the burro is probably too much amazed itself to object.
In front of Buck Masterson’s saloon is more than half of the Piperock population and across the front of the saloon is a big sign which says:
“My God!” snorts Dirty Shirt. “We’ve shore come a long ways.”
We circled the crowd and sets down on the sidewalk in front of Wick Smith’s store and in a minute or two Mighty Jones, who ain’t noways connected with Dirty Shirt Jones, comes over and sets with us. Mighty is a little jigger but he’s as tough as a basket of sidewinders.
“Jist what in hell is goin’ on over there?” asks Dirty.
“Oh, yea-a-ah!” Mighty looks us over. “You fellers ain’t been here lately. Gosh, I plumb forgot that! Well, the fact of the matter is—Scenery Sims came back to Piperock.”
“Scenery did?”
“Yeah, he did and is. Yuh see, Scenery’s uncle in San Francisco died, which left Scenery heir apparent, as yuh might say, to a livery stable. Scenery goes down there to look over the thing and as near as I can find out Scenery sold out the livery-stable, got drunk as a blind owl and spent all the rest of his money for a cameree.”
“A cameree bein’ which?” asks Dirty.
“Somethin’ wherewith to make pitchers. Didja ever see any of them pitchers what moves, Dirty?”
“Heard they did.”
“They do. Well, this is one of them movin’ kind. Scenery owns it. Yuh work it with a crank like a music-box. I ain’t exactly cognizent of everythin’, ’cause I’m recently from out in the Horse Thief hills, as yuh might say, but as near as I can find out they’re makin’ a pitcher.
“The Chamber of Commerce has combined with Scenery and they aims to put Piperock on the map. I’ve done heard of them goin’ to sell the pitcher for millions and all that, but I dunno. Yuh see that sign? Well, this is a furrin pitcher and what yuh see ’em doin’ right now is startin’ the thing goin’. This here pitcher shows Magpie Simpkins, Buck Masterson, Wick Smith and Testament Tilton, which is the main folks in the pitcher, packin’ up their burro train to go out and rescue the queen of the jungles of Africky.”
“My God!” grunts Dirty Shirt. “How long has this here movement been on foot, Mighty?”
“About ten days, they tell me,” says Mighty.
“Who didja say they was goin’ to rescue?”
“The queen. I dunno a damn thing about her and I don’t even know where she is nor why they’ve got to rescue her, but that’s their intentions. I’ve heard Scenery tellin’ ’em what to do while he turns the crank.”
It’s kinda late in the afternoon and pretty soon we sees Scenery headin’ down the street with a three-legged contraption over his shoulder while Bill Mudgett heads for the livery-stable, leadin’ three packed burros. The crowd kinda busts up just about this time and we see Magpie, Wick, Buck and Testament go up-stairs to Holt’s hall.
“This here Chamber of Commerce you were talking about is what?” asks Dirty.
“Magpie is president, Wick Smith first vice-president, Buck Masterson second vice-president, Testament Tilton secretary and treasurer,” grins Mighty. “They has banded together for the common good, they say, but I’m bettin’ they’re schemin’ to put somethin’ over on Paradise and Yaller Horse.”
“Them two villages ain’t feudin’ again with Piperock, are they?” I asks.
Mighty nods solemn-like.
“Yuh might say they are. Piperock has been blowin’ a heap about this pitcher and both them places is sore. They ain’t come right out and killed anybody—yet. But the feud is growin’.
“Yuh see this is a African pitcher and yuh got to have animiles. Yuh got to have lions and elephants and all them kinda utensils to make it look right. Well, everythin’ was fine. Barker’s circus went busted in Mica. They were pilgrims to Paradise, tryin’ to put on a show, but it didn’t go good.
“They didn’t even have money enough to git out of town, and this Barker person has been tryin’ to sell his collection. He’s done offered it for a thousand dollars. That was when Scenery decides to make a furrin’ pitcher. He has a talk with this Barker person and gets his price. Then old Scenery takes it up with this here town, which immediate and soon sees the need of a zoological garden. That is how and why for this Chamber of Commerce.”
“Well, did the Chamber of Commerce buy them animals?”
“What with? There ain’t a thousand dollars in Piperock. All they’ve done is hold meetin’s and talk. The worst of the whole deal is the fact that Paradise and Yaller Horse has both decided that they need a zoological garden. They ain’t got no more use for a zoological garden than I have for the law, but it’s just to bust up that pitcher. They’re scared that Piperock will be somethin’.”
“Probably be a lot of damn sorry fools,” says I.
Bein’ as the crowd had busted, me and Dirty ties our burros to the hitch-rack and went over to the saloon where we finds Chuck Warner tendin’ bar. Chuck is normally the biggest liar in Yaller Rock County. He wiggles his ears at us and asks us to name our poison.
After we imbibes what would make about two inches of liquid in the bottom of a wash-tub, Dirty leans across the bar and yells confidentially in Chuck’s ear:
“What is all this picture and commerce idea—and don’t lie to me, Chuck.”
“That,” said Chuck, “is the first real mark of advancement Piperock has ever experienced. From this day onward Piperock ceases to be what she has been. Now she is just shinin’ up to take her place in the sun. No more shall the war cry sever nor the windin’ rivers be red.”
“Yuh got the first part of that from Magpie, but the last half is all Testament Tilton,” says I.
“C’rect,” grins Chuck. “But ain’t it good?”
“Which is all noise and no rain,” grunts Dirty Shirt. “I ask yuh what it is and you make a damn speech.”
“Primarily a movin’ picture—eventually a zoological garden. A place of exceptional interest, education, bringin’ the flora and fauna of other lands for alien eyes to gaze upon. No more shall the war cry....”
“Whoa, Blaze!” snaps Dirty, his bum eye jigglin’ just a little. “Don’t use that last part again. Let’s have a shot of red liquor and forget the red rivers.”
“I was just tellin’ yuh,” sighed Chuck. “Yo’re one of the worst listeners in Yaller Rock County. Keep yore hand off yore gun, will yuh? Just keep this in mind, Dirty Shirt; no matter whether she’s right or wrong, she’s still yore home town. Piperock is goin’ ahead by leaps and bounds. No more shall the war cry....”
“Listen, feller!” says Dirty. “You start that agin and I’ll kill yuh if it’s the last decent thing I do.”
“Well, get it from the Chamber of Commerce,” sighed Chuck. “Here they come!”
They came in single-file with Magpie in the lead and Old Testament Tilton bringin’ up the rear. Bein’ a minister don’t stop Testament from enterin’ a saloon. He ain’t very broad of forehead but he’s broadminded, just the same.
“Greetings from Piperock!” says Magpie when he sees us.
“Many happy returns of the day!” says Dirty Shirt.
Magpie is six feet, six inches tall and so skinny he could take a bath in a shotgun barrel. He’s got a long lean face, sad eyes like a bloodhound and a mustache that would be an asset to an undertaker. His mind is one vast conglomeration of good ideas with the vital parts missin’.
Wick is broad of beam, bow-legged and owns a mustache that would make a walrus green with envy. Buck is square-headed, pug-nosed, with plenty of girth and skinny legs. His voice is asthmatic from helpin’ himself to too much gin.
Testament is even taller and more skinny than Magpie. He owns a long nose, pointed chin and a wonderful faith in the hot end of the hereafter. He wears glasses which are so lopsided that ordinarily he’s lookin’ under one lens and over the top of the other.
“It is well with my soul to see you boys again,” says Old Testament. “We need you. Piperock needs every loyal son in these days of travail. You come at the opportune moment to see Piperock arise from the ashes of her past. No more shall the war cry....”
“Duck, Testament!” yelped Chuck. “Put up that gun, Dirty!” snaps Magpie. “What in hell are you aimin’ to do?”
Dirty’s eye jiggles violent-like for quite a while but finally comes back to its normal position, which is several degrees off center. He turns to Chuck.
“Gimme a quart. No, I’m goin’ to keep my gun in my hand and I’ll kill the first man who repeats that agin.”
He got his bottle and went out of there, walkin’ on his heels. He stops on the edge of the sidewalk, swings up his old six-gun and cuts loose at the little bell on top of Holt’s hall.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Three times the old gun roars and three times comes the musical clatter of the old bell. He shoves the gun in his holster, knocks the neck off the bottle, takes a long drink and then heads for the hitch-rack. In case he had missed one of them shots he’d have throwed away the bottle and headed for home, drunk enough.
“Things like that should be stopped,” said Testament. “It is a relic of uncivilization. It should be the function of the Chamber to obliterate the old order.”
“My God, yes!” explodes Wick. “Them damn bullets might glance off and kill somebody. There’s a lot of folks in this town that we might kinda work over.”
He looked right at me when he said that.
“You start workin’ on me and they’ll have to take up a subscription for yore tombstone,” says I. “And if yuh ever hop on old Dirty Shirt for his sins he’ll make ouija-board controls out of yore whole damn bunch.”
I went out, untied my burro and headed for the cabin which me and Magpie have always called home. I know Piperock from its belt both ways and I know trouble is brewin’. I’ve been butchered several times to make a Piperock holiday—and I sabe the symptoms.
After a little while Magpie comes home. He sets down and looks at me more in sadness than in anger. Me and him have been together for years.
“I never came back to this town yet that I didn’t find it broke out with somethin’,” says I. “Now settle yore stummick and tell me where yuh ache the worst, Magpie. What’s all this here movin’ pitcher business, anyway?”
“Scenery Sims,” says he. “He sold a livery-stable and bought a camera and films. He’s got an idea of makin’ one of them African pitchers, kinda advertisin’ to the world that Piperock is an art center.”
“And you gave him the idea, Magpie?”
“Well?”
“Why an African pitcher?”
“That’s what the story calls for, Ike.”
“Did you write the story?”
“Yea-a-ah, I wrote it, Ike. It’s called ‘The Queen of the Jungle of Africa.’”
“Who’s goin’ to be the queen?”
“That’s the hell of it. We ain’t got a girl in Piperock that could be the queen. Mrs. Wick Smith offered to do it.”
“Two hundred and twenty on the hoof.”
“Two hundred and forty, Ike; we weighed her today.”
“And this here Chamber of Commerce, Magpie?”
“I organized it, Ike, to elevate Piperock.”
“I sabe that part of it. Magpie, if all yore elevations of Piperock were piled on top of each other Piperock would be somethin’ to look at through a strong telescope. And why elevate Piperock?”
“For posterity.”
“What in hell has posterity to do with it?”
“Well, I dunno, Ike, except that we want to leave somethin’ for our children’s children and—”
“Yore children? Since when?”
“Washington saved this country, didn’t he? He didn’t have no children, did he? I ask you now, did he?”
“Is that any reason why you should wreck it? Mebby yo’re jealous of George. Kinda want to tear down what he built up. Just because he was known as the father of his country you want to be known as the mother-in-law, eh?”
“You’ve got mental astigmatism, Ike.”
“Well, I love Piperock too well to see her manhandled by you and yore three destroyers.”
“You don’t understand, Ike. This movin’ picture will bring Piperock to her proper place. All the world will know about us. It’s our greatest opportunity, I tell yuh. Them animals are incidental. There’s the remains of that defunct circus, made to order for our use and costin’ us only a nominal sum. We can make this picture with ’em and then we’ll build Piperock a zoological garden. It’ll be a place where yuh can see all kinds of queer animals and snakes, et cettery.”
“Why not put in a Keeley Institute?”
“Everybody don’t drink as heavy as you do, Ike. Now we can get them animals, includin’ a Nubian lion, a Royal Bengal tiger, an elephant, a camel, several monkeys, all for one thousand dollars. Why, it’s a chance of a lifetime.”
“Why don’tcha jump at it?”
“What would we use for money? And the worst of it all is, Paradise and Yaller Horse are jealous over this here motion picture we’re makin’ and they’re goin’ to try and block us from them animals. That’s one reason we inaugurated this Chamber of Commerce; a concerted group of public-minded men banded together to devise ways and means for raisin’ the money. Of course the Chamber is somethin’ that will endure.”
“It’ll have to—if yuh have to wait for that thousand.”
“I mean it will continue to function long after that motion picture has told the world of Piperock. Long after that little menagerie has grown to be the biggest conglomeration of beasts in the world the Piperock Chamber of Commerce will function steadily. It is a thing that will do good. Its mission in life is to make for a bigger and a better Piperock. No more shall the war cry....”
Wham! Magpie’s sombrero jumped twenty inches off his head and Magpie went backward over a chair.
I jumped about a foot myself and there is Dirty Shirt Jones leanin’ in through an open window, holdin’ his six-gun in his hand and with his bad eye jigglin’ plenty.
“Ike,” says he polite-like, “did you find my other boots in the pack when you undressed yore burro?”
“They’re hangin’ on the corral fence, Dirty,” says I.
“Thank yuh kindly, Ike.”
He turned around and went staggerin’ down to the corral, while Magpie got cautiously to his feet and picked up his sombrero.
“That’s just downright damn ignorance,” says Magpie.
“It shore was,” says I. “You should have had more sense.”
The next day me and Dirty Shirt went to Paradise, bein’ kinda wishful to hear another corner of the story, and we finds a representative gatherin’ of horse thieves in Bill McFee’s saloon. There’s Sig Watson, Eph Whittaker, Tellurium Woods, Banty Weyman and Swede Johnson. The greetin’ they gave us would frostbite an Eskimo.
“You acts as though we had robbed yore bank,” observes Dirty.
“You Piperockers has got a lot of nerve,” says Tellurium. “Whatcha tryin’ to do with yore measly hamlet? This movin’-pitcher idea makes us laugh. Advancement of Piperock! Are yuh tryin’ to make heel-yuh-tripe out of a polecat?”
“I’ll make tripe out of one in about a minute,” says Dirty. “If Piperock is wishful to lift herself out of the mud and leave you and Yaller Horse to flounder, what’s it to yuh, anyway? We came down here to greet yuh in a peaceful manner, but if yo’re lookin’ for trouble me and Ike will take on a contract to run the whole damn gang of yuh ragged.”
“You better be gettin’ a head-start,” says Bill, shovin’ a two-barrel riot-gun across the bar. “I’m beginnin’ to count and nobody but me knows where I stop countin’ and squeeze the trigger.”
Bill’s fairly reliable, so we went outside and walked down to the livery-stable, where we finds Art Miller, the stableman, and Barker, the animal man, settin’ in the shade.
“Mister Barker,” says Art, kinda sneerin’-like, “here’s a couple more Piperock misfits. Mebby they want to buy.”
“We don’t want nothin’ from Paradise,” says Dirty. “All we want to know is how many lies have been told about this here galaxy of animiles which Piperock is to acquire.”
“The price,” says Barker, “is one thousand.”
“Plus the feed bill,” says Art. “Don’t forget that.”
“I need no reminder,” says Barker. He’s a skinny little jigger with a heavy black mustache.
“Would yuh like to see ’em?” he asks.
“If it ain’t too much trouble.”
Art got up and walked to the big slidin’ doors.
“I’ll show ’em to yuh,” says he, “but I’ll make yuh a nice bet that Piperock don’t never git ’em.”
Art slid the doors open and goes in while me and Dirty are kinda waitin’ for the other to go in first, and then comes the sound of two objects meetin’ real sudden. It was kinda like:
So-o-ock!
And a second later Art Miller sails past us, turns over twice and comes to a stop on the seat of his pants in the street with a horse-collar around his neck.
Both of his eyes are cross-firin’ his nose for a minute and then he wails:
“Who in hell hung that work-harness in reach of that damn packydurham?”
“That was Jewel of India,” says Barker. “He throws things.”
“I sh’d judge he does,” says Dirty, softly closin’ the doors. “Inspection is over for t’day.”
“Oh, he’s probably all right now!” says Barker.
“So are we,” nods Dirty. “Thanks for the demonstration.”
We bowed pleasantly to him and went back up the street, while Art Miller limps back to the shade with the horse-collar still around his neck.
At the hitch-rack we are met by the gang from McFee’s saloon and they’re shore a stiff-necked outfit.
“We’re a committee,” says Tellurium. “It is our duty to notify yuh that Piperock ain’t goin’ to git nothin’ from Paradise. She keeps what she’s got. You pack that word back to yore village of vice-presidents, will yuh? And the less we see of you Piperockers the better we’ll like it.”
Bill is standin’ in the door of the saloon with the shotgun and by the expression of his lips he’s still countin’.
“That’s carryin’ intimidation too far,” says Dirty, as we slow up out of range. “That flea-ridden hamlet ain’t got no more use for them animiles than nothin’. I never had no use for ’em myself until I seen what that elephant done to Art Miller. Now I’m strong for elephants. There’s an animal with a sense of doin’ the right thing. Do yuh know anythin’ about ’em, Ike?”
“I know they’re a two-ended riggin’ with a thick skin and a couple of prongs on one end, and they ain’t considered vulnerable to anythin’ less than a cannon loaded with door-knobs and barb-wire.”
“They’d do well around here, Ike,” says he. “Yaller Rock County needs things with them qualifications. I’ll tell yuh, I’m shore interested in elephants since I seen that one make a ringer on Art Miller. It’s too bad that it wasn’t an anvil instead of a horse-collar.”
I tells Magpie what Paradise had to say and that night he calls a meetin’ of the Chamber of Commerce. I’m invited to attend but I declines and joins forces with Mighty and Dirty. I’ve got two hundred dollars cached in our cabin and Magpie knows where it is. I reckon I got kinda hazy durin’ that evenin’, ’cause I used up considerable credit with Buck Masterson, and when I looked in that cache the money is gone and in its place is a bill-of-sale for one Nubian lion, delivery of which is guaranteed by the Piperock Chamber of Commerce.
I buckles on my gun and goes huntin’ for the president of that august body but soon finds that he’s gone to Paradise with the rest of the board. I finds Dirty Shirt settin’ on the sidewalk in front of Wick’s store and his bad eye is loopin’ the loop considerable.
“Did you drink the same kinda stuff I did last night?” he asks me.
“I’m inclined to think I did, Dirty.”
“Are yuh sane this mornin’?”
“I reckon I am. I’m crazy in a way, of course.”
“One way’s as bad as another, Ike. Look at this!”
He hands me a bill-of-sale just like mine, only his is for one Indian elephant.
“Who knew where yuh cached yore money?” I asks.
“Just and only me, Ike. I dug it up of my own free will.”
“I didn’t. Magpie stole mine and left a bill-of-sale for one Nubian lion.”
“Oh, my God! Let’s get a drink.”
We found Mighty Jones settin’ in there, holdin’ his head in his hands. He squints at us, rubs his chin with the back of his right hand and says:
“Figurin’ any old way yuh want to, gents, what’s a R’yal Bingal tiger worth on the open market?”
Me and Dirty stare at him for a while but he don’t mind.
“You ain’t aimin’ to go into the tiger business, are yuh, Mighty?” asks Dirty Shirt.
“Aimin’ to? Hell, I’m in it already!”
He reaches in his pocket and brings out a bill-of-sale which shows that Mighty Jones is sole owner of one Royal Bengal tiger and has paid two hundred dollars in coin of the realm.
“How didja happen to do this?” I asks.
“Civic pride, Ike. I shore had plenty of it last night, but she’s done oozed away. It was every cent I owned and I was savin’ up for my old age.”
“You won’t need it, Mighty,” soothes Dirty. “If half of what I’ve heard about tigers is true, old age won’t never bother you none and you won’t even have to spend a cent for burial. Where’s Buck?”
“Him and the Chamber of Commerce has gone to Paradise to git an option on them animals. Said they had six hundred in cash and all they need is four hundred more. Won’t Paradise and Yaller Horse be sore?”
“If they’re lookin’ for sore spots, they don’t need to go that far,” says I.
Well, this Barker person sells them an option for five hundred dollars with the consideration that they’ll let him live under Piperock’s protection until we raises the other five hundred. He don’t look so awful bright but he don’t need to read any handwritin’ on the wall to know that Paradise won’t appreciate that option. Magpie paid him five hundred and they put that extra hundred in the treasury. It was Testament’s idea because he’s treasurer.
Barker moved down with me and Magpie and that night he told us all about how he went busted in the circus business and his actors all left him when the treasurer ran away with the money. He admits that he don’t know anythin’ about animals but he does say that we’re gettin’ ’em dirt cheap at that price. Says that the Nubian lion has killed three men—which makes him valuable.
It didn’t make my bill-of-sale look any better to me. I asked Magpie what he meant by swipin’ that money from me and he said I wouldn’t lose because I had perfectly good collateral in the lion. Barker tells me that the lion is worth a thousand dollars in any country.
It seems that Scenery Sims ain’t took none of the picture yet because they can’t exactly agree on who is goin’ to be the hero. He goes on the theory that united we stand, divided we fall apart; so Magpie and him are tryin’ to arrange it so that there won’t be no hero.
In the first part of the story the hero fights a wild lion and kills him with his bare hands. After he’s killed the lion he finds a collar on the lion and tied to the collar is a message from the queen of the jungle, which is a white girl, askin’ for somebody to rescue her.
That’s about as far as they’ve got. But that’s plenty work for some cowpuncher. I can’t see why there should be any jealousy over who kills that lion but I do want to know what in hell is goin’ to become of the zoological garden and my two hundred dollars.
Magpie says he’s been doin’ plenty thinkin’ about it and mebby they’ll just choke the lion unconscious, instead of killin’ it.
The next day Tombstone Todd, Hair-Oil Heppner and Half-Mile Smith all came over from Yaller Horse. Them three jiggers would make Captain Kidd look like a psalm-singin’ missionary. Tombstone claims that his sportin’ instinct prevents him from shootin’ a man except on the run. He’s a wing-shot with a six-gun and he’s so mean that he has a perpetual ache.
Hair-Oil ain’t got no scruples. Neither has Half-Mile, for that matter. When he runs out of cartridges he throws rocks. Nobody asked ’em why they comes to Piperock. They ain’t the kinda folks that yuh pokes questions at unless yuh want a real hot answer.
But I knowed that they wasn’t just spendin’ the day in Piperock. Tombstone is packin’ two guns and he takes his drinks with his back to the bar. Scenery Sims brings his three-legged picture machine up to the saloon, took one look at this trio from Yaller Horse and took it right back home.
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Tombstone. “I thought I was goin’ t’ have m’ pitcher took but I reckon I scared that little chicken-necked wimpus out of a year’s growth. So that’s the contraption that’s goin’ to elevate Piperock above the rest of us, eh?”
“’F I was you I wouldn’t talk too loud,” says Dirty Shirt. “Yo’re in Piperock, yuh must remember.”
“Remember?” snorts Tombstone. “We came here to start a argument, you jangle-eyed juniper bug. Start talkin’. Us three from Yaller Horse is more ’n a match for yore hull damn town. We ain’t noways strong on uplift but we’re shore hell on the knock-down. Cut yore wolf loose, Piperock!”
“Are you-all backin’ Paradise’s play?” asked Dirty.
“T’ hell with Paradise!” roars Half-Mile. “We’re agin both of yuh. We’re wise to all yore skulduggery and yuh can’t git away with it. We’ve been to Paradise t’day and they shore heard from us. Fact of the matter is, they’ve throwed an armed guard around Miller’s livery-stable.”
“Why don’tcha throw in with us?” says I. “Mebby we might make it together. We’d throw our zoological garden open to you Yaller Horse folks any time yuh might come over.”
“You go to hell!” explodes Hair-Oil. “We don’t split with anybody. We rise or fall on our own merits. Where’s this here Barker person who purports to own them animiles? We aims to tan his hide and sell it to the highest bidder for a chair cover. Either you or Paradise has got him hid.”
“Piperock ain’t hidin’ nothin’ from you snake-hunters,” says Dirty Shirt. “If we had him we’d keep him, Hair-Oil. You three rabbit-faced geewhinkuses couldn’t take a stick of candy away from a Piperock baby.”
Tombstone kinda jerks like he had nervous trouble; but he ain’t; he’s just scared to start anythin’. They all know Dirty Shirt well enough to go easy.
“We’ll git what we want,” says Hair-Oil.
“You’ll prob’ly git what yuh need,” says Dirty.
After while they halts drinkin’ and Tombstone says to me:
“Ike, I hear that Piperock has a option on them animals.”
“She has, Tombstone. Nobody can touch ’em.”
“That’s what I heard in Paradise. They’re lookin’ for Barker too. At least they say they are, but they’re almost as big liars as Piperock, so we don’t know what to think.”
“Well, if yuh can’t think any straighter than yuh can talk it wouldn’t do yuh any good, anyway,” says Dirty.
We left ’em and went down to our shack, where we finds Magpie, Scenery and Barker. Scenery has told ’em about the three representatives from Yaller Horse and Barker shore is uneasy.
“I better get away from here,” says he. “They probably know I’m here. Somebody in Paradise told them.”
“Where’d yuh go?” asks Magpie.
“I don’t know.”
“Suppose yuh slip out to my place,” says Dirty. “Magpie, you saddle a horse for him while I slide back to Buck’s place and see what’s goin’ on. He can circle the town and meet me. It’s a cinch them fellers won’t foller me.”
“That would suit me better,” says Barker. “I ain’t much of a rider but if you’ve got a gentle horse—”
“Which I ain’t,” says Magpie. “But this one will take yuh there and that’s the main thing right now.”
Magpie ducks out to the stable while Barker puts on his blue coat and brown derby. I plumb forgot to tell yuh about that brown derby. And he wears a suit that’s as blue as the sky.
Dirty walks out the front door, turns around and comes right in again, his bad eye cuttin’ circles.
“My God!” he snorts. “Here comes Yaller Horse!”
I runs to a window and looks out and I sees them three cheerful murderers within two hundred yards of our shack, comin’ along kinda slow. About this time Magpie falls in through the back door wavin’ his arms.
“They’re comin’!” he snorts. “Somebody must ’a’ told ’em. Ike, you’ve got to be a hero. Take Barker’s coat and hat. Quick, you damn fool! Put ’em on and grab that horse. While they’re chasin’ you we’ll hide Barker.”
There wasn’t no chance to argue. I know danged well that Yaller Horse never owned a bronc that could catch that long-legged, rat-tailed mare of Magpie’s, so I shucked the coat off Barker, slipped it on and grabbed his hat.
By this time I ain’t got fifty yards start and them three riders have split out to surround us. The danged coat don’t fit me by inches and the brown derby balances on top of my head, but I yank it down the best I can and lope out through the back doorway.
Well, that rat-tailed mare takes one good look at me, yanks back, busts the halter-rope and heads for Paradise with me hangin’ to one stirrup with one hand and to that derby hat with the other.
Man, we went! I was takin’ twenty-foot steps while that rat-tailed mare sticks her nose out straight and acts as though she thought I was tryin’ to outrun her. I can hear plenty yelpin’ behind us. I knowed it was only a question of so many jumps before I’m all out of condition. You just try taking twenty-foot steps and comin’ down on high heels every time yuh hit earth. I can feel my backbone gettin’ shorter and shorter when all to once a rope encircles my lungin’ form and I feel myself doin’ a pin-wheel in the air. The jerk wasn’t bad and the pin-wheels were kinda exhilaratin’ but the stop was awful.
I don’t know what happened after that, as I’m kinda comatose, as it were. But I woke up with a terrible pain in my chest and looks around. My feet and hands are free but I seem to be hangin’ in space. After a while my vision gets normal and I finds that I’m hangin’ from a limb on an old cottonwood tree about a mile from Piperock, along the road to Paradise.
There’s a lariat rope around under my arms and the end of it is tied off to a lower limb. And on the top of the old tree sets a buzzard, lookin’ at me kinda anxious-like. I reaches in my pocket, got out my pocket-knife and cut the rope just above the brim of that derby, which is all that’s left of the hat.
Well, I lit so hard that one knee hit me in the chin and I was knocked out again. But this time I came back pretty quick. There’s a board nailed to the tree on which is painted in black letters:
ZOO BY THE CITY OF YALLER
HORSE
That made me mad. I’m in bad shape but that don’t mean anythin’ to me. One leg wants to go east and my neck has been twisted so that I want to look west and the collar is all that’s holdin’ the coat on my back, but I’m shore all set to kill somebody.
I’m kinda tackin’ with the wind, usin’ one arm behind me as sort of a rudder when I meets Dirty Shirt and Mighty. They has to kinda go out of their way to meet me face to face, but we finally made it and I dug in both heels in order to come to a complete stop.
“My God!” says Dirty. “Yo’re a mess, Ike Harper!”
“Am I?” says I. I wasn’t sure because I can’t look down at myself. “What happened to Barker?”
“He didn’t wait for no horse, Ike. And if he kept goin’ as fast as he started he’s across the Canadian border by this time. Magpie took after him on yore bronc ’cause he don’t want to lose that option money, but yore bronc won’t never be able to overtake him. We wondered what they’d do to you.”
“Well, yuh can see, can’t yuh?”
“Uh-huh! Say, Ike, you shore can run. There was times when it looked as though yuh was goin’ to outrun that rat-tail mare. Here! Have a little shot of hooch. We’ve got plenty and it might kinda take the kinks out of yuh. You shore saved Barker’s life and the Chamber of Commerce ort to do somethin’ for yuh.”
“Oh, yeah!” says I, lowerin’ that quart by about a pint. “They’ll probably give me a bill-of-sale for a row-boat or some other damn thing that yuh can’t use out here.”
We went back to my shack but we don’t find Magpie there. I’ve got a couple of bottles and between them and a bottle of horse liniment I got to feelin’ pretty good again.
“I’ll tell yuh about me,” says Dirty, his eye jigglin’. “P’session is nine points in the law.”
“Meanin’ which?” asks Mighty.
“Meanin’ that I don’t aim to lose my elephant. If Paradise thinks for a minute that they can keep me away from what I own they’re plumb crazy.”
“That’s me all over,” declares Mighty, takin’ another big drink. “Me and you thinks the same things. But how?”
“I been makin’ queries,” says Dirty. “That there elephant will either ride or herd. The lion and tiger are both in one of them big animal wagons with the closed sides. The cages are built inside the box and if we could hitch a team to that wagon—”
“Yuh mean—we’d steal ’em, Dirty?”
“Steal, hell! Ain’t we the legal owners? Gimme that bottle. What do yuh think of the idea, Ike?”
“Well,” says I, “I’m all bent to hell, anyway, so I might as well get what belongs to me. Mebby I can teach that lion to lead me around. If my sense of direction gets any worse, I’ll shore as hell need guidance.”
As soon as we run out of liquor we went up to Buck’s place and Chuck told us that the Chamber of Commerce had headed for Paradise, taking Judge Steele along to argue their case for them.
“Since when did a Piperocker have to appeal to the law?” demands Dirty.
“Since this here Chamber of Commerce started to run the affairs of the nation,” replies Chuck.
“Then the best thing we can do is to kill all four of them damn fools. Give us four quarts of liquor, Chuck; we’re also goin’ to Paradise but the only law we pack along is the right of might and old Man Colt.”
“All right, gents! What in hell is the matter with you, Ike?”
“I’m the burnt offerin’ that the Bible speaks about.”
We went down to Mighty Jones’ place, where we gets his team of horses and puts the harness on ’em. They ain’t what you’d call broke horses, bein’ as they’ve only had the harness on twice, so we snubbed ’em to our saddle-horns and headed for Paradise. I’m ridin’ a hammer-headed sorrel which belongs to Mighty, and between that animal and the one I’m leadin’ I’m almost bent back to normal inside of five minutes.
It was dark when we hit Paradise, so we tied the horses to a hitch-rack on a side street and works our way around to Bill McFee’s saloon. There’s kind of a strained feelin’ around Paradise. In the saloon we finds a lot of folks, includin’ our Chamber of Commerce, plus Judge Steele, who don’t know any more about law than I do about Nubian lions. And also there, as big as life, are them three murderers from Yaller Horse.
Old Judge Steele has just finished an address, but there ain’t no applause except from the Chamber of Commerce.
“Speakin’ for Paradise,” says Bill McFee, “I’ll tell both Piperock and Yaller Horse to go to hell. Possession is nine points in the law—and Paradise possesses.”
“But our option was sold ahead of yours,” argues Tombstone. “It’s dated two days ahead of the one Paradise got. By all rights we own them animiles.”
“You better keep yore beak out of this, Tombstone,” warns Hank Padden. “You fellers is in the minority. You only paid two hundred for yore option.”
“We stick to the bitter end,” says Half-Mile. “As fur as numbers is concerned we’re plumb weak, we admit, but when the roll is called old Yaller Horse will have three responses. Yuh can’t run no blazer on us, Hank.”
“No more shall the war cry sever,” mutters Mighty Jones as the three of us back out of there. But Dirty Shirt didn’t mind what Mighty said about the war cry severin’; he was too sore at Paradise.
But that Yaller Horse gang saw us going out. I tried to thumb my nose at Tombstone but I’m so crippled that I hit myself in the eye with my elbow. We had another drink and then went down to the livery-stable.
Art Miller is settin’ out in front, with a shotgun across his knees; so the three of us holds a council of war.
“Yo’re already hors de compact, Ike,” says Dirty. “You go and talk with Art while me and Mighty looks over the lay of the land. We mebby can roll that wagon out the back door.”
I’m plumb willin’, so they gave me a spare bottle and I tacks up to the front door while Dirty and Mighty circle the stable to get in at the rear.
“Who goes there?” asks Art when I comes in range.
“I ain’t goin’—I’m comin’, Art,” says I.
“Howdy, Ike. My hell, you shore walk antegodlin!”
“I’m the lamb they led to the slaughter. How’s everythin’?”
“I’m askin’ you. What’s goin’ on at Bill’s place? They’ve been in conference for over an hour.”
“Just arguin’ over them options. I reckon Barker took one from every town, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, he did. And he owes me a couple hundred for feed. I’ve got them animals in my care and here they stay until I get my money. I ain’t playin’ no fav’rites, Ike. I’m not....”
Hr-r-r-rumph! Rr-r-r-r-rowff!
In spite of my condition, I jumps about a foot.
“That’s the Nubian lion,” says Art. “He’s hungry.”
“Do yuh reckon he really killed three men, Art?”
“Oh, shore!”
“Can’t get loose, can he?”
“Hell, no! There’s a pin through the staple on the cages.”
“How about the elephant?”
“He’s in a box-stall. All he wants is a bale of hay once in a while. He’s shore scared of that tiger. Barker tells me that they’re natcheral enemies. I wish t’ God I could git rid of ’em. Yuh see—”
Art was so interested in his own conversation that he didn’t see Magpie, Buck, Wick, Scenery and Testament until they were too close for him to raise that shotgun.
“Jist be reasonable,” says Magpie. “We don’t aim to hurt anybody, Art. You just unlock the stable door and we’ll take what belongs to us.”
“You’ve got to pay me two hundred dollars,” wails Art. “That’s the amount of the feed bill.”
“You’ll git yore reward in Heaven,” says Scenery in his squeaky voice. “We want them animals.”
“Has Paradise throwed me down?” wailed Art.
“Temp’rarily,” laughs Buck. “They’re shakin’ dice with Yaller Horse to see who owns the animals. Damn ’em, they’ve cut us out ’cause both of their options are ahead of ours, but p’session is nine points in the law—and we aims to p’sess. Unlock the door, Art. Or do we have to bust—”
Crash! Bam! Yee-e-e-o-o-owee!
“He-e-e-ey! What in hell are yuh doin’?”
“Ho-o-o-o-old fast! Look out!”
But the rest of it is a medley of tiger, lion and elephant talk, mixed up with six-shooter bangs and cowboy yelps.
“What the hell is goin’ on in there?” yells Magpie.
Then came the deluge. That big stable door, which is wide and high enough to accommodate a load of hay, just lifts loose on one end and picks us up like a lot of flies on the leaf of a book.
I landed plumb out in the middle of the street on my neck and ears and above me I sees the tawny form of that Nubian lion comin’ right down on top of me. I didn’t have no time to gird up my loins for battle, so I reaches up with both hands and takes Mister Lion to my bosom.
I didn’t need to reach ’cause that lion wasn’t going to pass me up, and we came together so hard that I drove both of my elbows into that hard street like a couple of tent stakes. Not bein’ a experienced lion killer, I jist had to fight him the best way I could. It’s dark and the dust is deep, but a Harper never quits. Me and that lion went around the street like a couple of measurin’ worms, first one on top and then the other. Every time I come down hard it kinda knocks the dust out of my ears and I hears yells, shots, horses runnin’ and plenty of other noises.
We finally ended up against the waterin’ trough where I hammers the lion’s head against the pump so damn hard that he decided to call it a evenin’ and quit warrin’. I can’t see and I can’t hear and my travelin’ apparatus is all jambed to hell, but I’ve got my two-hundred-dollar lion tamed to the queen’s taste. So I takes him by a front paw and drags him up the street.
Anyway, I intended draggin’ him up the street, but both of my legs has got sort of a eastern idea and I ends up at the back door of Bill McFee’s saloon. I kicks the door open and backs in, draggin’ the King of Beasts along with me.
The place is deserted, it seems. I can barely see around the room when in comes the Royal Bengal tiger. He kinda oozed in through the front door, stops in the middle of the floor and goes flat on his belly. But I ain’t scared. I’m settin’ on my Nubian lion but now I gets up and says:
“Sic ’m, Nubie! Claw hell out of that convict cat.”
“Ca-whooff!” sneezes my lion and the tiger’s hair all turned the wrong way.
“G’l ding it!” wails my lion. “Whazza-metter ’round here?”
I leaned down and looks real close for the first time and I finds that I’m still short one Nubian lion. It’s Tombstone Todd, and I’ve shore paid him back for what he done to me that afternoon.
“Ain’t you a lion?” I asks.
Tombstone shakes his head kinda dazed-like.
“I’m tellin’ yuh the truth,” he said.
I’ve lost track of that tiger. Folks are yellin’ around outside the place and somebody is shore gettin’ familiar with a six-gun because three bullets didn’t miss me more than a foot. I ducked back of the bar to get a drink, when all to once the saloon begins to shake like an earthquake and I looked up in time to see that elephant tryin’ to back out of the doorway with the whole front end of the saloon on its shoulders.
Half-Mile Smith and Bill McFee staggers in the back door, turns around and starts to stagger out together, but the doorway is too narrow and they got stuck. Part of the back-bar fell down and the bottles went rollin’ across the floor when the elephant removed the front of the saloon.
I was shore duckin’ around tryin’ to get out of the way when I seen Tombstone Todd gettin’ to his feet with a bottle in each hand. Tombstone ain’t got many clothes left and I don’t suppose his eyesight is half as good as mine, which ain’t sayin’ much for Tombstone.
Wham! He whirled around like a baseball pitcher and flung that bottle toward the corner beyond the pool-table.
“Damn you, Ike Harper!” he yelps. “Come out and fight like a man!”
Bam! The other bottle followed the first one but this time there was just a dull thud, a chokin’ screech and that tiger came out from under that table like a yaller-and-black streak.
I dunno whether the tiger meant to attack Tombstone or whether it just wanted room to run, but they came together long enough for Tombstone to fold both arms around its flanks and they went out of there with Tombstone’s feet in the air and the tiger diggin’ deep in his soul for sounds to tell the world that he didn’t like the way things was breakin’ for him in Paradise.
“Wh-wh-where dud-dud-did he guggo?” asks a voice and there stands Dirty Shirt in the open front of the building. All he’s got on is his hat and half of his pants and his boots.
“Which one does you allude to?” I asks.
“Juj-Jewel of India. My Injy-rubber ox. I was on him but the house fell on me. Damn it, yuh can’t guide him!”
“I ain’t got him,” says I.
“I see yuh ain’t, Ike.”
He turns his head sideways and stares at somethin’. Then he reaches out one foot kinda cautious-like, without lookin’ stubs his toe over the busted door-sill and fell flat on his face. I just batted my eyes once and there stands that damn Nubian lion, mumblin’ and mumblin’, his lower jaw hangin’ down like a busted trap-door. He nosed at Dirty Shirt for a moment and then walked right over him, lookin’ at me.
“Now I lay me down to sleep,” says Dirty, hidin’ his head in his hands. “I pray—I pray—I—I pray—”
“Owr-r-rhoo-o-o-off!” squalls that lion.
I look toward the back door and there is Half-Mile and Bill, still stuck in that narrow doorway. Just try to remember that all this is happenin’ real fast.
The lion came toward me and I can’t do a damn thing, just kinda look over him and blink my eyes. I’ve lost my gun and the power of movement and speech. I feels him smell of my knee and I expects to lose that joint real sudden, but he moved on past and looked at them two frozen images stuck in the back door.
His tail switches my leg, like somebody swishin’ a bull-whip, and before I realizes what I’m doin’ I reach down with both hands and grab hold of that tail.
Never grab a lion’s tail, especially when that lion has room in front to move real sudden. I realized it too late when I went upside down and through the air like the tail of a comet. We hit Half-Mile and Bill all in a heap and we shore cleared that doorway. I think I let loose when the lion went over the top of Bill McFee’s little corral because I woke up with one arm and one leg through the fence and lion-tail burns on the palms of my hands.
I must have been hangin’ there asleep for quite a while, because when I fell loose and twisted my way over to the back door of the saloon there’s quite a crowd in there. My sight ain’t so good, but I can hear pretty fair and I hears Tellurium Woods sayin’:
“Well, by God, somebody is goin’ to pay for this! Look at the front of this place.”
“Somebody will pay,” wails Bill McFee.
“My God, what a round-up!” yelps Eph Whittaker. “Look at me, will yuh? That damn elephant throwed me plumb over the livery-stable fence. Picked me up like—”
“Well, they’re all in the cages, anyway,” interrupts Art Miller. “Now what’s to be done?”
I didn’t wait for anythin’ more. Makin’ my painful way around to the street, I heads for the horses, where I finds Mighty and Scenery. They’re in awful shape but a Piperocker never quits.
“Where’s Dirty?” I asks and I’m surprised that my voice won’t run even. It jumps from bass to soprano.
“He’s some’ers,” groans Mighty. “Some’ers with that damn two-ended critter of destruction.”
I tells ’em what I heard at the saloon.
“Now’s the time to act,” says I. “They think we’re all dead or crippled too bad to do anythin’, so we’ll take the team and hitch onto that wagon.”
Well, it was a job! Not one of the three of us can travel in a straight line but we got there. The whole front of the livery-stable is missin’. We hitched that half-broke team to that circus wagon, all got aboard and yelled at the team.
It was a heavy wagon but weight didn’t mean anythin’ to them broncs. They yanked us out of there and we turned on two wheels in the middle of the street. Straight up past Bill’s saloon we went with that team on the dead run, the tall wagon with the pictures on the sides weavin’ like a ship in a storm.
They heard us comin’ and they came out of the busted saloon on the run, but every horse in town except the ones we had on that side street has pulled out for parts unknown and all the gang can do is to empty their guns at us and yell to beat hell.
Mighty is hangin’ to the top of that wagon, yellin’ at the top of his voice:
“P’session is nine points in the law—and we p’sess!”
“By God, we’ll make that picture after all!” yells Scenery. “Piperock forever!”
“One and indigestible!” says I, tryin’ to take up more slack in them lines. It was the first time since we left Paradise that I tried to check the team and now them lines kept right on comin’ until I had ’em all in my hands.
“My God, we forgot to snap the lines to the bits!” I yelled in Scenery’s ear. “We’re runnin’ away!”
“Who the hell wants to stop?” he squeaked.
We was shore coverin’ ground ’cause the road was slightly down-hill and them broncs runnin’ blind. It’s moonlight and all to once we sees somethin’ that looks like a young house ahead of us in the road. It’s the Jewel of India and right behind him is Dirty Shirt, more bow-legged than ever, packin’ a fence-rail in both hands. He’s takin’ his elephant to Piperock all alone.
Yuh can’t help admirin’ him for his nerve and civic pride, but the damn fool is blockin’ our road. There wasn’t time to explain things even to a normal man and I’m of the opinion that Dirty was a long ways from normal. No normal man would take a fence-rail and herd a strange elephant down a crooked road in the moonlight.
But we didn’t hit ’em. Them half-crazy broncs were runnin’ wild as fools, but when they was about three jumps from that elephant they just naturally jack-knifed that wagon and went hurdlin’ off down the side of the slope, yankin’ the wagon off the road within six feet of Dirty and the rear end of the elephant. Mighty and Scenery didn’t stay with me. I reckon they was braced for the shock, which didn’t come, and when we bent real sudden-like they kept on goin’ straight ahead.
I tried to jump but it was no use; my legs refused to answer my call. But it didn’t matter. One place was as good as another, and about six jumps later the front wheels of that wagon socked into a narrow wash-out, the tugs busted and I got an upside down view of Yaller Rock County. For a while I seemed to float above that tumblin’ team and then I came to rest in a clump of greasewood, flat on my back.
I wasn’t there long, but I parted with most of my clothes, except what was left of that blue coat, in the greasewood. I stumbled around in the moonlight and finally managed to locate that wagon. It was upside down and all the fancy dinguses had been knocked off the top. I reckon the team was still goin’ because there wasn’t any sign of ’em.
I’m settin’ there on a rock, meditatin’ on what a damn fool a man can be when here comes Mighty and Scenery, helpin’ each other along down the hill.
“Use yore left foot, Scenery,” says Mighty. “I’m doin’ it all.”
“What left foot?” wails Scenery. “God, I ain’t had a left foot since you knocked the pin out of the tiger cage. What was yore idea, anyway?”
“He belonged to me, didn’t he? Here’s yore left foot. Don’t drag it thataway! Where’s Ike? Oh, Ike! Betcha he’s dead, Scenery. Oh, Ike, are yuh dead?”
“Here he comes, Mighty. Don’tcha see him? Hello, Ike!”
“That ain’t Ike—that’s Adam! He ain’t got no clothes. Who in hell are you, feller?”
“I’m the damn fool that herded elephants,” says a weak voice. “M’ name was Dirty Shirt Jones.”
“Are you alive, Dirty Shirt?” asks Scenery.
“A-a-aw, don’t be a damn fool all yore life—of course I’m not.”
I got one look at Dirty Shirt and I give you my word, he’s as nude as the day he was born. He’s standin’ on a little rise and the moon makes a halo around his bow-legs.
“I’m down here,” says I, and they all comes limpin’.
“Wrecked, eh?” wails Scenery.
“Yuh damn right. How are yuh, Dirty Shirt? How do yuh feel?”
“Feel of me!” groans Dirty. “I can’t. That damn elephant turned on me, gents! I busted the fence-rail across his nose and then he lassoed me with his front end and flung me plumb out of my clothes. My God, they’re stout things!”
“My God!” exploded Scenery. “Them cage doors is busted open. Let’s get away before them danged claw-footed things rise more hell with us. Can’tcha see they’re open? When the wagon turned over them pins fell out and—”
“Shoot him!” choked Mighty. “They’re comin’ out! Won’t some of yuh shoot? They’re sneakin’ on us!”
“Now I lay me down to sleep,” prays Dirty. “I pup-pray—”
“If there’s goin’ to be any shootin’,” says the voice of Magpie Simpkins, “I’m goin’ to be in on it.”
And the voice came from the busted wagon.
“My God and little fishes!” snorted Mighty Jones. “It’s the Piperock Chamber of Commerce!”
They crawled out in single-file, Magpie first, with Wick, Buck and Old Testament crawlin’ behind him. They squatted along in a line while we sets there in the moonlight and looks ’em over.
“I—I guess we lost out,” quavers Testament.
“How in hell didja get in them cages?” I asks.
“That’s a hard question to answer,” says Magpie. “All I know is that in the general riot I got knocked on the head and—”
“Same here!” says Wick and Buck together.
“Amen!” groans Testament.
“They must ’a’ been goin’ to punish ’em for their sins,” says Mighty, awed-like.
“Jist try follerin’ an elephant and no damn human’s wrath will ever dent yuh,” says Dirty Shirt. “I lose two hundred dollars in cash but I got a million in experience.”
“Everybody loses,” sighs Magpie. “Barker is gone and I reckon the animals are gone too. It’s good-by African drammer, Scenery.”
“Thank God! I never did hold with them furrin’ things.”
I’m fumblin’ in my pockets for some cigaret papers, and in an inside pocket of that blue coat I finds a leather book of some kind, which I unfolds and looks it over. As far as I can see it’s plumb full of money. I lights a match and counts it over while the rest of the sufferin’ scarecrows crowd in and help me count it.
“Twelve hundred dollars!” explodes Magpie. “There’s the five from Piperock, the five from Paradise and the two from Yaller Horse.”
We just sets there and thinks it over.
“Life,” says Testament, “is fleetin’.”
“Yo’re right!” agrees Magpie Simpkins. “As long as a man minds his own dang business around here his life just fleets. But any old time he horns in on somethin’ that don’t concern him his life assumes a muzzle velocity of somethin’ like five thousand feet per second, duly describes the usual arc and hits the earth with a dull thud.”
All of which takes us back to where we started to tell this story, and as that makes both ends meet and there’s nothin’ left but the distribution of the money and applications of liniment, why say any more?
- This story appeared in the June, 1928 issue of McClure’s Magazine. This story is believed to be in the public domain in the United States. Please note that copyright status may differ in other countries.
- The cover image was produced by the transcriber and is released into the public domain.