The Project Gutenberg eBook of Inside information

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Title: Inside information

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: June 26, 2026 [eBook #78955]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1919

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78955

Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INSIDE INFORMATION ***

INSIDE INFORMATION

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Local Option in Loco Land,” “Pirates from Piperock,” etc.

He wasn’t very big, that feller christened Alexander Claypool by honest but Missouri parents, but he had a heap of faith in his ability. Once upon a time he hopped on to a big hombre and proclaims to injure him to a great extent. The big feller says—

“Little person, put on your coat or I’ll bend you plumb out of shape.”

And then Alexander Claypool hops upon his discarded clothes, cracks his heels together and proclaims—

“I’m small but I’m Gawd A’mighty Jones!”

Thereupon he becomes known to all men as “Mighty” Jones, and Alexander Claypool goes into the discard.

Number two was handed the appellation of Arthur Chesterton when he comes into this here vale of tears, but later on, after he shucks parental care, he opines to wear a buckskin shirt. Being as buckskin ain’t noways partial to laundry trials, in the course of time he acquires the name of “Dirty Shirt.” This being a heap appropriate, Arthur Chesterton is an also-ran.

Number three claims that when his paw and maw looked upon him in infancy with loving eyes, maw nodded when paw said—

“We’ll call him Amos Carter.”

Amos Carter grew up and pilgrimed West, where he ebbed and flowed across the sands of time until he hives up permanently near Piperock, after beating a posse across the line.

Seems like Amos procures a birthday and opines to show the town of Last Chance what real wear and tear looks like. He went broke during the opening chapter and goes into a jewelry store to see if he can pawn his gun. He shoves the gun across the counter and an obliging clerk fills a sack with all the plunder in the place and hands it to Amos, who thanked him profusely, left his gun on the counter and went out to show the natives a new way to drink whisky straight.

Seems like the clerk mistook Amos’ well-meant motives and joined forces with the city marshal, and between ’em they busts up Amos’ party. Amos ain’t got no gun, but he’s got a fast bronc and he arrives in Piperock broke, being as he left his pistol compensation on the first bar. His tale of woe lost him his good name and from that time on he pricks up his ears at the sound of “Jewelry.”

And they was all named Jones.

That ain’t all the Joneses in the State, but they’re all that seem to figure in this tale of trouble.

Me? I’m Ike Harper. Seems like fate intended me to be a innocent bystander. I comes of a good family, well bred and all such tender things that don’t get you nothing in poker games or gun fights, and the only thing that folks can say against me is the fact that I’m a pardner of Magpie Simpkins, the sheriff, and tender of heart.

Dirty Shirt Jones is plumb out of line in one eye, walks like somebody was kicking him behind the knees, and his mustache don’t grow in no particular direction.

Jewelry Jones is about sixteen years old in the head and seventy-five in the feet. He looks in the face like fate had intended him for a Siwash totem-pole, then got religion and repented. Jewelry is one of them tapering sort of hombres—tapering from his feet upwards.

Mighty Jones squeaks when he walks or talks, being as he’s hoarse of voice and hobnailed of hoof. He lives to argue and feel sorry for Mighty. He gets religion every time “Old Testament” Tilton stops at his shack, and he gets drunk every time he stops at a saloon. He owns an ingrown conviction that he was born to get shot accidental, and a lot of good citizens have tried to prove him wrong by acting intentional.

Now that introductions are over, I will proceed. Comes a morn in Spring such as the poets sing about, when the magpies hunt for what died during the last big snow and the coyotes dig new bungaloos in the sunny side of the hills.

On such a morn we’re setting in the sun outside of Wick Smith’s store and post-office at Piperock. The stage has just come in, bringing the usual amount of plunder from Paradise and mail from all points of the compass. Mail don’t mean nothing to Piperock, being as them who live there don’t write for fear folks might find out where they are, and them who do know we’re here don’t write because we live here.

Them three Jones persons, old Judge Steele, Magpie Simpkins and myself sets there on the steps and argues about whether if General Grant hadn’t been so busy fighting the battle of the Alamo, would the Boer War been over sooner. We settles that and then comes a difference of opinion as to whether the Santa Maria was Captain Kidd’s flagship or was it the Mexican gunboat that sunk the Merrimac, when Wick Smith comes out with a letter in his hand.

“Gents,” says he, “not knowing your original birth or baptism names, I asks you all and sundry which of you Jones’ has the initials A. C. before the family cognomen?”

“Present,” says Mighty, standing up.

“Here in person,” says Dirty.

“Mine!” snaps Jewelry, holding out his hand.

Wick looks at all three of ’em and shakes his head.

“One letter can’t be for all three,” says he.

“This is for A. C. Jones, E-squire.”

“The same of which differentiates me from the common or hillside variety,” states Dirty Shirt.

“Now, now, I know she’s mine,” stutters Mighty, hitching his belt.

“Like —— it is!” snorts Jewelry. “Hand her over, Wick. Them is the magic words what makes me sure she’s mine. I got a letter once and that’s the way she was inscribed. I’m reaching, Wick.”

“A. C. stands for Alexander Claypool,” announces Mighty in a high voice.

“She’s Arthur Chesterton, if you asks me,” proclaims Dirty Shirt.

“Huh!” grunts Jewelry, disgusted-like. “You’re both loco. It means Amos Carter. Amos Carter Jones, E-squire, which is me and mine. Sabe?”

“Now, now, you fellers quit jangling!” squeaks Mighty. “She’s mine, and I don’t hanker to be shot as a innocent bystander over something what don’t concern either of you. Shut up complete-like and let me take what belongs to me. The Gover’ment of the United States ain’t to be tampered with, and she sure takes exceptions when somebody steals somebody’s mail, don’t she, Wick?”

“Somebody’s,” agrees Wick. “She does at them times, Mighty.”

“E-squire!” explodes Jewelry, squinting at Mighty. “After your name? You poor little chuckle-headed chickadee, who would call you E-squire?”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Dirty Shirt. “What they’d call either of you hombres, they’d never dare to even send it inside a letter.”

“Haw. Haw. Haw!” mimicks Jewelry. “What you laughing at, you cross between a peanut and a pin-feather?”

“Halt!” yelps Magpie, hopping out into the road with a gun in each hand and a pained expression on his mustache. “Shut up three at a time! All you jangling Joneses cool off and show sense. Judge, what had we better do with them—outside of putting them in jail?”

“Well,” says the old judge, cocking his hat over one ear and taking a salivary shot at a sand lizard, “I’d adjudicate and make a motion that we read that letter myself, Magpie.”

“Like —— you will!” yelps Dirty Shirt. “You can’t peer into no private correspondence of mine, judge. Not while I’m alive you don’t.”

“I don’t like to bite off more than I can chew, judge,” states Mighty, “but I will say this much: You won’t read my letters as long as I’ve got a nerve left in my trigger finger. No lawyer is going to get me into trouble by poking his nose into my private mail. In order that you may not misunderstand me, I’d ask you to select your epitaph just prior to the time you tears the corner off that envelop.”

“How does you stand, Jewelry?” I asks.

“Our folks fight for privacy,” declares Jewelry. “All my life I’ve lived under the impression that what’s mine is mine. I leads a life that is a open book for all men to read, but what is wrote to me in a letter is a private affair of mine. Sabe? I hates to make a war-talk, gents, but I will say this much: When foreign hands start tearing the corner off a envelop upon which is wrote the name of A. C. Jones, E-squire, I’m going to shoot.”

The judge tilts his hat over the other ear, takes another shot at the lizard and clears his throat.

“Motion overruled and objection sustained,” says he.

“And I’ve still got that letter,” says Wick.

Nobody says anything for a while, but them three Jones’ sure are finicky about the hang of their belts.

“The insides of the letter might settle who she belongs to,” suggests Magpie disinterested-like. “What do you think?”

“Sure would,” agrees Jewelry. “Let me open it, Wick.”

“Just a mo-ment, just a mo-ment,” says Dirty soft-like. “I don’t care to have no danged diamond-thief peering at my letters. I’ll open it.”

“To which I adds derision,” proclaims Mighty. “As I said before, gents, I ain’t part nor parcel to no such arrangement.”

“I ain’t no diamond-thief!” howls Jewelry. “I’ll tell you——”

“I know,” says Dirty, “you claim to have traded a six-dollar pistol for the entire contents of a jewelry store.”

“We’re talking about mail—not morals,” advises Magpie.

“Property is property,” argues Dirty Shirt. “Who steals my letters steals as much as if it was my pocketbook, Magpie.”

“More,” says Mighty. “There’s something in the letter.”

“What does you think you know about my finances, feller?” asks Dirty.

“You’re sober,” says Mighty, “and you’ve been in town an hour.”

“Which is irrelevant and has no bearing on the case,” says the judge. “I expresses sorrow that your parents happens to pick out the same initials, but I feels worse that you three ever was born. Better that you three died in childhood and went to Glory, than to have growed up, growed whiskers and mean dispositions and came to Piperock.”

“Your expression of sorrow is like the blatting of a sheep, judge,” says Dirty Shirt, which is a mean thing to mention in a cow-country.

“I’ve heard tell that you herded a few over in Custer county a few years ago, Dirty,” says Mighty, grinning.

“Yeah? Is that so? Well, let me tell you something, feller. You was sold with a bunch of sheep two years ago, the same of which is common knowledge. Yes you was, Mighty. I hears Bill McFee tell the whole tale. Feller named Woolie Wilson sold you. Told a buyer that he had three thousand head, and they only totaled two thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine.

“‘You’re short one,’ says the feller. ‘I’m not,’ says Woolie, pointing at you. ‘There’s the odd one!’ ‘He ain’t no sheep,’ says the feller, and Woolie says: ‘The —— he ain’t. I ought to know—he’s been working for me six months.’ ‘For that one I deducts ten dollars off the purchase price,’ says the buyer. ‘Sold!’ says Woolie, and then he went around telling folks that the buyer beat himself. Ain’t it true, Mighty?”

Mighty sets there tongue-tied. He’s so mad he can’t swaller. Any time you accuse a cow-man of being sheep—well, you’re horning in where angels fear to tread.

“You hombres better get rational again,” advises Magpie. “You can’t even argue without getting personal. I asks that Wick put that letter into a safe place, intact and unglued, there to repose serene until such a time as you belligerent tribesmen settle the ownership. When you does you can come to me and I’ll procure same for you. Satisfied?”

“But not contented,” says Dirty. “She’s mine and I’ll have it myself.”

“Ain’t you got no reasoning powers, none of you?” asks Mighty. “How many times do I have to rise up and announce ownership?”

“Oh, shucks!” Jewelry gets up and hitches his belt. “Of all the hard-headed hombres I ever seen you’re the worst. Don’t I know my own mail? Don’t I know who I’ve been expecting a letter from? Ain’t I familiar with handwriting well enough to identify the writing on that envelop?”

“Under certain circumstances,” nods Wick; “but this happens to have been wrote on one of them typewriter machines, Jewelry.”

We all sets there for a while, and then Dirty gets up and stretches himself.

“I knowed a postmaster to lose his job when a feller complained about him not giving up his lawful mail,” observes Dirty, “and under them circumstances I’m sort of obliged to write to the President.”

“If you knowed his name,” nods Magpie, “but you don’t.”

“There ain’t but one, and he’d get it,” says Jewelry.

“If you knowed where he lives,” states Mighty hoarse-like, and the other two Jones’ nods.

“Yeah,” admits Dirty, “being as there’s so many towns where he ain’t.”

“Well,” says I, “this argument seems to have run itself into a corral, so you might as well drop it. Be sorry that you’re all A. C. Jones and shake hands.”

“With that shepherd?” asks Dirty, pointing at Mighty. “Or with a jewel rustler? Not me, Ike.”

“A sheep,” says Jewelry, “could easy get disgusted with you both.”

“Wick, you put that letter in a safe place,” orders Magpie, “until there comes a understanding or a double vacancy in the Jones tribe.”

Dirty Shirt seems a heap displeased when me and him strolls over to Buck’s place.

“My paw says to me,” says Dirty confidential-like, “when you goes out into this cruel world, get what is coming to you, Arthur Chesterton Jones. If you can’t get it honestly—get what is coming to you. Sabe?”

Dirty drifts out after while and Mighty drifts in. I asks him how the feed is on his side of the range, but his mind ain’t on bunch-grass.

“Gawd helps them that helps themselves, Ike,” says he serious-like.

“Suppose he can’t help himself, Mighty?”

“Well, under them circumstances he has to use force, I reckon.”

I meets Jewelry on the steps of the grog-shop.

“One nice day,” says I offhand-like.

“For what?” he asks. “Can you point out one danged thing she’s good for? I ain’t appreciative of weather conditions as long as my legal mail is in escrow. By hook or by crook I gets my letter, Ike. Hear me hooting?”

“Jewelry,” says I, “you talk like a cross between a shepherd and a bunco man. Hook or crook, eh?”

“All I ask is to get what is coming to me, Ike.”

“You’ll likely get it, Jewelry,” says I, and then I goes down to the sheriff’s office, where Magpie reposes with his feet on the table and his nose in a week-old paper. Along about dark Wick ambles in and sets down with us.

“That letter,” says Wick explaining-like, “makes me nervous. Them Joneses are liable to go too far. Sabe? In daylight she ain’t so bad, but at night they might do something, Magpie. They walks past too much.”

“Hold up your hand, Ike,” orders Magpie, and after a “s’whelp me Gawd,” I’m deputized to do as I’m told.

“Ike will mount guard tonight, Wick,” says Magpie, “and they’ll only do harm over his dead body.”

“Feel safe, Wick,” says I, “’cause it won’t never be done. Any old time they gets anything over my dead body they’ll be so danged winded and so far away from Piperock that there won’t be anything to get—except back.”

About nine o’clock Magpie leads me down to the front of Wick’s store, sets me down on the porch and places a rifle on my lap.

“Ike,” says he, “the lawful honor of my office is at stake. You set here, and if any of them three snake-hunters comes monkeying around you, assassinate him. Sabe? If you die you’re a hero.”

“If you think I will you’re crazy, Magpie. I didn’t come here to die.”

“Man is of few days and full of trouble, Ike.”

“Yeah,” I agree, yanking a shell into the chamber of that .45-70. “As soon as you get about a hundred feet away, Magpie Simpkins, you better go fast and crooked, ’cause I’m liable as not to mistake you for somebody coming. I’d hate to kill you and inherit your office, but dang your long, hungry carcass, you will insist on swearing me into things like this.”

I sets there a while. It’s a pretty dark night and things are quiet. Up at Buck’s place I can hear Andy Johnson wailing “Sweet Marie” on his squeeze-organ, but after a while that dies out and all is still. I gets tired of setting there alone, so I gets up and walks around the building. There’s a back door, and a window on one side. I reflects wise-like that a burglar ain’t noways going to come to the front door, and how am I going to guard both ends and the side to once? Answer—go inside.

I leans a board up against the side of the house, slides the window open and drops inside. I shuts the window behind me. It’s goshawful dark in there and I fall over everything in sight and some things I can’t see. After a while I gets my bearings and pokes back into the post-office end, where I sets down on a pile of blankets.

Then I gets to thinking thusly: if there ain’t no letter in that safe, what’s the use of guarding the place? Them hombres don’t want nothing but that letter. Now I ain’t no burglar and I don’t want anybody to get that idea. If postmasters and bankers had the foresight I’ve got there wouldn’t be no use for burglars.

I crawls over to the safe and feels her over. I didn’t have no idea as to how I was to get inside of it, but like any other danged fool I takes hold of the door, gives a yank, and she opens up like a corral gate. I gets scared for a minute and then I paws around inside and, by grab, I found the letter.

I shoves it down in my pocket, listens for a minute, and I never wanted to get out of any place so bad before in my life. I just takes one step, when I hears a noise like somebody shoving that window up, so I drops down behind that pile of blankets and pulls my pistol, which is handier at close quarters in the dark.

I hears somebody fall over something and there comes to my ears a sound of somebody cussing low and sweet. Then here he comes, squeaking along the floor, whispering to himself, and sets down in front of the safe. I hears him grunt when he swings the door open and then I hears him cuss in mournful whispers. It’s Mighty.

Then he crawls out of there and I hears the window close behind him. I sets there to give him plenty of time to get out of sight and then I hears that window go up again. Comes a dull bump from the other room and somebody swears out loud. There is silence for a while and then I hears this second party crawling on their hands and knees, and they stops at the safe. I can hear him breathing hard, and then comes a cuss word that would delight the ears of a mule-skinner.

He gets up and starts to walk away, and I can tell by the cock-eyed way he has of running into things that it’s Dirty Shirt. He rams into the wall and sets down hard on the floor, and I reckon it takes him five minutes to navigate to the window and get out.

Then comes the next interruption. The window squeaks to the top and I hears a pair of heavy boots hit the floor. He comes angling along, gets his feet tangled in something and I hears him fall flat. A rack full of brooms falls with an awful racket and a minute later here comes the figure of a man crawling along the floor.

This party is winded and so scared that he wheezes. I hears him feeling around inside the safe, and then he says out loud:

“Too late! The dirty, low-down burglars!”

And then he crawls back to the window and goes out. By his voice it’s Jewelry Jones.

Then I crawls out behind him and went home. There ain’t nothing left to guard, so why set there and wait for morning? Magpie ain’t there, so I goes to bed. He’s cooking breakfast when I wakes up in the morning.

“Have a quiet night?” he asks.

“Well, I didn’t have no cause to assassinate anybody. Play poker?”

“Uh-huh.”

He spins a half-cooked flap-jack up to the ceiling, and just then the door opens and Wick Smith comes in. Wick ain’t all smiles—not by a million tickles.

“Sheriff,” says he, “you says to me last night that you’re going to give me the protection of the law. Where is said protection?”

“That’s him, Wick,” pointing at me, “he guards you and yours safe from harm.”

“He does like ——!” snaps Wick and Magpie misses the next flop.

“Meaning which?”

“The post-office was robbed last night.”

“My gosh!” grunts Magpie. “Did they get that letter?”

“Not that one, Magpie. This morning my store looks like a cyclone had been showing off in there; the safe is open and everything is gone.”

“Blowed?” asks Magpie, but Wick shakes his head.

“Nope. I remembers shutting it just when Art Miller comes in to buy some horse liniment, and I can’t seem to remember whether I turns the combine. Anyway she’s wide open and cleaned out. There was a registered letter with five thousand dollars’ worth of bonds in it from the Cattlemen’s Bank, which were going to Great Falls. Old man Whittaker knows about it and he’s plumb up in the air. My gosh, ain’t you going to do nothing but look at that spilled pan-cake?”

“You didn’t see nor hear anything while you sets outside there, Ike?” asks Magpie.

“While I sets there I don’t hear a danged thing. Not a thing.”

“Must ’a’ been done by a experienced burglar, Wick,” opines Magpie.

“More like a section hand,” grunts Wick. “They knocked down everything that wasn’t already on the floor. By grab, you better do something, sheriff, to save your honor.”

“He ain’t my honor,” says Magpie, looking at me. “He’s my deputy.”

Wick goes back up-town, talking to himself, while me and Magpie finishes our breakfast.

Magpie pushes back from the table and rolls a cigaret.

“Ike,” says he, “go get that burglar.”

“You sure do have the best ideas, Magpie,” says I sarcastic-like, and then I went up-town, leaving him to clean up the shack.

Up at Wick’s store I finds Dirty Shirt buying some cartridges from Mrs. Smith. Then me and him went out and stood on the steps.

“Post-office got robbed last night,” says I.

“Gosh, this is a awful sinful place, Ike,” says he. “Didn’t get anything?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

Dirty grabbed for a post and slid down on the steps.

“Dizzy streak,” he explains foolish-like. “What did you say, Ike?”

“Out of the safe, Dirty. Who do you reckon done it?”

“My ——! How should I know, Ike?”

Just then we sees Mighty Jones plugging down the street. He stops in front of us and glares at Dirty.

“Post-office got robbed last night, Mighty,” says I.

“Yeah? Robbed? Nothing in there for a robber.”

“Not now,” I agrees. “But there was last night—five thousand.”

“Five thou——” Mighty stumbles and sets down beside us and wipes his face.

“Dollars?” he asks. “In the safe?”

“Uh-huh. Gone this morning. I’m hunting for the burglar.”

“Hmff!” says he and glares at Dirty Shirt.

Dirty glares right back at him, and just then we sees Jewelry ride up to the hitchrack and get off his bronc. He looks over at us, hitches up his belt and comes sauntering over.

“You misguided Jones family misfit still trying to corral my mail?” he asks mean-like.

Dirty and Mighty just gives him a look, and he sets down.

“I’m here to demand my rights,” says he. “My mind is made up today.”

“Maybe you can buy that letter, Jewelry,” suggests Dirty. “You ought to be well heeled this morning.”

“What do you mean, feller?”

“Speaking of the five thousand dollars which was taken out of the post-office safe last night,” says Dirty monotonous-like.

“Five thousand dollars which——” Jewelry’s voice trails off to a whisper and he peers at us for confirmation.

“Out of the safe last night,” says I.

“Any clue?” asks Jewelry scared-like.

“Yeah,” says I, deliberate-like, “the feller lost his knife.”

I seen three hands twitch toward pants-pockets, and then three hands comes back.

“What kind of a knife?” whispers Dirty, but I shakes my head.

“Talk’s about sending for a detective,” says I. “He’ll find out.”

“During which the burglar will leave,” grins Jewelry foolish-like.

“Which proves his guilt and causes the machinery of the law to grind a little faster,” says I. “Ain’t you fellers decided about that letter yet?”

“Pardon me,” says Mrs. Smith and we all turns to where she stands in the door of the store. “Has any of you gents a pocketknife I can use for a minute? Wicksie is gone and I want to cut a piece of rope for Mr. Miller.”

“Haw!” says Jewelry with his mouth open like a fish out of water. “As I—I was saying, I’m in a awful hurry, folks. Adios.”

“Just a mo-moment,” says Mighty, follering in his footsteps. “I wants to talk with you about them yearling calves you spoke about.”

The two of them pilgrims over to the rack, gets on their broncs, and both rides different directions.

“Knife, ma’am?” asks Dirty, like she had spoken of some prehistoric freak. “To—to cut a rope with?”

“I could use the ax,” says she.

“Yes’m,” agrees Dirty. “It—it don’t haggle so much. Yes’m.” And Dirty went over, got on his bronc and rode out of Piperock.

Then I went up to the bank. Old man Whittaker is there and he squints at me as I leans over the counter.

“Detectin’?” he asks mean-like.

“Possibly. Nice bank you got here.”

“What do you care?” he asks. “Gol dingle-danged town! Robbing post-offices, et cettery. Worse than living in the East.”

The old pelican glares at me like I was to blame and then walks to the far end of the room. There’s a little box just around the corner of the cashier’s cage, so when the old man turns I slips that letter out of my pocket and drops it into that box.

“Don’t you want me to catch the thief?” I asks, and he whirls around.

“No!” he yelps, “All I want is them gol dingle-danged bonds! If I put all the thieves in this county in jail there wouldn’t be anybody left to transact banking business with.”

“That wouldn’t handicap you none,” says I, “’cause there wouldn’t be any bankers out of jail to run the banks.” And then I walked out.

Along in the middle of the afternoon I goes into Buck’s place. Buck is leaning over the bar, staring at Dirty Shirt, Mighty and Jewelry, who are setting around a card-table, whittling like they was making a living at it. Buck looks at the floor and then at the whittlers.

“Say, you locoed loafers will have to sweep out this place,” says he. “What do you think I’m running—a carpenter shop?”

“I love to whittle with my old knife,” says Mighty, testing the blade on his thumb.

“There’s a knife,” says Dirty, holding it out for us to see, “that is a knife. She’s about ten-year old and I never owned any other. Razor steel.”

“Ten years ain’t much when you’re speaking of the age of a knife,” opines Jewelry, “this old knife of mine was handed down to me by my paw, who had it given to him at his first birthday. I’ve used it continuous ever since.”

“Speaking of knives,” says I, “reminds me of Wick. He found his own knife on the floor and thought he had a burglar clue.”

Then three Joneses stares at me until I gets uncomfortable, but just then the stage comes in, and we all pilgrims over to the post-office. We stands around while Wick distributes a few mail-order catalogues and then Mighty walks up to the window.

“Wick Smith, you’ve got a letter for me?” he asks.

“Nope,” says Wick and Mighty looks displeased a heap.

Dirty walks over and peers inside.

“Nope,” says Wick. “Nor for Jewelry. Nothing for the Joneses.”

“Now about that letter of mine which arrived yesterday,” says Dirty. “Suppose she’s serious-like, Wick? Maybe she’s life or death. Under them circumstances I can sue you to beat four of a kind.”

“Same here,” nods Mighty. “I asks you before these folks as witness that you give it to me. In fact, I demands it. You can’t refuse a de-mand, Wick.”

“Can’t I?” asks Wick, and then he produces a sawed-off shotgun. “Can’t I, Mighty?”

“You can—yes,” admits Mighty, “but it makes me ashamed of you for it.”

“I ain’t making no de-mands, Wick,” states Jewelry when Wick looks at him. “Not in the face of present conditions. I’ll e-ventually get what belongs to me, but right now ain’t e-ventually.”

“Could you fellers get any idea who that letter belongs to if I was to show you the envelope?” asks Wick. “There’s a name in the corner.”

“I’d sabe it in a minute, Wick,” states Dirty. “Show it to me.”

“Not alone!” snaps Mighty. “All in a bunch and no favors asked.”

Wick snaps open his money till and fumbles underneath.

“I didn’t put it in the safe,” says he, as he pulls out a envelope and wipes it on his overalls. “Now you fellers keep your hands off, and I’ll give you all a look.”

He holds the letter in both hands and leans his elbows on the counter. We all crowds up to see.

“Well,” says Dirty awed-like. “I may be goshawful ignorant, gents, but I can’t read A. C. Jones, E-squire out of First National Bank of Great Falls.”

Wick turns that envelope over and steps back. He puts it up to his nose and saws her back and forth like he was looking for a good place to bite into it.

“My gosh!” he whoops. “I—I done mixed them two letters! I must ’a’ put that danged Jones letter into the safe instead of the bonds.”

“And,” says Mighty, “somebody stole my letter.”

“That letter of mine entrusted to your careless care,” accuses Dirty; “that letter which you refuses to divulge to me. I’ll sue you higher than a kite, postmaster.”

“You’re accessory to a thief, Wick,” declares Jewelry. “You and the President would ’a’ dodged a lot of trouble and tribulations if you’d a handed me my mail as soon as she came in. I begins to sue you today, feller.”

“You know what I’m going to do?” asks Wick. “Know what? I’m going to give you all one minute to get out of that door and out of my sight.”

Wick cocks both barrels of that old destroyer and lays his watch on the counter.

“Well,” says Jewelry, “under them circumstances, Wick, there ain’t nothing to wait for.” And them three Jones’ hit the narrow door together and fought their way out. Somebody had to suffer, and there’s nothing like keeping such things as that in the family.

Jewelry was the first one to break loose, and I reckon he still retained a shred of memory, ’cause he didn’t lose no time going away from there. He ain’t got no shirt left, but his feet are still in working order.

Mighty and Dirty sure took each other to pieces and might have kept at it indefinitely, but Wick Smith’s yearling coyote got the idea that it was put on for its especial benefit and proceeded to cut button-holes in the remaining Jones’ pants, which served to bust up the party.

Mighty points right up the street, but Dirty gets mad and seems to retaliate to the best of his ability. But his aim is poor and the coyote don’t suffer none, being as most of the lead sifts into the store windows, causing me and Wick to burrow under a counter.

One .44 hunk of lead hives up in Wick’s stock of patent-medicines and me and him got an external dose of everything from cod-liver oil to Epsom salts. Another one pokes into a box of shotgun shells, the same of which causes some discomfort while they lasts. Then we crawls out and sets on the counter.

“For something what ain’t never been read, that letter is causing a heap of scandal,” observes Wick, looking at the disaster around us. “Wonder who got that letter, Ike? Anyway, I’m plumb glad she’s off my hands, ’cause them three snake-hunters might get troublesome over it.”

We hears a few shots up the street after while, and here comes Dirty Shirt, walking backwards, throwing lead from two guns. He backs right into the door before he sees us, but Wick has him covered and he drops his guns.

“Well,” says Wick, “I see you’ve come back, Dirty.”

“Beyond the shadder of a single doubt,” agrees Dirty, peering out of the window and getting his eyes filled with splinters when a bullet cuts a furrow in the sash.

Dirty grabs one of his guns off the floor and bangs away through the window. I seen Magpie go hippety hopping across the street and sprawl down behind Pete Gonyer’s blacksmith shop.

“You shooting at Magpie?” I asks.

“Persons don’t count, Ike,” says he, stuffing in fresh shells.

“He represents the law,” says I. “What’s the trouble, Dirty?”

“That danged letter!” he snaps.

Pow! A bullet comes through the window, skids off the head of a pick and makes a billiard against the sweat-band of Dirty’s hat.

Dirty shakes his head, does sort of a halfhearted shuffle with his feet and sets down on the floor, where he bobs his head like a chicken picking up wheat.

“One baby down—one se-gar,” says Wick.

Dirty looks up at us foolish-like and then sings sweet and low:

“For we’re all growing fee-bul, o-o-ld and gray Mag-e-e-e-e-e, and the-e-e— What in —— hit me?”

“That’s what I’d call hitting a feller in a tenor spot, Ike,” grins Wick. “Sing some more, Dirty.”

“Did—did I get hit?” asks Dirty, feeling of his head.

“I’d call it a danged close miss,” states Wick.

“Tell us what it’s about, Dirty Shirt,” I suggests, and he sort of shakes his head to get rid of the stars.

“That letter causes it,” says he, in the tone of a feller who has a dismal past to disclose. “I—I want that letter. Somebody stole my mail. Sabe? Well, I went up to Judge Steele and I says, ‘I want to swear out a warrant for Mighty and Jewelry, charging them with stealing my mail.’

“‘You do?’” says he, “‘I’d ’a’ saved a lot of paper and ink if I’d ’a’ had you all put in jail yesterday. Mighty has swore out a warrant for you and Jewelry, and Jewelry has swore out one for you and Mighty. Seems like a case of the Jones family hanging together.’”

“Everybody is shooting at everybody else, eh?” says I.

“Something like that. Me and Mighty and Jewelry are shooting at each other, and Magpie ain’t playing no certain one. Gee cripes, I’ve got a headache!”

Dirty gets his other gun and crawls over to the window. Me and Wick ain’t got nothing to do with it, so we remains neutral.

All to once comes a rattle of shots up the street and we both stampedes to the window. Here comes Jewelry on a bronc. He seems to have mounted in a hurry, without picking up his reins or tightening his cinch. We sees his hat hop high off his head and the next jump that bronc makes the saddle goes back to its rump and the cinch hangs in its flank.

Jewelry is pulling leather with both hands and the bronc is pitching straight for the store.

Magpie don’t seem to want to lose any of his future boarders, ’cause he runs out into the street and waves his hat at that crazy bronc. I hears Dirty’s gun-roar beside me and I sees Magpie’s feet flip out from under him and the bronc come merrily on its way.

The store has a porch about three feet above the ground, and while that roan sure can go high and handsome he’s a few inches short of hitting the top.

Right there that bronc stands on its head, the cinch busts, and the way Jewelry has of coming into that store was no trouble for anybody. He lit on his neck, still hanging on to that saddle, knocks Wick’s feet from under him with one of the stirrups and don’t stop sliding until he jams up against the front of the post-office.

Wick lays there and hammers his feet on the floor. Jewelry gets up, bumps his head on the little ledge where they pass out the mail and sets down again. Then he gets up, walks circles like a tired hound until he’s dizzy. Then he leans against the front of the post-office and says in a voice as thin as a cigaret paper:

“I—I want that letter. I—I want——” Then he slides down in a heap over his saddle.

Wick sets up and looks around. Then he staggers to his feet, picks up his shotgun and announces—

“I’m—I’m going—to ki—kill somebody——”

He steps out of the door just as a bullet whistles inside and smashes into a showcase. He stumbles back in and leans against the counter.

“—pretty soon,” he finishes.

I sets there, out of line with that window, and enjoys the show. Dirty leans against a rack of shovels, trying hard to light a match by scratching a cigaret on his pants. Wick stands there with a big blue lump over one eye, trying to work the loading-lever, the same of which ain’t never been put on any double-barreled shotgun I ever seen. He goes through all the motions, and from the smile on his face she’s working great.

I hears a noise behind me and turns in time to see Mighty crawl into one of the windows, balance on the sill for a moment and then fall inside with a muffled crash.

He stays down for a while and then comes weaving into view, covered with flour. He stands there with a fool look on his face and then crooks his finger at Wick.

“C’mere,” says he, goggle-eyed as an old owl, and Wick staggers up to him. He wags his finger in Wick’s face and says:

“Ah, ha, dang you! Give me my letter.” Him and Wick stares into each other’s eyes for a moment, and then Wick nods his head, grasps that riot-gun in both hands and raises it up. Mighty seen that gun rise above his head, ’cause I seen him look up at it, but he just grins up at it; then it comes down on his bare head and he sets down right in his tracks.

Wick looks down at him, nods his head like he was satisfied and stands there with the butt of that gun resting on his stummick and his fingers wrapped lovingly around both triggers.

“Wick!” yells Magpie’s voice from the doorway.

Wick jerks his hand nervous-like and pulls both triggers.

That gun almost busted my ear-drums. I seen Wick double up like a jack-knife, expel a terrific “Whoof!” and slide down beside Mighty.

Magpie looks at me mean-like and steps inside.

“You’re a —— of a deputy!” he snorted. “Why didn’t you stop ’em?”

“You didn’t see any of ’em getting away, did you?” I asks.

He peers around the place and strokes his mustache.

Jewelry is the first to get up. He crawls to his feet and staggers up to the counter where Mighty and Wick are laying. He looks at them disinterested-like and crawls up on the counter, where he humps over and looks down at them like a buzzard examining a meal.

Dirty happens to notice Magpie about this time. He rubs his head, brushes some dust off his cuff and clears his throat.

“Nice day,” he observes.

“Uh-huh,” admits Magpie, lifting up his right foot and pointing at a heel which has been shot plumb off. “What have you got to say about that, Dirty Shirt Jones?”

“——!” whispers Dirty, shaking his head. “Don’t ask me—I’m no cobbler.”

“You shot that off, feller!” snorts Magpie.

“Did I?” asks Dirty, “Need practise—bad. Shot at your head, Magpie.”

Mighty crawls to his feet and leans against Jewelry’s knees for a moment and peers up into Jewelry’s staring face. Then he looks down at Wick.

“Dead and in ——!” he wails. “Killed accidental!”

Wick rolls over and looks around. Then he takes hold of Mighty’s legs and hauls himself up. The three of them looks at each other and then Wick rubs his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, peering at Mighty.

“Mail,” whispers Mighty, “mail which belongs to A. C. Jones, E-squire.”

“It—it ain’t here,” stammers Wick. “Didn’t you steal it?”

“Nope. Maybe Dirty Shirt did.”

“Do I look like I did?” asks Dirty. “Do I look like I had got what I wanted last night? What do you reckon I’ve been fighting about today? I’m here to collect my lawful mail.”

“Say, Wick,” says a voice at the door, and old man Whittaker trots in. “I don’t know how in thunder this letter gets into a box at the bank. It don’t belong to me.”

He hands a letter to Wick and starts out.

“Say, Whittaker, I didn’t lose them bonds,” states Wick, producing the letter out of his inside vest pocket. “I—I mixed it up with another letter. Sabe?”

Old Man Whittaker grabbed that letter, read the address and walked out, talking to himself like a shepherd.

We all stares at each other and Dirty licks his lips.

“A. C. Jones, E-squire?” he asks.

“No matter who it’s for,” says Magpie, “you three are under arrest. Sabe? That danged letter has caused too much ——!”

Just then a stranger walks into the store and looks around.

“You the proprietor?” he asks, looking at Magpie.

Magpie shakes his head and points at Wick.

“Thanks,” says he, and then to Wick, “I’ve got a little bill of goods made out here which I’d like to have filled. I’m on my way over to Powder River to buy sheep for a syndicate and will likely be through here several times. Had my mail forwarded here. Anything showed up?”

“What name?” asks Wick.

“Jones.”

“A. C.?” asks Wick.

The stranger nods.

“E-squire?” gasps Dirty.

“Well,” says he, grinning, “it might be inscribed thataway.”

Them three Joneses stares at each other and then at Wick, as he produces that letter. The stranger hands Wick a list of grub stuff, leans against the counter and seems to peruse that letter; then he wads up the contents and throws it on the floor.

“Be back pretty soon,” says he and goes outside and over towards Buck’s.

Right then the three Jones’ fell off the counter and lands on that wad of paper all in a tangle.

“Halt!” yelps Magpie, prying ’em apart with his gun. “What you fellers trying to do—start it all over again? Give me that letter!”

They glances at Magpie’s gun and surrenders the paper.

Magpie unfolds it and peers at the contents. Then he looks at them three Jones’.

“Well?” says Dirty anxious-like.

“Yes,” says Magpie wise-like, “it could easy ’a’ been for either of you three. Most any Jones I ever knew would be interested in this letter. Read it for yourselves.”

He hands it to Dirty and the rest of us stretches our necks a foot to read the big black letters written across the top:

MILLER’S SHEEP-DIP IS THE BEST

We don’t read any further. Them Jones’ sort of shrinks all over.

“My gosh!” gasps Jewelry. “I wonder what E-squire means?”

“As near as I can figure,” says Magpie, “it’s a society name for shepherd.”

“Which goes to prove,” proclaims Wick, “that the Jones tribe has received inside information.”

The Jones tribe shook hands and agreed.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, November 18, 1919. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.

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