The Project Gutenberg eBook of Muley's morals

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Title: Muley's morals

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: July 25, 2026 [eBook #79179]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1918

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79179

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

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MULEY'S MORALS ***

MULEY’S MORALS

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “With the Joker Wild,” “Upside Down or Backwards,” etc.

“And if I ever catches any uh you four Jaspers on the property of the Cross J I’m going to fill yuh full uh holes!”

That’s uh pretty strong statement, but the old man was sore. Uh man says things in the heat uh anger that he don’t always mean, but I reckon old man Whittaker meant every word.

Me and “Muley” Bowles, “Telescope” Tolliver and “Chuck” Warner sets there on our broncs, with our war-sacks tied to our cantles, and bows our heads to the inevitable.

“I don’t like none of yuh!” yelps the old man. “If I can help it none uh you will get work on uh danged ranch this side of Chicago. Sabe?”

Muley recites, solemn like:

“Speak not in anger, my old friend.

Let not our friendship thusly end.

Dig in thy soul for mercy meek.

I hope yuh die before next week.”

“Poetry!” explodes Whittaker, waving his rifle around his head. “Gol dingle dang! Git off my ranch. I’m sick uh poetry: sick uh banjo-playing, singing, chicken-stealing cowpunchers. Git off, gol dingle dang yuh, before I shoots yuh off!”

“Man the windlass and up anchor,” orders Telescope. “No use in aggravating the old pelican, Muley. He ain’t got no soul, and uh man without uh soul don’t appreciate the nice things uh life. If he had anything in his heart except the greed uh gold I’d sing him uh sentimental ditty entitled——”

“You fellers going?” squeaks the old man. “I don’t want no song—dang your hides! The weight uh your presence unbalances my land. Get uh going!”

We went. Without malice in our hearts and about eighty cents among us we went. Gump was to blame for our departure. Did yuh ever eat any gump? If yuh acquire the chicken by legitimate means it’s just uh chicken stew, but if yuh steals the bird, it’s gump. Ours was gump.

How was we to know that the old man sent East for them hens? We all been on the round-up for two weeks, and our first supper at the home ranch was uh crime. The cook had quit and some food murderer had taken the job. We wiggles through uh lot uh burnt stuff without receiving no nourishment, and our feelings ain’t what you’d call joyous when we goes back to the bunk-house.

Muley feels so bad that he wanders off down to the barn. Said he went down to get uh feed uh oats, but pretty soon he comes back with uh grin on his fat face, and starts hunting around the bunk-house.

“Say, you fellers seen anything of that old five-gallon can what used to be around here?” he asks.

“Under my bunk,” says Telescope. “What yuh want it for?”

“Listen,” says Muley. “Down in the barn is uh box with three speckled hens in. Ain’t that reason enough?”

It sure was. Chuck can stew uh chicken to the queen’s taste, and we sets there and plays poker, with cards in one hand and chicken in the other.

The old man comes about the time we’re picking the bones, and when he sees what we got he loses his voice. By the next morning he gets it back, and what he says to us is worth hearing. Seems like the old man must be getting childish, ’cause he informs us that he paid fifteen dollars each for them birds.

There ain’t no chance to lie out of it, so Telescope tries to smooth things over, but the old coot acts like we had stewed his immediate fambly, and sends us away from his bed and board and threatens to inform the country of our misdeeds.

Telescope Tolliver is uh Kentuckian by instinct. He uses an accent that would lead yuh to believe that on one side of his fambly flows uh strain of P. Porter blood—P. standing for Pullman. His hat reposes a long ways from his heels, and he has uh soothing voice while singing.

Muley Bowles looks like uh corn-fed ham. He’s so heavy that he has to have uh work-horse to ride. Any time he forks uh nine-hundred pound bronc said bronc’s legs look like croquet wickets. Muley is the Poet Lariet of Yaller Rock County. He rimes all over. He’s got uh sweet disposition and no conscience to speak of. His favorite saying is—

“There’s ten years difference between suspicion and conviction.”

He packs uh .38 outside his chaps and uh .45 underneath.

If Chuck Warner wasn’t uh mistake uh nature at least he was an experiment. To look at Chuck, you’d say he was uh human being—nothing more. He looks like uh he-man with both feet in uh hole, on account of his short legs. He’s got uh Roman-nosed face and utter disregard for the truth. He can wiggle his ears fluently enough to prove that at least one side of his family sprang from mules instead of monkeys.

I am Henry Clay Peck, Esq.—uh self-made man. I fingers uh banjo with expression and gusto, and when I raises my voice in song all nature seems to shut up. I’ve got uh proud spirit, and I’d uh done well in most anything except what I’ve tried to do.

“Out in this cold world alo-o-o-one,

Nothing but sorrow I se-e-e-e-e.

I am nobode-e-e-e-e-e’s darling,

Nobody ca-hares for me-e-e-e-e.”

Telescope Tolliver warbles, in uh sweet and sad voice, as we pilgrims off down the road toward Paradise. There’s sorrow in our every action. Muley bobs his fat head, solemn like, and composes:

“Four souls with bellys full uh gump,

Four blackballed souls sent out to roam.

No place to drink except uh pump.

No money, friends, or happy home.

“Bring back the days uh yesteryear,

Days when our souls fit honest men,

Days when we had the price of beer.

Before we murdered that speckled hen.”

“Old Whittaker sure is one stingy old pelican,” agrees Chuck. “He don’t admire uh dollar no more than I do my eyes. Dang his old hide—he’s rich! He owns all the bank at Piperock and I reckon he owns the bank at Paradise, too. Tied uh can to four of the best punchers in the State just ’cause we ate up some hens. They was tough, too.”

“Chuck, you told the truth for once in your life,” declares Telescope. “I applauds your oration. While it shakes our faith in your veracity, we applauds your attitude.”

“Do yuh mean to insinuate that I’m uh liar?” asks Chuck, and we enjoys our first laugh since we ate that stew.

“Uh few minutes ago I’d uh licked uh man what said yuh wasn’t,” laughs Telescope. “But since I’ve heard yuh tell the truth once I ain’t so danged sure.”

Did yuh ever hear of “Pole Cat” Perkins? Pole Cat is older than the Medicine Hills and crazier’n uh bedbug. He lives over in Whistler’s Gulch in uh dugout, and spends his spare time trying to see how close he can come to starvation and still live. His side line is skunks. Honest to grandma.

He ain’t what you’d designate as uh social leader, him having sort of uh smelly way about him that folks don’t care for. He ain’t in the business for gain, but for pleasure, and he’s always got uh lot uh striped and black ones in his parlor.

We meets Pole Cat on the road.

“Howdy, Mister Perkins,” says Telescope. “How’s all the little skunks today?”

“Tol’able, Telescope, tol’able,” admits Pole Cat, nodding uh face that looks like two eyeholes cut in uh bear-skin. “I just finds uh den with some danged nigh white ones in,” he announces, happy like.

“What flavor?” asks Chuck, spurring his horse around on the windward side. “If it’s the same as you’re using we don’t covet ’em.”

“They don’t smell bad,” states Pole Cat. “Skunks don’t smell bad.”

“Well, you’re not uh skunk then,” states Chuck. “You sure do advertise.”

We moseys off down the road and meets Bill McFee, our brave and unefficient sheriff. We exchanges some unpleasantness with Bill, and notices that he’s packing uh hammer. We all remarks on how appropriate the utensil is.

“Bill,” says Telescope, “you’re beginning to get wise. Uh claw-hammer is one thing uh sheriff ought to carry. There’s so danged many knockers around here that uh man ought to go heeled.”

Bill spits past his bronc’s ear and grins.

“Posting re-ward notices,” he explains. “One time I does it with the butt of my six-gun and I shoots off uh toe, so I uses uh hammer now.”

“Somebody been tempting justice?” asks Muley.

The sheriff hauls out uh piece uh paper about uh foot square, and hands it to Muley.

“‘Uh thousand dollars reward for information that will lead to the arrest and conviction of the person who robbed the Silver Bend Bank on September 7,’” reads Muley. “Ain’t there no description to go on, Bill?”

Bill spits at the tip of his bronc’s ear again and shakes his head.

“Nope. Ain’t it funny? That cashier was there all the time. You know him, don’t yuh—Frank Allen? Sure yuh do. He answered questions, and saw the man what done it, but all he can remember is the gun that the feller stuck in his face. I asks him if it was uh .38.

“‘Thirty-eight!’ he snorts. ‘Why, Sheriff, it must uh been at least six inches in muzzle diameter.’”

“Well, Bill, I hopes yuh cash in on that thousand,” says Chuck.

“He won’t,” states Muley. “If I wasn’t so danged busy all the time I’d rob uh bank or two just for the experience.”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars McFee. “Muley, uh man would have to be mighty scared if he didn’t remember your description—you or Telescope or Chuck.”

“Haw, haw, haw!” mimics Muley. “I wouldn’t care if I was recognized and called by my first name if there wasn’t nobody but you to go after me.”

“Aw, don’t argue with the law,” advises Telescope. “Bill McFee was elected sheriff uh this county by the overwhelming majority uh six votes, so he must uh been the man for the place.”

“How could he help getting elected?” snorts Muley. “Every danged cow rustler in the county voted for him.”

“Then somebody lied to me, Muley,” states McFee, shaking his hammer at Muley. “Somebody told me that I didn’t get uh danged vote from the Cross J.”

“If I had uh hammer I’d make yuh take back them insults,” says I. “Not being heeled, we considers the source. Put up your weapon and cease your insults.”

“He was uh sheriff, brave and bold,

And hunted outlaws far and wide.

He rode uh bronc with spavined legs,

And wore uh hammer at his side.

He wore uh hammer, ’cause uh gun,

Was something that he couldn’t use,

’Cause all this sheriff ever killed

Was half-uh-pint uh rotten booze.”

recites Muley, with deep feeling and many gestures, and the Four Disgraces lopes off down the road, leaving Bill McFee speechless with indignation. He had often bragged that half-uh-pint was just one little drink for him.

“I don’t see what we’re going to Paradise for,” complains Chuck, while we takes uh drink at Seeping Springs. “We ain’t got enough money to buy uh stack uh whites or uh round uh drinks. Dang the luck! Why didn’t we meet them hens before pay-day instead uh three days after?”

“Critical state of affairs,” agrees Telescope. “I’d like to be lucky enough to hang uh rope on the feller what robbed that bank. I reckon uh thousand would look bad to us right now, eh?”

“While you’re doing uh lot uh wishing, Telescope, yuh might wish that you was the feller what robbed the bank. He got five thousand, and it’s uh cinch that they won’t never catch him. Nobody ever gets caught unless it’s in the act. Beats punching cows, if yuh asks me.”

The four of us looks at each other, wise like, for uh minute, and then Telescope clears his throat and shakes his head:

“We’re too unlucky. Why, we can’t even steal hens without getting caught.”

Muley sets there and peruses uh lot uh small pieces uh paper, and wrinkles his forehead uh heap.

“Won’t she rime, Muley?” asks Chuck.

Muley shakes his head, and arranges the pieces different.

“There!” he snorts. “She’s readable but not intelligible. Listen and see if this sounds like anything: 3 to L—21. R 17. L 55. R to O. Window. Use dynamite after. Tonight, sure.”

“Sounds like uh prescription that old Doc Milliken gave me for rheumatism once,” remarks Telescope. “Where’d yuh find it, Muley?”

“Right here on the ground. Somebody must uh tore it up when they stops for uh drink.”

He puts the pieces in his pocket, and we pilgrims on. We enters Paradise and ties our broncs to the rack in front uh Mike Pelly’s place. Inside is gaiety and laughter, as more fortunate punchers than we imbibes the juice that steals away wise men’s brains, and tries to beat uh game that was invented for no such uh thing.

We manages to spear uh drink or two, and then sets down on the steps and consoles each other with the knowledge that nobody can say that we came to town and got drunk as usual.

Muley recites, “Lips that touch liquor can never touch mine,” and the four of us renders the chorus from, “Drink to Me only with Thy Eyes.”

Bill McFee rides into town, and goes over to the bank, but he don’t speak to us as he rides past.

“Bill’s likely gone over to caution Frank Allen not to get held up,” remarks Telescope. “Or maybe he’s going to post another notice where uh bank robber can’t help seeing it.”

“Bill ought to catch him if anybody could,” opines Chuck. “You know the old saying, ‘Set uh thief to catch one.’ Bill’s name used to be White down in Rosebud.”

Muley nods his head, and fumbles in his pocket.

“Maybe. I knowed uh preacher what got hung for rustling. Yuh never can tell which way uh pickle is going to squirt. Wish I had enough to buy uh stack uh chips.”

Just about that time old man Whittaker and Hank Padden, who owns the Seven A outfit, rides into town in uh buckboard. They enters the saloon long enough to have uh drink, and then Hank comes out and starts across the street.

“I’m going to strike Hank for uh job,” announces Telescope.

He hails Hank, and they has uh little talk out there in the street. Pretty soon Telescope comes back; and we can see he’s sore.

“What did he do—make yuh foreman?” grins Chuck.

“He made me —— mad!” snaps Telescope. “That’s the first time uh descendant of the Kentucky Tollivers has ever been stigmatized, and my gorge ariseth higher than Mount McKinley.”

“I should think so,” consoles Muley. “Dog-gone, it sure must be uh awful thing to come up on uh man. I’ve knowed yuh to get paralyzed, Telescope, but stig—oh, that’s terrible! How’d he do it?”

“He cast uh cloud upon my character. I asks him for uh measly job uh punching cows, and he informs me that I got to get uh letter uh recommendation from the last place I worked.”

“All is lost!” wails Chuck, wiggling his ears. “Old man Whittaker can’t write ’cause he hurt his hand yesterday.”

“Can’t yuh imagine that old pelican giving us uh recommend to anybody?” asks Muley.

“I know about what he told Hank,” states Chuck. “He just about told him that we ain’t to be trusted—blast his old hide! I hope he gets robbed! I hope he gets——”

“You hope he gets what?” asks Telescope.

“Muley, let me have them pieces uh paper yuh found,” says Chuck.

Muley hands ’em over, and Chuck copies ’em off on another sheet.

“What’s the main idea?” I asks, but Chuck merely grins and rolls uh fresh smoke.

Pretty soon Weinie Lopp and “Swede” Johnson, of the Seven A, rides in and asks us to have uh drink. After uh couple uh rounds it transpires that Swede owes Muley seven dollars, and he pays up. Muley, immediate and soon, weaves over to the wheel, lets her ride twice and comes back wealthy—according to our late standards uh wealth.

Old Doc Milliken enters our midst, and we welcomes him to the fambly circle. Doc is uh funny old coot. Him and Chuck are good friends, and they has uh confidential talk. The doc shakes his head uh few times at what Chuck is telling him, but after a while he seems to agree, and they goes outside.

Me and Muley hooks up in uh game uh pool, and when we gets through we misses Telescope. We worries not, and calls for more cheer.

“I feels romantic this eve,” states Muley, to Abe Smith, the bartender. “Did yuh ever feel romantic, Abe?”

“How so, Muley?” asks Abe, and then Muley recited:

“I feels like uh knight of old.

I’d like to wear iron duds.

I’d carry uh sack uh gold,

When I went to uh tavern for suds.

I’d carry uh ten-foot spear,

At the head of some real live men,

I’d ride into war with uh cheer——”

“And kill off uh speckled hen,” finishes old man Whittaker, who has just come in with Bill McFee. “How’s that for uh rime, eh?”

I can see that the old man has been dallying with the laughing water.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Bill. “That’s good, old-timer. You sure can poet uh plenty. Now, if you could only stake——”

“Swish—Blam!”

Muley has stooped over when Bill begins his oration, and he stands up with uh tin cuspidor in his hand. It was the neatest billiard I ever seen. The side uh that tin utensil glances off the side of old man Whittaker’s head and takes the place of uh hat on Bill McFee’s head, where it spins several times before coming to rest. The place seems to become noisy right away, so me and Muley starts for the door.

Mike Pelly has put uh long looking-glass in front of his door, and we never noticed it before, so we meets Mister Peck and Mister Bowles face to face. Seems funny to meet yourself thataway when you’re in uh hurry, and ain’t got time to stop and talk. We bumps into ourselves, apologizes, and then goes around. Old man Whittaker makes uh grab at me and I hits him so hard he tries to make both ends meet.

“Stop! Gol darn yuh!” whoops McFee in Muley’s ear.

Bill’s got that cuspidor hanging careless like over one ear, and he shoves that hammer into Muley’s face.

“Shoot, yuh coward!” howls Muley. “I dare yuh to shoot me. Yuh ain’t got uh nail in it.”

McFee takes his eyes off Muley to stare at that hammer, and Muley slams both of his big fists down on Bill’s tin head-covering, and Bill sets down on the floor in time to block old man Whittaker’s rush.

The last we seen of the mix-up showed McFee setting there on the floor, with that cuspidor over his face, pecking away at Whittaker’s vertebræ with that hammer.

Me and Muley leans against the hitch-rack and cries to our heart’s content. It’s dark as Egypt out there at the rack. Finally Muley stops sobbing and puts his arms around my neck.

“Hen,” says he, “that’s the firsht time I ever was assaulted by uh carpenter. Don’t yuh think that Bill looks stylish in uh spittoon? Loo’ out, Hennery! Here comes the bad man with his nail-puller.”

Bill McFee weaves out on the porch, and the old man is with him. Behind them comes several innocent bystanders.

“Who turned my bronc around?” asks Muley, complaining like.

I was going to ask the same thing, but why ask questions at uh time like this? I knows my own bronc and saddle, so I rolls aboard and jams the steel into the animile.

Did we go ahead? We did not! I never saw uh bronc go backward the way mine did. I’m just about to get hysterical when I finds that Muley is beside me, pounding along and cussing uh streak.

“Reverse!” he yelps. “Turn around, you son-of-uh-gun—you!”

“Same here!” I yells. “What’s going on here? Whoa!”

I starts pulling in on my reins. I pulled and pulled, and keep on taking up the slack until I feels the headstall, and then I gets—hair!

Wow! That bronc seems to rise up in front, and I never got throwed so far in my whole life—backward, too. I gets three glimpses of the stars, so I’d opine that I turns over three times, and then I enters the bosom of uh mesquite fambly.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, but I feels that I’m acquainted with each and every branch of the fambly when I tears my way loose and takes inventory.

I ain’t got no hat and I’m shy one sleeve. I’m ahead one black eye, three cactus and one sprained thumb.

I sets down on the edge of the road and tries to collect my thoughts and enough loose tobacco for uh smoke, when I hears uh musical conversation down the road.

“All thish worl’ is shad and dre-e-e-e-ery everywhere I—whoo, hoo! Hennery! Oh, Hen! O-o-o-o-o, darkies, how my heart grows we-e-e-ery—Hen-n-n-n-nry Peck! If you’re dead speak.”

“I ain’t dead but I’m speechless,” says I. “Are you dead, Muley?”

“I am,” says he. “I’m deader’n ——! Killed in action.”

“Back action, too,” says I. “What caused the phenomenon, Muley?”

“If I had uh word like that in my system I’d ruin my soul trying to find something to rime with it,” he states, painful like, setting down beside me. “If you wants to know in United States language what caused it I’ll close with these few well chosen words: Some danged comedian, with murder in his heart, put our saddles on backward, and we never noticed it. Sabe?”

“That’s what I thought,” says I. “If I’d uh——”

“There ain’t no use uh wailing of the things that might uh been,

If we hadn’t lost our happy home through stealing of uh hen.

Or busting up uh sheriff with uh cuspidor so bright,

Or riding broncos backward in the stillness of the night.

It ain’t the things yuh might have done that makes yuh sad and sore,

It’s the things yuh didn’t mean to do hangs crêpe upon your door.”

recites Muley, with proper feeling and expressive gestures.

“I ain’t excusing myself for what I’ve done, Hen,” he explains. “I got uh poetical temperament. If I had uh rough nature like Telescope and Chuck and—say, Hen, I’ll bet uh thousand dollars that Telescope and Chuck changed them saddles.”

“I’ll take that bet, Muley,” says I. “Not because I don’t agree with you, but because I’m uh sport. I’ll raise yuh fifteen cents in money.”

“Table stakes, Hen. Table stakes. That thousand taps me. What yuh got?”

“I got three cactus and uh sprained thumb.”

“Yes, and yuh drew the ace uh spades,” says he, lighting uh match, and gazing at my eye. “You win, Hennery. Now that I’m broke we might as well walk back to Paradise.”

We didn’t have more than half uh mile to walk, but I don’t see how we ever rode that far backward. We sets down across the street from the saloon and looks things over. We hears Bill McFee talking loud and unhandsome, so we stays there in spite of the draft. After a while we observes Bill buy uh bottle uh hooch, and then come out and start up the street.

“Let’s have some fun,” whispers Muley. “Let’s hold Bill up and take that bottle. He ain’t got nothing to shoot with except that hammer.”

“I’ll do it,” I agrees. “I ain’t never been shot with uh hammer, and the experience will be good for me.”

Bill walks faster than we do, so we gives up the chase. We stands out there and watches Bill disappear in the dark, and as our thirst grows stronger our hearts beat in unison and we loses all fear. Says Muley—

“Mister Peck, will yuh have uh drink?”

“I will.”

“Lend me your filthy wealth, Mister Peck,” and I did—thirty-five cents.

We goes back to Mike’s place and leans against the bar. Old man Whittaker and Abe Smith are the only ones there, and the old man is telling Abe all about it.

“Bill will get ’em,” states the old pelican, wise like. “Bill’s clever—yuh know it? Yessir. Besht sheriff we ever had. No danger uh robbers while Bill’s on the job. No sir. Bill says to me, says he: ‘I’m shuspishus uh them four punchers you got working for you. I shuspects ’em uh dark deeds. Sabe?’”

“‘I’m shuspishus of ’em, too, Bill,’ says I. ‘I mean it, too, Abe—gol dingle dang ’em! Know what they done, eh? Know what they done? I’m honesht cow man, and wrong don’t right nobody—nobody. As long as uh man does his work right I shay, live and let——’”

The old man’s head keeps getting lower and lower and he begins to snore like uh Piegan.

“Considerate old coot,” opines Muley. “I’m glad he thought enough about us to get ‘shuspishus.’ Bartender, we wouldst glance upon the wine when it is red.”

Abe sets out the bottles, and sizes up our appearance.

“Bill found yuh, did he?” he grins.

“Bill ——!” snorts Muley. “That cross between uh carpenter and uh cuspidor rack couldn’t find his way home. We’re just showing the effects uh general wear and tear.”

“Bes’ li’l sheriff we ever had,” announces the old man, between snores. “Feel shuspishus—says I, and then Bill shez—snr-r-r.”

“Bill left his hammer,” states Abe, pointing at it on the end of the bar. “He’s pretty sore about that cuspidor. Haw! Haw! Haw! Him and the old man had quite uh time together on the floor. He hit the old man all along his backbone and then the old man got the hammer away from him and he hit that cuspidor that was on Bill’s head so hard that Bill couldn’t hear for ten minutes. Them tin things sure do ring some.”

“What’s got into the old man?” asks Muley. “He ain’t in the habit uh hanging around town thisaway.”

“He’s uh banker now,” states Abe. “After that bank gets robbed down at Silver Bend, Frank Allen, the cashier, feels that the folks down there blames him. Sabe? Old man Whittaker owns part uh that bank, too, so he asks Allen to come up here and run this one. Yesterday Allen gets word that his father is uh heap sick, so he leaves this afternoon. Uh course it was sudden like, and there ain’t nobody to run the place, so the old man is going to run it himself. Sabe?”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Muley. “He’ll sure be in shape to figure interest tomorrow. As uh business man he’d be uh dandy post-hole digger. He canned the four of us because we killed three hens uh his.”

“I know he’s sore at yuh,” admits Abe. “Him and McFee. Bill admits that none uh you four could have held up that Silver Bend bank, but he’s got to suspect somebody. Yuh got to give him credit for having suspicions of somebody.”

“Uh-huh,” admits Muley. “I’m sorry I hit him with that cuspidor, Abe. Honest I am. I wish it had been an ax.”

“What time is it, Abe?” I asks, and he informs us that it is ten o’clock.

“We got to get something to ride, and go after our broncs,” I says to Muley. “Them nut-headed pieces uh coyote bait will just about ruin them saddles. Where can we get some horses, Abe?”

Abe shakes his head.

“I don’t know. The old man has got uh pair hitched to his buckboard out back. Darn old wood-rat never even unhitched, and he expects to be here for uh week.”

“Long ash uh man does his work half-way deshunt I shay—r-r-r!” announces the old man, and then goes back to sleep.

“That’s quite an intelligent conversation for him,” states Muley. “He’s been reading classical stuff. Let’s go out and look at them broncs, Hen. Maybe we can use ’em.”

It’s uh pair uh roans what ain’t never been saddled, and me and Muley don’t feel like pulling off no more exhibitions.

“Let’s see what we can find at the racks,” says Muley, and when we goes around the corner we meets Telescope and Chuck.

“Where you fellers been?” asks Muley. “Fine friends, you are. I came danged near being shot with uh hammer. Also we don’t care to face south on uh bronc what’s going north.”

“I told yuh it wouldn’t work, Chuck,” laughs Telescope.

“What you fellers packing?” I asks, noticing that they both got something under their arms.

“Sh-h-h-h!” whispers Telescope. “It’s uh king’s ransom. We’re going to put it in the old man’s buckboard.”

“He don’t need uh ransom,” states Muley. “If yuh wants to do him uh favor, hang around uh few hours and get him some coffee. He sure is polluted.”

“I’d love uh snort uh cawn juice myself,” admits Telescope. “Ain’t you got no money left, Muley?”

“Nope. You fellers wait uh minute: maybe I can stand Abe off for some.”

Muley comes right back with uh bottle.

“Stand him off?” asks Telescope.

“I don’t know,” says Muley. “He wasn’t there. I don’t suppose he’ll care if I pay for it some time.”

“Friend uh my youth,” gurgles Telescope. “I need thee every hour. What time is it, Hen?”

“Must be uh quarter after ten.”

“Better go, hadn’t we, Chuck?” asks Telescope.

Chuck wipes his lips and lights uh cigaret.

“Uh-huh. Muley, if you and Hen go with us yuh got to be danged quiet. Sabe?”

“Where yuh going—hunting?”

“Ke-rect,” admits Chuck. “We’re——”

“Say, Chuck, what you got on your person?” asks Muley. “My cripes! Don’t you never take uh bath?”

“I don’t smell nothing,” sniffs Chuck.

“You couldn’t. Not with that odor around yuh. Well, Telescope, lead us to the game.

Lead us in silence through the night,

Thou ransomer of kings.

Thou who seems uh man on sight,

And smells of many things.

Changer of saddles, thou slender one,

Drinker of juices of corn,

If you’re playing uh joke, you son-of-uh-gun,

You’ll wish that you never was born.

There’s uh danged sight more truth than poetry in that, Telescope.”

“Poetry!” snorts Telescope. “While you sits around trying to rime words me and Chuck’s been doing something useful as well as ornamental, ain’t we, Chuck?”

“It must uh died on yuh,” opines Muley. “I wish I had some Limburger cheese. We’d match them two smells and have uh great battle. Lead on, Mister Tolliver, of Kentucky.”

Telescope pilots us up the street and leads us behind the woodpile near the bank.

“Set down,” he orders. “Now, dog-gone yuh, keep quiet! Just keep on the watch and don’t talk. Muley, if you attempts to light that cigaret I’ll assassinate yuh!”

“What are we to watch?” I asks.

“Anything yuh see,” he replies, so we sets there in silence and wishes for uh smoke.

“I see the Big Dipper,” announces Muley. “Twinkle, twingle little——”

“Shut up!” hisses Telescope. “Muley, are you going to keep still?”

“Aw ——!” groans Muley, disgusted like. “What kind of uh game is this?”

“Somebody’s going to rob the bank this evening—we think.”

“And we’ll take it away from ’em when they comes out, eh?” chuckles Muley. “Here’s where we get even with Whittaker. How do yuh know it’s going to be robbed?”

“It’s been robbed once,” states Chuck. “We have hopes it will be again.”

“Who—who robbed it?” stutters Muley.

“Me and Telescope.”

“You—and—Telescope?” wonders Muley, aloud, and Telescope grabs him by the neck. “Let go, Telescope! Dog-gone, you can’t blame uh feller for talking out loud in church under them circumstances. What was the matter—didn’t yuh get it all?”

“You danged fool!” whispers Telescope. “We don’t want the bank’s money. We’re after the reward. Sabe?”

“I’d admire to know how yuh robbed that bank,” opines Muley. “Ain’t they got no safe and ain’t the door locked?”

“You remember that paper yuh found at the Seeping Springs?” asks Chuck, in uh whisper. “Some danged fool tore up his instructions and left ’em laying loose like. Them figures was the combination to the safe, and the window over there was unlocked. Sabe?”

“Well,” says Muley, “let’s take the money and be on our way. What’s the use uh watching some poor devil get disappointed.”

“Muley, if you had any sense—keep down!” hisses Telescope.

We strains our eyes and sees the figure of uh man slip around the corner of the bank. He stops there for uh minute and then slips up under the window. He puts something up against the side of the building, and we hears the window squeak a little as it goes up. Telescope gets up and sneaks toward the window, and we’re right behind him. We stops under the window and listens.

“What you got in your hand—uh gun?” asks Telescope.

“No-o-o-o. Uh hammer,” answers Muley. “Bill McFee’s weapon.”

“Got uh nail?” asks Telescope.

Muley fumbles in his pocket for uh minute and then we hears Telescope give uh joyful grunt. He stretches his long carcass up to the window-sill, reaches up and slides that window shut, without uh sound. Sudden like we hears uh yelp inside, and Telescope gets busy with that hammer: Thump, thump, thump!

Then he drops back with uh whoop—

“Nailed in—dog-gone my soul!”

There’s something going on in that bank. We hears the plunk of uh six-shooter and considerable yelling.

“Watch that window!” yells Telescope, and then he runs out to the street and empties his gun in the air.

Muley gets excited and empties his, too, and by that time the population of Paradise begins to manifest themselves. I hauls out my old .41 and celebrates, too. You never heard so much conversation in your life. Everybody asks questions and don’t wait for answers.

“Somebody go after the sheriff!” yells Telescope. “Somebody get the keys to the bank.”

“Old man Whittaker’s got the keys,” somebody yells.

“I’ll get ’em,” states Muley. “Give me back that hammer, Telescope.”

We surrounds the place, and I reckon there’s more guns in sight than there was at the battle of Bull Run. I swells my chest and answers questions until I’m as dry as uh herring lunch in Death Valley. Pretty soon Muley comes back.

“Got ’em,” he puffs. “The old coot was sound asleep.”

Just then Hank Padden squirms his way through the crowd and comes up to us. He must uh been asleep in the hotel, ’cause he ain’t wearing much except his belt and gun.

“Boys,” says he, “I’ll do the unlocking. Whittaker is uh friend uh mine and he trusts me.”

He capitalizes the personal pronoun. Telescope grins and hands the keys over to him.

“Somebody is inside,” he announces, just like it was news to uh crowd what had been talking about it for ten minutes. “I don’t think they’ll make any fight, ’cause we’ve got ’em dead to rights. About five uh you fellers with guns come up here. When I unlocks the door, drop down and go in low. Sabe? If they shoots at all it will be over our heads. Don’t shoot unless yuh have to. Now, all ready!”

He turns the key in the lock, flings the door open, and them six trusting souls crawls right into that bank as fast as they can—and comes right back out uh danged sight faster than possible.

“Oh-h-h-h-h, my ——!” wails Telescope on my shoulder, and I can feel the sobs convulse his long carcass. “Oh-h-h-h-h-h! Haw! Haw! Haw-w-w-w-w-w! Mamma mine!”

I gets my first whiff, and believe me it would knock the tinsel off uh Christmas-tree. The crowd melts with the one exclamation—

“Skunks!”

Something hits me on the ankle, and I looks down at Chuck. He’s got his arms wrapped around his stummick and he’s rolling over and over on the ground. Telescope slips off my shoulder and joins Chuck, and they both chokes to death.

Hank Padden comes weaving past, and in the dim light his face looks the color of alkali, and he favors his stummick with every step.

The crowd stands off to one side, out of the draft, and watches the door. Sudden like uh figure comes weaving out of the door, stands for uh moment on the steps and then tumbles off into the dirt. It’s the bold, bad robber. We stands at uh respectful distance and tries to decipher its identity. Pretty soon he gets up, and the crowd splits to let him through, and he wanders right down the street, exuding odors that would paralyze uh codling moth. Nobody wants to capture him—nobody! When he gets down where there is uh little light we recognizes—Bill McFee.

He don’t seem to know where he’s going, but he’s having one odorous time.

“Why don’t somebody capture him?” yells Mike Pelly, and somebody yells right back:

“Yes, why? Go catch him, Mike.”

“Not for uh million!” yelps Mike, and as Bill weaves toward the saloon he yells: “Not in here, Bill! Left face! Git out-t-t-t!”

Bill had no destination. He pokes right off down the street, and out into the lonely desert, and we bids him adieu.

“Let him go,” yells somebody in the crowd. “Maybe by the time he’s freshened up uh little there’ll be uh reward offered.”

That starts uh laugh, and then the conversation starts again. Everybody speaks of smells, everybody smells, and we all hankers for uh drink.

We invades Mike’s place and finds old man Whittaker still asleep in the chair. Swede Johnson goes over and shakes him hard.

“He ought to know that he came danged near getting robbed,” apologizes Swede. “Wake up, old-timer! By golly, he sure is one snoozer.”

“Here,” yells Abe Smith, handing a bottle across the bar. “Stick this under his nose and he’ll wake up.”

Uh course Swede has to try it on himself, and it raises his hat up about six inches. It’s oil uh mustard. He shoves it under the old man’s nose. The old man’s head bobs for uh few seconds, and then he raises right up and proclaims:

“Bill’s clever—yuh know it? Bes’ li’l sheriff we ever had. He says to me, says he—uh—uh—say, what in —— is goin’ on around here?”

“Bill is clever, all right, old-timer,” agrees Weinie Lopp. “He tried to rob your bank. Sabe?”

The old man looks around, foolish like, and shakes his head to clear the alcohol.

“Say that again,” he mumbles. “I must uh been sleeping.”

He got information in big gobs right there. He knowed more about it than we did when they gets through. He listens, sort uh dazed like, and keeps nodding his head.

“Well, what do yuh know about that!” he snorts. “Skunks, eh? I’ll have to investigate and——”

He starts to take uh step, and uh queer look comes over his face. He tries it again and then flops down in his chair.

“What’s the matter?” asks Mike.

“Paralyzed!” wails the old man. “Can’t move my feet! Doctor told me years ago not to drink hooch. Gol dingle dang the luck! Paralyzed! Might as well be dead.”

“Creeping paralysis?” asks Abe.

“Creeping ——!” he snorts. “Who wants to creep? I want to walk!”

“Paralysis is one awful thing to come upon uh man,” states Muley. “I’ve knowed men who got so bad with it that they can’t move uh muscle. It just gradually gets worse and worse until it gets to their hearts and then they joins the angel band.”

“Aw ——!” wails the old man. “What for kind of uh way is that to talk to uh man what is as sick as I am? Say something cheerful or keep your danged mouth shut.

“Won’t somebody send for Doc Milliken? I’m sicker’n ——!”

“He can’t do nothing for yuh,” consoles Muley. “I’ll bet I know more about your kind uh paralysis than he does. I ain’t no graduate of uh skeleton school, but I sure does sabe your case, old-timer.”

“Well, do something then!” howls the old man. “I can feel it coming up higher and higher all the time. I hates to ask yuh for help, Muley, but uh drowndin’ man can’t pick and choose his straws. Do something for me and name your own price.”

“You hear him, everybody?” asks Muley. “He says for me to name my price. If I’ll cure yuh will yuh give the four of us our jobs back and raise us from forty to seventy-five uh month?”

“My ——!” he howls. “I said I’d agree to anything, didn’t I? Go ahead.”

“Stand up,” orders Muley, and when he wobbles to his feet, Muley walks right around behind him, takes hold under the old man’s arms and lifts him right out of his boots. The boots stayed there. The old man shuffles his feet, careful like, and then reaches for uh boot. It sticks to the floor.

“Nailed down!” gasps the old man.

“Uh-huh,” agrees Muley. “I took your feet out, nailed the boots down and put your feet back inside. Let this be uh temperance lesson to you, old-timer.”

“Temperance,” yelps the old man, dancing around in his socks. “Fine time to preach temperance just after I agrees to pay seventy-five dollars uh month to four punchers what would drive uh wooden Injun to drink.”

Just then in comes Hank Padden, and steers straight for the old man.

“Whittaker, your bank has been robbed!” he exclaims.

“Again?” asks the old man, sort uh grinning.

“We chased them animiles out, and finds the safe door wide open. There ain’t uh thing left inside.”

“Is them two iron boxes gone?” gasps the old man, and Hank nods.

“Ain’t that hard luck?” appeals the old man. “It ain’t the cost of the danged things—it’s the principle of the thing. First, I pays fifteen dollars each for three speckled hens and my hired help assassinates ’em. Today I receives four dozen fancy aigs to set under them hens, and now they’re gone. Gol dingle dang!”

“Aigs!” yelps Chuck. “Did you have aigs in that safe?”

“Uh-huh,” grunts the old man. “Four dozen. I never gets drunk unprepared. When Frank Allen left I cached the money in that woodpile beside the bank, and I put them aigs in the safe.”

I leads Chuck off to one side, and looks foolish like at him.

“Chuck,” says I, “I’d admire to find out uh few things.”

“She was uh joke, Hen. We wanted to get even with the old man for acting the way he did. Sabe? Me and Telescope intends to perfume the bank, so we borrow chloroform from Doc Milliken and the animiles from Pole Cat Perkins. I gets to thinking about that piece uh paper that Muley finds, and when we found the bank window unlocked it was uh cinch. Them figures was the combination to the safe. We puts two striped ones inside and shut the door almost tight. They didn’t take long to wake up.”

“But the aigs?” I asks.

“Uh king’s ransom, Hen,” snickers Chuck. “They’re out there in the buckboard.”

“Ain’t yuh going to catch Bill and prosecute him?” we hears Mike ask.

“Nope.”

The old man shakes his head, slow like, and sniffs audibly.

“Nope. Not me. He don’t require prosecution—he needs disinfecting. Him and Frank Allen, I reckon, pulled off that Silver Bend stunt, and that’s why I give Frank this job. The way I figures it out is like this: Allen got the money at Silver Bend and Bill was to get what was up here. Allen is right now in jail at Great Falls and Bill is out there in the desert wishing to —— that he didn’t have uh nose.”

“Haw!” says Telescope, vacant like, and the old man grins at us.

“Boys,” says he, “yuh might as well take my buckboard and go back to the ranch, and start trying to earn that swollen salary yuh horned out uh me—gol dingle dang your souls! I fired that cook but I’ll get one as soon as I can.”

“Who’ll do the cooking for us?” asks Telescope.

“You can get your own breakfast, can’t yuh? Can’t yuh even fry aigs?”

“Is there any aigs on the ranch?” asks Muley.

“There will be when you get there,” grins the old man.

“You sure are one wise hombre,” applauds Telescope. “We got to hand it to you for being uh wise person.”

“You can hand it to me for being uh danged fool! If I’d uh been wise I’d uh killed all four of yuh this morning. Sabe? Get on that buckboard and go home! What do yuh think I’m paying yuh so well for? Obey your boss!”

Me and Muley gets in that old rattletrap, and jingles and squeaks out of Paradise, and beside us rides Telescope and Chuck. Telescope raises his voice in song:

“Oh-h-h-h, it’s getting mighty late and it’s getting mighty cold,

And the long-horn cattle are uh getting mighty old,

With uh hi-yi and uh hi-yi and uh hi-yi yippi-i-aye.”

“Whoa,” says Muley, pulling up that pair uh broncs. “Listen to uh moral as she’s revealed to old man Bowles’s son Muley.”

He rests his feet on the top of uh front wheel and recites thusly:

“No matter what temptation comes uh creeping in your mind.

No matter if another’s gold plumb turns your morals blind.

It may be uh cinch to steal it, and your fingers simply itch.

All yuh got to do is grab it: here’s your one chance to get rich.

Stop uh while and think it over ere yuh put your soul in pawn.

What was rosy wealth this evening may be rotten aigs at dawn.”

“You got uh lot uh morals, Muley,” agrees Telescope. “You’re like uh coyote I saw once what wouldn’t kill calves. He was in uh taxidermist’s window.”

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, April 18, 1918. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MULEY'S MORALS ***

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MULEY’S MORALS

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