Pariahs of Piperock
Date: 2026-07-26T00:00:00+00:00

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Title: Pariahs of Piperock

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: July 26, 2026 [eBook #79184]

Language: English

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

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79184

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

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARIAHS OF PIPEROCK ***

PARIAHS OF PIPEROCK
by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Alias Whispering White,” “Local Option in Loco Land,” etc.

There comes a time in the life of every danged man when his conscience hurts him and he wishes to make restitution. Murderers have handed themselves over to the law, and burglars have been knowed to send back the proceeds of their burgling on account of them same twinges of conscience.

Sometimes it’s only a statement made in the time of anger that hurts a man’s insides and sends him back to square up.

That was the way with me and “Dirty Shirt” Jones. Me and him left the city of Piperock in anger of mind and agony of body; left the whole blamed county of Yaller Rock, for that matter. Piperock ain’t so bad itself. She’s a lot like the feller said about the heated hereafter—

“Hell ain’t so bad itself—it’s the people who live there.”

Me and Dirty participated in a local option campaign in Piperock, the same of which affects the whole county. In the interests of parched humanity we puts our best foot forward, and somebody proceeds to kick it out from under us. Thereupon we holds up our clenched fists and swore by the horns on the moon that we’re all through, finished and done with anything pertaining to Piperock or the county in which she lies.

That is September. We points our four burros away from there until we’re safe from our friends.

Cometh November. Me and Dirty are humped over a fire, trying to make mulligan out of an ancient fool hen, when Dirty speaks thusly:

“Wonder what Magpie Simpkins will do for a job if ‘Scenery’ Sims is elected sheriff? When me and you didn’t vote, Ike, local option becomes an issue. Be funny if Yaller Rock County goes dry by one vote.”

Thus are seeds sown and bear fruit upon the green bay tree. That evening we’re humped over the fire again. There ain’t been a word said about it since noon, but we’ve thought a heap, I reckon.

“I reads something once,” says Dirty reflective-like, “and she goes like this: ‘Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party.’”

“We answers them prophetic words in the morning, Dirty,” says I.

“What party, Ike?”

“Well,” says I, knowing whereof I speak, “it won’t be no tea-party—not in Piperock, Mister Jones.”

Going back was a simple matter. We knowed that somewhere under the north star lieth Piperock; so all we’ve got to do is to point properly, punch our burros and wear out our boots. Me and Dirty ain’t got much to hold converse about, being as we’ve been together long enough to exhaust any lies we might have thought up, and the truth ain’t of interest—when we do tell it.

We strikes the road which runs between Eagle and the rest of the world, and we points toward Eagle. About half an hour later we stops. Dirty is in the lead, and he walks back to me.

“Somebody lost a letter,” says he, holding out an envelope. “Lost off the stage, I reckon, and got run over.”

The address proclaims it to be the property of the Honorable Fitzhugh Peleg Alexander, Deer Lodge, Montana. She ain’t never been opened.

“Honorable!” snorts Dirty, slipping his finger under the flap.

The contents seems of interest to him. He takes a deep breath and hands it to me. I deciphers it thusly:

Dear Sir:

Our committee has decided to take up your offer to make our big temperance speech at Piperock. The evening before election will be about right. We will give you the fifty dollars after the speech.

Yours truly and respectfully,

Wick Smith, Chairman and Treasurer.

“What do you think of that?” I asks.

“Any old time they imports talent to dry up our homes, Ike, it’s time for us to hurry back. Hump yourselves, you flea-bitten cousins to a rabbit!”

We enters the portals of Eagle after dark. Eagle is some hook-billed town if anybody rises to inquire. We irrigates our necks and has a bit to eat, and then we opines to outguess the wheel, the same of which wasn’t hung on a spindle for no such purpose.

We ain’t placed more than a couple of bets when in comes a individual who roars like a bull-fiddle, slaps a twenty-dollar gold piece on the layout and howls:

“Let her spin, feller! That’s what is left of my gun.”

He sees the dealer pay a couple of piker bets and rake in his twenty.

He stands there sort of in a trance and watches the wheel spin gold for the house.

“You got a system?” asks Dirty Shirt, and the big feller stares at him.

“System? On that wheel? That wheel has got any system on earth hog-tied and staked out!”

“Meaning which?” snaps the gambler, and the crowd splits.

The big feller is leaning with his hands on the back of a chair. When he straightens up, he brings the chair up.

“Meaning,” says he, grinning, “that the law of averages was fixed by you before you opened the game.”

He whirls that chair across the layout and crowns the gambler complete. The gambler goes over backward with the layout, wheel and all on top of him, the same being assisted by me and Dirty Shirt.

There is silence for a while then Dirty says—

“I feel the need of an eclipse.”

His first shot busts the big lamp in the center of the room, and, before the flying glass hits the ceiling, he plants another slug into the lamp over the bar, and we has that eclipse.

As old Prof. Phinney would say, “Things got sort of ki-otic.” A slug of somebody’s lead dusted the dandruff on my head but missed my hat, for the simple reason that I had it in my hand. I’m so polite that I always takes off my hat in the presence of the dead. Nobody is dead yet, but the indications are favorable.

Seems like everybody is exercising their gun rights; so I points toward the door, shoots twice straight ahead to guarantee an open trail and don’t stop hopping until I’m at that hitch-rack, mingling with Dirty Shirt and the burros.

We don’t stop to apologize to anybody. About three miles out we makes camp, and, about the time we gets coffee to boiling, who comes angling in but the feller who threw the chair. He sets down and accepts a bite.

“Cleaned?” asks Dirty, and the feller nods.

“Whiter than snow.”

He’s a hefty sort of a hombre, born about forty years ago, and he sure is endowed with vocal cords. He cusses Eagle back to the sixth generation and then passes around the bottle.

“Clean?” says he. “Gents, I ain’t got nothing but my honor left. My horse is in hock; my saddle is gone, and all the satisfaction I got was to hang a chair on that gambler’s head.”

“What can you do?” asks Dirty.

“Anything short of murder.”

“Can you talk like a orator?”

“Me? Go ahead.”

“Listen,” says Dirty, and then he opens up and tells this jasper all about Piperock.

Then he shows him that letter.

“You can earn that fifty, and me and Ike will give you twenty more.”

“Is that so?” says I. “For why?”

“As a bonus to the Honorable Alexander for getting so drunk that he can’t make that speech. Sabe? There will be a disappointed and disgusted crowd, and such will react in our favor.”

“But that letter says he don’t get that money until after the speech,” I argues.

“Hmm,” muses Dirty. “Ike, am I good for fifty dollars?”

“Not as a investment in live stock,” says I. “But your credit is.”

“I ain’t got a cent,” says the feller. “How will I get there?”

Then me and Dirty assays ourselves and finds that twenty won’t break us, and he promises to take the first stage north. He stays with us that night, plants himself beside the road the next morning, and about noon the stage passes us. Beside the driver is our alleged temperance talker, but he don’t recognize us, which shows him to be cautious.

Four days from that ancient fool hen finds us poking through the Medicine Hills, which are the boundary-lines between Yaller Rock and Custer. We swings out on a big bluff where we can look down upon the town of Piperock. The sight of a feller’s old home town always brings memories, and me and Dirty lingers there, gazing down upon the town of our past wrath.

We sees a tiny speck of a human being cross the street and get on a bronc. They whirls and goes out of town in a tiny cloud of dust, and up to our ears is wafted the faint snap of a shot.

“Danged good old town!” applauds Dirty. “Best little town on earth, Ike, and she ain’t changed a bit.”

“Sure looks peaceful,” I agrees. “Let’s slide down and hold a reunion.”

When we hits the bottom of the hills, we meets “Mighty” Jones, who is riding through the mesquite. He stops and stares at us.

“You fellers back?” he asks.

“Well,” says Dirty, “are you so in the habit of talking to yourself that you can’t believe your eyes?”

“You’ve got a lot of gall!” declares Mighty. “Coming back to the town you throwed down last September. Fine pair of citizens! When I die from thirst, I’ll think of you two, but prior to that I forgets you.”

“I hope we’ll be in your thoughts soon, Mighty,” says Dirty.

“How are things coming, Mighty?” I asks. “You might tell us.”

“Nope. When I can’t speak cheerful, I keeps still. You fellers will find out things soon enough.”

He lopes on. Me and Dirty looks at each other and then pilgrims on. The old town looks all right—externally. There’s a bronc dozing at the rack in front of “Buck’s” place, and Ricky Henderson is taking a siesta in front of his barber-shop. All looks serene; so we ties up our rolling-stock and enters the saloon.

Buck is standing behind the bar, but somehow there don’t seem to be no welcome in his eyes. We faces the mirror and elevates one hoof.

“Little touch of hooch, Buck,” grins Dirty, but Buck shakes his head.

“Nope,” he says and points at a sign on the wall. We peers closer and sees this:

To Whom It May Concern:

Resolved, that Ike Harper and Dirty Shirt Jones, them same being part and parcel of our past history, are hereby declared null and void as far as we are concerned. Them two has violated the principles of liberty and justice, failed in their duty to mankind and are hereby declared pariahs and outcasts in Piperock. Resolution framed by Judge Steele and signed by the following Republicans in good order:

Magpie Simpkins
Buck Masterson
Mighty Jones
Doughgod Smith
Ricky Henderson
Samuel Holt

“Whyfor cometh all this boycotting, Buck?” asks Dirty.

“You two failed to cast votes which would have put local option into the discard,” says he, solemn-like. “You’re hyas cultus around here.”

“No drinks?” I asks, and he shakes his head.

“O Death, where is thy stinger?” says Dirty dry-like, and we sets down.

“What did you fellers come back here for?” asks Buck. “You ain’t got no friends left nor nothing.”

Just then old Judge Steele comes in, wiping his brow, and buys himself a jolt of jiggle juice, but he don’t even seem to see us.

“How’s law and justice nowadays, Judge?” asks Dirty.

The old pelican stares at us like he’d never seen us before.

“Has somebody brought sheep into our fair land, Buck?” he asks.

“Looks thataway, Judge,” admits Buck, sad-like. “Things is changing every day. Ain’t like the good old days.”

“Ain’t it so!” says the judge. “When we can’t go to the dogs fast enough, the dogs comes to us, Buck.”

“Listen!” Dirty slides sidewise so his gun is handy. “You pair of slop-headed snake-hunters think you’re smart, don’t you? Me and Ike felt that Piperock needed us, and we came back. We’re here, and we’re here to stay. Hear me holler?”

“If we don’t, we soon will,” admits Buck.

Me and Dirty walks out of there and slams the door. We’re sore. Dirty is sorer than I am, ’cause he loses all caution and kicks that Lodestone burro in the south end, the same of which reacts upon him. He picks himself up and limps over to the sidewalk.

“Dang it all!” he wails. “Somebody has been talking to them burros.”

“I’m going to talk to Magpie,” says I. “He’ll understand.”

If he did, he didn’t show it. That long, lean, sorrowful-looking hombre never even took his boots off the table when we came in—and I’ve been his pardner for years. All he done was to hitch his belt around so his gun rests in his lap and go on spelling out a reward notice.

“Ain’t you got no bowels of compassion?” I asks, and I put quarts of tears into that question.

He marks the place with his finger and peers at me.

“Not a gut!” he snaps and goes on reading.

“How does your chances look, Magpie?” asks Dirty.

“Good a minute ago—rotten now.”

We sets there for a while, and then I asks—

“How’s chances for local option to lose?”

“Same as mine to win—now.” And he goes on spelling words.

“Must figure us to be Joners,” opines Dirty sad-like.

“Joner was swallered by a whale,” says I.

“That’s the —— of it,” says Magpie; “we ain’t got no whales.”

“Want me to tell you what I think?” asks Dirty. “Do you?”

“Nope.” Magpie shakes his head. “Our thoughts has got yours beat sixteen ways from the jack if you thought steady all your life; so you might as well save your teeth, tongue and wind.”

“Does them sentiments cover me?” I asks.

“I spoke collectively,” says he. “You don’t need to close the door.”

We went out and sat on the sidewalk for a while. Then we happens to notice Ricky Henderson.

“By cripes, I’m going to get a shave and hair-cut,” says Dirty.

So we both went over. Ricky yawns and looks at us.

“How’s the old razor working, Ricky?” I asks.

“All right, I reckon,” says he indifferent-like.

“We’ll stand a few slices,” grins Dirty. “Set us out two shaves and a couple of hair-cuts.”

“Not today,” says Ricky. “Come around Friday.”

“Why Friday?” I asks.

“Closed on account of election.”

“Today ain’t election day.”

“No,” says he, “but Friday is.”

Me and Dirty lets this soak in for a while, and then we walks across to Sam Holt’s hotel. We ain’t had no dinner, and we hankers for a lot of ham and eggs. Old Sam meets us in the dining-room, but he don’t grin like he used to.

“Howdy, Samuel,” says I. “Can the Chink rustle us some ham and eggs?”

Old Sam shakes his head.

“Nope. Far as you fellers are concerned, that pig ain’t been killed yet, and the chickens are all setting.”

We walks out of there and perches on a hitch-rack like a pair of hairy old buzzards which have been cheated out of a feed.

“Ike,” says Dirty, “did you ever hear the story about the feller who went into a dance-hall? He was full of hooch. Well, the manager took him by the arm and led him outside, but the feller went back again. The manager throwed him out the next time, but he went back. This time the manager kicked him out and kicked him plumb across the street. Somebody says, ‘Going in again?’

“‘Again?’ says he. ‘Me? Think I’m a danged fool? I know when I ain’t wanted.’”

“They ain’t kicked us out yet, Dirty,” says I.

“No,” agrees Dirty. “But the manager didn’t kick the feller out the first time either, Ike.”

Then cometh Mrs. Wick Smith. She waddles, talks hoarse and has a lot of trouble keeping her waist buttoned in the back. She toddles up and looks us over.

“Back again, eh?” says she. “Going to help us again? We need help.”

“So do we,” nods Dirty.

“We’re going to give a sociable in the Mint Hall tonight and have a big time. Political temperance speech and charades—you like charades?”

“I don’t,” says Dirty, “although I’m hungry enough to eat mostly any of them Mexican dishes. For why is the sociable?”

“Campaign fund. We hired the Honorable Fitzhugh Peleg Alexander to make our big temperance speech. Sent clear to Deer Lodge for him. Fine talker. Was sent to the Legislature from Sagebrush County in 1899. Remember him, don’t you? He tried to pass a bill making sheepherding a misdemeanor.”

“Anything new in the political field?” asks Dirty.

“Well,” says she hoarse-like, “it has been hot in spots. Scenery Sims and ‘Hassayampa’ Harris has been stumping the county together.”

“And lived?” I asks. “Nobody kill ’em?”

“Not exactly. Nobody is sure whether it was intentional or not. Down at Paradise Scenery was making a speech, when Chuck Warner’s six-shooter exploded and cut Scenery’s handkerchief right off his neck. Chuck said that Scenery’s oration made him feel so melancholy that he tried to commit suicide, but the gun went off accidental.

“Curlew applauded Hassayampa by hammering on the seats with their guns, and, when Hassayampa recovered, he found the remains of a bullet imbedded in his watch and the top of his ear burnt off. Outside of that there ain’t been no prominent folks shot at.”

“Ike,” says Dirty as Mrs. Smith waddles away, “this country ain’t lost yet. There is still a slumbering spirit left, and maybe we can fan her into flame. We’re outlaws—me and you. We’ve soured on them Republican stummicks, and they don’t hanker for us no more.

“Them hombres proclaim us to be fourteen carats of Democracy. Ain’t they outcast us? Ain’t they barred us from the flesh-pots? Ain’t they?”

“I won’t argue against it, Dirty.”

“I’m going to turn mean, Ike. In my eyes comes the look of a killer.”

“Make it four eyes and I’ll wear two, Dirty. But we still stand good with prohibition, don’t we?”

“How so?” squeaks a voice behind us, and we turns to see Scenery Sims.

Me and Dirty gazes upon that little shrimp in chaparejos.

“How so?” parrots Dirty. “Ain’t we helped you a lot?”

“Helped?” he squeaks. “You can’t pull no wool over my eyes—you two. Them crooked Republicans got you back here for a purpose. Judge Steele just the same as admitted it, and, when I accused Magpie of the same thing, he just grins and tells me that I’m hard to fool. You can’t fool Lindhardt Cadwallader Sims, y’betcha you can’t! I’m going to put them local optionists wise. Sabe?”

And he goes tod’ling across the street, hunching up his shoulders and elbows like he was riding a trotting horse.

“Home, ho-o-o-o-ome, sweet, sweet ho-o-o-o-ome,” sings Dirty sad and low. “Ike, it’s like dodging a sidewinder and stepping on a Gila monster.”

Then “Polecat” Perkins ties his bronc and comes over to us.

“You saved me a trip out to your place, Polecat,” says Dirty, stepping around until Polecat is down-wind from him.

“Whyfor, Dirty?”

“Ain’t you heard? Ain’t you heard that if Hassayampa Harris is elected to the Legislature he’s going to pass a bill making skunks a nuisance?”

“Is, eh?” Polecat masticates at top speed for a while. “Is, eh? Well, well! Let’s all have a little drink.”

“Not in there,” says Dirty. “Buck is in favor of Hassayampa.”

“His touch ain’t contaminated sealed goods,” says Polecat. “I’ll buy a bottle, and we’ll drink it out here.”

He comes back with a quart in his hand and a grin on his face. He holds up the bottle, squints through it at the sun and says:

“We’ll drink to——”

Crash! Bang! We gets plentiful sprinkled with liquor and busted glass, and from the door of the saloon comes the whang of a gun. Polecat stands there, hanging on to the neck of that bottle.

“——!” says Polecat.

“Under the circumstances that’s as good a toast as any,” says Dirty.

“I ain’t got no gun with me,” complains Polecat as he forks his bronc, “but, when I come again to this village, I’m coming heeled and in the proper frame of mind to resent all such maneuvers.”

He rides away, shaking his head and still hanging on to the neck of that bottle. Me and Dirty humps up on that rack again and smokes to keep from getting too dry.

“Beg pardon, but I can’t seem to place you two,” says a voice behind us, and we crooks our necks to look at the Honorable Fitzhugh Peleg Alexander.

He’s looking at us over a big pair of specs, one hand inside his vest like he’d been sleeping in a sheep camp and brought away something.

“You don’t need to worry about placing us,” says Dirty. “We’re here.”

“Who have I the honor of addressing?” he asks, and Dirty snorts:

“Honor, ——! Tell that to the natives and get lynched.”

“Where did you get them clothes?” I asks, looking him over.

“There was an honest wheel in Paradise, and I bought ’em from the undertaker. Glad I ran across you, ’cause I need money.”

“For what?” asks Dirty.

“Running expenses. I’m staying with ‘Old Testament’ Tilton, and he plays a danged stiff game of seven-up.”

“Reckon we’re going to stake you?” I asks.

“Have to,” says he. “Otherwise I’ll have to go.”

“Feller like you hadn’t ought to hock his gun,” observes Dirty. “How was Jesse James when you left the gang?”

“Fifty dollars,” says the feller absent-like, “was the price. Maybe you can find another man to take my place. Remember I’ve got to have enough to get awful drunk on to make the play right.”

“Me and Ike ain’t been treated right by our friends since we came,” says Dirty. “We’re outcasts of society, but I reckon we’re strong enough to suffer for our principle. They’ll make heroes out of us when they finds out the truth, Ike.”

“Yes,” says I, “but dead men don’t appreciate applause.”

“Wait, and I’ll see what I can do,” says Dirty.

He drops off the rack and trots across the street to Wick Smith’s store. He’s in there about five minutes. Then he comes back and hands Honorable Alexander some bills. The feller looks at it, counts it over and walks on.

“Well, that’s all over and settled, Ike,” says Dirty relieved-like. “I was afraid that Wick might hate us too much to do business with me, but it was a bargain at fifty dollars.”

“What did you sell, Dirty?” I asks.

“Them four burros.”

“Our——”

I sets there and stares at Dirty Shirt, and then I looks over at the burros.

Lodestone and Pin Ear belongs to me body and soul, if a burro has any soul. I’ve had them two canaries ever since Sitting Bull sat down. Why, Lodestone is the champion kicker of the State, and Pin Ear is his pupil.

I looks down at Dirty Shirt, but my tongue won’t speak. My temperature goes up to one hundred and thirty-five in the shade, and I drops off and takes Dirty Shirt Jones to my bosom. Right there in the main street of my old home town I clasps him unto me.

Man, I sure combed that hombre all the way, and he reciprocates to the best of his ability. We hugs each other laying down, standing up and spinning on our heads. Being as I can’t see much, I don’t know how the battle stands, but all to once I hears Magpie’s voice:

“That’s plenty! Don’t kill him!”

“Good thing you spoke,” says I. “I plumb forgot myself.”

“I wasn’t speaking to you, Ike,” says Magpie, and I sets up.

Dirty is standing there, trying to put on two halves of his vest and hold on a pant-leg at the same time. Wick Smith is standing there at the hitch-rack beside the burros, grinning like a fool.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” he whoops and slaps Lodestone on the rump.

I could kiss that burro for what he done. Wick lands about ten feet away, gets up, walks into the rack and falls on his face.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” I whoops. “Me and that mule can whip the town.”

“Whip ——!” yelps Dirty, picking up a rock. “You couldn’t whip nobody!”

He hits Magpie right in the neck with that rock. Magpie sets down on the ground and begins to whistle something I’ve never heard before. Dirty looks foolish-like at him and weaves off across the street. I’m right behind him.

“Dirty,” says I. “I apologize for licking you. That was a good shot.”

“Like thunder!” he wails. “I aimed at you—dang your hide! Now I’ll get arrested.”

“And put in jail,” says I, “and then your brother outcast will have to get some dynamite and blow you out.”

“You let up on that dynamite talk!” he wails. “Where’d I be?”

“You wouldn’t have any jail around you, Dirty.”

“You let me be in jail,” he howls. “Dog-gone you, don’t you dynamite no jails what I’m in. Maybe I won’t be in.”

“Yes, you will,” says I. “I’m going to have you arrested for selling burros what don’t belong to you. Sabe?”

“If you do, I’ll swear that you hired that hombre to speak for prohibition.”

“That ain’t nothing to jail a feller for,” says I.

“Nope. Under the present administration you wouldn’t live to get to a good, safe jail, Ike.”

“That’s them,” squeaks a voice behind us, and we turns to see Scenery and Old Testament Tilton standing there looking at us. “Them are Republican spies and disturbers, Testament. They publically pulls off a fight to try and fool us.”

“A wrath cometh that will cause the wicked to flee,” says Old Testament pious-like. “They will talk in many tongues, and their temples will fall.”

“I talk two now,” says I, “United States and profane. I ain’t got no temple, and I licked Dirty Shirt in public ’cause I didn’t have time to take him out of sight.”

“You licked me?” asks Dirty.

“Well, why argue about it,” says I. “Everybody has a right to their own opinion.”

“When I’m sheriff, I’m going to clean up!” squeaks Scenery.

“Good!” applauds Dirty. “I’d admire to see how you’d look, feller. If you get beat, you’ll stay filthy, eh?”

“Far be it from me to ask anybody to go away,” says Old Testament, “but it would be an act of kindness if you two would leave. Your game is knowed full well, and you ain’t here for no good.”

“We don’t look like we was here for our health; that’s a cinch,” admits Dirty. “We don’t ask for no fatted calves, but—ain’t you got no hearts?”

“Hearts!” squeaks Scenery. “Why, dang your spying——”

Scenery got that far when Dirty kicked his feet out from under him, and he bit his tongue when he hit the dirt. He sets there nursing his tongue and shaking his head.

“Violence,” says Testament, “don’t figure in our program, but you bug-headed sheep in wolves’ clothing are——”

Testament is a preacher of the Gospel. I’ve got lots of respect for a preaching preacher, but, when he steps out and calls me a sheep, I sort of classes him with human beings. Me and Dirty looks back when we’ve got to the corner, and Dirty says chiding-like:

“Suppose you should die tonight, Ike, and needed a Christian burial tomorrow. What do you reckon Old Testament would say over you?”

“He’d have to say something different than he said when he sat down on the ground just now, Dirty, ’cause them words ain’t in no burial service I ever heard.”

From force of habit we wanders over to Buck’s place and sets down. Buck is building a solitaire layout and don’t give us a second look. Pretty soon Dirty Shirt says—

“Buck, I know something you ought to hear.”

“Yeah?” says Buck. “You’re talking.”

“Them prohibitionists has handed us a raw deal, Buck, and I don’t figure me and Ike owes them any loyalty. They feeds the hand what bites ’em. Tomorrow there’s going to be rough stuff pulled in Curlew. A bunch from Custer County is going to vote Dry. Sabe?”

“Illegal voters?” asks Buck interested-like.

“You heard enough, Buck. If you tell on me, I’ll assassinate you.”

“I’m wise,” nods Buck. “Hassayampa’s doings—dang him!”

Me and Dirty walks out and runs into Hassayampa. Dirty takes him to one side and whispers in his ear. Hassayampa gets interested a heap.

“Right here?” asks Hassayampa. “The gall of them jaspers! I’ll go over to Wick’s and get you fellers something to eat. Barred you from the hotel, eh?”

Mike Pelly rides in from Paradise, and me and Dirty goes over to see him. He ain’t friendly, but his ears are open to talk.

“You can take it or leave it—suit yourself,” says Dirty, “but between the hours of 8 a. m. and 8 p. m. there’s going to be crooked work pulled off right here, Mike. None of my business what you do. Sabe?”

Mike nods and goes over to Buck’s. Hassayampa brings us over some canned food, and we enjoys a big feed.

“Dirty,” says I, “you’re a awful, awful liar.”

“Nobody believes the truth, Ike; so we might as well lie.”

“What will it get for us?” I asks.

“Well, there’s more belligerent votes among the Dries than there is among the Wets. When a man is looking for trouble, he ain’t got time to vote, and—you ain’t got brains enough to see six feet ahead.”

“Go ahead and lie if it brings happiness to your penny-ante soul.”

“I’ve been looking for you two,” says Magpie Simpkins, and we turns to see him and Judge Steele beside us. “I arrests you both for assaulting a officer of the law.”

Magpie is wearing his head cocked to one side like a startled fool hen.

“I tried to hit Ike with that rock,” says Dirty.

“He’s lying,” says I. “He threw it right at you.”

“Think I didn’t know that?” snaps Magpie. “I just wanted to know which one of you it was. I’ll take Dirty.”

“Dead—maybe,” nods Dirty. “Not alive, Magpie. That bow-legged Harper honyock says he’ll dynamite the jail if I’m put in there.”

“Dinnymiter, eh?” crows the judge. “Dinnymiter at heart, Magpie. Put him in.”

“I’ve only got one cell, Judge. They’ll fight.”

“Let ’em,” grins the old pelican. “We’ll watch.”

“Coming peaceful?” asks Magpie, and we nods.

He herds us across in front of Wick’s store. Out comes Hassayampa, Scenery, and Wick.

“Get out of the way of the law!” yelps the old judge.

“Wait!” yells Hassayampa. “What is the arrest for, Magpie?”

“’Cause we’re Dry,” yells Dirty. “They wants to kill our votes.”

“Starting their skulduggery already, eh?” grunts Wick. “Trying to cripple a worthy cause on the eve of its victory, eh?”

“We stands by our compatriots!” squeaks Scenery, and I know that Hassayampa has told ’em what Dirty told him.

Pete Gonyer has rode up beside us, and I sees Wick signal him something. Pete rides a few steps away, but I ain’t got time to wonder about him.

“I arrests them two, and they’re going to jail!” declares Magpie. “None of you drouthers are going to hinder me in the performance of my sworn duty, believe me.”

I reckon Pete had the right idea. The play must ’a’ been to get Magpie, but the loop was too big. I felt it rasp across my neck, I collides with Magpie, and we both left the ground. Then we lands on my back. I gets a fleeting look at things, and I sees that Pete is still in the saddle, but that rope has got around the bronc’s hind legs and tail, the same of which aggravates it a heap.

Magpie seems to have got all my left ear in his teeth and is breathing hard through his nose. I starts in to address him on the evils of cannibalism, but I feels a tug at my heart-strings and we’re off again. This time the bronc seems to have a definite object in view. Pete may be a local optionist, but that bronc didn’t draw no liquor line, ’cause it bucked right through Buck’s front door and across the corner of the pool-table, leaving me and Magpie half-way across the bar, with the saddle and all the slack rope tied around the stove.

I wiggles loose and falls behind the bar, the same of which deposits Magpie in front of the bar. I lit on something soft, which appears to be Buck Masterson, but I don’t worry about him.

I’ve been shocked to such an extent that I hankers for courage. My neck ain’t no-ways in line with my heels, but I decides to drink, anyway, and let it cut the curves. I grabs a bottle off the back-bar and deluges my throat with the contents. I took the first bottle I got hold of, and I found out right then that it pays to be particular. I never swallered so hard in all my life. I lifts up that bottle to see what I’ve absorbed. Then there comes a crash and that bottle seems to dissolve like a bad dream.

“I comes heeled this time,” states a voice, and there is Polecat in the doorway with a gun in his hand. “Charge me a dollar a bottle and then shoot it out of my hand, will you!”

Polecat comes sneaking in and peers at me.

“——!” says he. “Wrong again.”

“Polecat,” says I, “will you look on the floor and see if you can find the label that was on that bottle?”

He looks around and finally picks up a sticky piece of paper and lays it on the bar.

“Is that what you drink?” asks Polecat wondering-like.

“That’s what I drank,” I admits.

“My ——!” says he. “You don’t care if the country does go dry, do you? You can always get kerosene, Ike.”

We hears a noise over by the pool-table. A pair of boots comes up, rests on top of the table, like the owner of them boots was trying to stand on his head. Buck has got to his feet and is leaning against me, making funny faces when he tries to talk. From the looks of Buck he must ’a’ tried to keep that bronc out by main strength. He peers at them two feet on his table, and then he whispers hoarse-like:

“Can’t you—you read? Keep one foot on the floor!”

The boots slid off the table, clumped when they hit the floor, and over the edge of the table comes Pete’s face. He blinks at us like an owl.

“You—you ——” says Magpie’s voice, and we turns to see him swaying just inside the door, trying to cock a gun. “You danged arid jassack!” he wails.

Pete nods his head and slides just below the table level as the gun explodes. Magpie made a good shot. He ain’t no Buffalo Bill with a six-gun, and maybe he couldn’t do it again, but that bullet busted right into the nail that holds the ball-rack, and that piece of furniture and sixteen pool balls comes down on top of Pete with a crash.

“Sic semper tyrannis!” grunts Magpie.

“My gosh!” grunts Polecat. “What a name for a dog! Magpie thinks he’s herding sheep.”

We sees Pete get up from behind that table, get up like he didn’t have a care in the world. He’s got lumps on his head until that member ain’t no-ways shaped to hold a hat, and his clothes wouldn’t bring a nickel in a rag house.

He pokes around the corner of the table and weaves straight past us and out of the door, and you can call me a liar if he ain’t trying to take a bite out of a red pool ball.

“I—I ain’t had a apple for ages,” says Magpie peevish-like. “Not for ages and ages.”

“Well,” says Buck, “you might foller Pete; he won’t eat it all.”

Magpie nods and limps out of the door.

“Ike drank your kerosene, Buck,” states Polecat.

“Kerosene?” Buck looks at Polecat and then at the back-bar.

“That bottle what was there?” he asks, and Polecat nods.

“Dang it!” snorts Buck. “I was trying a experiment, and now she’s spoiled! I wanted to see if I could preserve a little snake in oil the same as you can in alcohol.”

“Could you?” asks Polecat.

“I don’t know,” says Buck sad-like. “It’s only been in there two weeks.”

That kind of talk makes me sick. I goes outside and runs into old Judge Steele.

“You’re still under arrest, Ike,” says he positive-like. “The fact that Pete interferes with his rope don’t lessen the fact that you’re due to languish in durance vile. Too bad you snake-hunters——”

Thus ended the discourse. I’m from a peaceable family, and I hate a rumpus of any kind, but any old time they connects my name with snakes I forgets my breeding.

I’m mean when I gets mad, and I ain’t responsible for what I do. Maybe it’s a good thing them local optionists pulled us apart. Wick Smith chased the judge half-way home, while the rest of ’em led me inside the store, where quite a crowd is congregated.

“This is going to be a big night,” states Hassayampa, who seems to be making a speech. “Word has been sent to our committees in Curlew and Paradise, and they will be on hand to figure out ways and means to combat the evil which confronts us. The stage is set; on with the dance, and let joy be unrefined.”

“We can thank Mr. Jones for his timely confession,” says Mrs. Smith.

“He has unmasked the liquor ring. Them snakes in the——”

I got up and limped right out of there. I’m only human. I limped all the way up to our shack and went in. Magpie is setting there on a box, oiling his gun, and he nods as I come in.

“Going to kill somebody?” I asks.

“Likely.”

“Local?”

“Foreign.”

“They’re slick.”

“Y’betcha, but we’re slicker, Ike. We’ll show them drouthers they can’t fool with us. We’re going to picket Curlew and Paradise from 6 a. m. to 6 p. m. tomorrow, and they’ll do us no dirt. Sabe?”

“Can I lay me down to sleep, Magpie?” I asks. “I’m all in.”

“I ain’t never killed nobody in their sleep—yet,” says he.

Just then comes a knock at the door, and Scenery Sims enters our abode. He squints at me and Magpie and squeaks:

“I just came to let you know that your nefarious schemes are known, Magpie Simpkins. We’ll thwart you, dog-gone you; we will!”

“You’ll say something pretty soon,” says Magpie.

“Your spy system is played out and perished,” says Scenery, waving his arms. “The machinery of the Republican party is full of monkey-wrenches and its wheels are rusting. Right will prevail, gents and ladies, and this land will be fairer than the lilies in the dell.”

“You won’t smell ’em,” says Magpie slow-like. “They’ll be over you, you squeaky little cousin to a chickadee! I’ll give you ten seconds to get out the window. Hit the glass, Lindhardt!”

“I came in the door,” says Scenery, “and I’m going——”

“Out of the window,” says Magpie, “six, seven, eight, nine——”

Scenery went. The first bullet went into the floor under his feet, and he hopped four feet high and went through that window like a circus rider going through a hoop. As his heels disappear, comes the whang of Magpie’s second shot, and the world seems to rise up and smite me on four sides at once.

I hears the gentle rain-drops pattering around me, and I sort of rises my head to take a look at the storm. Two more rain-drops fall beside me, and, when I claws the dirt out of my eyes so I can see, I finds that the last two drops consisted of our cook-stove and Magpie’s chair. I looks at our shack and wonders aloud at what I see. Things sure have changed a lot around the old homestead.

Just then I sees a busted chair rise up and turn around several times before the party under it can get loose. Then he shucks a picture-frame off his neck and kicks the water-bucket off his right leg. Then he peers at me and says—

“Ike, have you got any lilies—of—the—dell?”

Magpie’s mustache is all gone, and I wonder if his shirt eloped with his boot.

“No lilies,” says I. “I’m about half out of flowers today. Would you mind telling me what kind of ammunition you use in that gun?”

He looks at the ruined home and rubs his dirty face.

“In the corner of the shack was forty pounds of dynamite, Ike, and I—I think maybe I hit it.”

“The evidence is all in your favor,” says I. “Where is Scenery?”

About thirty feet away from us lies the door of our shack, and as I asks the question that door seems to rise up a little and fall back. Then it rises up again, and somebody seems to get up behind it. Then it falls toward us, and standing there in the light of day is a woful-looking hombre. He looks like the breaking up of a hard Winter.

“I came visiting,” says he weak-like. “I came visiting.”

“Yes, yes,” says I. “Proceed.”

“I—I turned the knob,” says he, like he was trying to remember something that happened long ago. “I turned the—” Then he stops. “My ——! I must be strong! I—I yanked that door so hard that it came off the hinges and lifted me plumb over here!”

“You hadn’t ought to yank a door thataway, Dirty Shirt,” chides Magpie. “Look what you done to our home.”

Dirty looks at the remnants of the shack and then rubs his eyes.

“I can’t stay,” he whispers. “I—I just called—that’s all.”

And he weaves off toward town.

“Called ——!” grunts Magpie. “He never even seen my last raise, Ike.”

We pilgrims up and looks at our shack. One end and all of the roof is in the discard. There’s a hole about six feet deep near where the window used to be, and, as we peer down into it, a foolish face looks up at us and a voice squeaks:

“Don’t shoot! Dog-gone you, don’t shoot again! I’ve got a headache.”

“Didn’t I give you ten seconds to get out?” asks Magpie. “What are you doing in my house again?”

“Oh!” Scenery peers around and crawls out. He peers around and nods. “I remember,” says he. “I lit on my hands and knees, didn’t I? And then the world raised up behind me, and I fell into the hole that it came out of.”

He peers all around and digs some gravel out of his ears.

“I see it all now!” he yelps. “You tried to assassinate me! You—What are you looking for?”

“My gun,” says Magpie, poking into the wreck. “Remember now that I only counted to nine. I beg your pardon, Mister Sims.”

Scenery stumbled over a log and fell down, but he got right up and went toward town, talking to himself, and I went right behind him. Maybe I talked a little, too. A feller can’t get blowed through the side of a house without having something to talk about.

Then I meets Lodestone. Right in the middle of the road I meets that lovable burro. We rubs noses, and then I climbs on his back and rides up the road, where I runs into Dirty Shirt and Polecat. It is almost dark. Polecat hands me a bottle, the same of which is investigated by all of my senses before I imbibes.

“Me and Dirty has been appointed guards of honor, Ike,” says Polecat. “We’ve been appointed to guard the ice cream.”

“Does she need guards?” I asks.

“Sure,” grins Polecat. “The local optionists have heard that the Republicans are going to steal it, and I volunteers to guard it with my life and Dirty’s.”

“Who told you they was going to steal it?” I asks.

“Dirty Shirt.”

“It must be true then,” says I.

Then I rode the burro over to Buck’s rack and went inside the saloon. Curlew, Paradise and Piperock are well represented in there, and they talks some about the sociable.

“You fellers won’t see none of it,” says I. “You won’t even be allowed in the hall.”

“How do you know?” asks Mike Pelly.

“Dirty Shirt told me.”

Then I went out and sat on the sidewalk across the street. Lodestone is the only friend I’ve got left, and he don’t belong to me. The hall is lit up, and the local optionists are going in right along. Pretty soon here comes Dirty Shirt and sets down with me.

“Through being warden to a hunk of frozen milk?” I asks.

“Uh-huh. By golly, if we could only be there to see it, Ike! You’d—— Look at the fire! Buck’s saloon is on fire, Ike!”

From behind Buck’s place comes flame and sparks, which proclaims it to be a regular honest-to-grandma house on fire.

Somebody runs out of the saloon, shoots into the air and yells at the top of his voice:

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

Somebody else joins in the chorus, and that fire sure got advertised plenty.

It ain’t often that us folks get to enjoy a regular fire, and the local optionists pour out of the hall like bees. The street is full of folks doing everything they can to hinder anybody from putting out the fire. Me and Dirty lopes to the pump and splashes water plentiful until they begins to arrive with everything from a barrel to a hat. All to once somebody comes galloping across the street, yelling:

“Brush-pile! Just a bonfire. Wasn’t within fifty feet of the saloon.”

“Gents—” Old Testament enters our midst. His hard hat has been drove plumb down around his neck, and the brim sticks out from his chin like he was trying to shade his neck. “Gents, it pains me to inform you that the opposition has captured the Mint Hall, barred the door and are proceeding to appease their insides with our provender.”

“How do you know?” yelps Hassayampa, dropping a pail of water on his feet.

“I know,” says Testament, “because they dumped me out of the second-story window.”

“My ——!” gurgles Dirty, taking me by the arm. “Come away, Ike.”

I follers him across the street.

“Whyfor the exclamation, Dirty?” I asks, peering across the street, where the crowd is milling around the door of the hall.

“Polecat hates Hassayampa,” explains Dirty. “Polecat tells ’em that them Wets are going to steal the ice cream; so they deputizes us to guard it. We takes out the cream and the ice, Ike, and dumps it in a safe place, and then me and Polecat climbs into the rafters of the hall, and——”

Yeo-o-o-o-ow! Bang! Bang! Crash! Yeo-o-o-ow!

We sees the lights go out in the hall. Out of the windows and doors come hurrying men, and for the first time in history the Democrats and Republicans merge into one. They not only merge, but they seem to get very close to each other. Some of ’em comes our way, and I lopes over to the rack to get on Lodestone. He ain’t fast, but he’s the fastest I’ve got.

A bullet fans my ear, and I turns to shoot back—with the gun I ain’t got—when somebody slams into me and we both goes down. I rolls over about six times before I can stop. Then I gets right up, hops on to that burro and digs him with my heels.

Lodestone is a noble steed. He feels the need of fast work and dashes away—to the end of the rope. Some danged fool had tied him to the rack. Me and that other jassack stands on our heads, and I reckon we both got up at the same time. That darn old rabbit humps up like he was sore at the whole world, and then that man I ran into gets up and staggers to his feet.

“Sus-sorry I can’t make speech,” says he thick-like. “Ha, ha, ha! Got money in advance, too. Ha, ha, ha! Paid twice. Thanks. Rotten campaign. Pleased to meet you.”

The Honorable Alexander has been hit so hard that he ain’t neither got sense nor caution. He haw-haws some more to himself and shakes hands with Lodestone’s tail.

“Good night, gents,” says he. “Lovely party.”

“Good night and good-by,” says I.

Just then Lodestone lifts his legs sort of jerky-like, and I turns away. Lodestone must ’a’ been dazed a little, too, ’cause he kicked twice when once was sufficient.

I lights a match and looks at the feller. He squints cross-eyed at the match, and I know that he’s had plenty. He’s only got one sleeve of his coat on. I take it off and puts it on myself. All I’ve got left is one sleeve of my shirt, and I feel ashamed.

Then I herds Lodestone into the open door of the livery-stable, climbs up into the loft and goes to sleep on the hay. I don’t know how long I slept, but I do know that the sun is shining through the cracks in the west side when I wake up.

I hears voices raised in argument and anger below me, but that don’t mean nothing in Piperock. Sudden-like I sees the hay begin to rise, and out of that tangle of timothy comes the head of Dirty Shirt.

He nods to me and digs some foxtail out of his neck. Dirty looks like he had been hit in the face so many times that nothing short of bunion plasters would give him relief.

“Where did you get that coat?” he whispers.

I reaches inside the coat and hauls out a pocketbook and some old letters. I looks at ’em and hands ’em to Dirty Shirt. The epitaphs on the envelopes proclaim ’em to be for the Honorable Fitzhugh Peleg Alexander, Deer Lodge, Montana.

“He was him?” asks Dirty foolish-like.

“Is,” says I. “Unless Lodestone hit him twice.”

I opens the pocketbook, and she assays fifty dollars.

“Honorable,” says I, “you’re wrong; you only get paid once.”

“Talking to yourself?” asks Dirty.

“Nope. But the feller I’m talking to can’t hear me.”

Then we crawls over to the hay-hole and peers down. In the center of the room is a table and a box, and around the table sets old Sam Holt, Wick Smith, Ricky Henderson and “Jay Bird” Whittaker. Two Wets and two Dries. Each one of them election officials has a gun in front of him. Scattered around the room is representatives from abroad. Hassayampa Harris, “Sad” Samuels, “Weeping” Wilson, “Ace” Allison and “Half-Pint” Perkins from Curlew, and Cobalt Williams, Mike Pelly, Bill McFee, Andy Johnson, Art Miller, “Slim” Hawkins, Zeb Abernathy, Hank Padden and Abe Mudgett, all from Paradise.

We watches ’em for a while, and pretty soon Sam Holt says—

“The time grows late; I’ll cast my vote.”

He takes a ballot and enters a stall. When he comes back, Wick Smith gets up, takes a ballot and announces—

“I’m going to kill that vote.”

When he comes back, Ricky Henderson shuffles his feet, picks up a ballot and says, “Wick, your vote is in the sere and yaller leaf.”

And he votes.

Jay Bird don’t say anything. He just looks at Ricky and votes. No need for him to say a word. The vote now is fifty-fifty.

Things drag along for a while, and Chuck Warner rides in from Paradise.

“Any trouble down there?” asks Mike Pelly anxious-like.

“Nope.” Chuck shakes his head and sets down.

Then cometh Pete Pelliser from Curlew. His bronc is lathered plentiful, and the contingent from Curlew crowds around him.

“How’s she coming?” asks Hassayampa.

“Only six votes cast when I left,” says Pete. “Ain’t you fellers going to vote?”

“Not here,” says Sam Holt. “This ain’t their precinct.”

Then that bunch of belligerents stands up and sees things in the right light. They’ve mistrusted each other to the extent that they forgets their duties as citizens—and it’s too late to get back.

“How many votes cast in Paradise, Chuck?” yelps Mike.

“Not over twenty, and they’re about fifty-fifty, Mike.”

“My ——!” groans Mike. “And we was in the majority by two.”

Just then old Sam Holt happens to look up and sees me and Dirty. He lets out a yelp that could be heard in Helena, and the whole bunch looks up at us.

“There’s the winning votes!” whoops old Sam. “They turns the tide!”

“Come down,” orders Mike Pelly. “Come down and save the country.”

“For us!” whoops Hassayampa. “Come down, friends.”

“We ain’t going to vote,” says Dirty. “We’re pariahs. You boobs has all broke your picks with Dirty Shirt Jones, Ike Harper and so forth. We don’t owe allegiance to nothing nor nobody. Sabe?”

Me and Dirty enjoys the spectacle below us. Neither side dares to shoot us; so we leans as far out as we can and chuckles to ourselves.

I never did find out who threw that rope, but I think it was Chuck. Anyway, it was somebody who was handy with a rope, ’cause they got us the first swipe. Then me and Dirty gets yanked off that hay, and a second later that table ceases to be a table and the ballot-box wouldn’t hold rocks. Me and Dirty got walked upon in the events which followed.

They say that music hath charms to soothe the savage beasts, but every time I puckers my mouth to whistle somebody kicked me in the face. After a while the battle passes outside, and we has a chance to get rid of that rope.

Sam Holt’s feet are sticking out from under the table, and I sees Wick rise up with a horse-collar around his neck and the rest of the harness drapin’ his figure. Me and Dirty drags the table off old Sam, and he lays there, kicking his feet on the floor like he was internally disconnected.

“Wick,” says I, “I want them burros back.” I shoved that fifty into his unresisting hand. “Did you pay that speaker fifty dollars?”

“Uh-huh,” he nods. “He—he didn’t earn it though, and we chased him plumb over to Powder River to get it back, but he got away.”

“What—do—you—want?” gasps old Sam, setting up.

“Want to vote,” says I. “Can I?”

“Use—your—own—judgment,” says Sam.

I sat down and marked a ballot. When I got through, Dirty marked one. Then we got up, walked to the back of the stable and herded our four burros out back, where our plunder was piled.

“Now—is—the—time—for—all—wise—men—to—look—out—for—themselves,” says Dirty, pronouncing each word between yanks on a cinch.

We prods them burros out between the stable and the barber-shop and sees a big crowd in the street; so we herds ’em right back and goes around the other way.

“We don’t care what the excitement is about, Ike,” says Dirty. “Me and you have had about enough—I know I have.”

“I’d like to have my old gun,” says I. “I lost it when the shack blew up. Maybe we can find it, Dirty.”

We went up there and hunted around in the dark for an hour—we can’t find it; so we points them burros down the road and runs into Magpie. He stops and stares at us.

“Where’s your bronc?” I asks.

“Somebody turned it loose!” he yelps.

“Did Scenery beat you?” asks Dirty.

“How do I know? I’m one vote behind, and Piperock to hear from. Local option is three behind and Piperock to hear from.”

“Cinch,” grins Dirty. “You get four votes in Piperock, Magpie.”

“Gents, I thank you. I—I reckon we misjudged you two, and I apologize. Come back to your old home town and enjoy the fullness thereof.”

“Well,” says Dirty, “we might take one shot for old times’ sake.”

We left the burros there and walked back with him. There’s a crowd in Buck’s place, and we horns right in. Magpie pushes his way to the bar and faces the crowd.

“Gents,” says he, “let’s celebrate our sweeping victory. We win.”

“You do?” squeaks Scenery Sims. “You do not! I got an even break here, which places me by one vote, and local option went solid, which puts this county dry by one vote.”

There is silence for a moment, and then Magpie’s voice hits a high key—

“Did Sam Holt and Ricky Henderson throw us down?”

I slipped out of there, ducked around the corner and ran right into somebody coming the other way. We went down in a heap and fought out to the middle of the street. My antagonist grunts—

“Dang your soul, fight fair!”

I let loose of Dirty’s ear, and we staggered to our feet. We limped around back of the saloon and sat down for a while until we gets our breath; then we gets up and pilgrims toward our burros. I don’t sabe things at all, but I’m wise that there’s been a hitch somewhere.

We walks up to the burros, and a familiar voice says—

“Dog-gone you, I’ve got you now, you pariah pups!”

Magpie’s figure looms up from among our live stock. I sees the moonlight shine on the barrel of his gun, and I says my little prayer. He pushes a burro out of the way so he can have open shooting—but that burro was Lodestone. We propped Magpie up against a mesquite bush and hung his sombrero on the top so they’d find him, and then we points our cavalcade toward the north star again. We pokes along until we comes to the top of the big butte, from which we can see the lights of Piperock, and then we stops for a breathing spell.

“Dirty,” says I, “you started to tell me what you and Polecat done to them ice-cream containers last night. What was it?”

“Hornets. Six big nests, Ike. We—we stung our friends. Our old friends.”

“Old is the right word, Dirty. Anything else to tell me? How comes that only four votes showed up when we know of six that were cast?”

“I was too loyal to my friends, I reckon, Ike. Remember when we busted that ballot-box? Well, when I put our votes in, I took out two so as to make it a cinch. I—I reckon I—— Well, Ike, I figured on taking the Dry votes, but I reckon I got the wrong two.”

“Where are they?” I asks. “Can’t we take ’em back?”

“I didn’t dare to keep ’em, Ike; so I—I fed ’em to Lodestone.”

I took a quart of perfectly good whisky out of my pocket and held it up.

“Dirty,” says I, “being as we’ve got a long dry spell ahead of us, I reckon we might as well start now by busting this on a rock.”

“My gosh! Don’t do that, Ike. Save it for snakes.”

That awful word again! I slammed that bottle straight for Dirty’s head, but I missed him, and it flew among them burros. I hears that bottle thump; then comes a grunt, a rattle, and broken glass and whisky flew all over us.

“Ike,” says Dirty awed-like, “when a jackass kicks at it on the fly, she ain’t neither good for man nor beast. I’m glad I killed your vote.”

“Killed my vote?”

“Uh-huh. Ike, I didn’t figure that either side had any favors coming from me and you, and I knowed how you’d vote; so I decided they wouldn’t profit if I could help it, and I—I killed your Wet vote. Sabe?”

“You did like ——!” says I. “You added to it.”

And we pointed again toward the north star.

Transcriber’s Note

This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, August 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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