The Project Gutenberg eBook of The wisdom of Cyclops

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Title: The wisdom of Cyclops

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: July 29, 2026 [eBook #79223]

Language: English

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

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79223

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

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WISDOM OF CYCLOPS ***

THE WISDOM OF CYCLOPS

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “A Tin Cup Trophy,” “Nerves of Iron,” etc.

“Don’t yowl at me about the cooking, ‘Muley,’” advises old man Whittaker, sticking his face inside the bunk-house door, and shaking his whiskers like uh billy-goat with uh peeve. “Doggone it, I know she ain’t much to taste of, but ‘Harelip’s’ all the cook I could get. You and ‘Telescope’ don’t do nothing but kick, kick all the time. If yuh could punch cows with your voice you’d be uh pair uh humdingers.”

Harelip cook, with kidneys in his feet,

Cross J ranch and nothing to eat.

Muley chants while I accompanies him on the banjo, and Telescope rings in with his tenor on the last line.

The old man snorts like uh buck deer, and slams the door.

There was as much truth as poetry in Muley’s song. The cooking was the limit. When we comes to work for the Cross J they had uh Celestial being inhabiting the kitchen, and putting up pretty fair stuff, but one day Chuck Warner finds the slat-eyed hop-head asleep with his queue in the mulligan, and Hop Duck lived up to his name.

The next day comes Harelip Hansen. Harelip admits that he can cook, and the old man falls on his neck and weeps with joy.

“Zherr, I can gook,” says Harelip. “Um-m-m-m good gook.”

He cooked just like he talked. He put vanilla extract in the beans, baking-powder in the meat and onions in his apple pies.

“Fit for the gods,” orates the old man, when he first views Harelip’s pies. He takes uh bite, communes with himself, and then takes the whole stock uh pies outside and threw them in the general direction of where the gods are supposed to hang out.

Cyclops, our pet magpie, saw all that fodder going skyward, so he flits over and appropriates some of it. He pecks away and takes uh big bite, swallers hard and then comes dancing up to the house, with tears in his one eye.

“How’d yuh like it, yuh pintoed pigeon?” asks the old man.

Cyclops cocks his head on one side, and squints at the old man, with his one optic and squeaks:

“Oh ——! Oh ——!”

All of which sums up Harelip’s ability as uh cook. Muley was Cyclops’s tutor. He catches the magpie when it was young and unsophisticated, and opines to teach it to talk. He tries it first on English, and when it won’t do nothing but make funny noises he orates uh lot of profanity to it.

“Old Testament” Tilton comes along and notifies Muley that it ain’t noways Christian-like to teach uh young magpie to swear.

“Teach it uh prayer,” says he.

“Teach him your own self,” answers Muley. “I don’t know any.”

Old Testament squats down in front of that bird, and starts off, solemn-like:

“Now, I lay me down to sleep. I pray——”

The magpie ruffles up his feathers and dances up and down on the ground.

“Oh ——!” says he. “Oh ——!”

Thus ended the Bible lesson. The bird gets cocky and opines to lick uh pet coyote, with the result that he loses one eye and gains the cognomen of Cyclops.

The Cross J is some outfit. Counting Harelip as uh human being, and omitting old man Whittaker, there’s five of us on the place. Muley Bowles weighs two hundred and forty, shaves twice uh week and writes poetry. Telescope Tolliver’s chin is six feet above his spur rowels, and he runs strong to sentimental songs and ancestors. He states that he inherited his refined manner from the Kentucky Tollivers, uh bunch uh folks which inherited that State long before it was made illegal to distil your own hooch. He speaks of the Civil War like it happened night before last.

“You’ve heard uh Bull Run?” asks Chuck, one evening, when Telescope is romancing.

“Heard of it?” snorts Telescope. “Why, dang it all, my grandaddy raised the calf that they got the name from.”

He hates U. S. marshals, sheriffs and diluted hooch.

Chuck Warner is uh product of some place west uh Bismarck. His face was built to wear uh hackamore, and deceive people as to his real disposition. When he gets interested in conversation he looks yuh square in the eye with uh, “Well-what-do-yuh-know-about-that?” expression, and wiggles his ears.

He’s got the longest waist, shortest legs and greatest imagination of any puncher west uh Buffalo, N. Y. Sometimes he’ll be going along, twinkling them short legs uh his, and with his head down, and all to once he’ll stop short, stick his long nose toward the sky and break into song. He’s still singing, “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.”

Chuck is very particular in one thing. If he ever told yuh the truth, and found it out, he’d never rest until he got back to you and corrected himself. He’s the only liar I have met who can lie so honestly that I’ll repeat his statements, and bet money they’re the truth, when deep down in my soul I know he lied.

Me? I’m Hen Peck. Christened Henry Clay. I just punch cows for uh living, and try to keep out uh trouble. I ain’t got nothing but brains, ability and uh banjo. I plays real well. Also, I sings uh few stanzas when properly urged, but I’m usually uh little rusty.

Just after the old man slams the door Chuck rides up and slides off his bronc.

“Got any mail for me, Chuck?” yells Muley.

“Naw. She done forgot yuh, Muley,” grins Chuck. “Nothing for nobody except the old man, and our illustrious cook. I’ll bet that’s the first letter Harelip’s got since the Custer battle.”

“My cripes!” exclaims Telescope. “I hope somebody sent him uh diagram as to how to make coffee. That last cup I had, salivated my teeth. Also I’m tired uh stewed bacon and fried prunes.”

“Oh, Chuck. Oh-h-h-h, Chuck!”

“The old man’s yelling at yuh, Chuck,” notifies Telescope, and just then the old man sticks his billy-goat chin inside the door.

“Hey, Chuck. Don’t turn your bronc loose yet. I got uh gol dingle danged letter what has to be answered by telegraft, and you got to take it to Paradise.”

“Hear from somebody what wants to cook?” asks Muley.

“Cook ——!” howls the old man. “I wish it was. I just got uh letter from uh gol dingle danged nephew or niece uh mine which wants to invade my premises for uh few weeks. She orates that papa wants her to come and see me. Who in —— is papa, I’d like to know?”

“If she’s your niece it’s an even bet that papa is either your brother or brother-in-law,” opines Telescope. “Relationships runs thataway most always.”

“Huh!” snorts the old man. “Maybe. Anyway, she’s going to come if I don’t put uh spoke in her wheel right sudden-like.”

“Why stop her?” asks Muley, looking at himself in our cracked mirror. “How old is she?”

“How do I know? I never saw her. Gol dingle dang it! Fine place to have uh young girl come to with Harelip cook and uh bunch uh snake-hunting punchers that don’t even keep their hair cut.”

“Who is she?” asks Telescope. “Don’t think I’m trying to pry into your affairs, old-timer, but I’d admire to know. Can she cook?”

“I suppose I ought to know!” howls Whittaker. “She signs her name as being Emily Whittaker, that’s all I know. Chuck, you cross between uh jackass and uh sawhorse, quit wiggling your ears, and get on that bronc. You get to the depot and telegraft her not to come. Sabe? Tell her I’m sick. Tell her any gol dingle danged thing yuh can think of, Chuck, but make it strong.”

“Aw, let Hen go,” argues Chuck. “I just was down——”

“Let’s both go,” says I. “I got uh million-dollar thirst, and eight dollars. What do yuh say, eh?”

“Why argue when there’s eight good reasons against yuh?” grins Chuck. “Get your bronc and come uh running. I’ll send uh message that’ll stop that female niece so quick she’ll think she’s paralyzed.”

“Don’t wire no cuss words,” warns the old man. “Be pleasant but firm. Sabe?”

Mike Pelly says klahowya, so we drapes over his bar and argues religion, politics and the proper way to bulldog uh steer. After several hours of pro and con—mostly con—I sudden-like realizes what we came down-town for. I notifies Chuck of my discovery, and we goes up to the depot. We tells the feller in there that we wishes to send uh telegram to stop uh female. He applauds our efforts to keep the female gender off the range, and asks the name and address of the misguided person.

“There!” says I. “Ain’t it queer we can’t remember. You think hard, Chuck.”

Chuck looks at me, wondering like, and wiggles his ears.

“Who to and where?” asks the telegraft person. “Where yuh sending this here block signal?”

“What places yuh got?” asks Chuck.

“I’ve got to have the name of the person and her address, or I can’t do uh thing for yuh,” says he.

“Can yuh send uh message to the president of your railroad?” asks Chuck.

“I sure can,” says he.

“Well,” says Chuck, hauling me out of reach, “You send him one like this: ‘Dear Sir—Please send uh man with uh little brains down here to take my job. I don’t know nothing.’

“Why didn’t that old pelican of uh Whittaker tell us where to send it,” complains Chuck, while we’re riding home. “He just said for us to send it, that’s all.”

“Some folks never seem to have any sabe uh tall,” I agrees. “We’ll tell him we sent it, anyway.”

The old man met us as we rides in, and we grins at him.

“How much was it, Chuck?” he asks, and Chuck wiggles his ears.

“Seven dollars.”

“What did yuh send—uh Congressional Record?” he grunts, peeling some bills off his roll. “What’d yuh tell her, Chuck?”

“I told her that you had the hoof and mouth disease, and that the Piegans were on the war-path and that the cows had rabies, and——”

“Chuck,” says the old man, sort uh reproving like, “why didn’t yuh crate the critter and ship it to her alive. No use trying to throw it over the wire.”

“You can’t figger that talk is cheap when you’re sending an emergency brake by wire,” states Chuck, hurt like, but the old man pats him on the back.

“I ain’t kicking, Chuck,” says he. “It’s worth more than that. Gol dingle danged, if I wouldn’t pay twice that to keep females off the Cross J.”

“Too bad we didn’t know them sentiments before, Hen,” says Chuck, after the old man goes away. “That’d been seven apiece.”

The next morning the old man comes down to the bunk-house, and he’s some sore. He kicks my banjo off the bunk and slams things around some promiscuous.

“Hot-cakes!” announces Telescope, in uh hoarse whisper. “I’ve seen ’em act thataway before. There ain’t no hopes for uh feller when he gets hot-cake fits.”

“Hot-cakes, your grandmother!” snorts Chuck. “That’s gunnysackitis. I thought there was something the matter with that coffee. Hot-cakes causes melancholy.”

“Salt in the coffee, sugar in the stew, coal-oil in the bacon, and the butter’s full uh glue,” chants Muley, bouncing up and down on his bunk.

“Shut up, you blasted Honyocks!” yelps the old man. “Think you’re plenty smart, don’t yuh. Our cook has quit.”

“Aw, we thank yuh,” squeaks Telescope. “Do you mean to set there and tell us that Harelip has went?”

“Uh-huh,” agrees the old man. “Dang his hide! Now what are we going to do?”

“Live uh lot longer, that’s uh cinch,” replies Chuck. “What reason did he give for this pleasurable moment?”

“He said he wasn’t going to be hounded by no female, so he was going away where they can’t find him. I told him that there wasn’t going to be no females come here, and he orates something about uh letter. Did some uh you hombres tell him that uh female was coming here? You sent that telegraft, didn’t yuh, Chuck?”

“Seven dollars worth,” nods Chuck, puffing on his cigaret. “What you fussing about, anyway? Harelip can’t cook. Ain’t it better to lose uh cookless cook than to lose the services uh four expert and first-class gilt-edged punchers? Now, ain’t it?”

“He said he could cook, didn’t he?” retorts the old man.

“You’re too prone to take uh man’s word for his ability,” complains Telescope.

“I think uh that every time I observes the actions uh four punchers I got on my pay-roll. I’ll be gol dingle danged if one uh you can slip uh rope through uh hondo. Next time I need punchers I’ll send East for ’em. Sabe?”

“Listen to this,” says Muley, picking my banjo off the floor, and striking uh discord.

“Oh, I’ll sing you uh song of uh Harelip cook, and of the man who loved him well. But they both got scared of uh letter that came, and the kitchen was shot to ——. Bring ba-a-a-ack, bring ba-a-a-ack, Oh, bring back my Harelip to me, to me-e-e-e.”

“Muley!” yelps the old man. “I got uh danged good notion to fire you. You and your gol dingle danged poetry! You fellers think it’s funny, but I don’t. I got to do the cooking. I hope yuh all shrivel up and die from starvation, so I won’t have to fire yuh.”

He goes out and slams the door real hard.

The old man didn’t have nothing on Harelip as uh cook. In fact I think that Harelip had it over him about two cups uh soda to one biscuit. We complains so loud that the old man starts wearing two guns outside his apron, and after that we praises him uh heap.

Uh few days after Harelip leaves the old man sticks his head inside the bunk-house one morning and wakes us all up.

“Roll out, you gol dingle danged cow trailers! I got work for yuh to-day.”

“Some cow got the hives?” yawns Muley.

“I want Telescope and Muley to take the light wagon, Hen and Chuck can take the heavy wagon and I’ll take the buckboard.”

“What yuh doing—making out your will?” asks Muley. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll take uh couple uh cows for my share.”

The old man ignores Muley, and goes right on.

“I got uh bill uh stuff from Great Falls, and uh car-load uh oats. You fellers roll out and hitch up. Gol dingle danged lazy Jaspers.”

Me and Chuck is hitching up our rig when old Bill Meeker drives up in his buggy, and stops beside us. He’s got uh female with him that will weigh on the far side of two hundred, and is as fair as the lilies in the dell. Her hair is the color of uh corn-husk cigaret paper, and her blue eyes are as big as two-bit pieces.

“Howdy, Hen,” says Meeker. “I got company for yuh.”

“So?” says I, foolish-like, and the lady grins plumb across her face.

“Yah,” says she.

“She opines to come to the Cross J to see her uncle who is the cook,” states Meeker. “She don’t wau-wau United States much, but I gets that much.”

“Cook,” says the female, heaving her sylph-like form overboard so sudden-like that when the buggy goes back to normal, poor little Meeker has to spur his cinch to keep from getting dumped.

“Cook!” snorts Chuck. “By cripes! She looks like she could.”

“Onkle,” explains the lady. “Onkle be cook.”

“My ——!” grunts Chuck. “That telegraft didn’t connect. Ain’t that queer?”

“Yah,” says she, grinning some more. “Troonk.”

“Maybe, but yuh don’t show it,” replies Chuck.

“She means that she’s got uh trunk at the depot,” explains Meeker.

“Bill,” says I, “you better unhitch and stick around, ’cause we’ll need an interpreter.”

“Here comes your uncle now,” says I, pointing at the old man, who is ambling our way from the house. “He’s some cook.”

“Yah—goot!” says she, and pilgrims straight for the old man.

He’s coming along with his head down, and don’t realize what happens until she gathers him in. It sure is something to look at. She kisses him seven times, by actual count, before he can do uh head spin and break loose, and they goes into the dust together.

I offers any part uh six bits at four to one on the lady, but there ain’t no takers.

Somehow the old man breaks the hold, lights on his feet like uh cat, and gallops to uh safe distance. The female gets up some dusty and rumpled, but still smiling.

“Gol dingle dang it!” wails the old man. “What yuh trying to do?”

“Yah,” grunts the lady. “I coom oop.”

“You dang well know yuh did,” snorts the old man. “Any time I sets my teeth in uh person’s leg they usually come up uh fogging.”

“You didn’t bite her, did yuh?” asks Chuck, sad-like. “My gosh! Uh man must be plumb lacking in morals when he’ll bite his own relatives—in the legs.”

“Relatives?” wonders the old man. “Did you say relatives, Chuck?”

“That telegraft didn’t get there in time,” explains Chuck, picking Cyclops off the fence, and smoothing his feathers. “You can’t blame me and Hen.”

The lady brushes off her skirt, waddles straight for the house, and we all watches her until she’s inside.

“Hen,” says the old man, weary-like, “you take the buckboard and let Chuck take the wagon. I’ll—I’ll stay home, I reckon. Uh feller can’t desert his relatives. Gol dingle dang it! I don’t know just what to say. There is times when uh man can’t think of the right word.”

Cyclops hops up on Chuck’s shoulder and ruffles his feathers and squawks:

“Oh ——! Oh ——!”

“Thanks,” says the old man.

Well, we drives to Paradise. I hates uh rattling buckboard, so I takes the heavy wagon and lets Chuck have the rattler. Me and him goes over to the depot to load up the oats, while Telescope and Muley loads up at the store. We’re over there, wrestling sacks uh oats when the train comes in from the East. After she leaves we sees some people over there talking to Sandy McCall, the depot agent. Pretty soon uh woman breaks out of the herd and stampedes in our direction. She ain’t exactly what you’d call veal, being about fifty years old on the hoof and not overly heavy for her age.

“Looks like she didn’t winter very well,” opines Chuck. “Also she walks like she’d spent uh lot uh time in uh hard pasture.”

She ambles right up to us and sizes us up plentiful, while Chuck stares right back at her and wiggles his ears.

“Young man,” says she, at the top of her voice, “was you sent to get us?”

“Your name Oats?” yells Chuck, without changing expression.

“Church,” she yells right back.

“Name or destination?” I whoops.

“Elizabeth Church,” she howls.

“Nope,” says Chuck, picking his teeth with uh straw. “If you said Methodist we could help yuh, but so far as I know there ain’t no Elizabethans in Paradise. Yuh might try Rimrock. Yuh never can tell what they might have down there.”

“My name is Church,” she howls, explaining like.

“We congratulates yuh, m’am,” nods Chuck. “That sure is uh good old pious sort of uh cognomen. We applauds yuh uh heap, but we’re down here after oats.”

She looks at us sort uh disgusted like and then ambles back to where the other two are standing by some trunks. Pretty quick over comes the he member of the bunch. I say he member, ’cause he’s wearing apparel which is appropriate for that certain gender, but that’s the only thing that qualifies him. He gets most of his height from the bridge of his nose to his hair-line, and he’s sporting uh bunch uh hair on his face between his ears and eyes, which makes him plumb laughable. He stops in front of us and peers some close-like and clears his throat.

“You—er—hem-m-m—I am Doctor Church,” says he.

Chuck walks up close and looks at the little person.

“That’s reasonable,” says Chuck. “Is there anything yuh wanted except to make that announcement?”

“I am—er—rather we are looking for a Mr. Whittaker, who owns a farm called the Crossed—er——”

“Cross J?” asks Chuck, and the doctor nods, delighted like.

“Yes, that is the name. Peculiar name, isn’t it, now?”

“Not half as peculiar as the place,” says Chuck, sad-like. “You folks looking for that place uh misery?”

“Misery?” asks the doctor. “Did you say misery?”

“Awful,” nods Chuck. “Why, man, you wouldn’t believe it if I told yuh. We all feel bad about it—mighty bad, I’ll tell yuh, but there ain’t uh danged thing we can do.”

“Would you mind explaining?” asks the doctor, and Chuck looks at me, foolish-like, and wiggles his ears.

“Well, yuh see it’s thisaway,” begins Chuck, and just then them two females comes up, and the doctor explains to them that they’re going to hear something.

“It’s uh most peculiar thing,” continues Chuck, serious-like. “I know yuh won’t believe me, and I don’t blame yuh. It’s that old eternal triangle—two men and uh woman. The female person is named Olga Olsen. She’s uh Russian.

“The two men are Whittaker, owner of the Cross J, and the other is uh man named Hansen. They both love this Russian. Sabe?”

Chuck has been telling it in uh loud tone so the old lady can get it, and she seems interested uh heap.

“Well,” continues Chuck, “Whittaker has lost his mind over her, and he thinks he’s Hansen, and Hansen’s lost his and thinks he’s Whittaker. Ain’t it awful? Why, doggoned if things ain’t got so nutty around that place that the birds talk.”

“Well!” exclaims the doctor. “How interesting. My dear Mrs. Church, in all of my studies I have never heard of a parallel case. I was afraid that the trip was going to be an awful bore, and I only came so Emily could see her uncle, but now I find something better—much better than I ever anticipated. Well, well!”

Chuck wiggles his ears and looks foolish-like at the doctor.

“Just about what are you tickled about?” he asks. “Ain’t it awful?”

“Wonderful,” squeaks the doctor. “You see, I am an authority on rare diseases of the human brain. I may say that I have been called the Wizard of the Cranium.”

“Well,” drawls Chuck, “I wish yuh joy. Now, if yuh was out here after ivory—well, we’ll get the rest of these oats loaded. I’ll take the young lady on the buckboard with me and you other two can ride on the wagon with Mister Peck. Also, he can load your trunks.”

“Why do you carry a gun in your belt?” asks the doctor, pointing at Chuck’s six-shooter, which is laying over a sack uh oats.

“I’m uh detective,” whispers Chuck. “Mister Peck is uh sheriff. There’s two other fellers on the ranch which we suspicions of being in league with Olga. It sure is some mix.”

“Ah,” breathes the doctor. “I see. Do you suppose we will be welcomed? My wife is his former sister-in-law, and the young lady is his niece. None of us ever saw Mr. Whittaker.”

“I been thinking it over and I feels that things might not be just right,” admits Chuck. “I’ll tell yuh what you do: tell him that you’re up here looking for uh place to start uh sheep ranch. Hansen loves sheep and he’ll take yuh to his bosom.”

“But I know nothing about sheep,” complains the doctor.

“Nobody does,” consoles Chuck. “All you got to do is mention the fact to him and there won’t be no questions asked. Sabe?”

Muley and Telescope has already pulled out for the ranch when we gets loaded up, so we pulls out at once. Chuck takes the loving daughter with him, while I entertains the old couple and their trunks on the load uh oats.

The young lady ain’t so hard to look at and I’m sort uh sorry that I didn’t pick the buckboard. She giggles uh heap, and “Ah’s” at everything, while Chuck wiggles his ears with pleasure and buys her some stick candy at the store.

The old man is setting on the corral fence whittling, when I drives down from depositing my load at the house, but he don’t show much interest.

When Chuck unloads the young lady he points out the old man on the corral fence, and tells ’em that it’s Mr. Hansen.

“I’m mighty anxious to diagnose his case,” states the doctor. “I must begin by inducing memory by degrees. I hope I can converse with him without ruffling his feelings.”

Me and Chuck goes over and sets down beside the old man, but he just keeps on whittling.

“We got all the oats,” states Chuck, sort uh offhand-like, and the old man stops whittling long enough to spit.

“Who did you bring with yuh?” he asks.

“Friends uh Harelip’s,” says Chuck.

The old man thinks a long time and then nods.

“Uh-huh. Must uh been in that letter uh his. No wonder he left.”

“Coincidence,” remarks Chuck, and the old man snorts:

“Co ——! Her name is Hulda. She’s my brother’s daughter. I don’t know which—I got six. This one sure was fond uh knickknacks. I’d just as soon be kissed by Frank Gotch.”

“She sure is uh muscular female,” I agree.

“Muscular! Gol dingle dang it! You dang well know she is! She’ll be uh lot uh help to us if we ever have to move the house.”

We goes down to the bunk-house to wash up, and finds Telescope and Muley playing seven-up.

“What yuh doing, Hen—running uh stage?” laughs Telescope.

“Say, Telescope, what name did yuh go by when yuh was in Wyoming the last time?” asks Chuck, rubbing some lather into his dusty ears.

“None uh your danged business,” replies Telescope, letting the cards slide out of his hands. “What’s that to you, you short-legged, long-faced oat rustler?”

“Not uh thing,” replies Chuck. “I just asked. Uh course it’s none uh my danged business.”

Telescope studies Chuck’s face for uh while and then picks up the cards. Chuck’s face is plumb blank.

“What’s the main idea, Chuck?” he asks.

“Aw, nothing much,” replies Chuck. “I just thought I’d mention the fact that the little deceptive-looking hombre what rode up with us from Paradise is wearing uh little heart-shaped piece uh silver under the lapel of his vest. He mentioned his home in Wyoming. I spoke of you two and he wanted to know what yuh looked like. He wanted especially to know about Telescope. I suspicioned him in uh minute, so I told him that Telescope weighs two hundred and forty and that Muley was over six feet tall. I sure did all I could for yuh. I hate uh lie like the devil hates holy water, but in uh case like this—well, I remembers my friends.”

Muley heaves himself right out of his chair and grabs Chuck by the face.

“You danged liar!” he yelps. “You go tell him different right now. You think I wants to suffer for Telescope’s sins? You’re uh fine friend, you are.”

“I ain’t got no sins, I’ll inform yuh of that, Muley,” states Telescope. “You was down in Wyoming last year yourself, and I reckon I got as much right to choke Chuck for misrepresentation as you have. How do I know how bad they wants you down there?”

“Aw, cut it out!” gasps Chuck. “You two big huskies afraid of that little runt. I’ll bet you’re both in bad in Wyoming—believe me.”

“What did he say he was doing up here, Hen?” asks Telescope. “Chuck is the dangdest liar unhung and I don’t believe him.”

“Well,” says I, “it ain’t none uh my business any way yuh looks at it, but he did tell me that he was looking for somebody at the Cross J.”

I goes out of the bunk-house and starts for the corral, when I hears voices raised in dispute. I turns the corner and finds old man Whittaker setting on the top rail of the corral, and beside him, humped up on the rail, is the doctor. I walks up easy behind them and listens to the conversation.

“Think,” orders the doctor. “Think hard.”

The old man hunches up his shoulders, and one hand sort uh slides back toward his six-gun.

“You’re not the person you think you are,” states the doctor, sort uh singing the words. “You’re not, you’re not. You think you are the owner of this farm, and that your name is Whittaker, but you’re all wrong. You don’t love Olga. You don’t love nobody.”

The old man hunches up uh little more, and spits reflectively into the corral. He slides his gun carefully to the front, and then squints at the doctor.

“Think,” orders the Wizard of the Cranium, again. “Think of the time when men called you some other name than Whittaker.”

The old man nods and spits.

“Uh-huh. I’ve been called everything.”

“No, you have not been called everything. No man has ever been called everything.”

“One will have that honor soon,” states the old man, softly.

The doctor goes right on singing:

“You are not what you think you are. I know who you are, but you can’t remember the name. Don’t worry, it will all come to you.”

“Say!” explodes the old man. “Who in —— am I?”

“Hansen,” roars the doctor, and just then the top rail breaks.

The doctor’s coat catches over uh post, and he peels in midair, and him and the old man mixes right in the corner of the corral. Comes uh flurry uh dust, uh yelp, and the doctor comes out through the side uh that corral like uh rabbit.

“My ——!” exclaims Chuck, who has sneaked up to see. “I thought that corral was hawg tight. Look! He’s got uh gun!”

The old man must uh dropped his gun when he lit, ’cause the doctor’s hanging on to it like he had cramps in his fingers, and he’s turning around and around like uh top.

“Eyes full uh dust,” states Chuck. “Look!”

Here comes the old man over the top uh that corral, and he’s sure peeved uh heap.

“You gol dingle danged, locoed son of uh biscuit shooter!” he howls, snorting the corral dust out of his eyes and nose. “I’m going to git yuh and git yuh right—me!”

I reckon the little person gets enough dust out of his eyes to see to run, ’cause he lights out for the bunk-house like uh rabbit. I reckon that Telescope and Muley had taken Chuck’s talk to heart, ’cause they’re in front of the bunk-house with their broncs. Muley has forked his, and Telescope is still on the ground beside his animal, tying uh roll on behind his saddle. The doctor is almost to them before they see him.

Bing! In the excitement of the moment the doctor must uh pulled the trigger uh that gun and she explodes into the dirt.

Bang! she goes again, and by this time the little doctor is almost up to the door.

As I said before, Muley weighs two hundred and forty, and rides the biggest saddle-tree in Montana, but he ain’t no prize rider. He’s setting there on uh big roan bronc that’s afraid of everything on earth, and when the doctor salutes the second time, that roan just simply sunfishes. When Muley comes down he’s just in time to envelop the doctor. Comes uh sort of uh squashy squish, and there ain’t no doctor in sight.

Telescope gets hit with the rear end of his bronc so hard that he bounces off the log wall an’ sprawls flat on his face in the dirt, from where he proceeds to empty his gun regardless.

One bullet scorches the old man across the ankle so he forgets the doctor, hitches up his pants and gallops for the house. Me and Chuck dives into an empty wagon-box and counts six shots before we ventures out.

We sets in the end uh that wagon and rolls uh smoke. Pretty soon we sees Muley turn over, and out from under him emerges the doctor. He’s uh sorry-looking brain-fixer, believe me. He toddles all around Telescope and Muley, and then weaves toward the house like uh sleep-walker.

Right in front of us he crosses his legs and falls down, and when he gets up he’s headed wrong. Chuck steps over and turns him around, and the little feller toddles on, orating to himself:

“I—am—John—Henry—Smith—and—I’m—up—here—to—start—uh—sheep—ranch. I—am—John—Henry—Smith—and—I’m—up——”

His voice trails off into distance, and we watches him enter the house.

“Hen,” says Chuck, “ain’t it uh queer thing? You can knock uh man so silly that he can’t tell the truth, but if he’s got uh lie in his system he’ll hang onto it till the cows come home. Hello, Muley. How’s all the little birds?”

Muley is standing there like uh big fat baby, with one finger in his mouth. His chaps are down around his feet, and his shirt is split all the way up the back, and is hanging down in front like he was trying to put it on backwards. He nods at us foolish-like and examines his feet.

“Did—anybody—water—the—horses?” he asks, taking uh long time between each word, like the doctor did.

“You—you better not do—do—that again,” states uh voice, and we sees Telescope get up on his hands and knees and go hunting around on the ground.

“Lost something?” asks Chuck.

“Pillow,” grunts Telescope, and then lays down again.

“Something must surely be wrong,” remarks uh voice behind us, and we observes the elderly female and her daughter. They’re standing there staring at Muley and Telescope.

“Ma’am,” says Chuck, “there sure is something wrong, and I’d advise yuh to go away from here. Them two hombres has been hit by uh snow snake, and yuh can’t tell what they might do.”

“Gracious!” exclaims the old lady. “Is it fatal?”

“Yes’m,” agrees Chuck, “it almost always kills the snake. You let us escort yuh to the house before something happens.”

They agrees some sudden-like, and the four of us ambles toward the house. When uh man who can cuss like Telescope can is knocked out, it sure ain’t no place for uh shrinking female when he starts to recover. We looks back and sees Telescope get painfully to his feet. He goes over to Muley and gives him uh push, and as we enters the house they’re reclining lovingly in each other’s arms.

We’re greeted by some sight inside that house. The doctor, minus most of his clothes, and with his glasses hanging on the end of his nose, is setting in uh chair, humped up like he had uh belly-ache, and right in front of him, on another chair, is the old man. The old man has got his six-gun shoved into the doctor’s bosom, and is looking the Wizard of the Cranium square in the eye. The old man is some mussed up, too.

“You’re not who yuh think yuh are,” whispers the old man, in uh hoarse voice. “You think you’re danged smart, but yuh run against uh snag. I know who you are, and so do you. You’re crazier than uh bedbug. Sabe?”

“I—I—I know—who I am,” chatters the doctor.

“Well, who are you?” snaps the old man.

“I—am—John—Henry—Smith—and—I’m—up—here—to—start—uh—sheep—ranch.”

The old man looks at him for uh few seconds, lets his gun slip out of his hand, and grabs the doctor by the foretop. He braces his feet on the rug, and hisses:

“John Henry Smith, you’re uh liar if you think you will!” and he lifts the little doctor right out of his chair by the hair.

“Mr. Hansen, you’re a coward!” yelps Mrs. Church. “Hurt my husband, will yuh!”

Boof! Swat! Swish!

Right there I takes off my hat to uh broom as uh weapon of offense and defense. That harmless-looking old lady goes plumb loco and combs the old man from hoof to foretop with that broom.

Does the doctor make any attempt to aid his wifely rescuer? He most absolutely does not. The doctor desires the seclusion of the tall and uncut, and he routes himself via the bow in my legs. Not being braced none to speak of, I naturally upends and lands on my classic chin right among the brooms, and the doctor butts his head against the wall, and starts snoring.

I say brooms, ’cause there seemed to be uh dozen, and I gets quite uh dusting before the interruption comes.

“Wah!” whoops uh voice. “My onkle!”

That whoop was the gong that saved me uh knockout, ’cause the broom-handle, that was whizzing straight for my nose, stops six inches short, and I has time to pick the straws out of my eyes and ears and take uh look. It’s that person that Chuck designates as being uh Russian.

She certainly is uh busy person, and from the way she heaves furniture around I feels sure that her folks never raised her as uh pet. I see Mrs. Church leave our presence like uh top, and I sees her spin plumb off the front porch. That Russian sure gave her some sudden turn.

That room is suffocating with Yah’s! and other exclamations of displeasure. I sees Chuck connect with uh flying stool, and then accept uh reclining position under uh sofa. The old man manages to crawl out of the main bunch uh trouble, and grab the doctor by the ankle as he’s sneaking out of the window.

“Sheep!” howls the old man, yanking the doctor back through the window. “Sheep, eh? Way around ’em, Shep!”

“I’ll have the law on you, Hansen!” squeaks the doctor, trying to squirm out of his pants. “You’ll go to jail for this.”

“You won’t have no law on me!” yelps the old man. “Maybe your heirs will, but you won’t be there, John Henry Smith, shepherd!”

The confusion suddenly stops and I sizes things up. The Russian is the only one still on foot. She stands there in the middle of the room, with uh chair-leg in one hand and uh lot uh hair in the other. She looks at us, sort uh foolish-like, and grins. She sizes up Mrs. Church, who is setting on the floor trying to claw the hair out of her eyes, and then at the old man and the doctor, locked in each other’s embraces.

“Oof!” says she, reaching down and tearing the doctor loose. “Hurt onkle, eh?”

Then she heaves that little dilapidated brain-shark through the window, and then struts right out of the door and shuts it behind her.

The old man shakes himself like uh stunned chicken, looks at each one of us solemn-like, and then at the smashed window.

“Well, I’ll be gol dingle danged!” he whispers. “My brother must uh married uh prize-fighter.”

“My Bonnie-e-e-e lies over the o-o-o-o-shun: My Bonnie-e-e-e lies over-r-r-r-r the sea,” sings Chuck, without moving his head, or opening his eyes.

The old man stoops over and picks up Chuck’s gun and cocks it.

“What yuh trying to do?” I asks, grabbing the gun out of his hand.

“Shoot him—while—he’s—happy,” sighs the old man, and just then Mrs. Church begins to weep like her insides was broke. We waits for her to run down uh little, and pretty soon she yelps:

“I won’t stay here another minute! Horses couldn’t hold me here.”

“‘There’s uh divinity what shapes our ends,’” states Chuck, setting up on the floor, and bracing himself against the sofa. “My ——! The one what shaped mine used uh stool. Hen, feel of the lump on my head.”

Mrs. Church gets painfully to her feet, and starts for the door, and who should come in right at that time but Harelip Hansen. He stands there and looks things over, and then grins.

“Hello, Hansen,” says the old man. “Come right in.”

“I come to git pay vor gooking,” states Harelip. “I no git uh yet.”

“Hansen?” asks Mrs. Church, in uh loud voice. “Your name Hansen?”

“Z-zhure. Name’s Hansen.”

“My poor deluded brother!” exclaims Mrs. Church, grabbing at him like uh drownding man after uh straw. “My poor dead husband’s brother. Oh, I’m so glad—so glad!”

Harelip tries to break the clinch, and backs against the wall.

“Hoosbant’s brudder!” agrees Harelip, chokingly. “How’s Gopenhagen, eh?”

“How’s what?” pants Mrs. Church.

“Gopenhagen,” grunts Harelip.

“Sounds like lumberjack snuff,” opines Chuck, still rubbing his head.

“Copenhagen?” wonders the old lady, at the top of her voice. “What would I know about Copenhagen?”

“Your name Hulda?” asks Harelip.

“Elizabeth,” shouts Mrs. Church. “Elizabeth Church.”

“Val,” states Harelip. “You bedder stop hugging me. You are uh stranger uh mine.”

“Very peculiar,” states the doctor’s voice from the doorway.

“Transposed minds. Very, very peculiar,” and then he turns to Harelip: “Think, man. Think hard. You’re not Hansen, you’re Whittaker.”

“I tink you —— fool!” snorts Harelip. “You talk like sheep-herter—you.”

“You must remember,” argues the doctor, standing there with his collar sticking up the back of his neck like uh Nez Percé war feather, and the perspiration and dirt running off his nose. “Everything depends on bringing back the light of reason before it is too late. You are Whittaker. W-h-i-t-t-a-k-e-r. This farm belongs to you. You are the owner; not that man over there.”

Harelip looks around, sort uh foolish-like at Whittaker, and then grins at the doctor.

“Goot,” says he. “I’ll take it.”

The old man sort uh eases himself along the wall, and, sudden-like, reaches up and picks uh Winchester off the deer horns over the doorway. He snaps uh shell into the chamber, and faces us.

“What did you say?” he asks Harelip. “What did you say?”

“Don’t shood,” wails Harelip. “Aye chust agree mit uh grazy man.”

“Hopeless,” wails the doctor. “Absolutely hopeless. My dear Mrs. Church, we may as well go back home.”

“You ain’t as crazy as I thought yuh was,” opines the old man. “You do get rational at times.”

Comes the rattle of uh wagon, and somebody yells:

“Hey!”

“See who it is, Hen,” says the old man, so I sticks my head out of the busted window and sees “Doughgod” Smith.

“Hello, Hen,” says he. “I just stopped to see if anybody wanted to ride to town or if the old man wanted anything brought back.”

“They do and I don’t, Doughgod,” yells the old man. “Hang on to yourself, and I’ll give yuh uh load—one way only.”

“Do we have your permission to leave, Mr.—er—uh—” begins the doctor, but the old man explodes:

“Permission? Gol dingle dang it, yuh got all the permission I ever had. Take my blessing and good wishes, and go in peace.”

“Or pieces,” supplies Chuck, looking at the doctor.

“I met Telescope and Muley up near Tin-Cup Crick,” states Doughgod, while the bunch is loading into his wagon. “They seemed in uh hurry.”

“I can’t blame them,” says Miss Church, and just then that fighting foreigner comes around the corner and sizes up the load.

“Aye go too,” she whoops, making uh beeline for the wagon, and nobody disputed her intentions.

“Wah!” says she, vaulting into that wagon like uh ton uh lard. “Aye no like das ha’r place. Aye skall go back to Gopenhagen vare birds no talk. Goot-by, Onkle O-o-olaf.”

Me and Chuck and Whittaker and Harelip stands there and watches that load roll off down to the main road, and disappear in uh cloud uh dust.

“Mrs. Church,” says the old man, sort uh wondering like. “Gol dingle dang it! Emily Whittaker.”

“Onkle O-o-olaf,” says Harelip, in the same tone. “Gude ——! Hulda Hokansen.”

“Oh ——! Oh ——!” says Cyclops, from the porch rail.

“Which covers everything,” says Chuck.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, February 3, 1918. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.

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Table of Contents

THE WISDOM OF CYCLOPS

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