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Title: When the pilgrims hit Piperock

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: July 30, 2026 [eBook #79237]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1920

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79237

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

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN THE PILGRIMS HIT PIPEROCK ***

WHEN THE PILGRIMS HIT PIPEROCK

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Pariahs from Piperock,” “Another Ace for Ananias,” etc.

I’ve been accused of lots of things. Folks has risen on to their hind legs and orated aloud that I’m a hombre who spends his time trying to pierce the blackness of things instead of shedding the scales off my eyes and coming out into the sunlight of optimism.

Maybe I am. I can smell powder-smoke a long ways, and to me there ain’t no unloaded guns. Nobody can hurt my feelings by chiding me, and that’s the reason that I sets supine and grins at “Magpie” Simpkins instead of rising up and smiting him hip and thigh for his insinuations.

“Well,” says I when he seems to stop for breath, “you don’t need me. I ain’t no prize-fighter, gunman nor matador, and a feller has got to be all three if he tinkers with the wheels of a Piperock entertainment, Magpie.”

“You only sees the horrors and none of the honors, Ike,” says he sad-like. “You argues that Piperock has mostly always blowed up somebody in her entertainments, but it’s reasonable to suppose that we’ll have one complete success if we keeps at it long enough.”

“Yes,” says I, “but one lifetime ain’t long enough. Why not let Thanksgiving just sort of pass along like any other day? Christopher Columbus wasn’t nothing in my every-day life, Magpie.”

“What in —— has Columbus got to do with it?” he asked. “He never had nothing to do with Thanksgiving.”

“Well, I believe in giving the devil his due, and if it hadn’t been for Columbus you’d never have had a Thanksgiving.”

“Ike, sometimes you talk like a fool.”

“Yes’m. I reckon we all do, Magpie, but I won’t act like one. Any old time you speaks to me in a siren’s voice—I’m neutral.”

“There’s only a few of us select ones to take part, Ike. I told Miss Finney that you’d help out.”

“That funny-faced school-teacher, Magpie?”

“She’s to be pitied, Ike.”

“All right, cowboy, I’ll pity her; but that don’t keep me from giggling when I see her. Still that ain’t no reason for you to take the liberty of offering me as a burnt offering at the altar of attraction, though.

“Ain’t I told you time and again that I’m all through and tied up for shipment when it comes to helping this here crazy cow-town celebrate anything except its demise?”

“‘Dirty Shirt’ is going to be asked to help,” states Magpie. “The Cross J quartet will likely sing, and Mrs. Smith said she would recite.”

“‘Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight’?”

“‘Asleep at the Switch.’ She recited ‘Curfew’ early this spring. This is going to be a regular entertainment, Ike. Miss Finney sure knows things. Says that ‘Old Testament’ Tilton and Judge Steele are as good Pilgrim Fathers as she ever seen. Likely be a masquerade afterward.”

“More likely a funeral,” says I. “Always have had and always will have, Magpie. Some of the leading lights will get drunk and——”

“Ah-ha! Just shows where you’re wrong, Ike. You’ve been away so long that you ain’t wise to Piperock. Piperock is dry. Sabe? No more shall the war-cries sever or the winding rivers be red, Ike. Buck Masterson’s is a soft-drink emporium now.”

“My ——!” says I. “Have I come back, to this? Is everything and everybody dry?”

“Everybody is, Ike. I never did see so many dry folks. To all intents and purposes this here country is plumb dusty, but down deep in her heart she’s alcoholic to a startling degree. Even Old Testament has a root-house full of snake-antidote, and before election he was the silv’ry-tongued temperance talker of the world.

“But that ain’t going to interfere with the antiseptic attitude of this celebration, Ike. This is the first time we’ve attempted to celebrate Thanksgiving, and she’s going to be worth while. We all feels that Piperock has things to be thankful for.”

“Sure has,” says I. “After seeing the entertainments she’s pulled off in the past I’d rise and orate that this here village ought to offer up thanks every day in the week. She sure is lucky to still be in existence.”

“You’ll help us, Ike?”

“I have spoken, Magpie.”

“I ask you to, Mr. Harper.”

“I heard you, Mr. Simpkins.”

“Harper!”

“Aw ——!”

“Sorrow cometh to all of us at times, Ike.”

“You don’t need to spit on your hands—I ain’t slippery. What do you want me to do?”

“That’s better, Ike.”

“Uh-huh,” says I. “It might be worse.”

I goes down-town and runs across Old Testament and “Scenery” Sims. They greets me like a brother, and I asks ’em to have a shot.

“Shot?” squeaks Scenery. “You mean ‘dish,’ don’t you? There ain’t no such a thing as a shot any more, Ike.”

“All right,” says I. “I’ll buy a dish.”

We finds Buck behind the bar, washing dishes. He looks at me and I look at him.

“My ——!” says he sad-like. “Look what you came back to, Ike. Ain’t it a awful condition of affairs?”

“The extreme end of nothing whittled to a point, Buck,” says I.

“Vanilly ice-cream, Buck,” says Scenery.

“Make mine vanilly, too, Buck,” nods Testament.

“What odor does you desire, Ike?” asks Buck, but I shakes my head.

“None a-tall, Buck. I’ll just look on, being as I’m still on the whisky-wagon yet. I don’t hand my stummick no perfumed snow-slide. Sabe?”

“Got some ras’b’ry juice which ain’t so bad,” observes Buck, peering under the bar. “Ain’t so bad unless you’re thirsty or sad.”

“Make mine ras’b’ry, Buck,” says Scenery.

“Cancel my vanilly, too,” says Testament. “I sort of sickens from it. Ras’b’ry sounds sort of regular, Buck.”

Buck elects to indulge with us, so we sets around a card-table and sips.

“How,” says Scenery, holding up his glass.

“Unanswerable, Scenery,” says Buck. “I didn’t make it.”

“Mm-m-m-m,” says Old Testament, licking his lips, “them ras’berries must ’a’ stood a while, Buck.”

“Picked fresh in Californy. Ain’t it good?”

“Yea. Little bitey, but not offensive. Better than vanilly.”

“I’m through with vanilly as long as this lasts,” states Scenery.

“Funny thing about ice-cream. ‘Tombstone’ Todd was over in Curlew a few days ago—went over to kill ‘Hassayampa’ Harris. Sabe? Ever so often Tombstone feels that he’s called upon to kill Hassayampa. Tombstone wishes to work himself up to a killing mood, but can’t seem to find nothing but soft stuff.

“Well, he eats a freezer of ice-cream and then drinks eight quarts of near beer. The more he imbibes the more he feels sorry for Hassayampa. After a while he feels so sorry for Hassayampa that he decides to kill himself and save Hassayampa, thereby making a hero out of himself.”

“Did he make good?” asks Buck.

“Nope. The way I figures it is this: When a feller drinks and drinks whisky he gets so drunk he can’t hit anything. Sabe?

“Well, ain’t it reasonable to suppose that when a feller eats and eats ice-cream and drinks and drinks near beer he gets so danged sober that he can’t hit anything? Yes, he missed himself. Let’s have some more ras’berry juice, Buck.”

We had a round on Scenery, one on Testament, and then Buck treats.

“Pro’bishun is a blessing in sheep’s clothing,” states Testament. “Mine is a wocker. Who wants strong drink?”

“I hears that you’ve got a root-house full, Testament,” says I.

“Tha’s calumny, Ike. Shomebody has beared false witness against his neighbor. Nossir, it ain’t full.”

Just then Judge Steele comes in. He nods to us and lays his cane on the bar.

“Masterson,” says he, “in the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress, have you anything—anything in the world to drink that showeth any authority whatsoever?”

“There is naught in the statutes that says a man shall not drink of the juice of corn. It sayeth that ye may not make, sell, peddle or portion, but it don’t say anything about what a man may absorb into his system if said absorption adopts an alias.”

“Such as ras’berry juice, judge?” asks Buck. “Fresh from Californy?”

“She stingeth like a adder, but feeleth good to a man’s insides,” adds Testament. “She tempers the wind to the clipped sheep. Ras’berries forever!”

“One and undigestible,” says Scenery.

Then one more of Piperock’s bright and shining lights trimmed his lamp and got lit up with us. Scenery gets to crying after a while.

“Jus’ to think!” he wails. “Jus’ to think, gents, that in all of Yaller Rock County there ain’t a single ras’b’ry-patch! They won’t gro-o-o-o-ow here!”

Then Mrs. Wick Smith comes in to purchase a quart of vanilly ice-cream, and she looks us over sweet-like.

“I told Wicksie that prohibition would be a boon,” says she, “and it does my heart good to see you erstwhile drinkers enjoying temperance drinks. The lion and the lamb will lie down together.”

We watches her waddle out, and then Buck nods his head.

“They will. Yessir, they sure will—if the ras’berries hold out.”

“She called us erstwhile drinkers,” says the judge. “Wish I had my dictionary.”

“Maybe it’s new name for rashb’ry,” says Testament. “Maybe it is. Wha’s th’ difference? I feel like a medder-lark in June.”

“You bet you do,” grins Buck; “but tomorrow you’ll feel like a crow in January, Testament.”

Then comes “Mighty” Jones. He looks us over and orders a milk-shake.

“No milk,” says Buck. “Not a danged bit of cow-juice, Mighty.”

“Never mind,” says Mighty. “Leave out the milk. Never did care for the stuff.”

“If there ain’t no milk there ain’t nothing to shake,” says Buck.

“All right, Buck—leave out the shake.”

“Leavin’ out the milk and the shake—nothin’ left, Mighty.”

“All right, all right! Don’t start no argument, Buck, I didn’t want the —— thing noways. I just wanted to show you that I was capable of ordering a drink in these perverted times.”

“Come in to enjoy Thanksgiving, Mighty?” I asks.

“Enjoy ——! Nobody can enjoy gettin’ their insides gummed up with ice-cream or sluicing themselves with perfumed water. I’m here on business.”

“Sellin’ goats, cougars, rattlesnakes or wolves?” asks the judge, but Mighty shakes his head.

Mighty is always catching some kind of a varmint and trying to sell it.

“Nope. What does folks usually eat on Thanksgiving, judge?”

“Eat? Hm-m-m-m! Turkeys, I reckon.”

“Know where there is any, judge?”

“Nope—not offhanded.”

“Must be some around,” opines Buck. “Naturally would be.”

“Try to find one,” grins Mighty, and then he pats himself on the chest. “Look upon me! Mighty Jones the Turkey Baron. I went out to ‘Hailstorm’ Wilson’s place and bought out every bird he owned—and he’s the only turkey-raiser in the county. I sure cornered the crop.”

“Bought every one he had?” asks Buck awed-like. “Gosh! How many you got, Mighty?”

“Two. Names are Evangeline and Hiawather. Full-blooded turkeys, too.”

“Ahem-m-m-m-m-m!”

The old judge stands up and braces himself on the table.

“Mighty Jones, does you stand there and tell us that you has combined together to hold us up for our holiday meat? It ain’t legal.”

“Evangeline and Hiawather belong to me. Sabe? I do as I please.”

“M-m-m-m-m. So? How’d you like to be served with a habeas corpus?”

“Never drank one, judge. Can you mix one, Buck?”

“Could if I had some lemons, but I ain’t. Y’ betcha I can mix anything.”

“Talking turkey,” says I, “how much per pound, Mighty?”

“According to your luck, Ike. Going to raffle ’em off. Sabe? Got all the tickets made out. Numbers from one to one hundred on each bird. If you gets number one it costs you a cent, but if you gets number one hundred you pays a dollar.

“For instance, if you get numbers like twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two or twenty-three you pays twenty cents; but from there up to and including twenty-seven you pays two bits. See the idea?”

“Well,” says Buck, “I ain’t never been to school enough to make me a figure-hound, but my natural instinct seems to tell me that you ain’t going to lose money, Mighty.”

“You made a decent profit on your hooch, Buck.”

“Nothing like that, Mighty.”

“No? You been in business here for years and years, Buck. You started in with one barrel of hooch, and you never got her empty. That ain’t so bad when you figures that we didn’t drink anything else.”

“Speaking of turkeys reminds me of Miss Finney,” states the judge.

“You let up on that!” snaps Mighty. “I’ve got a danged nice-looking pair of birds, judge.”

“I ain’t making physical comparisons,” says the judge. “At the celebration tomorrow night, which is to all intents and purposes the night before Thanksgiving, we aims to produce a tableau symbolic of the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.

“She depicts a far-distant day, gents; a day that none of us can remember. It was in them times that turkeys became the desired food, and through the ages we has hankered for them on that day and date.

“Miss Finney says we must surely have turkeys in the tableau, being as them birds helps make it symbolic, but if there ain’t no turkeys to be had—well, the tableau sort of loses prestige. What does you think, Mighty?”

“I think she’ll fail, judge, if you needs turkeys, ’cause I hereby states at the top of my voice: Evangeline and Hiawather shall never appear on any stage. I bought turkeys, judge—not actors.”

“Hol’ on, Mighty!” says the judge, getting red around the eyes. “Don’t render no decision until the evidence is all in. You wishes to raffle them birds? All right. Suppose Piperock gets peeved at you for being unpatriotic? Suppose they boycotts your old raffle?

“Unless you cometh forth with them birds I shall agitate against all raffles. I’ll get out a injunction against you, and then where would you be?”

“Likely in jail for killing you!” snaps Mighty. “Injunction? On what grounds, judge? They’re my birds, ain’t they? Go ahead and agitate. I’ll bar the door and eat ’em myself. Sabe?”

Mighty yanks himself from our presence, and the judge turns to Testament.

“Well, what do you think about it?”

The old sky-pilot sort of jerks and then sets his hat on straight.

“What shay?”

“I asked you what you thought of it.”

“Good. Ve-e-e-ery good. Any left, Buck?”

The sheriff still slept.

I found Magpie with his long nose buried in a book. After a while he shuts the book and rolls a cigaret.

“Ike, they was a doughty crew,” says he. “Dog-gone doughty.”

“No doubty,” says I, “Where did they hail from?”

“England, of course. Where did you think they hailed from?”

“Missouri, Mexico—lots of places on the earth, Magpie.”

“They braved the tempest and the wave, Ike—remember that.”

“I’ll tie a string around my trigger-finger. Go ahead.”

“In 1620 they landed on a Plymouth Rock.”

“Chicken-thieves!”

I ducked just in time and went out to feed my bronc. It was a danged unintelligent conversation to me, but Magpie understood enough of it to get mad at me.

Magpie’s a smart hombre. He sure does love a book, and he thinks we all ought to know things. I’m going to get me a book some day. I had one once called “The Revelations of the Countess.” It was a good book, but she wore out.

That night I am met by Magpie and Dirty Shirt, and they insists that I go with them. I asks Dirty why I am wanted, and he says—

“Misery likes company.”

They takes me up into the Mint Hall, and I meets Piperock’s star entertainers. There’s Wick Smith, Old Testament, Judge Steele, Pete Gonyer, “Ricky” Henderson, Scenery Sims, Mrs. Smith, Miss Finney, and Clementine Smith, a niece of “Doughgod” Smith.

Judge Steele seems to have the floor—as usual. Old Testament seems to be swallering hard, and the medder-lark seems to have left his system. Scenery look a heap like he was observing the horrors of Death Valley, too.

“Ike,” says the judge, “you sabe the reason you’re up here?”

“One on each side of me, judge,” says I.

“Ahem-m-m-m-m! You know why we celebrates Thanksgiving?”

“Because you ain’t got brains enough to let well enough alone.”

“Celebrating in Piperock is like thawing dynamite in the oven. You dog-gone, buzzard-headed——”

“Whoa!” howls Magpie. “Your cinch is slipping, Ike!”

The ladies look shocked, but the judge keeps right on talking.

“Thanksgiving was started in 1620. Sabe?”

“And ended the year I was born, as far as I’m concerned,” says I. “I’ve got along all these years without it, and I sure ain’t missed it none to speak about. If she was started in 1620, folks, I figure we ought to let her lay off for a while.”

“Gracious, that is a queer view-point,” says Miss Finney.

“Ma’am,” says I, “you don’t know Piperock like I do. I had a view-point once, but Piperock entertainments has bumped into it until she’s plumb flat on the end.”

“I fear you are a pessimist, Mr. Harper,” says Clementine.

“No, ma’am. I’m educated—that’s all.”

“Now that recitation of mine,” says Mrs. Smith; “I ain’t learned it by heart yet, but I’ll read it to you. I think it’s the most touching thing Muley Bowles ever wrote.”

She waddles to the platform, and reads it to us.

“It was a dewy morn in Spring;

The birds were flying high.

I thought of one I loved so well;

A tear stood in my eye.

I wandered down among the trees

Where I plighted her my love.

The tear-drop trickled down my cheek,

The birds flew up above.

The tree where we had cut our names,

Where I swore I’d love her best.

The birds flew higher in the sky;

A tear fell on my chest.

Oh, bitter day! Oh, bitter day!

A sad, sad day, but sweet.

The bitter tears roll off my chest—

Roll off and wet my feet.”

Mrs. Smith pants that much and then wipes away her tears. Maybe she was afraid she’d get her feet wet.

“Don’t you think it’s wonderful?” she asks.

“Rare,” says I. “If I had it I’d take it to a taxidermist or have it pickled.”

“I like ‘Asleep at the Switch’ better,” says Wick.

“Yes, you would,” says Mrs. Smith. “You like anything with the word ‘sleep’ in it, Wicksie.”

“Well, folks, we might as well get to work on that tableau,” states Miss Finney.

I seen a face like hers once. It was near the top of a totem-pole in Seattle.

We all trails up on the stage. She shoves Old Testament out near the front.

“Now,” says she, “look dignified, Dr. Tilton, and pose like you had a book under your arm. Yes, like that. You will have a gun in your other hand.”

“Don’t give me no book,” says I. “I’ll take two guns.”

“Shut up!” snaps Magpie. “Miss Finney knows what she’s doing.”

“Like ——! If she did she wouldn’t give that old pelican a gun.”

Miss Finney don’t pay no attention to me. She lines Mrs. Smith up with Testament, and then comes Magpie, Clementine and Judge Steele. She walks all around them and acts pleased.

“Really you look the part already. Don’t you think so, Mr. Harper?”

“Yes,” says I, “they sure do. What part are you talking about?”

“Ike, you’re a danged fool!” snaps Magpie.

“Now,” says Miss Finney, “I will place Mr. Harper, Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith. The three of you will crouch down behind these boxes looking as fierce as you can. Remember, these people are your enemies.”

“Yes’m,” says I. “That won’t require no acting on my part. What are we bushwhackers supposed to be?”

“You three will represent Indians. Indians hiding from the Pilgrims.”

“From that bunch?” asks Dirty Shirt. “Hide from them? Not me!”

“Yes!” snaps Magpie. “Hiding—behind—a—stump. Sabe?”

“Oh!” grunts Dirty. “Oh, behind a stump. All right. The Injuns never did get a square deal.”

Then the three of us humps over behind them boxes. I reckon we looked as much like Injuns as them boxes did like stumps.

“Fine!” says Miss Finney. “Just fine. When we get the costumes on and Mr. Gonyer up there in the rafters sifting snow upon us it will be very realistic. Dr. Tilton will recite the story of the first Thanksgiving Day, which I have written for him.

“To begin with, there will be nobody on the stage except the three Indians. They will be talking in gutturals.

“Suddenly one of them will hear the tolling of a bell. He will peer into the distance and see the Pilgrims coming from church.

“The three Indians will dash to shelter behind the stumps. While I slowly toll the bell behind the scenes you Pilgrim Fathers and Mothers will slowly advance to your places before the audience.

“That is all. Isn’t it simple?”

“Yes,” says I. “Too danged simple.”

“Miss Finney and I are working on the costumes,” states Mrs. Smith. “Miss Finney will give Mr. Simpkins some pictures showing the proper costume for Indians of that age. He will be responsible for accuracy of detail.”

“This will be all for this evening,” says Miss Finney. “Everybody will please be on hand early tomorrow evening so the costumes may be properly adjusted. Good evening.”

I starts to walk down to the door when Magpie grabs me by the arm.

“Miss Finney wants you to take her home, Ike.”

“What’s the matter with her? Can’t she walk?”

“Sh-h-h-h-h! She wants to talk with you about something. It won’t hurt you to take her home, will it?”

I ain’t no lady’s man—me; but when a lady expresses a desire to converse with me I can’t very well renege, can I? I walks right over where Miss Finney and Mrs. Smith are talking, and I says—

“Miss Finney, can I take you home?”

“Gracious!” says she. “Why, of course you may. Just a moment.”

She walked back to the stage to get something, and Mrs. Smith says to me:

“That’s lovely of you. I asked Magpie to take her home, but I’m glad you forestalled him.”

I looked back at the door, but Magpie was gone. Anyway I never shot any man in the back, but it’s just as well that he wasn’t passing out about that time.

We walks down the stairs and up the street.

“Lovely moon, isn’t it?” says she, and I nodded.

It was a full moon.

“I love moons; don’t you?” she asks.

“Never had enough to do with ’em to form an opinion,” says I.

Pretty soon she says—

“Your friend Mr. Simpkins is a jolly sort of person, isn’t he?”

“Yes’m. He thinks a lot of you, ma’am.”

“Of me?”

“Yes’m. He said you was the best-looking woman person that ever hit this range. He said it wasn’t often that you finds brains and beauty together.”

“Did he say that—honestly?”

“Ma’am, he’d feel bad if he thought you suspicioned him of lying.”

We walks along for a while, and then she says sort of soft-like:

“Don’t you get lonesome at times? I do. I often envy the married folks.”

“Wick and his wife fight like —— sometimes, ma’am.”

“Discord is the spice of life. You men are so big and noble.”

“And most of us are bow-legged, ma’am.”

“Physical faults weigh nothing against a noble soul. There is little evil in this great land.”

When a female starts swinging a rope thataway I ducks the loop.

“Paw was a horse-thief,” says I. “Mean son-of-a-gun.”

“I do not believe in heredity.”

“I’ve lifted a few cows.”

“You have? My, you must be strong. You never killed a man, did you?”

“Ma’am,” says I, “I’m glad you asked this tonight, ’cause I can say no. I’m going to kill one tonight.”

“Tonight?” she gasps. “Oh, no! Please—for my sake!”

“Partly,” says I. “Mostly for mine, though.”

“Oh-h-h-h-h!” she gasps. “How are you gug-going to kill him?”

“Spit in his eye and drown him.”

“You are joking me.”

“I always kill liars thataway, ma’am. If you’ll get those pictures I’ll take ’em to Magpie.”

Honest to grandma, I reckon she thought I was going to kiss her when I said good-night, but I didn’t.

I took her home and carried them pictures back to Magpie, and I figure I’d done enough for her.

She says to me—

“I had lots of chances to get married back East, but I came out here single.”

I figures there must be an epidemic of astigmatism in her home town, but I congratulates her, and leaves.

Dirty Shirt is with Magpie when I arrives. Magpie sets there with one hand on his gun, but when I don’t act hostile he rests easy.

“You ain’t sore, are you, Ike?” he asks.

“Me? Sore? Say, cowboy, I sure ain’t. Miss Finney is one nice female. She ain’t no howling beauty, but money covers a lot of wrinkles.”

“Money?” asks Magpie. “She got money?”

“It won’t never do you any good. She’s sore at you, old-timer. Said somebody told her you said she was the awfullest looking female that ever hit this range. She spoke well of Dirty Shirt.”

“Of me?” asks Dirty. “The —— she did!”

Magpie picks up his hat and tightens his belt.

“I’ve got to see Judge Steele about them costumes,” he observes, and goes out of the door.

“Females with money are plumb scarce,” observes Dirty Shirt. “Fact is, I ain’t never seen one, Ike.

“Ordinarily I ain’t the marryin’ kind, but when you comes right down to it a feller don’t never amount to much alone. The Lord intended us to take a mate; don’t you know it?”

“Uh-huh; I reckon you’re right, Dirty. I ain’t found mine yet.”

“Well,” observes Dirty at last, “I reckon I’ll be going. Must be about nine o’clock.”

I reckon I’ve been in bed a hour or so when somebody pokes into our door. Then steps inside. I can’t figure out who it is so I slips my gun out from under the blanket and waits for ’em to move.

Pretty soon I hears somebody else coming. They walks into the door, and cometh a crash. I sets there on the bunk and listens to sounds of mortal combat.

I hears the stove turn a hand-spring and our cupboard cuts loose and falls off the wall. No voices—just grunts.

“Well,” says I, “I reckon I’d better make a light.”

I scratched a match and held it to one side of me, and then I saw enough to cause me to light the lamp on the chair beside the bed. Setting on the floor with a bucket on his head and the bail under his chin is Magpie.

Over by the stove with his feet in the oven and a saddle-blanket tied around his neck is Dirty Shirt. Them two hombres sure show signs of wear and tear.

“I—I got you—good!” gasps Dirty Shirt. “You—you—you——”

“Uh-huh,” grunts Magpie foolish-like. “You danged bushwhacker, you!”

“Wait a minute,” says I. “Let me in on this disorderly conduct. What is the matter?”

“L-l-look at my fuf-face!” pants Dirty.

I held the lamp closer and beholds Dirty’s purple visage. He’s got a cut over one eye, but I never seen purple blood before.

“Yes,” says I, “you sure need a blood tonic, Dirty; but that ain’t no reason to try and assassinate poor Magpie.”

“He hit me—dang him!” yelps Dirty. “I walks in and he threw——”

“Ho-hold on!” explodes Magpie. “Shut up, Dirty! I never hit you.”

“Oh, no! Suppose I never got hit a-tall, eh?”

“Magpie,” says I, “you might tell us about it.”

“She must ’a’ got peeved,” admits Magpie. “I-I reckon she did.”

“Who?”

“Miss Finney. Ike, you know I don’t allow nobody to think ill of me, so I goes down there to explain things. Sabe? She was writing a letter. I says to her—

“‘Somebody has told you things that I’m supposed to have said, ain’t they?’

“She said yes. Well, I says to her: ‘Don’t you believe a danged word of it, ma’am. What I said was exactly the reverse.’

“I didn’t know you was there,” states Dirty. “I asks Mrs. Gonyer if Miss Finney was engaged, and she said—

“‘Lordy, not that I know anything about!’

“And I says—

“‘I’ll go in and set with her a while.’

“I just opened the door—it was half-open—and I got hit in the face with this purple stuff.”

“Uh-huh,” says Magpie. “Ink. I ducked just in time.”

We sets there and looks at each other for a while, and then Magpie says—

“Ike, just what did that female hear I said about her?”

“Just the opposite of what I told you, Magpie.”

“You lied to me, Ike?”

“Did she tell you to tell me she wanted me to take her home?”

“Nope.”

“Well we’re even, ain’t we?”

“Did she tell you she had money, Ike?”

“Nope—but she must have. She said she had lots of chances to get married back East, and it ain’t reasonable to suppose that anybody would want to marry her for her looks.”

Magpie sets there and stares at me while I dresses, hauling on my pants with one hand while I grips my six-gun with the other.

“I’ll go home with you, Dirty, if you don’t mind,” says I.

“I don’t mind,” says Dirty, rubbing some of the purple ink into his ears. “My ——! I feel like a printin’-press.”

Me and Dirty left Magpie setting there with the bucket still on his head. We rides about half-way to Dirty’s place when he stops his bronc, and says—

“Ike, if a feller marries a woman with money—does he get any of it?”

“After she dies, I reckon, Dirty.”

“Oh, ——! Get up, bronc. A twenty-year endowment has got that kind of a marriage beat four ways from the jack.”

It’s the middle of the next afternoon when me and Dirty rides into Piperock. We finds Mighty Jones and Wick Smith setting tipped back in a pair of chairs in front of Buck’s place. They sure look sad and dreary.

“How’s every little thing, Mighty?” I asked, and Mighty spits very expressive-like.

“Small items ain’t in my line, Ike, but the larger things of life is giving me a itch in my trigger-finger. Judge Steele and that danged schoolma’am has combined in restraint of my trade, seems like.

“That homely female mul’plication table has figured that I’m due to make about fifty per each on my turkeys, the same of which they considers a e-normous profit. The judge has adjudicated that I ain’t to sell chances on my birds unless I agrees to let ’em have the use of ’em in what he calls a tableau.

“’Pears to me that I’ve for to honkatonk my turkeys or lose what I paid for ’em.”

“You feelin’ sorry for Mighty?” asks Dirty, peering into Wick’s sad features.

“Mighty ——!” snaps Wick. “I ain’t sorry for nobody but me. I’m a Injun, I am! I’m a blood-hungry savage of 1620. I eat ’em alive and hide behind stumps on Sunday. Yah! My wife says to me—

“‘Wicksie, it’s educational, and I’ll be sore at you if you don’t do it.’

“What’s a feller going to do, I asks you? Am I to have a grouchy wife in my wickiup or will I shave off my whiskers, drape my form in a gee-string and hide behind an alleged stump while the Pilgrims walk home from worship?”

“Does you mean that we appears naked, Wick?” I asks.

“Accordin’ to the pre-vailing fashions of such a period. Magpie has got a picture of us savages doing a war-dance in the Winter-time, and all we’ve got is a gee-string, a roached foretop and a tommy hatchet. I reckon that me and you and Dirty has to bow to the fashions, Ike.”

“Some day,” observes Dirty, “I’m going to kill Magpie.”

“Common sense teaches us such thoughts,” nods Wick. “Let’s all go up and surround him, gents. There is a chance that we can make him change his mind.”

Magpie must ’a’ figured on such a thing ’cause he’s setting on the front steps, and when he sees us he reaches inside and hauls out a Winchester.

“We comes more in sorrow than in anger,” states Dirty.

“Be sorry about fifty feet away,” says Magpie. “What do you want?”

“This is the Injun delegation,” says I. “We bows to superior intelligence to a certain degree, but beyond that we howls at the top of our voices. We’ll show ourselves without a shirt, and maybe we’ll agree to abolish boots for the time being, but we’ll be gosh-hanged if the public of Piperock will get a chance to gaze upon our legs divine. Sabe? Now you speak, Wick.”

“Magpie heard you, Ike.”

“Three is a crowd,” admits Dirty. “The crowd is against you, Magpie.”

Magpie caresses that Winchester and we hears the hammer click.

“Regarding same,” says Magpie soft-like, getting to his feet, “turn around! March! We’ll stop at Ricky’s shop and get you hombres trimmed. Sabe?”

“My ——!” grunts Dirty. “Got to be nude in the face too, eh?”

Ricky uncoils himself from his chair and grins like a fool.

Magpie hands him the leaf out of a book, and they examines same.

“Sabe that kind of a haircut?” asks Magpie, and Ricky nods.

“Uh-huh. Just leave a top-knot about two inches wide and four inches long on top. Scalp-lock, eh? Shall I remove the hair from the face?”

“Clean as a hound’s tooth, Ricky.”

“Not me!” yells Wick. “You ain’t got no right——”

“Unhook their guns, Ricky,” says Magpie weary-like. “Can’t trust a Injun. Now shut up—all of you. Maybe I ain’t got no right to make you do this, but you’re going to have it done just the same.”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Mighty. “Some haircut! Haw! Haw! Haw!”

“Like it, Mighty?” grins Magpie.

“Great stuff!” explodes Mighty.

“Glad you like it,” says Magpie. “You’re next, Mighty.”

Mighty bucked against it but got trimmed just the same. Magpie ducked out with our guns about the time Ricky got through, and then Ricky asks us for four bits per each.

“Charge it to Uncle Sam,” says I. “We’re wards of the Government.”

Ricky howled like a wolf, so we tied him to his chair and left him. We meets Miss Finney at the corner, and we all takes off our hats to her. Dirty looked back at her and gasps:

“My ——! We must look awful, gents. She walked into the pump and fell down!”

We finds Judge Steele over in Buck’s place, and he’s orating loud and free.

“I hereby adjudicates that Mighty Jones be outlawed on the grounds of humanity and good cheer. He refuses us the usage of his acquired property to be used as part and parcel of our glorious entertainment; so I asks you to refrain from purchasing chances on his raffle.”

“I has suffered a change of heart, judge,” says Mighty. “My conscience hurts me, and I repents in gunny-sacks and ashes.

“How many chances does you folks desire on my exclusive birds? This deck is for Hiawather and the other is on Evangeline.

“Step up, gents, and take a chance. You can’t get stung for more than one dollar per chance.”

Piperock folks are the kind that take chances. All that Mighty had to do was to spread his tickets and take the money. Even Old Testament spent about a dollar. Hassayampa Harris grabbed a handful of Hiawather, and then him and Tombstone Todd almost got to the shooting stage over who owned a Evangeline chance that fell on the floor. “Jay Bird” Whittaker and his Cross J bunch got there in time to get the leavings.

Several more punchers drifted in and howls loud because they’re late. Whereupon Buck suggests that we start a poker game, a ticket to be worth its face value in the pot.

Me and Dirty Shirt loses ours in the first jack-pot and then Wick Smith’s three treys bumped in “Big Foot” Forrest’s seven-full, which eliminates Wick from the festivities. Then the three of us gathers in a corner and talks over the wrongs of the redskins.

Wick is a strong prohibitionist. In fact he’s so strong that he didn’t stock his root-house with anything but raw alcohol. He gets a quantity of it and we goes up to my shack, where we proceeds to get ready for the war-path.

We’ve fought over the battle of the Big Horn, and are just about to reject any peace offer that might come our way when Magpie comes home. He grins at our top-knots, but we sets stoical—like Indians always do in stories.

“Pshaw!” says Magpie. “You fellers ain’t got no kick coming. I gave your heads their first sanitary moment they’ve had since you was born.”

“Don’t laugh at him, Dirty,” says I. “He’ll get killed before morning—I hope.”

“Not this holiday, Ike,” grins Magpie. “This is a real one. Got a lot of new and novel features. Feller by the name of ‘Cut-Bank’ Campbell, who lives up by Bill Thatcher’s place, has joined Bill’s orchestra, and he’s got the dangedest musical utensil you ever seen. I thought I’d heard mostly everything in the music line, but right now I feels that I ain’t begun to hear things.

“Say, Miss Finney wanted to know if you fellers couldn’t do a little war-dance. Know what I mean? Kinda open the show thataway.”

“I won’t danch!” says Dirty. “Shing a shong, but no danch.”

“I’ll do th’ shootin’ if shomebody wants to dance,” says Wick.

“You won’t have no guns on you,” reminds Magpie. “All you’ll have will be hatchets.”

“Tha’s all right,” says Wick. “Messy but satisfying.”

“I’m goin’ home,” says Dirty. “Goin’ home t’ eat.”

“I’ll go with you,” says I.

“You fellows be here in time to dress for that tableau,” says Magpie. “Tomorrow you can have Ricky clip off them top-knots. Clipping is good for the hair.”

“Yash,” says Dirty. “Sheep-dip is good for sheep—try it on yourself.”

We rides out of town, and then Dirty gets a brilliant idea. Dirty does get the brightest thoughts when he’s inoculated with delirium tremens.

“We’ve been imposh’t upon, Ike,” says he. “We been maltreated. Let’s go past Mighty’s shack and steal his turkeys. Goo’ joke, eh?”

“No,” says I. “We’re honest men, Dirty. Let us not sully our alabaster pasts. None of the Harper tribe has ever been beheaded for stealing, and I won’t break the set. Nossir!”

We had a —— of a time getting that crate out of Mighty’s window. It’s about three-by-three-by-four, but it was danged lucky for us that the window was big enough. Dirty crawled out and took the crate off my neck, and then we prepared to carry it away.

Any old time you starts to carry a crate like that on a half-broke bronc—don’t. I had to help Dirty on his bronc, and then I can’t get on mine, so he gets off and helps me on.

“Now,” says I, “we’re back where we started from, Dirty.”

“Tha’s good,” applauds Dirty. “We’re holding our own. I’ll hand the crate up to you, and then you can—well, let’s get the crate up to you firsht.”

Dirty’s intentions were good. In fact he surprized me by showing such good sense. All would have been well, but when he got about three feet from me he stumbled. The crate hit my bronc in the knees and Dirty butted into its flank, and when I shook the stars out of my eyes I’m half in and half out of that window.

“Your horshes,” says Dirty wondering-like. “Your horshes went away without you, Ike; all three of ’em.”

I crawls out and adjusts my ribs. It is some time before speech cometh to me, and then I says:

“Well, we’ll have to ride double, I reckon.”

“Tha’s good idea, Ike. Bes’ idea you ever had. My, my! That is wonderful. But what will we ride upon?”

“Where’s your bronc?” I asks.

“Oh, he’s gone. I still got the bridle.”

We sets down and considers things.

“I reckon we’ve got to be pall-bearers for two turkeys,” says I.

“Shall we each take one?” asks Dirty. “What shay?”

“I don’t know nothing about ’em,” says I. “Do you?”

“Nawsir. I know there is turkeys, Ike, but that’s all.”

“Tell you what we’ll do,” says I, taking a two-bit piece out of my pocket. “I’ll flip this two-bits. Heads we carry crate and all; tails we separate ’em.”

Heads came up. We each took one end of the box, and started for—— Come to think of it, we didn’t have any place in mind. We came to the foot-log across Medicine Creek and sat down to think it over.

“I won’t pack one end of that box across that log,” says I, but Dirty didn’t care.

“Pack it alone,” says he. “I’m balancher, you know it? Demonstrate to you, Ike. Go alone firsht. Jones’s has all been tight-rope walkers ever since the—— Who-o-o-o-up!”

Sure he fell in. I saved his life—I think. Anyway we both washed out on a sand-bar and crawled through the brush back to our crate.

Then we took the crate on our shoulders and waded the danged creek. Then we sat down to talk it over and pour the water out of our boots, when a voice says—

“Well, well!”

Here is Magpie and Scenery Sims, our useless sheriff.

“Turkeys, eh?” squeaks Scenery. “Bringing ’em in for us, eh?”

“Mighty must ’a’ found a prohibition cache ’cause he ain’t in no shape to come after ’em,” explains Magpie. “Might as well pick up that crate and come on, boys.”

“Me?” asks Dirty. “Nawsir. I’ve been packing two-thirds of it and hauling Ike, too. I’m all through. Sabe?”

“You’re a liar, Dirty,” says I. “I’ve been packing all of it and yelling at the top of my voice to keep you from falling asleep.”

“Just pick up the crate and come along,” says Magpie sweet-like.

“You’re crazy if you think so!” says I. “No danged squeaky imitation of an officer, and a long lean muzzler like——”

I looks up at Magpie. I want to see if I can think of something new to call him—but I just picks up my side of the crate, and away we went.

Them two snake-hunters are uncoiling ropes, and I’d rather walk and pack a box than I would to be dragged—and pack a box.

They made us carry that box into the Mint Hall and place it on the stage. It’s pretty dark by this time, and I reckon nobody seen us come into town.

Me and Dirty hadn’t got our guns back yet, so we didn’t yowl at Magpie, but we waited for a chance at Scenery and kicked his feet out from under him when Magpie went outside. We took his gun and threw it into the back yard, and then went over to Buck’s place, where we find Mighty setting on the steps. He sure is alcoholic.

“Welcome, li’l strangers,” says he. “Set down and cogitate on the sins of iniquity. Wonderful world—know it?

“’Low me to ask question? Will, eh? Know what a me-nag-i-ree is?”

“What in —— is a me-nag-i-ree?” asks Dirty.

“There y’are. Animules, Dirty. Peculiar and rare animules. I’m goin’ to start one.”

“Good!” says Dirty. “Show me and Ike where your stuff is planted and we’ll donate every freak animal we discover. Las’ time I sheen a pink collywimpus. You got any of them, Mighty?”

“Naw!” says Mighty disgusted-like. “You shpeak of seein’ things. I’m nacheral hishtorian. Sabe? You unnerstand wil’-cats?”

“Oh, them patient little darlings,” says Dirty; but just then cometh Magpie and the judge.

“Come on, fellers,” says Magpie. “It’s time to get ready for the show.”

We left Mighty cogitating on the sins of iniquity—whatever that is—and went behind the scenes. The floor of the stage is covered with cotton, and they’ve anchored a small pine-tree in the middle of the stage. They nailed bark on three beer-kegs to make ’em look like stumps, and Pete Gonyer is fussing with a bedtick full of chopped-up paper.

“Snow,” grins Pete. “I get up above the curtain and sift it down. Sabe the idea? Looks more like snow than the real stuff.”

They’ve got a place for us Injuns to dress. Mrs. Smith looks like something that just came over and can’t find her way back. Wick has been into his root-house again and don’t care what happens.

We didn’t have to wear them gee-strings. The committee gets together and decides that being as this is supposed to be cold weather they’d better let us Injuns dress warmer; so they gives us breech-clouts instead.

Them Pilgrims sure look the part. They’ve got tall tops built on their sombreros, and Miss Finney made ’em paper collars that stick out like they had their head through a dish-pan. Their pants are cut off at the knees, and they’ve cut off their boots at the ankle and sewed some big harness buckles on ’em.

Magpie is packing a sawed-off shot-gun, while Testament and the judge are armed with Sharps rifles. Old Testament is packing a Bible, Magpie has a mail-order catalog, and the judge has the State registry of brands. They sure look pious.

“Ike, do you know why the Pilgrims came from England?” asks the judge.

“After looking at you three, judge, I’d opine they got chased out.”

“No, Ike; there was too many kings,” says Testament wise-like.

“Defective deck,” says Dirty, fussing with a safety-pin. “Once over in Mesquite I held five kings. Two kings of hearts. New deck, too.”

“Did you win?” asks the judge.

“Nope; I ate ’em. Think I’m a fool?”

Just then somebody announces that the raffle is about to start, so we all crowds at the end of the curtain to watch it. Buck Masterson has been appointed to conduct the drawing, and Scenery Sims is going to draw the numbers from the hats.

“Ladies and gents,” announces Buck, “in these two hats reposes the mates to the tickets you holds on Hiawather and E-vangeline, two noble turkey-birds. If anybody knows of any reason why we can’t start this raffle let ’em speak now or forever hold their yap.

“Nobody got any kick? All right. Mister Sims will now settle the ownership of E-vangeline.”

Scenery grabs a ticket out of the hat and hands it to Buck.

“Number—uh—sixteen wins E-vangeline. Number sixteen! Now for Hiawather. Number eighty-one wins Hiawather.”

“I wins the female fowl!” yelps Tombstone Todd, standing up and waving his arms. “I wins the female fowl!”

“I got eighty-one!” whoops Hassayampa Harris. “Hurrah for Curlew!”

“Now,” says Buck, “we will proceed with the programme.”

Buck squints at a sheet of paper and clears his throat.

“Ahem-m-m-m—Mrs. Wick Smith will recite ‘Tear-Drops.’ This poem was wrote by Muley Bowles. I heard it once; so she don’t interest me none.”

Mrs. Smith waddles up to the platform. She’s got sort of a Mother Hubbard on over her Pilgrim clothes. Buck helps her get up, and then she faces the audience.

I don’t reckon she ever recited much, ’cause she sure is nervous. She licks her lips and whispers like she was letting ’em in on a secret—

“It was a dewy—dewy—dewy——”

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” hisses “Half-Mile” Smith. “It’s the battle of Maniller!”

“The birds was flying high,” says Mrs. Smith like she was afraid she’d scare the birds. “I—I—I——”

And there she stuck. She looks around sort of wild-like, and then she croaks:

“Wicksie! Oh, Wicksie! Darn it, have you got that paper?”

“Maw, I ain’t got it,” chokes Wick. “Never mind it! Bow and back up, can’t you?”

She could. She backed into our curtain and almost ruined it, but we managed to skid her to one side. The crowd sure applauded that poem.

“I’m through!” she wails. “I’ll never recite again.”

“Maw,” asks Wick, “is that a threat or a promise?”

I hears Buck talking again, so I peers out. Down in front with Half-Mile is “Pinky” Parsons and “Speedy” Wheeler. Them two last-named hombres are always just one jump ahead of a sheriff. Buck is making another introduction.

“Ladies and gents, I hereby introduces to you Mr. Campbell. He will solo for your edification. He is willing to take a chance, such as they are, and I asks you all to remember this. You didn’t pay a danged cent to get in—and the door is open. Amen.”

This bow-legged red-headed hombre climbs up on the stage. He’s got his arms full of what looks like a lot of hoochie-koochie horns stuck into a balloon. He begins to blow, the balloon begins to swell, and our ears gets handed a mulligan of music, the like of which never was heard on this range before.

Zaw-a-a-a-a-a—er-r-r-r-r-r—toot-toot—ver-r-r-r-r—aw-w-w-w-w-w—toot——

Bang! Boof!

I sees Cut-Bank fall flat on the stage, where he sets and looks at his punctured balloon. Pinky Parsons is standing up in his chair with a gun in his hand and a pained expression on his homely face.

“My ——!” he gasps. “I ain’t no humane society, but I got too big a heart to see anything suffer like that.”

“That was music, you hair-triggered snake-hunter!” squeaks Scenery.

Speedy and Pinky looks at each other and shakes their heads.

“Pinky,” says Speedy, “I done told you that things were changing. This here country ain’t noways what she used to be.”

Buck gets up on the platform and makes the peace sign.

“Folks, you will have to ex-cuse these two ignorant cow-trailers. Their ears ain’t noways trained to harmonious sounds.”

“I gives ’em my forgiveness,” says Half-Mile. “I sure does.”

“Ladies and gents, is there anybody in the hall what ain’t never heard the Cross J quartet sing a song?”

Pinky and Speedy holds up their hands, and Buck covers ’em with a gun while Scenery trots down and takes their guns away from ’em. Then Muley Bowles, Chuck Warner, “Telescope” Tolliver and Henry Peck files up on the stage.

“Just one minute,” pleads Pinky. “Are them four going to sing together?”

“All to once,” nods Buck.

“Then wait until me and Speedy get out. I never came here to have my ears insulted. Give us our guns and let us depart in peace.”

“Set down!” yelps Buck. “It’s bad but it don’t last long. Maybe they’ll just sing a chorus.”

“You can all go to ——!” states Chuck Warner. “I won’t sing a particle. We didn’t come here to be insulted and abused.”

“Fifty-fifty,” hisses Half-Mile.

“You shut up!” yells Telescope. “Singing to you would be like casting pearls before swine.”

“When it comes to your kind of singing, Telescope, I’m no hawg.”

“All set for the tableau!” warns Miss Finney, and everybody except us four aborigines gets off the stage. We’re standing there looking at each other as the curtain pulls back, and I happens to think of something.

“Ain’t we going to use them turkeys?” I whispers, but Magpie shakes his head.

“Everybody forgot ’em. Talk in gutturals!”

“Gug-gug-glap?” says Wick.

“Flug woop moof,” says I.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Half-Mile. “Look at Ike Harper’s legs! Mamma mine!”

“Look at Dirty Shirt’s!” whoops Abe Mudgett. “He needs pacing-hopples to keep him from interfering!”

The audience is getting delirious, and I hears Magpie hissing.

“Ike! Look this way and get astonished! Can’t you hear the bell?”

One little bell don’t sound like much in that hall, but I shades my eyes like I seen an Injun doing in a picture, and then I says:

“Grab a stump! Church is out!”

Then here comes the Pilgrims.

“Hey, Wick!” yells somebody in the audience. “Get around the other side! You ain’t hid.”

Wick is humped over behind his stump, but he’s on the wrong side. Of course he has to slip getting around on the other side, the bark falls off his beer-keg and the darned thing rolls away, leaving poor Wick humped up like Pontiac with the pip.

The Pilgrims wander to the front of the stage, paying no attention to us Injuns, so we sets down on our stumps. It’s hard work humping over thataway. Old Testament shoves his hand inside his coat and glares at the audience.

“In the year of our Lord 1620,” says he in a graveyard voice, “a little band of Pilgrims sailed for our shores. Braving—braving——”

He stops and begins to hunt through his pockets.

“The mud must be deep up there,” observes Half-Mile. “That’s the second rig to get stuck tonight.”

“I had that speech in my pocket,” says Testament. “I sure——”

Woosh! About ten pounds of cut paper lands right on top of his tall hat.

“Get out from under that tree!” yelps Abe Mudgett. “It’s thawin’!”

“Hey, Pete!” croaks Magpie. “Scatter it a little, can’t you? What do you think you are—an avalanche?”

“Who in —— is running this storm?” snaps Pete. “You hombres are so far back I can’t snow on you. Maybe I can climb out a—— Look out!”

The storm broke in all its fury. The bedtick landed on top of Wick Smith, and Pete landed all spraddled out on the judge.

“Snowing shepherds!” whoops Doughgod Smith. “Get off that stage, Clementine! Ain’t you got sense enough to come out of the storm?”

Old Testament ain’t moved. He’s standing there peering at a piece of paper, and all to once he yelps—

“What number won Hiawatha, Buck?”

“Number eighty-one. Why?”

“Because I’ve got it!”

There is silence for a moment. The judge gets to his feet and tries to pump wind back into his lungs. Dirty picks up a piece of paper which fell out of the judge’s pocket and looks at it.

“Buck,” says Dirty, “what number won E-vangeline?”

“Sixteen.”

“Congratulations, judge,” says Dirty, handing him the card. “You won E-vangeline. Here’s number sixteen.”

“What you talking about?” howls Tombstone. “I won that bird! I’m the holder of number sixteen!”

“I’ve got eighty-one!” explodes Hassayampa. “That’s my bird!”

“Oh-h-h-h-h!” wails Miss Finney, wringing her hands. “The tableau is ruined!”

Nobody seemed to care much.

“I thank you one and all,” states the judge foolish-like. “I do thank you for the noble honors, and I accept the nomination.”

“Honors!” howls Tombstone. “That’s my bird, I tell you!”

“Peace, brothers,” says Testament. “Peace be unto you. I hates to raise my voice in anger, but I feel that I own that certain bird.”

“What’s the matter with you folks?” demands Hassayampa. “I’ve got the winning number right here.”

He tears his way out of the aisle and climbs up on the stage, and right behind him is Tombstone.

“Give me them tickets—all four of you!” snaps Buck.

Buck takes all four tickets and shuffles ’em up, and then holds them out in his hands.

“Tombstone, pick out your sixteen.”

Tombstone takes two of the tickets and turns ’em around and around.

Hassayampa grabs the other two, and acts foolish.

“There ain’t no question but what there’s a sixteen and a ninety-one, and a eighteen and an eighty-one, but which is which?” asks Buck.

“Mine was sixteen as plain as the nose on your face!” yowls Tombstone. “Just that darned plain, I tell you.”

“I’m going to have mine,” says Hassayampa. “I win with eighty-one.”

“One of them birds belongs to me,” states Old Testament. “I take what’s mine.”

“Where is them disputed birds?” asks Buck.

“Back on the stage,” says Magpie, “but nobody gets one until this tangle is straightened out.”

“I won’t relinquish,” declares the judge. “I’ll law over it first.”

“Me too!” yelps Tombstone. “I’ll go plumb to the Supreme Court.”

“You shut up!” squeaks Scenery. “Everybody shut up!”

“This is a good show,” declares Pinky. “Ain’t she good, Speedy?”

“Shore is. Can’t tell the hero from the villain.”

“I’ve got a idea,” states Telescope. “All this wrangling won’t get us no place. Suppose we turns the birds loose up there and let them four belligerents settle ownership. The one what catches a bird owns it.”

“It is below the dignity of the church to chase turkeys in public,” declares Testament.

“Same with the court,” nods the judge.

“Well, get off the stage then!” snaps Hassayampa. “Me and Tombstone ain’t finicky; are we, Tombstone?”

“We just about ain’t. I won that bird fair and square——”

“The church will fight for its rights,” says Testament soft-like.

“Justice will prevail,” says the judge, cinching up his belt.

Magpie and Buck hauls the crate to the center of the stage. The slats are nailed so close together that you can’t see inside, but the ends of the slats extends beyond the sides of the box.

“Turn her upside down,” advises Dirty Shirt. “Loosen the slats thataway, and when you’re ready—turn her over and the birds are loose. That gives everybody a fair shake.”

’Most everybody in the hall crowds up to the front. This is going to be a lot better entertainment than Piperock ever gave. Magpie pokes me in the ribs.

“Going without a hitch, Ike,” he grins. “Ain’t you sorry?”

“Six to one that Testament don’t get a feather,” yells somebody.

“Even money that the judge gets crippled! One to two that Hassayampa gets ’em both!”

“Wait, fellers!” yells Magpie. “Give them gamblers a chance.”

They lays the crate on its top and loosens the slats all the way around. Then they makes them four ticket-holders line up on one side of the stage. Magpie stands at the far side with a gun in his hand.

“Now,” says he, “when I shoot—get going. If a bird flies into the audience it must be brought back. Are you ready?”

“Let her go!” yelps Hassayampa.

Dirty Shirt yanks that crate back just as Magpie shoots. I seen them turkey-chasers dash forward—comes a yelp of agony, a long-drawn-out yowl, and then Ike Harper headed for that tree.

Man, I sure climbed. I went onward and upward until I runs out of tree, and it seems like everybody on that stage had the same idea.

I hears a snarl and a crash and part of Bill Thatcher’s bull fiddle hit me in the face. Then comes a burst of pistol-shots, a louder burst of profanity, and then I tries to keep Dirty Shirt from climbing past me.

“Hold on!” I yelps. “I can’t go no further, you fool! I’m at the top!”

“Oh, ——, give me room!” he roars. “The top don’t mean nothing to me!”

“Timber-r-r-r-r!” yells somebody, and I has the feeling that our theatrical pine-tree has decided to lay down.

My face brushes the side of the curtain as we came down. I tried to get loose and jump, but Dirty has his arms locked around my legs; so I had to stay. I thought of lots of things as that tree goes horizontal, but I sure gets absent-minded when she goes perpendicular.

Maybe I didn’t get knocked cold—I don’t know. I know that when I came to I was under that tree, and Dirty still hung on to my legs.

I manages to yank loose and stagger out. Then I fell over something and hit my head on a chair.

I sets there and stares into Judge Steele’s face. He’s propped up against a seat, and around his neck is the earthly envelope of what had been a perfectly bad wildcat.

The judge smiles soft-like and nods his head. He’s back in Missouri right now, where he came from. Likely he thinks he’s a-fishing for cat-fish. Man, he sure must ’a’ got shocked proper.

That hall looks just like I knowed she would. There ain’t no use talking—Piperock can’t entertain without a casualty list. Up on the stage is that turkey crate, and jack-knifed inside of it with the top of his head out one end and his feet out the other is Old Testament.

“You better go home, old-timer,” says I. “There will be work for you to do as soon as they get the pieces picked up and matched together.”

“I can’t,” says he in sort of a croak. “I can’t do it, Ike.”

“Are you hurt, Testament?” I asks.

“Yea, verily I am. I don’t dare get up.”

“’Fraid you’re hurt bad?”

“No, you darn fool!” he wails. “I’m settin’ on that other wildcat!”

“Ain’t it dead?”

“I take no chances, brother.”

“Wait,” says I, poking around on the floor. “I’ll get a gun and shoot through the crate under you, Testament.”

“By the Bull of Bashan, you will not!” he gasps. “You don’t know how deep I am in this accursed crate. Hold thy gun ready and I will jump.”

I couldn’t find any gun, but Testament didn’t know that. He yanks himself loose and sprawls out on the stage.

“I—I guess it’s dead,” he whispers, and up from the inside of that crate comes the head of Scenery Sims.

He’s been bent all out of shape, and his arms and legs act like they were asleep.

“Huh-huh-huh—” he gasps, shaking his head. “Huh-huh-huh——”

“Where is that wildcat?” asks Testament foolish-like.

“I—huh—huh—I ain’t—huh—got it,” gasps Scenery.

I picks up a pile of clothes and slides off the stage. Dirty Shirt is setting there counting his toes; so I yanks him to his feet and leads him outside, where I helps him put on some pants. He ain’t quite got things figured out yet, ’cause he peers at me and says—

“Who won, Ike?”

“I don’t know for sure, Dirty, but I think the Populists have a slight majority.”

We finds Miss Finney setting on the stairs with her hat jammed down over her eyes, and still talking—

“... and then Dr. Tilton will tell them why we celebrate Thanksgiving.”

“Yes’m,” says I. “They’ll want to know, I reckon.”

There’s a big crowd milling around in the street; so I yanks Dirty around the corner and we pilgrims off down the road on foot. We’re about a mile from town when we hears somebody coming.

“Look!” grunts Dirty, peering ahead. “Did you ever see bigger sage-hens in your life, Ike?”

Then we hears Mighty’s voice:

“Stay in the road, dag-gone you! Lasht time I’ll ever punch turkeys. Whooee!”

Them two birds has been herded until they ain’t got any ambition to go farther. Me and Dirty each picked one up and sets down behind a mesquite-bush. Here comes Mighty, weaving up the road in the dark, talking to himself.

“Goin’ to be late. Yes shir. Man of my word. Wonder who shtole my bob-cats? Wonder who? Me-nag-i-ree all gone. Dag-gone th’ luck!”

Mighty weaved on past us, and his voice faded out in the distance. We sets there for a while, and then I says:

“Our conscience is clear, Dirty, ’cause nobody seems to own these fowl. Who was the poet who wrote Evangeline and Hiawather?”

“Wrote ’em?” queries Dirty. “Huh! I don’t know and I don’t care who wrote ’em, Ike, but I do know who’s going to eat ’em.”

“Yes,” says I. “We’ve got two things to be thankful for, Dirty.”

“Three, Ike.”

“What’s the third reason, Dirty?”

“That two-bit piece might have come tails, Ike.”

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, July 3, 1920. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.

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WHEN THE PILGRIMS HIT PIPEROCK

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