*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78924 ***


                           THE CURSE OF GOLD

                            by W. C. Tuttle
            Author of “Magpie’s Nightmare,” “All Wool,” etc.


“Bein’ uh sheriff,” remarks Magpie Simpkins, rubbin’ his whiskers with
th’ palm of his hand, and kickin’ some books off th’ table so he can
rest his boots, “gives uh feller lots uh prominence in th’ community. It
sort a makes people look up to him with respect.”

I recognizes th’ sarcastic tone of his voice and I also recognizes them
words, bein’ as I spoke them to him about uh month before th’ county
election. I don’t make no response; jist eases myself into uh chair and
pe-ruses uh reward notice on th’ wall.

“People jist sort a fear him, too,” he continues. “Ain’t it funny what
uh real nice time uh sheriff has, Ike?”

“Referrin’ to th’ deputation of prominent citizens I sees amblin’ away
from here uh while ago?” I asks.

“Uh-ha,” sez he. “That’s th’ ‘What For’ committee.”

“What for?”

“Su’pression uh crime, Ike. Them jaspers opine that I’m too diligent
around town and don’t clean up th’ county fast enough. They wants to
know what for. They kindly points out th’ error of my ways and orates
collectively and individually that as uh sheriff I ain’t showin’ no
paystreak.”

“As uh horrible example of what I ain’t done they points out that th’
Evans gang is still liftin’ cows without uh pang of remorse, and that
th’ Piegan Kid ain’t noways ceased his operations since th’ star begins
to shine on my manly bosom. They also points out that any day th’ Kid is
liable to hanker fer th’ cash in our new Cattlemen’s bank, and they
opine that I’d better put th’ runnin’ iron on him before he invades our
peaceful domain.”

“What you needs,” sez I, “is more dignity, Magpie. If I was sheriff and
uh bunch uh mavericks like that tried to stampede me I’d——”

“Ike.” Magpie rises to his six-feet-six and rests his elbows on top of
th’ windowsill. “I ain’t noways partial to receivin’ advice today. I’ve
got more than I can pack, and th’ next hombre what sez, ‘If I was
sheriff’ is shore goin’ to git this nice li’l silver star shoved down
crossways in his throat. _Sabe?_ I may not be uh hi-yu example as uh
peace officer but I’ll tell yuh——”

Came uh rattle uh pistol-shots out in th’ street and th’ next thing we
knowed our li’l shack tried to break loose from th’ foundation. I hears
th’ porch go smash and uh big framed pitcher of Roosevelt fell off th’
wall, and th’ next thing I knowed I was lookin’ through that frame
instead of Teddy, and uh piece uh that glass went plumb down to my
belt-line inside my shirt and punched holes in my backbone all th’ way
down.

Magpie jerked th’ door open so we could see, and there was th’ Piegan
Kid on his roan hoss out in th’ middle of th’ street.

Th’ bronk is plumb scared of James Wilson Spreckles, th’ cashier of th’
Cattlemen’s bank, who has got his face and one arm out of th’ bank door
and is pollutin’ th’ atmosphere with smoke from uh nice li’l .32 pistol.

Th’ Kid is havin’ uh hard time tryin’ to hang on to two sacks and handle
his rifle at th’ same time. His bronk has done bucked across our front
porch, and th’ two props are squewgeed and th’ roof is saggin’ more all
th’ time.

Magpie sized up th’ situation and then unlimbers with his .45. I reckon
all would have been well, but jist as Magpie unhooks that ol’ gun th’
roof of th’ porch heeds th’ call of gravity and comes down in uh heap.
Also th’ cashier has one more ca’tridge in his salute-box and he
proceeds to slam that bullet into th’ door-jamb next to Magpie’s face.

As uh result th’ Kid fogs outa town and Magpie does uh Cree war dance
around th’ office, yellin’ fer me to git some tweezers so he can git th’
splinters out of his eyes. That cashier don’t know yet how close he
comes to makin’ uh clean hit.

I never did like James W. In fact I don’t like no man what has uh middle
name and uses it, and that goes double fer uh jasper who uses his middle
name and perfume, too. I can describe him to anybody who lives here by
sayin’ that he packs uh silk handkerchief, with uh pink border, polluted
with perfume, and rides with short stirrups. _Sabe?_ He jist didn’t
belong a-tall.

“I deputizes you to help me, Ike,” states Magpie, after we gits most of
th’ white pine out of his features. “Go git uh hoss and come back quick.
I’ve got rifles fer two. Git a-goin’, Ike, ’cause me and you are goin’
to make th’ Kid hard to catch.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Magpie ducks out of th’ back door, where he keeps his buckskin hoss, and
I goes out into th’ street. There don’t seem to be no excitement. Uh few
shots in Piperock don’t cause no riots, ’cause most every day somebody
takes exceptions to uh cat or uh dog or mebby jist uh Greaser.

I starts to walk around th’ corner to see if I can locate uh hoss, when
here comes Magpie on his bronk, with uh rifle in each hand.

“How much did he git?” yells Magpie at James W., who is still on th’
bank steps with his terrible weapon.

He waves his arms and yells somethin’, and Magpie nods and rides up on
th’ lope.

“What did he say?” I asks.

“Couldn’t understand uh word he said. Here’s yore rifle, Ike. If I was
you I’d take that pitcher-frame off my neck. It don’t fit like it was
made fer yuh. Git uh hoss and trail me out toward th’ Sentinel Butte.”

He spurs his hoss down th’ street, while I climbs out uh that frame and
heads fer th’ hitch-rack.

There’s only one hoss there, uh brown mare belongin’ to Art Miller, so I
eases into th’ saddle and points down th’ street. I reckon that bronk
hadn’t hit th’ ground more than three times before I hears Art yell—

“Where yuh goin’ with that hoss?”

“I’m takin’ her in th’ name of th’ law!” I yells back, diggin’ her with
my heels, and we sails fer th’ aidge of town sort uh freelike.

That mare shore could run. I reckon she could start at th’ gun and beat
th’ echo out uh range ’cause jist as we turned th’ corner my hat was
lifted off and I hears uh sort uh “_flut, flut!_” like uh lead bullet
annihilatin’ space, but we’re goin’ so fast I don’t hear th’ report.

After keepin’ up that pace fer about three miles my back began to pain
me somethin’ awful. Every time that bronk hit th’ ground it hurt me. I
stands it as long as I can and then gits off and takes off my shirt.

I heaves that piece uh glass far out into th’ desert, replaces my shirt
and overhauls Magpie about three miles further on.

“He’s shore throwin’ leather into his hoss,” grunts Magpie, as I ranges
alongside uh him. “I seen him uh while ago and he shore was movin’.”

We lopes along th’ Kid’s trail, which is uh heap easy to foller except
that ankle-deep sand ain’t what you’d pick fer uh fast track.

We breezes along fer uh spell, and all to once th’ bronks shied wide and
we pulls up.

It’s th’ Kid’s hoss down and out. I reckon it steps into uh hole and
breaks its leg. Anyway, there it is with uh hole drilled in its head,
still wearin’ th’ Kid’s silver-mounted saddle and th’ silver-gilt
leg-bit.

“Here’s where we waltzes to slow music,” states Magpie. “We’ll leave our
bronks here and take a _pasear_ on foot.”

I spots th’ Kid’s tracks where he pilgrims off up th’ side of th’ butte,
and points ’em out to Magpie.

“Ike,” sez he, “you circle th’ hill, keepin’ yore worthless head below
th’ tops of th’ mesquite, and come up th’ other side. I’ll ease my
carcass up this side and we’ll surround th’ Kid. Don’t ask questions if
yuh see him, Ike. Shoot first and ask afterward ’cause th’ Kid is mighty
previous on th’ trigger.”

We drops our reins and separates. By th’ great horned toad! I wasn’t
born to be uh man-hunter and I ain’t noways what you’d call nervy. I’ve
been shot at uh plenty out in th’ open, but this Injun stuff in th’
brush don’t appeal to me a-tall.

Once durin’ that sneak uh long, hungry jackrabbit lopes out of uh
mesquite bush beside me, makin’ me grow suddenly so danged thin that my
belt jist natcherally slips down around my feet, and I has uh hard time
tryin’ to untangle my stummick from around my vocal cords.

Anyway, I ambles on and finally gits to th’ top of th’ ridge. There’s uh
big washout at th’ top, all fringed with mesquite. I sees that there
ain’t nothin’ between me and that brush so I starts over to have uh look
at th’ washout.

I didn’t go over there, for th’ simple reason that jist as I starts uh
bullet burnt right across th’ place where uh shippin’ clerk carries his
pencil and it raised uh blister on my ear. Th’ next bullet lifts
three .45-.90 ca’tridges out of my belt, one of which exploded with
great cheer.

Nobody can ever say that Ike Harper can’t take uh hint. Say, if anythin’
ever hugged th’ ground harder than I did it never came loose.

Pretty soon I hears Magpie’s ol’ Winchester shakin’ th’ hills and
another of about th’ same caliber talkin’ back from some place in th’
mesquite ahead uh me.

I forgits my lesson and crawls forward for fifty feet or so. Pretty soon
I sees uh man and I unhooks that ol’ .45-.90. I gits in two shots before
uh bullet sticks its nose in th’ ground in front of me and fills my eyes
plumb full uh sand.

I rolls over in th’ brush and paws th’ sand out of my eyes, and then
finds out that I had been shootin’ at uh hat on uh stick. All this time
there’s plenty uh fireworks goin’ on and I’m anxious to git back on th’
firin’-line. I eases myself out of th’ brush and gits ready again.

_Bing!_ Uh bullet jambs into an ol’ mesquite stalk beside me and another
sings sweetly past my ear and I replies in th’ general direction from
whence they came.

For th’ next few minutes she’s uh rip-bang proposition. I shoots at
everything until that ol’ gun is hotter than blazes. I reckon I kept
that brush so full uh lead that th’ Kid don’t have uh chance to line his
sights on me, ’cause his nearest shot only cuts my hip-pocket where it
bulges with my chewin’ tobacco, and th’ next nearest drills my canteen.

Pretty soon I gits uh ca’tridge stuck in that gun and I has to use uh
pocket-knife and uh lot of profanity in order to git a-goin’ again.

By th’ time I gits it fixed there ain’t no more shootin’ goin’ on so I
takes uh chew and settles down to wait him out.

I reckon it’s about ten minutes later that I glimpses uh human bein’
easin’ itself out of th’ very mesquite I’ve been sprayin’ with lead, and
I shoots quick. Said human flops and I sees uh boot wave in th’ air as
its owner upends and slides down into th’ washout.

“Well,” sez I to myself, “with me on th’ force this ain’t no healthy
climate fer outlaws. When Ike Harper gits on their trail—aw revoir.”

I fills my rifle again and sa’nters over to th’ washout. Pushin’ th’
brush to one side I looks down at th’ carcass of—Magpie Simpkins!

Honest to grandma, that’s who it was. Th’ sheriff of Yaller Rock county
is reposin’ his entire length down th’ side of th’ washout, with his
face stuck in th’ crown of his hat and his rifle is balancin’ across th’
back of his neck, as if it was weighin’ its owner’s chances.

“Magpie,” sez I, sort a foolishlike, “yore deputy shot first and there
ain’t no questions to be asked.” But Magpie don’t move a-tall.

I slides down and turns him over. I know uh dead man when I sees one and
Magpie shore comes up to requirements.

I sits down to roll uh smoke, I’m that overcome. By golly! I shore am
sorry but that don’t help none. Me and Magpie have been pardners ever
since th’ Sentinel Butte was uh water-hole, and I can’t help feelin’
sorry that he’s done left this vale uh tears. I can’t find my cigarette
papers so I digs into poor Magpie’s vest to find his, and I gits th’
shock of my life.

“They’re in—my—shirt pocket, Ike,” mumbles Magpie, sittin’ up like uh
mechanical toy and swingin’ his long legs around so he’s facin’ down
hill. “I been tryin’ to say somethin’ fer some time,” sez he sort a weak
like, “but I reckon th’ Kid’s last bullet creased me so close it plumb
ruined my voice. Why in —— didn’t yuh swing me around so my head
wouldn’t be down hill? Gimme uh drink out uh yore canteen, Ike. Did yuh
git him?”

“You bein’ dead, Magpie, I failed to see what difference th’ lie of yore
body makes to you; my canteen gits drilled, and I did not git him!”

“Clear and concise, Ike. You shore e-liminates unnecessary words. Did
you hit anythin’ a-tall?”

“You,” sez I. “You shoots my canteen to ribbons and tears th’
tobacco-pocket out uh my pants, Magpie.”

Magpie wipes uh trickle of blood off his cheek and runs his finger
tenderlike over th’ furrow on his head.

“Ike, I’ve allus thought that uh danged fool was an object uh pity and
should be regarded with indulgence, but when one danged fool deputizes
another to help him be uh—huh!”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Magpie breaks off his discourse and stares across th’ washout to where
uh few boulders are half buried in th’ sand.

“Look, Ike!” he yells. “Ain’t that somethin’ behind them rocks?”
Somethin’ was right! Reposin’ behind them rocks is two canvas sacks,
each marked $5000 in black letters and sealed with red wax. They feels
to weigh about twenty pounds apiece, and when yuh shakes ’em they shore
are music to th’ ear.

“Ike,” sez Magpie, after we gits over th’ shock, “we made it so hot fer
th’ Kid that he jist simply drops his plunder behind them rocks and
fades away. He don’t reckon we’ll find ’em. What do yuh know about that?
Mebby we won’t git th’ Kid, Ike, but we shore can herd that coin back to
th’ home corral, eh?”

“Uh-ha,” sez I. “Let’s do it right now before any more mistakes are
made. Mebby th’ Kid will think twice before he runs up against us
again.”

“You dang well know it!” exclaims Magpie. “Fellers like him have got to
be showed, Ike.”

We each takes uh sack and toils up th’ side of that washout and down th’
other side to where we left our bronks.

Th’ Kid’s hoss, which of course couldn’t git away, was still there but
th’ silver-trimmed saddle and bridle was gone and so was Magpie’s
buckskin hoss. My bronk was still there and so was both saddles, but th’
cinches were all slashed to strings. Pinned to my saddle-horn was th’
following e-pistle:

    DEAR SHURIF—pleze excuse me fer taking the bukskin the brown
    mare won’t ride dubble. I know cause I oned her once. yours Kid.

“What in blazes does he mean about ridin’ double, Ike? He was alone
wasn’t he?” “Uh-ha,” sez I, “but I ain’t.”

Magpie sits down on th’ ground and rubs his sore head and cusses th’ Kid
from every angle and across th’ corners.

“I’ve heard of th’ curse uh gold, Ike, but I never knowed before jist
what it meant. Here we’ve got about forty pounds uh th’ yaller stuff and
it’s at least ten miles to Piperock, and all th’ vehicle we got to tote
it on is uh buzzard-headed bronk what don’t opine to carry double. Also
no saddle, ——!”

“Well,” sez I, “not havin’ worn uh hat since I turned that corner in
Piperock my brains are about ready to turn over and fry on th’ other
side, so with yore kind permission we will now prepare to prove th’
superiority of mind over matter. Th’ Kid states that th’ mare won’t
carry double—that’s matter. I think she will, Magpie, and if we thinks
it hard enough th’ theory is proved. _Sabe?_”

“Mebby,” sez he. “I tried it once on uh wildcat. It might work on uh
hoss.”

I gits up on that hoss and Magpie hands me up th’ rifles and th’ gold.
Th’ mare acts like she was hep to somethin’, but bein’ uh case of walk
or ride, Magpie drapes himself behind me and gits hold uh my belt.

“Home, James,” sez he, settlin’ hisself.

I digs th’ mare with my boot-heels and all she does is to git uneasy
like with her front feet.

“Well, ain’t we goin’, Ike?” asks Magpie, sarcastic like.

“I got my end started,” sez I, “and if you boots yore end uh li’l mebby
we’ll git away.”

He did jist that thing and we starts. Not slow and easy, like we had
plenty uh time, but uh li’l sooner than immediate, if there is such uh
thing.

That mare starts sunfishin’ right off th’ reel. She sticks her nose
between her front feet and bawls frequent and loudly, and all th’ time
she’s changin’ ends like lightnin’ and hittin’ th’ earth stiff as uh
ramrod.

Th’ first jump finds me down among her ears, and when she reverses I
lands back on her withers, with Magpie’s leg wrapped around my shoulders
and his hands fussin’ with my back hair.

“Stay with her, Ike!” he yells. “Ride—um—st—straight—up! Dog-gone
it—don’t—s-s-slide around—so—much!”

I shore was ridin’ that bronk. I don’t believe there was uh spot on her
hide that I didn’t ride, and all th’ time I’m handicapped by havin’
Magpie hangin’ onto my belt fer dear life and wrappin’ his legs around
my carcass every time that bronk pulled uh new angle.

Remember, too, that all this time I’m hangin’ on to them rifles and
forty pounds uh gold. Some exhibition, eh?

But it couldn’t last. Once she changed ends so quick that she lifts me
straight up, and all I’ve got left is uh holt from my knees down and I’d
have shore been throwed except that Magpie is draped over her rump and
actin’ as sort of an anchor, but at that I loses my nerve and drops th’
rifles and th’ gold. Th’ bronk hit th’ earth at th’ same time as th’
guns did and one uh them rifles exploded.

That’s what might be designated as uh climax. Th’ jump that bronk took
then was uh world beater. I reckon she never even brushed th’ top of uh
six-foot mesquite bush, and I loses Magpie right there. Also I loses my
reins, and there I am adrift in th’ desert without uh rudder and on th’
deck of uh loco bronk, whose middle name is “Run.”

We split th’ breeze down that gully and circled th’ lower part of
Sentinel Butte so danged fast that I has to hang on to her mane to keep
from blowin’ off.

We hits level ground at uh mile-uh-minute clip and I catches uh glimpse
of uh lot uh hossmen comin’ hell bent across country to head me off.
They’re ridin’ some deliberate but they miscalculates my speed, and they
was about uh minute late at th’ crossroads, so to speak.

Jist about that time I hears some more _flup, flup’s_, and after a while
I hears th’ faint pop of uh rifle.

“Shootin’ at me!” sez I to th’ bronk. “That’s shore gittin’ to be uh
habit with folks.”

Pretty soon another bullet buzzes past my ear and I looks back. Th’ gang
is jist toppin’ uh ridge about five hundred yards away and comin’ fast.
Speed bein’ essential I leans over and speaks to that hoss. I reckon
she’s gun-shy too ’cause she bunches herself and, man, I never knew what
speed was before.

She lays right down to th’ job and we spurns that country like uh bird.
I reckon everythin’ would have been right, but jist as we tears into uh
big draw full uh mesquite I turns to look back.

I gits that view from an upside-down position and then sinks gracefully
from th’ sight of man into uh bush filled with cactus. I reckon that
mare tried to jump that draw. Anyway, she keeps right on down that draw
and when th’ bunch of riders arrive she’s jist uh memory.

I’m so deep in th’ brush that th’ bunch don’t see me, and I don’t
advertise my position none whatever.

“Did anybody see which way he went?” asks uh voice, and I recognizes
Johnny Myers, of th’ Triangle outfit.

There’s uh heap of profanity and answers from several people, who seemed
to know jist where I am, and then I hears Art Miller remark:

“It’s uh cinch he ain’t comin’ back to see us. All th’ time we’re
debatin’ here that mare is coverin’ ground like uh scared wolf.”

“Are yuh shore it was one of th’ Evans gang?” asks uh voice.

“——!” sez Art. “How could I tell? He jist grabs th’ hoss and beats it. I
said it was one of them ’cause nobody else would have th’ gall to come
right into town that-away.”

“Aw ——!” complains another, which I know is Pete Gonyer. “If we had uh
real sheriff we’d——”

Th’ rest of it was cut off as they turns and rides away.

I reads once about uh feller who smiled uh ‘wry smile’; that’s th’ kind
I used. Pretty fast action when uh feller gits appointed as uh peace
officer, gits shot at fer an outlaw and chased fer stealin’ hosses all
in th’ same day, eh?

I unlimbers myself out of that cactus mattress and pokes out of th’
brush. I shore am uh specimen. No hat; one sleeve torn off at th’ collar
and one pant-leg ripped off so far above my boot that I’m positively
indecent to look at, and my whole carcass simply reeks with cactus
spines.

I shades my eyes and looks back toward where I leaves Magpie. I don’t
need to look. I knows that I covers about three miles in that race, and
anyway there ain’t no chance to see him. Even in th’ thin desert air
that they tell about it’s almost impossible to see uh person at three
miles, when said person happens to be on th’ other side of two ranges of
hills.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Well, to make uh long walk short, I simply got back to where I leaves
Magpie and he’s still there. He’s sittin’ in th’ shade of uh bush,
playin’ solitaire. He’s got th’ nicest black eye I ever seen.

I sits down beside him and watches him make uh misplay before I says uh
word.

“Yuh can’t play uh red ten on uh red jack,” sez I, pointin’ it out.

Magpie turns and looks me over with his good eye and plays th’ next card
deliberate.

“Ike, there ain’t no set rules fer anythin’ in this country. If I
admires to set uh precedent you don’t need to horn in. Remember yo’re
only uh deputy.”

“Why th’ crape on th’ window?” I asks.

“Th’ curse uh gold!” he snaps.

“How?”

“When me and that hoss parts company I stood on my eye on one uh them
sacks you drops so convenient and uh lumpy spot augers into my eye.”

Magpie puts th’ cards in his pocket and stands up.

“Ike,” sez he, “mebby if that bronk hadn’t run away with you, and if I
hadn’t been an honest man we might have taken that ten thousand and beat
it fer th’ state line.”

“Meanin’ that I’d have been willin’?”

“You don’t have to be honest, Ike. Yo’re only uh deputy.”

“I resigns right here!” sez I. “Jist because I helps yuh out when yuh
needs help badly yuh has to keep on insultin’ me by callin’ me uh
deputy. I’ve been shot at today because yuh don’t know yore own hired
help from uh bank robber; I’ve rode high, wide and handsome on th’ worst
bronk that ever bit grass, and got pitched off into uh cactus garden to
pay fer it, and been chased fer uh hoss-thief. Now after walkin’ back
three miles minus uh pant-leg and uh sleeve I has to listen to yuh orate
on my morals. Magpie, I resigns. _Sabe?_”

“Yuh don’t need to git sore, Ike. I ain’t puttin’ nothin’ in yore way.
Yore usefulness is over anyway.”

“Where’s th’ gold?” I asks.

“Oh, that,” sez Magpie. “Th’ Piegan Kid got it.”

“You—you—” sez I.

“Don’t git yore temperature up, Ike. Remember yo’re only uh—well, anyway
after you leaves I eases up here in th’ shade to take uh li’l nap. I
knowed you’d come back sometime so I prepares to wait. I jist dozed off
when I feels somethin’ diggin’ into my belt-line. I looks down and it’s
th’ muzzle of th’ Kid’s rifle. Don’t ask foolish questions, Ike. Of
course I let him have it.”

Bein’ as there ain’t nothin’ to say I don’t say nothin’. I sits there
and spits at uh rock lizard and thinks about uh motto which used to hang
on our wall at home. I reckon it was made of yarn, and it reads “We
Mourn Our Loss.” I don’t mean th’ loss of th’ gold. Pshaw, it wasn’t my
gold. I was jist mournin’ th’ sleeve and pant-leg.

“Did th’ Kid take our rifles, too?” I asked.

“No, he jist pumped th’ shells out and threw ’em in th’ brush.

“I got ’em and laid ’em over there by that rock. Dog-gone it, Ike, this
shore is th’—lissen! There’s somebody comin’.”

He hadn’t no more than made that remark before here comes that posse
around th’ side of th’ hill and straight toward us. There’s Johnny
Myers, Art Miller, Pete Gonyer, Andy Johnson and two strangers from th’
Triangle.

“Don’t mention that brown mare,” sez I.

“Not any, Ike. Let me do all th’ talkin’.”

We stands up as th’ bunch arrives and they grins at us.

“Greetin’s, sheriff,” laughs Art. “You and Ike rusticatin’?”

“Th’ horrid things,” pipes Andy, in uh falsetto voice, “have been
fightin’ again.”

“Some fight!” roars Pete. “Ike lands his left to Magpie’s eye, and
Magpie bites Ike’s sleeve and pant-leg off.”

“You’ll be sorry, Pete, fer them words,” grins Magpie. “Th’ next time I
has to arrest you fer sheep stealin’——”

“You long disjointed, son-of-uh—well, Magpie, I’d shore hate to repeat
what I’ve heard about you. What are you fellers doin’ out here anyway?”

Magpie rolls uh smoke and tells them what we’re doin’ and why we’re
stranded. Of course he merely tells ’em that th’ Piegan Kid or one of
th’ Evans gang sets us on foot. He tells ’em about th’ robbery, and asks
if there was much excitement when they left Piperock?

“Gosh, it’s all clear now!” shouts Johnny Myers. “We been wonderin’
where that money came from and now we know.”

“Didn’t you know before?” asks Magpie.

“We shore didn’t,” stated Art Miller. “One of th’ Evans gang comes right
into town and lifts my brown mare from th’ hitch-rack, so I enlists this
bunch to help me recover. It’s funny about that money.”

“If yuh didn’t know that th’ bank was robbed,” wonders Magpie, “how do
yuh know about th’——”

“’Cause she’s right here,” laughs Johnny, reachin’ around and pattin’ a
roll behind his saddle.

“How did yuh git it?” gasped Magpie.

“Made him drop it,” explains Johnny. “We’re chasin’ th’ jasper what
stole th’ hoss from Art and we crosses th’ trail of another person who
is fannin’ th’ breeze. He seems to hanker fer solitude so we opines that
he’s one of th’ bunch we want.”

“He’s ridin’ uh li’l buckskin, which is havin’ uh hard time in th’ sand,
and we’re gainin’ all th’ time. Pretty soon we gits close enough to
start shootin’ and we sees th’ jasper heave somethin’ into th’ brush,
and then we loses him in th’ breaks beyond th’ ol’ Poison Spring. We
goes back and looks where he throws th’ bundle in th’ brush and we finds
th’ sacks uh coin. No wonder that li’l hoss was goin’ hard. That stuff
weighs uh heap.”

“Well,” sez Pete, “there ain’t no use in holdin’ post-mortems out here,
so let’s git a-goin’.”

“Right,” agrees Art. “Magpie, you climb on behind me and Ike can double
up with Pete.”

I climbs right on, but Magpie stands there lookin’ over Art’s hoss and
seems undecided.

“This hoss is plumb tame and broke to ride double,” sez Art.

“If it was that mare what got stole I’d shore invite yuh to ride with
somebody else. She shore was uh terror.”

“She was,” said Magpie, and it wasn’t uh question either.

As we rides into Piperock there ain’t no reception committee and no band
in sight and I remarks th’ same to Magpie.

“No,” sez Magpie, lookin’ over at Andy Johnson, who thinks he can play
poker, “there wasn’t no chance to git out th’ band, ’cause all th’
tin-horns were out of town.”

We rides straight up to th’ bank, which we finds closed and locked, but
ol’ Eph Whittaker, th’ banker, is jist tyin’ his team to th’ hitch-rack.
He’s been away fer uh few days and we soon finds out that he don’t know
anything about th’ robbery.

“Ten thousand!” he yelps, turnin’ alkali color. “My Gawd! And you gits
it all back?”

He shore was so tickled that his bow-legs won’t hardly support his
structure.

“I wonder where James Wilson Spreckles is?” he mumbles. “I’ll bet th’
pore boy is plumb prostrated over it. Well, well,” sez he, excited like.
“You boys won’t lose on this.”

He insists on shakin’ hands with all of us and he congratulates Magpie
several times and then says—

“Come inside with me, boys, and I’ll show yuh what ten thousand in gold
looks like.”

Never havin’ seen more than forty dollars in uh bunch at one time we all
goes in gladly and he takes us into th’ back room.

“Seals not even scratched,” sez he, as he cuts th’ string and lets th’
contents roll out on th’ table.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Th’ silence that went up in that room would have blown th’ roof off an
ordinary building. Eph Whittaker sagged at th’ knees until his long nose
scraped th’ edge of th’ table. Johnny Myers turned his tobacco-sack
upside-down and spilled all th’ tobacco out on th’ floor. Magpie
stretched and tried to lean against th’ wall, which is about ten feet
away, lost his balance and fell over uh chair. One of th’ strange
punchers pushed his finger into th’ pile to see if it was real, and then
looked at that finger like it was uh curiosity.

Whittaker’s cheeks swelled out like uh red balloon and when his face
couldn’t hold any more he exploded—

“Brass washers and lead slugs!”

“Gawd A’mighty, ain’t it queer!” squeaks Andy Johnson.

Whittaker slashes th’ other sack. Th’ contents were th’ same, and th’
pore man slumps over on th’ table like uh wet rag.

“There ain’t no set rules—” begins Magpie, but jist then uh li’l voice
pipes up from th’ doorway and we sees James Wilson Spreckles lookin’ us
over with uh scared look.

“What—what is th’ matter?” he asks, rubbin’ th’ inside of his rubber
collar with that perfumed handkerchief.

Whittaker points at th’ metal on th’ table.

“Look—look, James, I don’t——”

“I see,” says James. “Is it all there?”

“Why—why—I—er, James, I——”

“Should be about forty pounds,” sez James. “Of course th’ weight ain’t
jist——”

Whittaker straightens up and faces his cashier.

“James, do you mean to say that you——”

“Well, you see I was afraid that we might be held up some day so I fixed
up those sacks. I was afraid to tell you for fear that it might get out.
I called them my grouch sacks.”

“Bein’ uh sheriff,” sez Magpie, about ten minutes later, in th’ sanctity
of our office, “shore gives uh feller uh chance to see what uh curse
gold is to humanity. Uh course you bein’ only jist uh plain, ordinary
deputy——”

I cut off th’ oration by shuttin’ th’ door, and sneakin’ home to git
somethin’ to cover my bare leg.


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
January 1917. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78924 ***