Some poetical person once wrote:
He was all wrong, that feller—all wrong. And I’ll tell you how I know he was wrong.
I ain’t no pessimist. Not by a danged sight, I ain’t. If a little kid burns his fingers on a red-hot stove and keeps away from the fire from that time on, you don’t call him a pessimist. That’s me—burnt to a caution.
All the Harper tribe, as far back as I can figure out, was cautious. We bred more runners than we did fighters. Of course there ain’t as many of us as there is Smiths. Smiths predominate, as it were. Anyway, the Smith tribe ain’t got nothin’ to do with this.
I ain’t been in Piperock for several weeks. Me and “Dirty Shirt” Jones has been prospectin’ back in the Whisperin’ Creek hills, with our usual good luck—of gettin’ back before all our food was gone. And we finds my pardner, “Magpie” Simpkins, settin’ at the table in our shack, wearin’ his Sunday clothes.
Magpie is so danged tall that it takes him all day to find out whether a certain pain is indigestion or inflammation of the kneecaps. He’s solemn, Magpie is. And when that elongated, pious-faced cross between a scientific lecture and a ― fool statement gets pouches under his eyes and droops his eyelids like a blood-hound—caution cometh to me.
Magpie is writin’. He’s got ink plumb to his elbow and the floor is plumb littered with paper. Does he welcome us effusively? Like ― he does. He just looks at us, kinda reprovin’-like, as if we should ’a’ knocked.
“Well, you old cattywampus, howdy!” greets Dirty Shirt.
Dirty has one eye that kinda oscillates, as it were. Not bein’ what an astronomer would call ‘a fixed orbit,’ it does a lot of jigglin’ before it picks up what Dirty’s lookin’ at.
But it don’t noways affect Dirty’s aim, bein’ as he shoots with both eyes open, and most of the time with both legs workin’. Magpie looks him over solemnly and says—
“Mr. Jones, I give you good afternoon.”
Dirty spits in the general direction of the stove.
“I’ll take it,” says he.
“Mr. Harper,” says Magpie dignified-like.
I kicks the door shut, slides my gun around where I can get it real quick and looks my old pardner over. He’s shaved. Yeah, you can always tell when Magpie has shaved, because he’s got so danged many wounds. He’s got on a celluloid collar—one of them kind that it ain’t safe to smoke in. I can smell stove polish, which Magpie has used on his boots.
Take it all the way around, Magpie Simpkins is a dude.
“You ain’t got yore days mixed, have yuh?” I asked.
“Days mixed?”
He speaks like an actor—kinda runnin’ the scale in G flat, as yuh might say.
“This ain’t Sunday,” says I.
“I am well aware of it.”
“Then what’s the idea of dressin’ up thisaway?”
“The idea? Hah!” He kinda swells up with importance. “I’m the president.”
I looks quick at Dirty, who is starin’ at Magpie with his mouth wide open. Then he looks at me and shakes his head.
“Ike,” says he hoarse-like, “I knowed it. By ―, the human brain can jist stand so much. He’s been feeblin’ up in the head for a long time. I’ve seen it comin’ on by degrees, and I ain’t a mite surprized. There ain’t nothin’ yuh can do, except to hopple ’em so they can’t hurt nobody.”
Magpie looks at Dirty kinda funny and Dirty edges toward the door.
“Better git a rope, Ike,” advises Dirty, backin’ agin’ the door. “Them high-minded first symptoms is apt to degenerate into vi’lence, and we don’t want him to hurt nobody.”
“Set down, you ― fool,” says Magpie. “I ain’t crazy.”
“Proves it on himself,” declares Dirty nervous-like. “They all swear they ain’t. Look out for his first rush, Ike.”
But I holds firm. To me he’s always been crazy so I ain’t scared of an extra degree.
“Democrat or Republican president?” I asks. “We didn’t git back in time for the convention, you remember.”
“Don’t try to be smart, Ike,” says he. “I plumb forgot that you fellers has been away. Since you was here, Piperock has advanced by leaps and bounds. Right now I am writin’ a biography of our fair city for all to read and appreciate how we have advanced. It is marvelous.”
“What is? The biography?” asks Dirty.
“No—our advancement. Gentlemen, we are on the threshold of a wonderful era for Piperock. No more shall the rest of the world point a finger of scorn at our community. No more shall they say that Piperock is uncivilized, unbalanced. From this day henceforth we shall blossom like the rose. Our ideals shall and will be realized to the fullest extremity. How is that, Ike?”
“Fits in with what we’ve just heard,” says I.
“And with the dawnin’ of a new day—” Magpie squints at his paper—“all these—that’s as far as I’ve got.”
“And that’s a ― of a long ways, if you ask me,” said Dirty Shirt solemn-like.
“Now about bein’ president,” says I. “Yuh hadn’t ought to go that far, Magpie.”
“Hadn’t I? Huh! That’s who I am, Ike. Look upon me. I am the first president of the Piperock Chamber of Commerce.”
“What the ― kind of a thing is that?” asked Dirty.
“Chamber of Commerce? Dirty Shirt, I’m surprized at you. It is an organization.”
“It’s the same thing as the Chamber of Horrors,” says I, “only they deals in commerce mostly. This one will prob’ly have horrors as a side-line.”
“Nothin’ of the kind, Ike,” protests Magpie. “Piperock is past the age of swaddlin’ clothes. We has emerged into the sunlight and it will be well for all other cities to look to their laurels. I wouldn’t be surprized to see Piperock one of the big cities of the world. We have everythin’ to make it big.”
“Yeah, we’ve got a lot of country,” admits Dirty Shirt. “Me and Ike came across twenty miles of it today, and there was more beyond where we started from. If you want to go east, west, north or south from here yuh can find a lot of open country. We’ve got room to build, that’s a cinch.”
“But what would bring anybody here?” I asks. “Folks won’t even come from Paradise, except to a dance; and then they come to pick a fight. We ain’t got a ― of a lot to offer—except to somebody that wants trouble, Magpie.”
“We will have, Ike. The idea was started in Paradise originally. Me and Wick Smith was down there last week and we went to see a tent show. It wasn’t much good and it wasn’t doin’ no business. Me and Wick got to talkin’ to the feller that owned the show and he told us all about his hard luck.
“He says that a circus is a drug on the market now, and that animiles ain’t worth nothin’, except in a zoo. He says that he’s really surprized that some of our towns don’t have no zoo. He says they’re all puttin’ ’em in in the East, and that no town can ever be an attraction unless it’s got a zoo.
“Well, me and Wick has a few drinks with him and got to talkin’ it over with him. He says he’s got the ingredients of a first-class zoological menagerie, and that he’s got a idea of puttin’ the proposition up to Paradise. He’s got a elephant. Of course it ain’t no first class elephant, bein’ as it’s kinda run down from travelin’ so much.
“The camel is—well, it ain’t noways in full plumage, but it’s a camel. The tiger seems to be as good as tigers go. He says he’ll take a thousand dollars for the whole bunch. ’Course he tells us how much we’d have to pay if we bought them animiles at retail price; but he kinda lumps ’em together and gives ’em to us at cost.
“Wick Smith is public-spirited, and after I tells him what we’ll do about organizin’ a Chamber of Commerce, he ups and buys them animiles on the spot. The feller throws in the cage free gratis for nothin’; so that saves us quite a lot. I figures that we can pick up a grizzly and a wolf and mebbe a mountain lion to kinda add to our zoo. Folks will come a long ways to look at wild animiles, Ike—a long ways.”
Me and Dirty looks at each other and goes out to unpack, while Magpie goes ahead on Piperock’s epitaph.
It’s been quite a while since we put our foot on the rail; so we hurries up to Buck Masterson’s saloon, where we runs into Wick Smith and “Mighty” Jones. Mighty and Dirty Shirt ain’t no relation. Mighty is a little jigger, who thinks he’s big enough to hold his own. That’s one reason why Mighty is mostly always on crutches. He swears in a tenor voice and chaws his tobacco.
Buck greets us gladly, but Wick don’t seem so happy.
“You fellers been prospectin’ again?” asks Buck.
“Yeah, and we’re goin’ ag’in,” says Dirty Shirt. “This here town is gettin’ too danged effete to suit me and Ike.”
“It is effete,” agrees Mighty. “Ain’t been nobody killed for two weeks.”
“Cheer up, brother,” says Wick solemn-like. “There’s allus a lull before a storm.”
“You preparin’ to massacre?” I asks.
“Well, I ain’t been treated right,” says Wick. “I done paid a thousand cold dollars for some jungle insects, and I’m wonderin’ jist how I’m goin’ to cash in on said contraptions. Magpie Simpkins got me drunk and talked me into bein’ a public benefactor, dang his hide.
“Got me to procure the ingredients of a zoological garden, that’s what he done. Got the whole ― town heated up over a thing he calls the Piperock Chamber of Commerce, and then goes out and gits himself elected president. That’s a ― of a way to do, ain’t it?”
“You wanted to be president, eh?” I asks.
“Well, ―, why not. I bought the ― thing, didn’t I? Magpie said that Piperock would pay me back for it. How’ll they do it, I’d like to know. Mebbe I’m supposed to raffle ’em off, eh?”
“I won’t buy no chances,” says Buck. “I’ve been down to the livery-stable and got a look at them there animals, and I’m free to state that I don’t want none. Magpie orates that we’ll have ’em to attract more folks to Piperock. My ―, that bunch will drive away what we’ve got.”
“If I had that elephant,” said Mighty, “I’d shore take a reef in him. His hide don’t fit him no place. He ain’t no attraction—he’s a disgrace. From the rear he looks like ‘Polecat’ Perkins in his Sunday pants. Wick, you ort to give him a belt to take up the slack.”
“That’s why he’s an attraction,” declared Wick. “The feller I bought him from said that Gunga Din was a rare species of elephant. His name’s Gunga Din. My ―, he ort to be good. I paid three hundred and thirty-three dollars and thirty-three and one-third cents for him. That camel and the tiger cost the same.”
“I think that Magpie’s crazy,” say I.
“How about me?” wails Wick. “I paid for ’em myself.”
“Yore wife’s callin’ yuh, Wick,” observed Buck.
Wick squints toward the door and nods sadly.
“Yeah, I left her to run the store while I talks over my sorrow. Now I’ve got to go back and git ― agin’. She don’t believe in Chambers of Commerce, she don’t; and I’m commencin’ to wonder if she ain’t right.”
Wick pilgrims across the street, while me and Dirty goes down to the livery stable to see what Wick bought. “Hassayampa” Harris is runnin’ the stable.
“Howdy, Hassayampa,” says I. “How are you?”
“Liver trouble,” says he, diagnosin’ himself. “Spots before m’ eyes, dizziness and kinda sluggish-like.”
He does look kinda pale and walks antegodlin’.
“How comes you to git them there symptoms?” asks Dirty.
“Ignorance,” says Hassayampa. “I tried to take a bale of hay away from Exhibit A of the Chamber of Commerce.”
“Meanin’ Gunga Din?”
“That accordion-skinned thing,” says Hassayampa painful-like, kinda pluckin’ at his Adam’s apple. “I ain’t jist right in m’ mind yet. It grabbed me by the slack of the pants and took m’ pants plumb off while I’m still in the air. Them kinda shocks ain’t noways good for the human form. Then the ― thing slapped me across the face with my own pants and knocked me plumb across the stable and into the oat-bin. I ain’t been right since.”
“You ort to read up on things like that,” says Dirty.
“Read? What in ― can a man read at a time like that?”
“Wasn’t there no directions with ’em?” I asks.
“No. Direction don’t mean nothin’ to a thing like that, Ike. Do you want to gaze upon ’em?”
“Yeah, we’ll look,” nods Dirty.
“Cost two-bits per each,” informs Hassayampa. “Magpie says they’re worth it—and they are. My ―, there ain’t no questions about it.”
“That’s a ― of a idea!” snorts Dirty. “Two-bits to see a elephant. I’ll tell you what we will do, Hassayampa; we’ll pay the two-bits to see you try to take another bale away from Gunga Din.”
“You never will,” sighs Hassayampa. “I’m cured. Anyway, I’m about half out of hay. I’ve got a bill of seven dollars agin’ them critters right now. By golly, that tagger c’n go plumb to ―. Meat costs money.”
We left Hassayampa talkin’ to himself and went back up town, where we leans on Buck’s bar.
We ain’t been there long when Mike Pelly, Ricky Henderson and “Old Testament” Tilton rides in from Paradise. Mike is the saloon-keeper and Ricky runs the barber shop. The third member of this here trio represents the other element of Paradise.
Testament looks a heap like some old buzzard that had been disappointed in love. He wears one of them beetle-backed coats, a pair of pants that sure follers the contour of his skinny legs and a pair of boots that sag a heap at the top and shows that Testament don’t noways pinch his feet.
Mike parts his hair on one side, slicks one side down until she almost reaches the bridge of his nose, where it retreats some sudden-like. He smells a heap of heel-yuh-tripe perfume.
Ricky is a barber. He looks, smells and acts like one. When he gets excited he applauds, like he was stroppin’ a razor. Testament used to think that he had snatched Ricky and Mike from the burnin’. When Testament first comes to that country he has an idea that there was a lot of brands to snatch from the burnin’; but he got scorched a few times and let things go as they lay.
Them three angles up to the bar, shakes hands with us, just like they cared to meet us, and asks us to drink. Testament has his usual lemonade and a wink, and then we discusses conditions.
“How is everythin’ in this village of iniquity?” asks Testament kinda offhanded.
“Iniquity, ―!” snorts Buck. “There ain’t no iniquity in Piperock. We’re clean-minded and antiseptic of condition. If there’s any infection in this city it’s brought here from Paradise. By golly, some day you’ll be glad to be knowed as bein’ a suburb of Piperock City.”
“Haw-haw-haw-haw!” says Ricky. “Suburb of Piperock. Paradise will be a mee-trop-polis when Piperock goes back to the prairie-dogs.”
It’s difference of opinion that makes horse races, wars and so many kinds of whisky—all out of one barrel. Me and Dirty Shirt are plumb full of civic pride, and we’re willin’ to fight for our fair city—if we had one—but Piperock and Paradise ain’t worth no supreme effort; so we slides out kinda graceful-like and pilgrims back to our shack.
Magpie is just goin’ away, carryin’ complete dignity and a lot of stationery. I tells him about the three men from Paradise.
“The word has reached,” says Magpie, swellin’ his chest. “We shall not hide our light under a bushel.”
“Then you better hide yore carcass behind a wood-pile,” says Dirty Shirt. “Them three antagonizers didn’t jist ride up here to git a drink of liquor.”
“We are a peaceable aggregation,” says Magpie. “No more shall the war-cry sever, nor the runnin’ rivers be red. We are about to shed the things that have held us back. Uncivilization must bow to the tread of wisdom. The wheel of progress is turnin’, and woe unto him who gits under the tire. The people of Piperock have risen in their might, unleashed the bonds which have held them in darkness and are comin’ out into the light of a new day.”
“And,” says Dirty kinda awed-like, “if that ain’t a ― of a lot to say all in one bunch, I’ll eat the garment that made me famous.”
Magpie snorts and pilgrims on up the street. In spite of the mighty proclamation he emits to us, I notices that he’s got a six-gun shoved into the waistband of his pants. Me and Dirty stretches out on the two bunks and rolls up a little sleep.
In the course of human events some queer things happen. And the queerest thing I can think of is the fact that Jasmine Greenbaum came to teach school at Piperock. Jasmine ain’t the kind you’d imagine would take a job like that.
She’s plumb decorative, if yuh know what I mean. I ain’t goin’ to describe her, ’cause I ain’t got words enough. Her eyes would make a man lift his head when somebody is shootin’ at him. She lives with Wick Smith’s family while she’s teachin’ the young of Piperock to not shoot at each other.
Me and Dirty runs into her that evenin’ after we’ve been stationary at Buck’s bar for an hour or more. Dirty’s active eye jiggles convulsive-like for a while, and he seems to be wearin’ about six too many hands.
“I’m sure you remember me,” says she, smilin’ at us.
“If I lives to be a million, I won’t forget,” pants Dirty.
“I am Mister Harper,” says I. “And the Harper fambly has the longest memories of any fambly on earth.”
“Outside of the Jones’s,” says Dirty. “My old pa could remember before they started puttin’ aces in the decks of cards.”
“Memories don’t figure,” says I. “We’re glad to meetcha, Miss Greenbaum. What can I do for yuh, ma’am?”
“Same here,” says Dirty, kinda elbowin’ me aside.
“I told them that you were always willing to do anything for the public good,” says she, smilin’ sweet-like.
“To whom did yoo tell this, ma’am?” I asks.
Somehow I kinda gets a hunch that everythin’ ain’t just right.
“Mr. Simpkins, the president of the Chamber of Commerce,” says she. “He and Mr. Smith seemed to think―”
“Since when did they start thinkin’?” asks Dirty. “That shore is a novelty to my ears, ma’am.”
“Mr. Simpkins is a very brilliant man,” says she. “He has some wonderful ideas.”
“With parts missin’,” says I.
“Perhaps you do not appreciate what he is doing for Piperock, Mr. Harper,” says she. “I have just come from a meeting of the new Chamber of Commerce, where Mr. Simpkins presided and read us some wonderful plans for the betterment of this town.
“As you know we already have the nucleus of a zoological garden. Mr. Smith, who is heart and soul in the advancement of Piperock, purchased these three jungle animals. Our meeting this afternoon was to decide upon a plan to reimburse Mr. Smith and to acquire the animals for the city.
“Next Monday is Labor Day. I have been lead to understand that Piperock has never celebrated Labor Day.”
“They’ve sure celebrated everythin’ else,” says Dirty Shirt. “My ―, ma’am, don’t let ’em celebrate. You don’t know Piperock.”
“It will be a harmless celebration. I spoke about having you two gentlemen assist, and Mr. Simpkins and Mr. Smith assured me that neither of you had any civic pride. They said that both of you were uncivilized, unprogressive and not at all in accord with any movement that would curb your savage tendencies. I’m sure it is prejudice on their part.”
“Yo’re danged right!” says Dirty. “Them pelicans sure did lie to you in fine shape, ma’am. Piperock don’t mean a whole lot to either one of us, but I’m willin’ to do anythin’ yuh say.”
I’m cautious, as I said before. This here idea of havin’ a pretty school teacher come to us and hoodle us into doin’ somethin’ that our hearts tell us is dangerous don’t set so good. I’ve heard this same kind of stuff before, and so has Dirty; but any old time a pretty girl smiles at Dirty, it’s just another old Garden of Eden and a lot of apples.
She don’t tell us what we’re supposed to do, but she does ask us to promise to help ’em out. Well, what can yuh do in a case like that? Me and Dirty goes back to Buck’s place, where we massages our insides with Buck’s Best.
And lemme tell you somethin’—Buck’s liquor sure tempers the wind to the sheared sheep. Ten years ago he bought a barrel of it. He sells on an average of two or three gallons a day, and that barrel is still over half-full. It has never weakened, as far as we can taste.
After while Magpie and Wick comes into the place. Dignified? My ―, they act like a pair of royal flushes.
“Greetin’s, Mr. Masterson,” says Magpie lofty-like. “How goes things this day and date?”
“Well, all right,” says Buck, bein’ kinda dazed. “How did the meetin’ go?”
“Perfect,” says Magpie. “The die is cast. The ladies’ auxiliary is in complete accord with us and we all feel that it will be a day to date time from. Piperock will emerge from her shell and take her place among the cities of the world.”
“The ladies’ what?” asks Dirty.
“Auxiliary,” explains Wick. “My wife is president. It is an a-ad—uh―”
“Adjunct,” prompts Magpie.
“I know it,” says Wick. “There’s my wife, who is president, and the followin’, to wit: Mrs. Wick Smith, Mrs. Pete Gonyer, Mrs. Yuma Yates, Mrs. Mighty Jones, and Miss Hilda Hansen. Of course the list is not complete, as it were, and we expect more. However, we have a quorum, et cettery, ad libitum.”
“I s’d hope sho,” says Dirty, gettin’ dignified. “What ’bout Mish Jasm’n Greenbaum? Ain’t she invited t’ j’in?”
“Miss Jasmine Greenbaum is actin’ in an advisory capacity,” explains Magpie. “It kinda makes her feel free to do as she wishes. We’re leavin’ a lot of it to her imagination.”
“What was Testament and Ricky and Mike doin’ up here?” asks Buck.
“Kinda gropin’ around,” says Magpie. “They heard that we was due to progress, and of course they had to come and see what it was about. I told ’em about Piperock acquirin’ a Chamber of Commerce and three jungle curiosities. They don’t sabe the idea of the Chamber, but they offers to take the animals at a slight advance over what Piperock paid.”
“What did you say?” asks Wick anxious-like.
“I told ’em to go to ―. Them animals ain’t for sale.”
“Ain’t they?” asks Wick. “At more’n I paid? Magpie, I’d like to have the say-so over them critters myself. I own ’em, don’t I? They ain’t Piperock’s animals until Piperock has a bill-of-sale for ’em. I sure as ― don’t thank yuh for what you’ve done to me.”
“Where’s yore public spirit?” asks Magpie.
“Thassall right,” complains Wick. “I’ve got more public spirit than most folks, I reckon; but a thousand dollars is a thousand dollars. If Paradise wants to pay me more’n I paid—they git ’em, by gosh!”
“You’d make a fine president for the Chamber of Commerce,” says Magpie.
“All right,” says Wick. “If you can think of anythin’ else that’s funny, I’ll listen.”
“Yore livestock are eatin’ up dollars,” says I.
“Yeah, and that’s another thing,” wails Wick, pawin’ at Magpie’s sleeve. “Who’s goin’ to pay their board?”
“Gunga Din eats a bale of hay every fifteen minutes,” offers Dirty Shirt solemn-like.
“He—he does?”
“He—he do,” nods Dirty. “The last bale was two pounds short; so Gunga Din ate Hassayampa’s pants for dessert. Them there tigers will eat a whole cow for a meal and you know what cows are worth right now.”
“Magpie—” Wick is almost cryin’ by this time—“Magpie, I asks you as a friend—what’ll I do?”
“Have patience, Wickie.”
“Have ―! I’ll go down there and massacree all three of them monstrosities, that’s what I’ll do, by gosh!”
“And lose yore thousand dollars, eh?” Magpie shakes his head. “Wick Smith, you ain’t hardly fit to help us build up Piperock.”
“It’s for the glory of our fair city,” says Buck.
Wick turns around and walks out. He’s kinda all choked up, but I know danged well it ain’t emotion. Me and Dirty feels that the fair city of Piperock ain’t so badly in need of our assistance; so we saddles up our rollin’ stock and goes to Paradise town.
Paradise runs a dead heat with Piperock, as far as city is concerned. When P. T. Barnum said that a fool is born every minute, he might have added that they were all pointed toward Yellowrock County.
We finds several of the above in Mike Pelly’s saloon, and among them is “Chuck” Warner, “Muley” Bowles, “Telescope” Tolliver and Henry Clay Peck. These four disgraces are from the Cross J ranch, but claims Paradise as their native haunt. Also we finds “Liniment” Lucas and “Tombstone” Todd and “Hard-Pan” Hawkins.
Tombstone is so tough that he can wear tight boots on his bunions, and “Hard-Pan” Hawkins keeps books on his crimes. Tombstone draws me aside and gnaws on one end of his mustache, while he cuffs his sombrero plentiful.
“Ike,” says he hoarse-like, “what’s this I’m hearin’ about the hamlet of Piperock? Somebody was a-tellin’ me that they’ve convened up there to respectablize the town somewhat.”
“It’s kinda hard to per-fume the rose,” says I.
Tombstone gnaws a little more and fights his hat.
“Yeah, I s’pose that’s right, Ike. Are you and Dirty Shirt part and parcel of this here movement?”
“Not knowin’ly, Tombstone,” says I. “You can speak to me with perfect confidence and go away feelin’ that I won’t exaggerate what you’ve told me.”
“There has been braggin’ goin’ on,” stated Tombstone. “If there’s anythin’ Paradise hates it’s braggin’. Piperock orates that she’s leapin’ ahead like a bee-stung bear. She ain’t, Ike. It jist ain’t no ways possible for her to leap thataway. She ain’t active like Paradise. We’re able to do things.
“Whereabouts in ― does Piperock compare with Paradise, I asks yuh to answer honestly? She don’t. We’ve got spirit, climate and brain power. We’ve got courageous men, wimmin and children. Why, our offspring are equal to two grown men of Piperock. We’ve got everythin’, Ike.”
“Except a elephant, a camel and a tiger,” says I.
“What’s them amount to?”
“And a Chamber of Commerce, Tombstone.”
“Mm-m-m, yeah. Well?”
“Well—right back at yuh. I never started this argument.”
“It ain’t no argument, Ike,” he explains. “Paradise is the legitimate place for them things. We could do it up right.”
Tombstone invites me back to the bar, which I accepts. Dirty is arguin’ with the Cross J outfit and Liniment Lucas, and from Dirty’s talk I’d gather that he’s body and soul with Piperock.
“From this day henceforth, Piperock shall rossom like a blose,” orates Dirty Shirt. “The people of Piperock have rosin in their might, and we are comin’ out into the dight of a lew day. And if that ain’t a ― of a lot to say at once, I’ll eat the garment that made me what I am today.”
From that time on things get kinda hazy. Mike Pelly peddles a brand that would make a cotton-tail rabbit grow fangs in his mouth and rattles on his tail. I’m led to understand that Paradise is jealous of Piperock, and that Paradise hankers for them three animals, like a calf hankerin’ for its ma.
Me and Dirty balances on the edge of the sidewalk in front of Mike’s place and begins to cheer for Piperock, when some careless son of a gun moved a heavy chair plumb out of Mike’s doorway and it hits me and Dirty Shirt at the same time.
And when we woke up we finds ourselves in jail. Hank Padden, our estimable sheriff, tells us that we’re in jail for disturbin’ the peace.
“You be ―!” wails Dirty Shirt. “Paradise never had no peace to disturb. I can prove it to any judge, jury or collection of folks which has two ideas above a monkey.”
“I done my duty,” says Hank firm-like. “I was hired for this kind of work. You’ll prob’ly git six months apiece.”
This was sure cheerin’ news. The Paradise jail don’t feed none too good. We had a idea that Piperock would arise in its wrath and come down to drag us forth—but they didn’t. I sent word to Magpie, and he answered it.
I sent him this word—
And this is what he sent to me—
He didn’t sign his name, but he didn’t need to. I sabe that hombre like a book. Dirty gets kinda gloomy over it all and swears that he’s all through with Piperock. Right there and then I adds my voice to his.
“If that’s patriotism,” says Dirty, “gimme death. Our own town has turned us down, Ike Harper. I didn’t think they’d do it. And they wouldn’t, if they wasn’t gettin’ civilized.”
A little later on cometh Chuck Warner, Liniment Lucas and Testament Tilton.
“You can take the preacher back,” says Dirty. “We ain’t in for murder, you know.”
“I’m not in my clerical capacity,” says Testament. “Be ye both of good cheer.”
“― of a fine chance, the way Hank runs his place here,” snorts Dirty.
“I’ve been up to Piperock,” says Chuck, wigglin’ his ears. Chuck’s got flexible ears and he can wiggle ’em like a mule.
“And nobody shot yuh?” gasps Dirty. “My gosh, they’re sure gittin’ forgivin’, Chuck.”
“They ain’t no friends to you two,” says Chuck seriouslike. “They’re glad yo’re in jail down here.”
Chuck Warner is the biggest liar west of the Atlantic Ocean—but this time I believed him.
“Magpie and Wick Smith hope yuh stay in jail,” says he.
“It kinda looks like they’d git their hopes,” Dirty acts kinda mournful.
“It kinda does,” agrees Liniment.
He’s got one of them long, wet-lookin’ noses and sad eyes. I reckon his folks intended him to be a undertaker, but Old Lady Fate had “horse-thief” marked after his name in the Big Book.
“Is this here a party of condolence, or did yuh come to gloat?” I asks. I hate like ― to have folks lookin’ at me through the bars.
“Condolence and good cheer,” says Testament, hitchin’ up his pants. “You might call it a parley. I will go now, as it would not be meet for me to be party to it. Not that I ain’t in accord with it entirely, you understand.”
“It sure must be a tough proposition to drive you away,” observed Dirty.
Old Testament pulled out, Hank unlocks the cell door, and they all comes in.
And what follered kinda touched upon my heart-strings. It was Chuck’s idea. I listened to Chuck, Hank and Liniment Lucas, as they unfolds what’s on their minds. It has been said that every man has his price. Ours was one elephant, one camel and a tiger.
They wants us to steal them three animals for Paradise. All we’ve got to do is to hand ’em over to Paradise and all is forgiven. But they’re square about it, at that; they will pay Wick Smith what he paid for ’em; and give us a hundred apiece.
“And Piperock ain’t treated you two square,” says Chuck.
“Thassall right,” says I, “but yuh can’t get away with anything like that, Chuck. It wouldn’t be hard for Piperock to prove that they owned ’em, ’cause they’re all there is of the species in Yaller Rock County.”
“We’ve fixed that all up,” says Chuck. “Don’tcha worry about that end of it. You fellers go back home, feelin’ sore at Paradise, and nobody will expect yuh to raid the zoo; sabe?”
When we went home, after swearin’ to do our little best, and we finds Magpie in the shack, composin’ some more stuff. We don’t say nothin’ about his kind note to us, and he don’t mention it to us.
“Still tryin’ to uplift Piperock on paper?” I asks.
“Combatin’ a evil influence, Ike. We are the pioneers—others foller. Some one is tryin’ to steal our thunder.”
“You got plenty of it,” declares Dirty. “They could swipe a lot of it from you and still leave enough for a dozen men.”
“Sarcasm is the weapon of the ignorant,” says Magpie. “What heard ye in Paradise?”
“Nothin’ much.”
“No? Huh. Did yuh know that Paradise is emulatin’ us—or is goin’ to?”
“All fools ain’t dead yet,” opines Dirty Shirt.
“They’ve ordered a elephant, camel and a tiger,” says Magpie. “They’re payin’ a big price for ’em, just to keep Piperock from leadin’ the procession. Telescope Tolliver and Muley Bowles told us about it today. Telescope said he thought we ought to know about it.”
“Yeah, we heard about it,” says Dirty Shirt, kinda off-handed like. “It didn’t mean nothin’ to us.”
“Well, we’re holdin’ a indignation meetin’ tomorrow night,” says Magpie. “We aims to protest openly against such practise. It ain’t ethical. You and Ike be there, will yuh? Up in the Mint Hall. The ladies auxiliary will be there, et cettery. We don’t wish for blood to be spilled. It’s ag’in our principles and regulations; but, by grab, they’ll go too far pretty soon—and have to get helped back.”
The next day is kinda quiet in Piperock; but when Piperock is quiet she’s dangerous. Wick Smith ain’t at the store, and Mrs. Smith ain’t got much use for me and Dirty; so we keep away. After samplin’ some wobble water we pilgrims down to the livery-stable to see how Hassayampa is comin’.
But we don’t find Hassayampa in charge. Wick Smith meets us at the door, and he looks as wise as a owl.
“Whatcha want?” he asks.
“Whatcha got?” asks Dirty.
Wick clears his throat kinda hoarse-like.
“I’ve got civic pride, by ―!”
“You’ve showed it, Wick,” says I.
“Uh-huh. If I had more sense and less pride I’d be better off. Hassayampa Harris hands me a bill for thirty-six dollars’ worth of feed—and I got so ― full of pride that I kicked him out and took charge.
“My ―, that elephant is jist like a hay-baler. Yuh can’t fill it up, I tell yuh. And he was feedin’ Cleo-patree meat! Can yuh beat that? Cleo-patree is the tiger. That son of a gun has cost me one hundred dollars per stripe.”
“Wick,” says I, “wouldst be rid of ’em?”
Wick looks at me for quite a while, spits painful-like and nods slowly.
“Wouldst.”
“I can get yuh a thousand dollars for the layout.”
“Ike, I hope yuh ain’t lyin’ to me.”
“C. O. D.,” says I.
“That’s the joker,” says he kinda wailin’. “C. O. D., eh? How in ― can yuh deliver a thing like these, I’d ask you? Half of Piperock is guardin’ this here stable. Over across the street is Pete Gonyer. Farther down the street is Mighty Jones, and up the other way is Olaf Hansen. One of them three has his eye on this place. They’re watchin’ to see that Paradise don’t come and take them things away.
“And at night they’re guardin’ this place with sawed-off shotguns. They heard that Paradise was goin’ to take away the menagerie; that’s what they heard.”
“It’s kinda easy to see why Paradise wants to shift the job to me and Dirty Shirt Jones,” says I. “Can’t yuh do as yuh want to with yore own animals?”
“I can’t,” wails Wick. “Magpie got me drunk, Judge Steele wrote out a option—and I signed it. I can’t sell until thirty days after Labor Day. By that time I’ll be in the poor house.”
“What do these here animals look like?” asks Dirty.
Wick leads up back in the stable and makes us used to the dangdest lookin’ trio of animals I ever seen. Cleopatra is in a cage on wheels, and if there ever was a meaner-lookin’ tiger I’ve never seen it. She’s jist skin and bones and a big mouth full of teeth.
The camel opens his mouth and grins at us, kinda asthmatic-like. His name is Sahara, and he looks like ―. If it wasn’t for his humps he’d look like a moth-eaten burro.
“Here’s the e pluribus peritonitis,” says Wick, pointin’ at the next stall. “There stands Gunga Din. I tied the son of a gun up a while ago.”
We steps over and takes a close look. It’s kinda dark in that stall.
Whap!
Somethin’ hit me in the face and I done a foot-race backward plumb to the rear door, where I hits my shoulders first, followed by the rest of my anatomy, makin’ a sound like the couplin’-up of an engine on a train of cars. Kinda clunkety, clinkety, clank!
Through the haze I sees Dirty Shirt fade out through the front doorway, and I seen Wick Smith climb up a post, where he hangs harness. He got hold of the harness peg and tries to lift himself up; but the peg busted and he landed back on the floor under two sets of heavy harness.
I got up and went weavin’ down the stable, feelin’ kinda light and airy. I seen Wick come up from under that harness and go gallopin’ out of the place with a horse collar around his neck and a set of tugs sailin’ out behind, holdin’ a hame in each hand, like a man carryin’ two flags.
I fell down twice before I got outside, where I found Dirty and Wick. Wick got a tug caught in the sidewalk and ain’t got sense enough to let loose of the hame. There he is, yankin’ and haulin’, while Dirty is standin’ in front of him, legs wide apart, wavin’ his hat in Wick’s face and yellin’.
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa, you ― fool!”
I fell over the tug and sat down on the edge of the sidewalk. Dirty manages to get Wick calmed down, and we looks each other over. Dirty has got a pair of sleeves on, but no shirt. His jiggly eye does a lot of cavortin’, as he looks at me.
“I never expected to see any of us alive,” says he.
“You don’t need to start cheerin’,” says I. “What in ― was the matter, Wick?”
“Ignorance!” snorts Dirty. “If I didn’t know any more natural history than that I’d hang my head in shame, Wick. You tied him up, did yuh? Well, by golly you ort to find out which is the head end of a elephant. You tied him by the tail.”
“Well, I-I-I-I tut-tied him,” wails Wick. “Ends don’t mean nothin’ to me. They both hang down. The only danged way I can tell which is which is to give it some hay and see which end turns toward it. He didn’t kill either one of yuh, did he?”
“Don’t give Gunga Din any credit,” says I. “If that back door hadn’t been shut I’d be in Canada right now. Go back and make pets of them things, if you must, but spare me from havin’ anythin’ more to do with ’em.”
We helped Wick back into the stable, stole a bottle of horse liniment and went home to recuperate. Dirty walks like his rudder was cramped just a little, and I’m kinda reared back to take the strain off my shoulders, hips and ankles.
It was kinda late that evenin’ when me and Dirty limped up to the Mint Hall and found Piperock assembled. Magpie is on the platform, and the argument seems to be gettin’ warm. On the platform with him is Mrs. Wick Smith and Miss Jasmine Greenbaum. When she sees us, she hops off the platform, comes and leads me and Dirty up to the front of the room and asks us to sit down.
“These two gentlemen have offered to help me in this,” says she. “They have the interests of Piperock at heart. I know they are brave and full of courage, and for that reason I have selected them.”
“Brave and full of courage!” snorts Yuma Yates. “Full of rheumatism, from the way they walk.”
“I’m goin’ to remember most everythin’ I hear said here,” says Dirty. “That’s remark number one, Yuma.”
“My list shows number one for Yuma Yates,” says I.
Magpie hitches up his belt and moves to the edge of the platform, where he glares at me and Dirty Shirt.
“Threats are out of order,” he tells us. “Piperock is passin’ from such things. From now onward we are promoters of brotherly love—not battle. Heed this and save yourself trouble. We welcome both to the fold, and thank yuh for offerin’ yore assistance to Miss Greenbaum. Sincerely yours, Piperock Chamber of Commerce.”
“In reply to yore letter of today,” says I, “I can say that yore fold don’t appeal to us; so am sendin’ it back by return mail. Sincerely yours, Ike Harper and Dirty Shirt Jones. P. S. And if you don’t know what I mean—ask us.”
Magpie glares at us for several moments and then turns to Miss Jasmine.
“Miss Greenbaum,” says he, “I told you that I was sure them two jiggers was drunk when they offered to help yuh. Probably they’ll deny ever sayin’ it now.”
Dirty Shirt hops to his feet.
“Magpie Simpkins, yo’re a—a—exaggeratin’ things. By golly, we said we’d help Miss Greenbaum, and we’ll do it. Anythin’ she asks us to do is jist the same as done. Ain’t that right, Ike?”
“Well,” says I, “I hate to have anybody doubt that I don’t know what I’m sayin’—drunk or sober. I’m with you, Dirty.”
“I knew it,” says Miss Greenbaum. “I knew they would do it for me. It isn’t often that I make a mistake in human nature. When I first saw these two gentlemen, something told me that they were to be depended upon. Mr. Harper and Mr. Jones, I thank you.”
“Yo’re welcome,” says Dirty. “You sure are awful welcome.”
“Well, now that we’ve settled that part of it, I move that we adjourn. Tomorrow will be spent in preparin’ things. We’ve got a lot of work to do. ‘Scenery,’ you’ll bring yore autymobile in tomorrow?”
Scenery Sims admits that he will. Scenery is a little, thin son of a gun, with a E-string voice, and owns the only horseless vehicle in Yaller Rock County.
“The ladies will be busy on their costumes,” says Magpie, “and there will be much decoratin’ to be did. The time is kinda short to complete all the details; but it is goin’ to be the biggest thing ever pulled off in the West. Our grandchildren will be proud of us.”
“Yours won’t be,” says Dirty Shirt.
It’s kind of a mean remark, bein’ as Magpie never was married. Nobody laughed, but those directly behind us kinda eased themselves aside out of the line of fire.
Magpie shook his head and polished the nail of his trigger finger on his right ear.
“We’ve got to be meek,” says he. “‘The meek shall inherit the earth.’”
“That won’t be a ― of a lot of fun, if there ain’t nothin’ but meek ones left,” says I.
“There’ll be a ― of a lot of earth to divide, too,” says Dirty Shirt.
And that’s all we knew about the meetin’. I’ve got a hunch that Dirty spoke up too quick. I told him that they’ve been arguin’ about me and him before we got there, but he don’t care. There ain’t a chance to steal them animals for Paradise, even if we was so inclined—which we ain’t—so we decided to let nature take its course.
Early the next mornin’ we finds Magpie paintin’ a big sign. He ain’t noways artistic, but readable. At the top is one word, in letters two feet high—
And just below that is two more big words—
“What’s that, Magpie?” asks Dirty Shirt.
“Depictin’,” says Magpie, wipin’ some black paint out of his mustache, “the progress of Piperock. Pageant means a high-toned parade. There has been parades before, but this is the first pageant. If you two fellers will go up to Wick Smith’s house you’ll prob’ly find Mrs. Smith and Miss Greenbaum workin’ on yore costumes. They was goin’ to make ’em first thing today.”
“Our costumes?” I asks. “Whyfor costumes for us, Magpie?”
“Have to have ’em, Ike.”
“Oh, well, if we have to have ’em.”
Me and Dirty spells out the next thing on the list:
We found Wick Smith at the store. He hoodled Hassayampa into takin’ charge of the animals again and is runnin’ his own store; but he ain’t cheerful.
“Tomorrow is Labor Day,” says he with tears in his voice. “I ort to be happy, I s’pose, ’cause the proceeds of the pag-unt is to help pay me for them animals; but somehow I can’t seem to rend the veil, as Old Testament says, and see the silver linin’.”
“Aw, it’ll be all right,” says Dirty. “Parades ain’t much to worry about.”
“Thasso?” Wick squints at Dirty. “You’ve survived some of our parades, ain’t yuh, Dirty?”
“Yeah, but you’ve got to figure that Piperock is civilized. It ain’t noways what she used to be, Wick. Right now Piperock is meek and mild.”
“I’ll betcha,” nods Wick. “Well, I still has hopes, but—I dunno. I can’t quite figure out my wife lookin’ like a statoo of Victory, nor I can’t figure out Mrs. Pete Gonyer and Mrs. Mighty Jones depictin’ Progress. My ―, my wife don’t look like Victory.”
“You ain’t never won a battle from her yet, have yuh?” I asks.
“No, that’s a cinch. Well, mebbe it’ll be all right. You fellers ain’t got no easy chore yoreselves.”
“We ain’t?” I asks. “What have we got to do with it, Wick?”
“You two depicts the East, Ike. Anyway, that’s what they’ve proclaimed for yuh.”
“―, I don’t look like no East!” snorts Dirty.
“I don’t think I do either,” says I. “Anyway, I ain’t seen nobody from the East that looks a ― of a lot like me. How does she come that we’re inflicted with this idea, Wick?”
“Don’t ask me. My ―, it ain’t none of my doin’s. I’ve got all the grief I can stand. You better ask Magpie or Jasmine. They fixed it all up between ’em.”
“Do we wear costumes?” asks Dirty.
“Search me. My wife does. Mosquito-bar! My ―, can yuh see my wife in a mosquito-bar dress?”
“I’d like to,” says Dirty.
And then we left. Wick hadn’t ought to be so finicky. His wife is about five feet four inches tall and weighs two hundred and fifty. She also wheezes considerable in her talk. Mrs. Gonyer is six feet two inches tall, and so danged thin that she rattles when she walks. Mrs. Mighty Jones ain’t no taller than Mrs. Smith, and she don’t weigh a hundred.
Me and Dirty don’t get much satisfaction around that town. Magpie goes to Paradise to advertise the affair, and to probably do a lot of braggin’ about himself. We runs into Scenery Sims, who has his eyes focused on the wine when it is red, and he ain’t exactly what you’d call coherent.
“I—I ain’t much,” he tells us tearful-like.
We agrees with him, which don’t help him none.
“I can’t do nothin’,” he tells us.
“―, that ain’t news,” agrees Dirty. “Everybody knows that.”
“In the pay-jint,” says he. “I want to be somethin’.”
“All right,” says I. “You be a hump in the road for the wagons to run over.”
“That’s all right f’r you two pelicans,” says he. “You’ve got things to do. I’ve been shoved aside, that’s what I’ve been done to, by gosh. Mebbe Piperock is progressin’, but I’m right where I was a week ago. Have a drink?”
We would. In fact we had several. We got to a point where Dirty gets to braggin’ about bein’ East. He orates that he’s also effete. Magpie comes back from Paradise, all swelled up over himself, and invades Buck’s place.
“They’ll come,” he tells the world. “Paradise will be here in copious gobs. From Curlew we’ll poll a big majority, and there’ll be a sprinklin’ from Yaller Horse. I prognosticate that Piperock will hold about all there is in Yaller Rock County. We has spread the gospel of progress, and the world responds.”
“Has Paradise got her animals yet?” asks Buck.
“Not yet. Mike Pelly tells me that they’re on the way. It’s goin’ to be nip and tuck between us towns. Well, I’ve got to go and see how things is goin’. Is Pete and Yuma workin’ on that float?”
“All day,” says Buck. “It’ll be a dinger.”
“Float?” says Dirty. “My ―, they’re ignorant, Ike. There ain’t water enough in this town to float a cork. We’ve done give our word to see that this here pe-rade is a howlin’ success; but after it’s over, me and you starts a pilgrimage. I sicken of the flesh-pots, jack-pots, et cettery. Long may she wave. Let’s have another libation to old man Backus.”
And that’s the way she went. Bill Thatcher and his orchestra showed up a little later on—a bull-fiddle, a squeeze-organ and a jews-harp. Bill’s boy, Ham, is the squeeze-organist, and old “Frenchy” Deschamps is doin’ the moanin’ on the harp.
“Kinda wanted t’ know what kind of music Magpie wanted us to play,” explains Bill. “We’ve got all kinds.”
“You fellers graduated from ‘Sweet Marie’?” asked Dirty.
“That’s good music,” says Bill kinda indignant-like. “If yuh don’t like that, we can play it any old way you want it.”
Some of Paradise comes that night, and among ’em is the gang from the Cross J. Chuck gets me aside and asks how we’re comin’ on the animal stealin’. I points out the difficulties, showin’ him how close Piperock is guardin’ their zoo.
“Get ’em durin’ the parade,” says Chuck. “Everybody will be interested in that, don’tcha see?”
“Can’t be did,” says I. “I’m part of the parade.”
“What part are you, Ike?”
“I’m half of the east end,” says I. “Now you know as much as I do.”
“Who’s guardin’ ’em now, Ike?”
“I ain’t sure, but I reckon Hassayampa is on duty.”
Chuck goes away, leavin’ me to nod at the bartender and lean against Dirty Shirt. Then cometh Polecat Perkins and his pack of high-class mongrels. He’s got eight of ’em, all on ropes, and they proceeds to tangle themselves around our legs.
“Greetin’s, everybody,” says Polecat. “Lay down, dogs!”
Polecat joins our convention and gets enthusiastic over the fact that tomorrow is Labor Day and that we’re goin’ to have a jollification.
“Take them dogs outside,” orders Buck. “My ―, this ain’t no doggery, Polecat. Take ’em away so folks will have a chance to git to the bar.”
Just about that time Hassayampa Harris comes into that saloon. I dunno how far he jumped from the outside, but I know he scraped his head on the top of the doorway and landed plumb in the middle of the room
“Yeeow-w-w-w! Look out!” he yelps.
Right behind Hassayampa comes Cleopatra. She comes among us, like a striped streak, hits in the middle of the room, lands on the pool table and goes plumb out through the back door, which has just been opened by Mighty Jones. Mighty’s feet flip up where his hat had been, and over him goes Polecat’s flock of dogs, each one tryin’ to yell louder than the rest.
“That’s our tiger!” explodes Buck.
“You—you can huh-have it!” pants Hassayampa.
“How did it get loose?”
“Go and ask it. I—I was talkin to Chuck Warner at the front door of the stable when all to once I hears somebody yell, and here comes Cleopatra.”
“Somebody yell?” snorts Buck. “By golly, I’ll bet some of that Paradise gang turned her loose while you was at the front door. Git down there, everybody, before they turn ’em all loose.”
They all went down there, except me and Dirty and Buck. They could turn ’em loose as far as me and Dirty are concerned. A few minutes after they’re gone Old Testament and Muley Bowles comes in. Testament ain’t got no hat and his coat is split up the back. Muley don’t track very well and he’s got a swellin’ over one eye.
“‘In the midst of life we are in death,’” says Testament, indicatin’ that he don’t want his lemonade straight.
Buck looks ’em over.
“You two been fightin’ each other?” he asks.
“It—it was a mistake,” says Muley, drinkin’ the water and pourin’ his liquor in the cuspidor. “I thought Testament was a—a―”
“He thought I was a door,” finished Testament, “and tried to go through me. Perhaps we had better go home, Muley.”
“Yeah—and stay home,” says Muley painful-like.
They went out just before the crowd came back. It seems that Gunga Din and Sahara are all right, but they left five guards in the stable.
“We found a hat,” said Mighty. “Hassayampa said that they ain’t fed that tiger for two days, and I’m kinda scared that we won’t never find the man to put under that hat.”
I’m goin’ to draw a veil over the rest of that night. It will be sufficient to say that mornin’ came apace, the sun came up in its usual way, and among us was brotherly love and the sweet spirit of progress. Civilization is sweet to the civilized.
Magpie found us the next day. He looks us over, tells us what he thinks of our ancestors, takes our guns away and leads us down to Wick Smith’s home. I’m kinda hazy on just what happened to us, but it seems that me and Dirty went to sleep on a bed.
I dunno what time I woke up, but I suppose it was afternoon. I sets up on that bed and looks at the dangest person I ever seen. He was settin’ there, lookin’ at me. He’s kind of a dirty, brown-complected hombre, with somethin’ white wrapped around his head, and his body is covered with a striped gown of some kind.
I bats my eyes a couple of times, but he don’t disappear.
“I’m dead and in ―,” says the apparation.
It has the voice and eye of Dirty Shirt Jones, but the rest of it don’t look like him. Right then and there I marks an X after my name for a temperance vote.
“Yessir, I’m dead,” says the person. “I’ve had delirium tremens enough times to know that this ain’t it.”
I looks across the room and sees another jigger of the same brand. Then I starts to get out of bed, intendin’ to head for the door and this second dirty-faced thing moves right along with me. I’ve been lookin’ in a mirror. Then I lifts one hand to my face, and it comes away the color of chocolate. There’s a strong odor of turpentine in the place.
“What in ― has been happenin’?” I asks.
“Are you Ike Harper?” he asks, kinda awed-like.
“If that’s a mirror, I ain’t,” says I. “Who are you?”
“I used to be Dirty Shirt Jones.”
I starts to scratch my head and finds it all wrapped up in cloth.
“Did we get hurt, or somethin’?” I asks.
Before he can answer me, Wick Smith, Yuma Yates and Mighty Jones come in. They looks us over, and Wick Smith says—
“Thank gosh, they’re sober enough to ride.”
“Who done this to us?” asks Dirty. “I’ll kill the man that painted me thisaway!”
“There was six of us done it,” says Yuma. “It sure is one good job. By golly, nobody will know yuh, that’s a cinch. Haw-haw-haw-haw!”
I got off that bed, intendin’ to maul somebody; but Yuma pulled his gun and backed me onto the bed again.
“The worst is over, Ike,” says he. “Be docile and gain great fame for yourself—you and Dirty.”
“We better be goin’,” opines Wick. “The crowd is anxious for us to get started. C’om, you East Injuns.”
“East Injuns?” says I. “Is that what we look like?”
“Accordin’ to the book,” nods Yuma. “C’mon.”
What could we do, I ask yuh? We went out with them, wearin’ bandaged heads, house-paint and mother-hubbards. That paint is beginnin’ to dry on my face, and the turpentine stings like a lot of bees. I opened my mouth and I can’t get it shut.
“H’rah for ―!” wails Dirty. “Who’s ’fraid of fire?”
We follers ’em up to the corner of Holt’s hotel, and there we finds Gunga Din and Sahara, which are bein’ held by Pete Gonyer, Olaf Hansen, Hassayampa Harris, Scenery Sims and “Half-Mile” Smith.
“Gunga Din is broke to ride,” stated Hassayampa, “but I dunno about Sahara. Ike can ride the elephant, ’cause he’s the biggest, and Dirty Shirt can mount the camel.”
“Just a short moment,” says I. “Nobody asked us. When I ride, I choose a horse; sabe? I ain’t no elephant scratcher.”
“Ain’t yuh?” asks Yuma. “You swore to do what Miss Greenbaum asked yuh to, Ike. She asks yuh to ride the elephant.”
“But what for?” I asks.
By golly, I ain’t got no idea what it’s all about. I can hear folks yellin’ out in the street, and when they start to yellin’ in Piperock, I don’t wish to be there.
“Here’s what yuh got to do,” says Yuma. “You two ride down the street. About in front of Wick’s store yuh will meet old Chief Cod Liver Oil and old Runnin’ Dog. They’ll have on their war-bonnets, et cettery, and they know what to do. They represent the old West; sabe?
“They give yuh the peace-sign, and it seems like yo’re all talkin’. That’s the part of it which is knowed as the West meetin’ the East. Then comes Pete in an old covered wagon. That is the comin’ of the white man. The Injuns act surprized. Behind his wagon comes Scenery Sims’ autymobeel, which has been made into a float, and on it is the three figures, which represent Victory and the Progress of Piperock; sabe?
“Then that’s about all, I reckon. I dunno what else there’s to be done, Ike. Magpie explains that much to me. Thatcher’s orchestra will be playin’ all the time, I reckon. Anyway, it’ll be good. Hassayampa, you and Half Mile help Ike up on Gunga Din.”
“It’ll be good all right,” grunts Mighty. “Cod Liver Oil and Runnin’ Dog done split a quart of lemon extract and a bottle of perfume between ’em.”
I let ’em put me up on the back of that India-rubber ox, which ain’t wearin’ saddle nor bridle. Behind my animal is Dirty Shirt, settin’ on the hump of Sahara, his face twisted kinda funny. He’s got a pair of reins to hang on to.
Just then Gunga Din starts ahead. There ain’t nothin’ I can do but set there and let things go. We went surgin’ around the corner and into the main street. Yaller Rock County sure was there. Every hitchrack is packed with horses, and between the racks and the middle of the street stands the population of a county, waitin’ for us to show up.
They lets out a cheer when we showed up, and we ain’t more than halfway to ’em, when up the street comes old Cod Liver Oil and Runnin’ Dog, both of ’em decked out in war-paint, nose-paint, war-bonnets, and ridin’ painted ponies.
I reckon it was a sight worth seein’. Honest to gosh, I sure did feel aboriginal. I was stoical, too. The only emotion I can show is with my right leg—the left one has gone to sleep. Then the East met the West.
We got within twenty feet of each other before them pinto horses got a good look at Gunga Din and Sahara. Cod Liver Oil’s pinto just spread its legs, bawled like a calf—and fell down, sendin’ the old buck into a somersault almost under Gunga Din. Runnin’ Dog’s pinto turns around on one hind leg, shuckin’ old Runnin’ Dog, and went past us like a streak.
Gunga Din reached down, wrapped his trunk around Cod Liver Oil, and stood the old boy on his head twenty feet away.
“Yee-ow-w-w!” yelps Liniment Lucas. “Some show!”
And into it all comes Pete Gonyer, drivin’ a team of broncs hitched to a covered wagon. He is the Comin’ of the White Man. He came—I’ll say that much for him. The yellin’ is too much for that team of broncs, and here comes Pete, feet braced against the front-gate of that wagon, haulin’ short on the lines, while behind him billows that wagon-cover, like a anchored balloon.
Runnin’ Dog has got to his feet, with the war-bonnet over one eye and blood in the other one.
“Whoo!” he screams. “Hyas masahchie mokst la tet!”
It was the first elephant he ever seen, and he called it a big evil with two heads.
There ain’t no chance for me to move Gunga Din out of the path of them two broncs; so I sets supine and lets death rush down upon us. But it don’t rush all the way.
About twenty feet away, them two broncs get their first look at the East, and they don’t like it. They dig their heels into that hard street, set down in their harness, and out of that cloud of dust comes Pete Gonyer, all spread out like a flyin’ squirrel, and he lands all spraddled out on the head of Gunga Din, still hangin’ onto his lines.
As old Judge Steele might say—“Pandyammonium reigns.”
The two broncs regains their equilibrium, ducks sideways and tries to go around us. They were goin’ pretty good when they took up the slack on them lines, and Pete Gonyer lifted right off the dome of Gunga Din, sailed off through the air and butted Dirty Shirt plumb off his camel. He not only butted him off, but took him along.
Then Gunga Din lifted his trunk high in the air and bugles loud and free—
“Ra-a-a-a te ta-a-a-a ta ta-a-a-a!”
Right then I want to get down. I don’t reckon that any Harper ever lived that wanted to get down as badly as I do; but there ain’t no safety on the ground. Every horse at them hitch-racks are heavin’ and surgin, folks yelpin’. I want to yell, but that darned paint has set, with my mouth half open, and all I can do is say—
“Hoo, hoo, hoo!” like a darned owl.
Then cometh Victory—and Progress. Pete Gonyer has made a riggin’ to fit over the top of Scenery Sims’ automobile, kinda like a platform, and there’s a railin’ all around it, decorated with flags and colored cloth. The driver ain’t in sight, and the danged thing looks like a runaway raft.
On the front of the arrangement stand Mrs. Wick Smith, all gauded up in cheese-cloth and a silver crown, which is settin’ down over one ear, kinda rakish-like. One hand is grippin’ the rail, while the other hangs to a big banner.
Behind her stands Mrs. Gonyer, dressed in white, tryin’ to hold up one hand, like an Injun givin’ a peace-sign, and hangin’ onto her is Mrs. Mighty Jones, wearin’ a nightgown and a pair of paper wings, one of which has climbed up on her shoulder, makin’ her look like a broken-winged duck.
I seen all this in a lot less time than it takes to tell it. The thing is comin’ too danged fast, I sabe that much, and I know that an automobile don’t scare at elephants. A runaway horse goes past me, hits its rump against the platform of Victory and Progress and skids the thing aside.
Mrs. Smith goes down in a lump, and Mrs. Gonyer lands on her knees, with that one hand still up in the air. Then Victory and Progress hits the East.
They knocked Gunga Din loose from the street, but they didn’t remove him. I got Mrs. Smith in my arms, but Mrs. Mighty Jones went past me so fast that I didn’t have no chance to make a collection. Then Gunga Din got his four feet on to the terry-firma agin’ and started out.
He bowed his head, put it against that float and started for Buck’s saloon front. I seen Magpie’s head come up from among the wreckage and he starts hammerin’ Gunga Din over the head with a piece of two-by-four, but he might as well ’a’ kissed him, for all the good it done.
Wick Smith comes gallopin’ alongside of us, yellin’—
“Leggo my wife! Leggo my wife! Dang you, Ike—leggo her!”
“Tell it to her!” I yelps back at him. “You ― fool, I ain’t doin’ the holdin’.”
The rear wheels of that equipage hits the sidewalk, lifts up real sudden, and we begins to shove that whole works plumb through Buck’s saloon front. It was then that I managed to get loose from another man’s wife, and proceeds to fall backward off that elephant.
I dunno what in ― Sahara was doin’ right behind Gunga Din, unless he was supposed to be there; but I do know that I lit kinda folded up across his long neck, and he starts to run with me. We went around in a circle three times before I fell off, and that ― camel walked all over me.
Then I sets up in that dusty street and tries to see what is goin’ on. Horses are runnin’ around like they was in a circus ring, and some of ’em are draggin’ wagons and buggies behind ’em, which makes the street a dangerous place for to be. One wagon circled the street twice before I notices that Dirty Shirt is standin’ up in the wagon, kinda balancin’ himself, with his arms spread out wide.
Then the wagon hit the sidewalk and Dirty turned over twice before landed sittin’ down on the sidewalk. I managed to limp and crawl over to him. His good eye is plumb closed, and the bad one won’t keep still.
He’s singin’ soft and low, and kinda beatin’ time with that jiggly eye. I has to listen real close, but above the roar of destruction I hears his singin’—
“There ain’t no tree, Dirty,” says I.
“Ain’t there?” he asks soft-like. “There ort to be—there’s so ― many birds.”
Over around Buck’s place there’s folks yellin’ to beat four of a kind, and some misguided jigger starts shootin’. I can see that there ain’t no regular doorway left in Buck’s saloon—just an openin’ about ten feet wide.
Just about that time Gunga Din comes around the corner. He ain’t got nobody on his back now, but he’s got a chair hooked around one hind leg. He runs into the hitch-rack, tried to go under it, and lifts it plumb out of the ground. This kinda makes him sore; so he wraps his trunk around one of the posts and starts for us, packin’ and draggin’ it along with him, while on the far end of it is tied a piebald bronc from Paradise.
The most of the crowd stampeded for the Mint Hall, Wick’s store and other places of safety, and it sure don’t take long to clear the street of spectators. I sabe that Gunga Din is on a regular bust; so I picks Dirty Shirt up in my arms and staggers toward Buck’s place.
I ain’t in no shape to pack anybody, ’cause my right leg acts too short, which makes me circle a little to the right and I’m close to Gunga Din before I realize it.
There’s just a whap and a rip, and outside of Dirty’s headgear he’s as naked as the day he was born. Gunga Din shucked him like an ear of corn. But Dirty don’t know it, and I don’t care; so we staggers on through the haze.
We fell into Buck’s place, and it don’t take a normal man to see that everythin’ ain’t right in there.
Old Testament Tilton is settin’ up on what used to be the back-bar, squattin’ there like a wise old owl, lookin’ over the world; settin’ there like a statue, sayin’ nothin’. Piled up against the bar is what is left of the float. Buck is flat on his back, with his feet up over the pool-table, which has been moved over against the wall.
All to once that mass which used to be the float begins to heave upward, and from among the busted two-by-fours, twisted wires and colored cloth, cometh Sahara. How in ― that camel got mixed up in that float, I don’t know, but there he is.
He comes out of there, plumb decorated, and hanging to his tail like grim death comes Magpie Simpkins, the president of Piperock’s Chamber of Commerce.
Magpie has still got on one boot, a suit of red underwear and the crown of his hat, and in his eyes is a stern resolve. And behind him, pawin’ out of the wreck, comes Wick Smith. They all gets clear of the wreck and Sahara stops. Wick has a two-foot piece of two-by-four in his hands, and he braces his feet far apart.
“Mum-Magpie,” says he kinda thin-like. “You has made me a widder man, gol ding yuh.”
But Magpie don’t hear it. His mind is far behind that pageant of progress. He bows and kinda smiles, as he says:
“The wheel of progress is turnin’, and wo unto him who gits under the tire. The people of Piperock has risen in their might, unleashed their bonds which has held them in darkness―”
Tunk! Wick Smith’s two-by-four ended the speech.
“You didn’t have to blame him entirely, Wick,” says I.
He turns and looks at me, kinda weavin’ on his feet.
“You?” he whispers. “You come bub-back? Where’s my wife?”
“I dunno, Wick.”
“You had her, dang you! I seen you huggin’ her!”
I seen that piece of scantlin’ comin’, but didn’t have flexibility enough to dodge. I distinctly heard it clank against my head, and then I finds myself out in the street again. I can hear a lot of dogs wailin’, and I wonders if I can hear this because I’ve gone to the dogs. Ain’t it funny what a feller will think about in a case like that?
A lot of folks are yellin’ at somebody or somethin’; so I sets up and concentrates on the present. A bullet digs into the dirt beside me, but I don’t mind. I kinda wonders why they’re shootin’ at me, of course. Then somethin’ hooks me off the ground and begins to give me a ride.
I managed to get one eye open and finds that I’m on one end of that hitch-rack, and the motive power is furnished by Gunga Din. They’ve picked me up in the angle between one post and the top-pole, and the friction on that part of me which wasn’t on the pole was somethin’ awful.
Then Gunga Din let out another of them awful bugles, shucked the hitch-rack and headed for Buck’s place again—and hangin’ to the slack skin of Gunga Din’s rear end was Cleopatra. Behind them came Polecat Perkins’ pack of hounds, run to a frazzle, but still able to stagger on and wail plenty loud and long.
Them dogs has run that tiger all night, and it ain’t no wonder that the tiger is huntin’ for somethin’ to climb on to. Right into the wreck of Buck’s place they went, while the crowd, which is located in places of safety, yelled, shot and generally decided that ― was havin’ a recess.
It’s only about five minutes since East met West, but there has been several things come to pass. Gunga Din has gone back into Buck’s place, tryin’ to get rid of Cleopatra, when here comes Chief Cod Liver Oil, packin’ an old Sharps rifle. The old war-whoop sure must ’a’ been fortified against fear by much flavorin’ extract, ’cause he heads straight for Buck’s shattered entrance, soundin’ his tribal war-whoop regular.
I got to my feet. I reckon they were my feet. There ain’t no feelin’ in ’em, but they hold me up; so they must be mine. An armless man could count all the Harper heroes on the fingers of his hands, but just the same I goes pawin’ toward Buck’s place to see what I can salvage from Gunga Din, Cleopatra and Cod Liver Oil.
I don’t quite get there, when Cod Liver Oil comes out. He came out of there, end over end, missed me about a foot, and stood on his head and shoulders in the street. His Sharps lit just outside the doorway; so I picked it up and went in.
Cleopatra is settin’ on what used to be the end of Buck’s mahogany bar, her mouth wide open and her eyes shut. Gunga Din is standin’ in the middle of the room, with one hind foot on Magpie’s pant-leg, and Sahara is half-in and half-out of a rear window. And every time Gunga Din weaves the whole building shakes.
Dirty Shirt has got to his feet, and there he stands, plumb out of clothes, kinda rockin’ on his feet and grinnin’ foolish.
“Dud-do somethin’!” whispers Magpie. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to do somethin’?”
“Call on the Chamber of Commerce,” says I.
From under a smashed card-table, Wick Smith shoves up his head. He’s got the brim of his hat in his teeth, but manages to work it loose with his tongue.
“I give up,” he wheezes. “I know when I’ve got enough.”
Old Testament is still settin’ on the back-bar, but now he shakes loose and falls into Cleopatra. He kinda takes that big striped cat into a lovin’ embrace, but Cleopatra yowled once, kicked Testament backward and jumped straight at me.
I throwed up that old Sharps, took a wing-shot at Cleopatra and then a great weight settled upon me. I ain’t no fighter. None of my family ever won any diamond belts; but there never was a Harper that wouldn’t fight to save his own life. And I sure went into a clinch with that tiger.
My eyes are too full of dust and pain for me to see just how the battle is comin’. We just kept on fightin’, thassall. Once we got separated and it takes us quite a while to get together again, but we did. I can’t see a danged thing and I don’t reckon Cleopatra can either; so we locates each other by sense of smell.
I dunno how long we fought. Scientists would probably differ as to how long a man and a tiger can fight without one or both of ’em dyin’. I ain’t got no feelin’ left within’ me. I reckon I’m kinda primitive just now, and I fights with tooth and claw. I hears voices around me, kinda cheerin’; so I puts up a supreme effort, as it were, and feels the tiger go limp.
“My ―!” I hears Dirty gasp hoarse-like. “They’re still at it.”
“I licked him—her,” says I.
I ain’t got more than enough breath to say that. And then I kinda passed out.
It seems like I heard somebody say:
“Let him alone, dang yuh! He done jist what I’ve wanted to see done for a long time.”
It was probably quite a some time before I woke up again. For quite a while I can’t figure out just where I am and what’s goin’ on. I seem to be layin’ across somethin’ that heaves and surges a heap. I manages to get one eye open and discovers that I’m on my stummick across a saddle.
Out in front of me and the horse is a queer-lookin’ figure. It’s got on a pair of overalls, which won’t stay up, barefooted, bareheaded. It looks back at me, and I recognize Dirty Shirt by his jiggly eye.
Then I slides off and sets down beside the trail.
“Where we goin’?” I asks.
Dirty comes back and sits down beside me.
“It don’t make no difference, does it?” he asks. “They said that we was mostly to blame; so I took you away from ’em and went away. It wasn’t our fault, Ike; but they have to blame somebody.”
“Magpie was mostly to blame,” says I. “We done the best we could. I dunno what you done, Dirty, but I know I saved Piperock from a lot of heartaches.”
“You sure did, Ike,” says Dirty.
“That critter would ’a’ been the ruination of Piperock.”
“That’s a cinch, Ike. But the worst of it is, you only stops the plague temp’rarily.”
“Thasso?” says I. “I done my best, Dirty Shirt. I wish I had the hide for a souvenir.”
Dirty looks queer-like at me.
“I dunno,” says he kinda sad-like. “A shock sometimes causes a feller to jerk back to his cannibal ancestors.”
I dunno what he’s talkin’ about, but I’m too bunged up to care much, and my face is beginnin’ to crack.
“How in ― did it finish?” I asks.
“All right, Ike. The animals all hived up in the livery-stable, and Wick Smith sold ’em to Paradise.”
“The ― he did!” I exclaimed, or as much of an exclamation as I can use in my condition. “And didn’t the Piperock Chamber of Commerce stop him?”
“There was only one to vote agin’ it—and he was too danged near death to even squawk. They never even give him credit for tryin’ to save the tiger. I seen it all, Ike. When you lifted that old Sharps to shoot Cleopatry, Magpie got loose from Gunga Din and fell into yuh.”
“Uh-uh-huh,” says I, feelin’ weak. “And then what did I do to the tiger, Dirty.”
“Nothin’ a-tall. The wheels of progress got to turnin’, and Magpie got under the tire, thasall. In the language of Magpie Simpkins, I wouldn’t be surprized to see Piperock one of the big cities of the world.”
“Well,” says I, “in the language of Ike Harper, whose spirit, liver, lights and gizzard has been busted to make a Piperock holiday, let’s get to ― out of here, before the place grows too big. I don’t want to even be seen in the suburbs.”
But she hasn’t grown any since.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June 10, 1925 issue of The Blue Book Magazine.