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diff --git a/old/66832-0.txt b/old/66832-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ed4c3a9..0000000 --- a/old/66832-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1268 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Tied Up for Tombstone, by W. C. Tuttle - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Tied Up for Tombstone - -Author: W. C. Tuttle - -Release Date: November 27, 2021 [eBook #66832] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Roger Frank and Sue Clark - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIED UP FOR TOMBSTONE *** - - - - - TIED UP FOR TOMBSTONE - - by W. C. Tuttle - - Author of “Loco or Love,” “Making Good for Muley,” etc. - - -“Lodestone, you flea-bitten, long-eared ancestor of a jack-rabbit, -take a look at the best place the Lord ever made, and rejoice with -me.” - -Lodestone wiggles his ears, kicks at a hoss-fly, narrowly missing my -head, and looks with sad eyes down at the city of Piperock. Then he -goes to sleep. Which shows that a burro ain’t got no finer feelings. - -We been away for quite a while—me and Lodestone. We pilgrims up the -Bitter Root range to where old Blue Nose sticks into the clouds, -crosses over and pilgrims back the other side, all of which takes up -several months, and don’t net me nothing but blisters and blasphemy. - -I misses “Magpie” Simpkins a heap, and I welcomes the day when I can -shake the hand of that long, loose-jointed hombre. Magpie is one of -the leading citizens of Piperock, and until a few months ago, my -pardner. - -When I left to make my fortune he was setting there in his -office—Magpie is the sheriff—and wondering how he can square things -with the populace to get reelected. - -He’s of the lodge-pole type, and wears a goodly length of hair on his -upper lip. He pleads with me not to leave him but for once in my life -I turns a deaf ear to his siren voice, and herds my burro out of -hearing. - -Piperock ain’t what a stranger would call a paradise on earth, and she -don’t qualify for the milk and honey, but she’s a man’s town—all up -and down the street. - -Me and Lodestone pilgrims through the dust up to “Buck” Masterson’s -saloon, and I goes inside. Buck and “Tellurium” are there, and they -welcomes me like a lost brother. Buck salutes me with the proper -ingredients, and we exchanges pleasantries. - -After we sort of gets used to each other again Buck hauls out a sheet -of paper, and smooths it out on the bar. - -“Take a look at that, Ike,” says he. “There’s something new.” - -I sizes her up. It’s what resembles a newspaper—in some respects—but I -can’t seem to read it none to speak of. The label across the top -resembles this— - - TOLIP KCOREPIP EHT - -The rest of the page is smears and blots. - -“Looks like a Russian proclamation, Buck,” says I. “Where did it come -from?” - -“Right here, Ike; that ex-pardner of yours published it.” - -“Magpie?” I asks, and they both nods. “That’s his first edition,” -replies Buck. “He took over the office when a few of the local boys -ran the editor across the border for slandering the community. That -paper invades this here country about a month after you leaves, and -she runs high along until the editor gets a call to uplift the -community. Yesterday he beat the posse across the line, and Magpie -gets out his maiden sheet. This here feller speaks feelingly of -lawlessness, and even goes so far as to make personal remarks about -our morals. What he said about the town of Paradise was awful.” - -“Is Magpie still sheriff?” I asks. - -“Uh-huh,” admits Tellurium, who ain’t friendly with Magpie. “Abe -Anderson was running against him, and had a grand chance to win, but -Abe’s old weakness crops up and spoils things.” - -“Abe seen a chance to run off some Circle Star cows,” explains Buck. -“He runs foul of Magpie and three of the Circle Star punchers, and -when they gets through convincing him that, ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ he -ain’t in shape to use votes. Magpie races alone and is elected by five -votes.” - -“Well, well,” says I, “a few months sure does change the map. I’ll go -down and see if that benighted son of a lodge-pole don’t need some -help.” - -I prods Lodestone down the street to where I sees a sign, which -proclaims there’s a newspaper office. I hitches my rolling stock and -goes inside. Magpie is there. All I can see is the bottom of his -boots, the seat of his pants and his elbows—the rest of him is behind -a newspaper, as he leans back in a chair, with his feet on the table. - -I leans against the table and rolls a smoke. He glances at me, -switches his cigaret over to the other side of his mouth, and goes on -trying to read. I say “trying to read” for the reason that he’s got a -paper he printed himself. - -Pretty soon he yawns and lays the paper across his knees. - -“Ike,” says he, “that’s some paper.” - -“Some ink, too, if that’s anything to brag about,” I replies. “When -did you learn to write Russian? Maybe it’s Chinook with the blind -staggers, Magpie, but anyway she’s a terrible language. What does them -big letters at the top proclaim?” - -“That? Huh! _The Piperock Pilot_!” - -“Won’t the letters run the other way, Magpie?” - -“I reckon they would, Ike, but how in —— am I going to know what she -reads? It’s a danged sight easier for the public to read the print -backwards than it is for me to read the type thataway. I’m glad to see -yuh, Ike.” - -“Still follering the line of least resistance, eh, Magpie? I’m glad to -see you, too.” - -“Accumulate anything on your trip, Ike?” - -“Wood-ticks, fool-hens and a growing conviction that rich rock is -scarce. How’s things at the sheriff’s office?” - -“Tolable, Ike. Won by a narrow majority. I reckon if Abe had ’a’ lived -we’d needed a recount. Lot of folks voted for him after he was dead.” - -“They would,” I agrees. “Lot of folks around here ain’t got no more -ambition than to vote for a corpse. How comes it you’re a editor? Has -all the bad-men died off or has a moral wave hit Piperock?” - -“I always been a critter of circumstance, Ike,” he states, unfolding -his long legs, and easing his gun handy-like. “I always been a -disciple of advance, and I’ve worn all the skin off my shoulder trying -to give the wheels of progress a lift. At times them wheels have -slipped and sprained my immediate future, but I never peeped. - -“When this here misguided editor fades across the horizon, me, being -sheriff, appropriates this here plant and opines to run it as a public -institution. There’s twenty-five sheets of paper left and one can of -ink. My first edition takes twelve sheets, and I hereby claims that a -man, without no experience, what can rise to the occasion and put out -a paper like that is a credit to the community.” - -“Didn’t you have trouble finding all them letters, Magpie?” - -“Trouble? Say, the ends of my fingers are so tender I can hold out my -hands and feel the sun slide behind the hills. The next publication is -problematical, Ike. I’m short of material, but I only figures on one -more issue. I got a article set up, and I can’t publish until the time -is ripe.” - -“Something special?” - -“Uh-huh. ‘Tombstone’ Todd’s obituary.” - -“From Wilier Crick?” I asks, and Magpie nods. - -“Uh-huh. Him and ‘Cactus’ Collins comes over here to help elect Abe -Anderson, being as Abe was a relative. When Abe departs this here vale -of tears they up and proclaims they’re a pair of howling wolves, and -that they’re a permanent fixture around here until such a time as they -lays me on my back and gestures over me with a spade. Awful pair of -gobblers, Ike.” - -“Why not an obituary for Cactus, too, Magpie?” - -“He’s hiding out until such a time as his stummick is normal, Ike. He -horns in on me yesterday, and gets pessimistic to my face. I’m busy on -that obituary and don’t like to be interrupted, so I beats him on the -draw, accepts his gun as a subscription and induces him to eat a -bucket of paste. Awful smelling mess, Ike. I’d opine that as far as my -future horoscope is concerned his lips are sealed.” - -“Thirteen sheets and one obituary will be something to print,” says I. -“Has Tombstone made any advances?” - -“Once. I was standing over there by the window, holding up one of them -dinguses what contains type, when a bullet comes along and hits her -plumb center. She collapses right there and ruins things. Some of that -lead type enters my bosom, and for the space of a foot square on my -manly chest I looks like a smallpox patient. This idea of being a man -of letters ain’t no prosaic pastime, Ike.” - - * * * * * - -Just then “Scenery” Sims darkens our doorway. Scenery is knee-high to -a short Injun, and his voice hankers for oil. He looks mean-like at me -and Magpie, and chaws some industrious. Pretty soon he expectorates -copiously on the floor, and orates— - -“Want to quit taking the paper.” - -Magpie snaps out his gun and covers Scenery. - -“Get down on your knees and wipe out that —— spot!” snorts Magpie. -“What do yuh think this is—a corral?” - -“I—uh—” begins Scenery, but the gun don’t waver, so he takes the -handkerchief off his neck, and scrubs our floor. - -“This is a newspaper office, Scenery,” states Magpie. “You can’t start -your oration with a cloud-burst in here. Sabe? What you got against -the paper, and why for don’t yuh wish it no more?” - -“I can’t read her,” he squeaks. “She’s too backward to suit me. Of -course I—uh—well, send her along, and I’ll—uh—do the best I can. I got -to go now.” - -He slips out with his hat in his hand, and lopes off up the street. - -“That’s business, Ike,” laughs Magpie. “I’m going to make ’em like -it.” - -“When yuh had the drop on him yuh ought to ’a ’collected in advance -for another year,” says I. “You sure need a manager, Magpie, for _The -Piperock Pilot, Limited_—to thirteen sheets and a death notice.” - -“Howdy, gents,” states a voice at the door. “Is this the only -newspaper in town?” - -That person is a novelty in cowland. He stands there, exuding perfume -and prosperity from his Sunday clothes. We looks him over, from his -shiny shoes to his hard hat, wonders at his pink cheeks, which match -his necktie, and both nods. - -“You answers your own question, stranger,” states Magpie. “We sure got -a monopoly on all news hereabouts. Want to subscribe?” - -He ambles over and sets down on a stool and looks the place over. He -takes off his hat, balances it on his knee, and produces some sheets -of paper. - -“What’s your amusement rates?” he asks. “Half-page—maybe full.” - -Magpie rolls a fresh smoke and studies the feller. - -“Well,” he drawls, “the person who operates here ahead of me makes a -fixed price of three dollars for six months, but I don’t sabe no case -in which he split the size. I don’t guarantee to amuse nobody. I’ll be -honest with yuh, though. This here paper is on its last legs, but I’ll -danged near guarantee one more issue, and if yuh hankers for it I’ll -put yuh down for one copy at four-bits.” - -“You misunderstood me,” he grins, “I mean advertising rates. I’m ahead -of ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’” - -He puts his hat back on his head, and shuffles them sheets of paper: - -“We are bringing to your town the greatest aggregation of stars that -ever glowed over one set of footlights. Two _Evas_, two _Topsies_, -three fee-rocious bloodhounds and eight—” - -_Splang!_ - -The side window spills its panes over the place, and this person’s hat -flips off his head, and lands in my lap, while a chunk of lead bores a -neat hole in the wall behind the stranger. He freezes right there. - -Magpie slips his gun across his lap, settles down a little lower in -his chair, and lights his cigaret. I hands the hat back to its owner, -and slides my chair a few inches further back. - -“Eight what?” asks Magpie. - -“Ca-ca-cakes of ice,” he quavers, examining his hat. “My ——! Was that -a—a—bullet?” - -Magpie nods and scratches his chin. - -“Bullet?” he wonders again. “Did—did somebody shoot at me?” - -“Nope,” says Magpie. “At me. What yuh going to do with the ice?” - -He looks at Magpie for a minute, and then gasps— - -“At a—a time like this?” - -He tucks his hat under his arm, sneaks to the door, and goes around -the corner so fast his coat simply cracks. - -Magpie slips his gun loose and spins the cylinder, hitches up his belt -and yawns: - -“Ike, I ain’t got nothing to prove who it was but I has the feeling -that Tombstone is going too danged far. There’s such a thing as -personal animosity, but when yuh bust into a man’s business and cause -him financial loss it’s time to start a probe. That show person was -about to help us pay our overhead expenses, but now he’s gone gun-shy. - -“I hereby deputizes you to operate this here plant, while I fulfils -the obligations of my oath concerning public nuisances. You got plenty -of ammunition, Ike?” - -“I ain’t no editor, Magpie,” I objects. “I can’t even sign my own name -so folks can read it.” - -“Sign mine,” says he. “You’re editor _pro tempore_. Sabe?” And then he -slips out of the door. - -I looks around, casual-like, places my .41 beside me on a chair, and -sets down out of line with any window or door. It’s warm in there, and -there’s a funny smell about the place. I had several scoops of gall -and wormwood in Buck’s place, and the combination woos sleep in -copious gobs. My sombrero slips over my face, and I sleep. - -Sudden-like I wakes, and believe me she’s a rude awakening. Somebody -kicks the chair out from under me, and proceeds to knead my abdomen -with their knees, toes, fingers, thumbs and head. When that part is -over they turns me on my face and rakes me fore and aft with a pair of -long-roweled spurs, while they links their hands in my hair and -hammers my forehead on the floor. When I ain’t got more than a glimmer -of light left in my system they seems to draw aside and rest. - -“There!” I hears a voice state. “Next time yuh prints your danged -newspaper you’ll please leave my name out. Sabe? I ain’t no shepherd, -and my shirt is as clean as yours!” - -“‘Dirty Shirt’ Jones, you’re an assassin,” says I, weak-like. - -He pulls my hat off the bridge of my nose and takes a look at me. - -“Ike, I’m glad to see yuh back,” says he. “When did yuh get back?” - -“Today. Are you the reception committee?” - -“Me? Nope. I’m an enraged citizen, Ike. I mistook yuh for the editor.” - -“No mistake, Dirty, I’m him.” - -Of course I got that .41 in my hands when I makes that statement, and -Dirty don’t make no demonstration. - -“Take it easy,” I advises. “I ain’t the one you’re sore at. Magpie is -the regular editor but he’s down at the jail.” - -Dirty chaws for a few seconds, and hitches up his pants: - -“Much obliged, Ike. Sorry I licked yuh thataway. Yuh see that paper -orates that the population ought to get sanitary—whatever that is. He -states that a dirty shirt designates a shepherd—dang his hide! Well, -Ike, I gives yuh good afternoon.” - -“Good afternoon ain’t much to give a man after you’ve give him ——,” I -opines. “But I’ll take it, Dirty, old-timer. I reckon I’ll need -everything I can get before I goes to press.” - -I sets there and complains bitterly to myself about folks who don’t -keep up to date on news, wipes the worst of the ink off my face, and -goes back to sleep. - -“Slim” Hawkins woke me up. Slim would make a good running-mate for -Magpie. He’s built in the same proportions. He’s had a few drinks, and -is as serious as a owl. - -“Ike,” says he, “take a look at my eyes and see if they’re all right.” - -“Little off color but pointing straight, Slim. What’s wrong?” - -“Somebody drops a paper at the ranch today, and when I tries to peruse -same I finds that I’m left-handed and cross-eyed. I’ve suffered a -heap, Ike, and while I hopes for the best I fears the worst. I’d hate -to go around looking at things backwards thataway. Might as well learn -to read Chinese. Where’s the educated party what operates this here -newspaper?” - -“He’s—” I begins, but an apparition which I deciphers to be Dirty -Shirt, comes in the door. - -He seems to have met disaster. His hair has been pawed down over a -pair of black eyes, and over his head and under one arm hangs what is -left of a framed map of Montana, which adorned Magpie’s office. - - * * * * * - -He feels painfully in his pockets, takes out three silver dollars, and -lays ’em on the table. - -“Dirty Shirt Jones—three months,” he states, slow and sad-like. - -“Your subscription expired?” I asks, and he nods. - -“Uh-huh. I reckon. Everything else has.” - -“Better take back some of it,” I advises. “This here paper is about to -cease. One more effort cleans the rack.” - -“I know,” nods Dirty Shirt. “Keep the money and send me a copy. If -Magpie can edit like he can fight I’ll covet that copy.” - -“Keep that frame to put it in,” says I. “You met the editor, did yuh?” - -Dirty squints at me, adjusts that frame to a easier position, and rubs -his sore eyes. - -“Met him!” he snorts. “Met ——! We mingled!” - -Dirty weaves out of the door and points up the street. Slim looks at -them three dollars and then lays three more beside ’em. - -“I don’t sabe the game, Ike, but I’m matching Dirty’s ante. I don’t -know what Magpie’s argument is, but anybody what can make Dirty Shirt -pay three dollars for a left-handed newspaper must have something -besides conversation.” - -“But Dirty Shirt was sore,” says I. “He came down to lick the editor.” - -“Me, too, Ike. I came with malice in my heart but I goes away plumb -meek. Dirty Shirt licked thunder out of me once, so I’m three dollars -thankful that he met Magpie first. Have a little drink?” - -“That’s the first United States I’ve heard spoken since I got home,” -says I. “But I can’t leave the office alone. You go up and have one, -and then play editor while I goes up. Sabe?” - -Slim comes back in a few minutes, and holds down the place while I -pilgrims up to Buck’s place. Me and Buck and “Half-Mile” Smith leans -on the door and discusses local conditions. - -“Show troupe in town,” states Half-Mile. “Came in on the stage. Seven -or eight people, two colored persons and some dogs. They got a drum -and a lot of horns, etcetery. I’d opine we’ll have some music.” - -“I love a good show,” says Buck. “The last good one I seen was at -Silver Bend. They played Shakespeare. Had a ghost and I was just drunk -enough to enjoy it.” - -“Give me a drink, quick!” pants a voice at the door, and into the -place comes “Ricky” Henderson. He takes a long drink out of the -bottle, and leans against the bar. - -“Suffering surcingles!” he pants. “I’ve sure had one job! That or’nary -hombre, Tombstone Todd, comes into my place a while ago, and climbs -into a chair. - -“‘Young feller,’ says he, ‘my hair and whiskers are too noticeable, so -I admires to see ’em on the floor.’ He hauls out a six-gun, lays it -across his lap, and leans back in the chair. ‘Young feller,’ says he -again, ‘a razor what pulls is an abomination and a barber what uses -one is flirting with the undertaker. Let your judgment be your -guide.’” - -“Was he satisfied?” asks Buck. - -“I’m here, ain’t I?” grins Ricky. “But I wouldn’t do it again for a -million dollars.” - -“And you with a razor in your hand all this time, and his head tilted -back?” wonders Half-Mile, aloud. - -Ricky stares at Half-Mile and considers the remark. - -“I seen a colored brother with a razor once—” began Half-Mile, but he -happens to glance towards the door. - -We all takes a look. - -“Speak of the devil and—” murmurs Buck, but the colored person at the -door bursts into profanity that would shame a professor from a mule -college. - -“Why didn’t yuh come back, Ike?” he wails. “Sus-somebody sneaked in, -hit me over the head, dud-dragged me into the back room and poured a -can of ink all over me! My ——! It won’t never come off! He said he -wanted to make me eat some paste, but he couldn’t find it. Look at me! -All inked to ——!” - -“Gosh!” exclaims Magpie from the doorway. “Ain’t that too danged bad! -That’s the only can of ink there was left.” - -“Too bad, eh?” howls Slim. “I wish I knowed the name of that hombre.” - -“Did he speak feelingly of paste?” asks Magpie. - -“Uh-huh,” agrees Slim, drawing figures on the bar with his inky -finger. “He sort of choked over the word. He ——” - -“Hey! Sam!” yells a voice at the door, and we observes a stranger in -our midst. - -It’s sort of dark inside, but he seems to know what he wants. He -ambles straight up to Slim, and grabs him by the arm. - -“You slew-footed, wobble-jointed son of a cannibal!” he yelps. -“Where’s them pink silk underclothes of mine, eh?” - -Slim Hawkins is slow to anger, but when he does get to going he’s hard -to stop. He climbs under and over and through this stranger like he -was searching for something, and when he gets through this feller -ain’t got nothing on but a look of wonderment and one sleeve of his -undershirt. Slim looks over the pile of clothes on the floor, and -shakes his head. - -“I can’t find ’em,” he states, serious-like. “Furthermore I don’t -admire to be called a son of a cannibal, Mister Man!” - -The feller braces his hands behind him on the floor, and shakes his -head like he was trying to collect his thoughts. He squints at Slim, -and then explodes: - -“My ——! You ain’t Sam!” - -“A slight inquiry would have saved us all this search,” says Slim. -“Who is Sam?” - -“One of my company—my _Uncle Tom_.” - -“So?” drawled Slim. “You with this here ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ outfit?” - -“Yes,” says he. “I’m _Simon Legree_.” - -“So?” - -Slim picks the gent up by one leg and an arm, carries him out and -dumps him right into the street without no clothes on. - -“There!” yells Slim, as the stranger hits the dirt. “I’ve read all -about yuh, Mister Legree, and this is one colored person yuh can’t run -no sandy on. Sabe?” - -This Legree person don’t linger. It’s about two hundred yards to -Holt’s hotel door, and he negotiates the distance in the time it takes -Slim to shoot six shots into the dirt behind him. On his way he meets -“Cobalt” Williams. Cobalt steps to one side to let him past, catches -his spur in the dirt, and sets down. It spoils his aim, he tears the -knob off the door after it shuts behind Legree. Cobalt gets up and -comes on down to the saloon, shaking his head. - -“What yuh trying to do—kill him? Yuh danged fool!” snorts Slim. - -Cobalt had reached for the bottle, but he turns to look at Slim and -his hand drops. He pushes his hat back and stares at Slim and seems to -swaller with difficulty. - -“Ex-cuse me,” he says, sort of to himself. “No more Paradise hooch for -mine! Mike Pelly said it was a hundred and twenty proof, and this -proves it. First I see a naked man running around the main street, and -then I meets a colored brother what looks like Slim Hawkins. I’m -through! Sabe? I’m going home—me!” - -He ducks out, gets his bronc at the rack and points out of town. - -“That’s what I’d call a temperance lecture in ink,” opines Magpie. “As -editor and a man of letters I congratulates yuh. We can hereby reverse -that old saying, ‘He who runs may read’ and make it, ‘He who reads may -run.’” - - * * * * * - -We inaugurates a poker game and plays until almost dark, when -sudden-like we hears the sound of music, and stampedes to the door. -Here comes that show bunch down the street, and stops in front of the -old Mint Hall. They got a banner what proclaims there will be a show -tonight, and “Mighty” Jones is packing the banner, with his chest -stuck out like a fool-hen after a feed. - -We cashes in and goes over to the band. - -“When did you start to be a actor, Mighty?” asks Magpie, but the -feller what Slim took apart steps between Magpie and Mighty and peers -at Magpie’s star. - -“Pardon me,” says he, “I see you’re the sheriff.” - -“You’re pardoned, and I congratulates yuh on your eyesight,” replies -Magpie. - -“I’ve lost my dogs,” says he. “Somebody must ’a’ stole ’em.” - -By this time most everybody in Piperock has congregated around. Music -sure is a magnet for folks and dogs. - -“Pick out what yuh want,” says Magpie, indicating any amount of -canines, circling around through people’s legs. “Losing a few dogs -ain’t no disaster around here.” - -“Mine are valuable dogs,” states Legree, in a loud tone. “Trained -dogs. Our show can’t proceed without them dogs.” - -“Name, age and description,” says Magpie, hauling out a little -note-book. “Also any distinguishing marks and brands.” - -“One bloodhound, crossed with St. Bernard and collie; color, yaller; -named Violet.” - -“_War-hoo-o-o-o!_” howls a dog up the street. - -“_Yeo-o-o-o-ow!_” yells somebody. “Look out!” - -There’s a sudden movement at the far end of the congregation. I sees a -bronc turn a handspring, a pair of cream-colored broncs leaves their -halters at the hitch-rack, while they comes over to visit us, and -Violet is no longer a lost dog. - -Violet is about the size of a he-wolf, and she seems to think she can -outrun the string of tomato cans which are tied to her tail. She goes -through, under and over that crowd, and what she don’t do to us is -left for that pair of broncs and the buckboard. A million dog-fights -start right there. - -Me and _Legree_ are close together and the confusion seems to bring us -close to each other. We hits the sidewalk together and I’m underneath. -A couple of rotten boards break, and yours truly disappears. - -When I recovers sufficient-like to peek out it’s about all over. Every -bronc that was tied to the rack is gone, and part of one rack is -missing. Most of the crowd is on the far side of the street, but our -side is still well represented. Two local dogs are still hauling at -each other. - -Dirty Shirt Jones’ head protrudes from the side of that big drum, and -his right arm is wedged straight up, making him look like a drowning -man what is going down for the last time. - -Mighty Jones has got one boot through the mechanical end of a big -brass horn, while from inside the other boot protrudes that banner, -with the proclamation missing. - -Magpie is lying near me, with both feet through Wick Smith’s picket -fence, and he’s still studying that little note-book. - -“Was that last one Lucy or Hannibal?” he asks, slow and deliberate. - -“It—it don’t make no matter,” says a weak voice, “they’re all gone -past anyway,” and the man who got his hat punctured in the newspaper -office rises up from behind the fence, and tugs at the brim of his -hat, which is hanging around his neck. - -I goes out and helps to cut Dirty Shirt loose from the drum, when up -comes one of Holt’s kids. - -“Mister,” says he to the show feller, “I seen a man tie them cans on -your dogs.” - -“Give the sheriff a description of him,” says he, excited-like. “I -offers ten dollars reward for the conviction of the persons connected -with the dastardly outrage.” - -“Cheap enough,” agrees Magpie. “Did he have a long mustache and long -hair?” - -“Naw. He didn’t have no hair on his face a-tall,” replies the kid. - -“Must a been an outside job,” proclaims Magpie. “All the men in -Piperock wear hair on their faces, except Slim Hawkins, and he wears -ink.” - -Me and Magpie pilgrims home and uses up a bottle of hoss liniment. - -“When yuh going to get that Tombstone person?” I asks, after we -finishes our supper. “There ain’t no sense in leaving a critter like -him loose, Magpie.” - -“He’s a ornery hombre all right, all right,” agrees Magpie. “He ain’t -so dangerous as he is plumb mean, Ike. He’s shot at me several times, -but as he ain’t hit me yet I reckon he’s trying to scare me. Must ’a’ -been Cactus what painted Slim with the ink. Me and Slim are the same -build. - -“I sure wish that Tombstone could live long enough to read his -obituary, Ike. She’s a bird. I sure dug deep into my soul for that -stuff, and I surprises myself with what I writes. Them two is sore -over the election. They opined to be deputies under Anderson.” - -“That paper must ’a’ printed some truths about folks,” I opines, and -Magpie grins: - -“You said something, Ike. He sure did ride folks. Yuh ought to see -what he said about Paradise folks. I reckon they’re just about -starting to boil over down there.” - -“Didn’t you print yours right soon, Magpie?” I asks. “Seems to me that -it’s a weekly.” - -“Uh-huh—comes out on Friday. Yuh see I had to change that day right -off the reel, ’cause if I had any hangings to attend to it would -interfere with the paper. I looks into the future, Ike.” - -“Well,” says I, “it don’t make much difference now, being as the ink -is all gone.” - -“That’s so. I wish you’d ’a’ stayed there and ’tended to business, -Ike.” - -“And got all inked up, eh? I never did have any luck, and if it had -’a’ been me somebody would ’a’ come in and helped Cactus find that -paste jar. Too bad the show got busted up thataway.” - -“Uh-huh,” yawns Magpie. “We ain’t had a good show for a long time, but -I don’t admire a show what depends on three dogs and eight cakes of -ice. Let’s hit the hay.” - -That night somebody comes down and paints a skull and cross bones on -our door, and it makes Magpie sore. - -“I’m commencing to get riled internally, Ike,” he states, when he -views said works of art. “You go back and hold down the newspaper, and -in a little while I’ll show yuh the scalp of this artist. Rustle -around and see if there’s any ink left. - -“I got that obituary all fixed up left-handed, and she’s cached under -a soap-box behind the printing machine. Don’t jiggle it ’cause she’s -fragile as ——! I left that page just like she was for the other paper, -but I got a place in it what fits this here masterpiece of mine. If -Tombstone should make a mistake and hit me yuh won’t need the -obituary. Sabe?” - -“Uh-huh, I’ll just run the rest, Magpie. It looks like a bundle o’ -crape anyway.” - -“And Ike,” he reminds me, as I buckles on my gun, “yuh take that type -stuff and put it inside the press. Sabe? Then yuh take that roller -thing and pour on some ink, roll her over the letters, slap on a sheet -of paper and twist that handle down hard.” - -“You furnish the news, Magpie,” says I. “I’ll hold the wheels of -progress for Tombstone Todd.” - - * * * * * - -I goes up to Buck’s place, and settles some elixir under my belt, -while me and Buck talks over the humdrum existence we’re leading. - -“Dirty Shirt is still going around with his right hand up in the air,” -laughs Buck. “Reckon he’s flagged every one in sight.” - -“How’s the show outfit?” I asks. - -“Right miserable, I reckon. All of ’em except one left on the stage -this morning. That exception—a colored person—mistakes Slim for a -blood-brother, and being as Slim ain’t back yet, I’d say they went -quite a ways. I never seen fast black fade the way that person did. - -“That other colored member didn’t have much to say this morning. He -was packing one of them slide horns in the band last night, and when -the buckboard hit him he sails right into Pete Gonyer. Him and Pete -holds about even until Pete gets his hands loose, and then he winds -that horn around the feller’s neck so many times that we has to lay -that colored gent across an anvil and cut it loose with a -cold-chisel.” - -“Seen anything of Tombstone Todd or Cactus Collins?” I asks, but Buck -says: - -“Nope. Somebody ought to puncture that pair of Jaspers, Ike. I figure -there’s only one critter what is meaner than Tombstone Todd, and -there’s a bounty on his hide. I ain’t been drunk for six years, Ike, -but when Tombstone Todd stops enough lead to make him a spirit I’m -going to celebrate. When does Magpie aim to exterminate said human -coyote?” - -“Magpie suffers from softening of the heart,” says I “but him or -Tombstone is due to hunt the hereafter right soon.” - -I leaves there, and pilgrims down to the newspaper office, but I don’t -walk right inside. Not me. The Harper tribe ain’t skittish of trouble, -and my nose ain’t a stranger to powder smoke, but I’m cautious. - -I Injuns up to the back window, flattens my carcass against the wall -and peers inside. I ain’t taking no chances. Sabe? It’s a little too -early to open up, and the sunshine is nice and warm. Everything is -peaceful-looking around Piperock, so I sets down there on a box -against the wall, and communes thusly: - -“Ike Harper, you sure do live in the best little town on earth. -Peaceful and quiet—no hurry or worry. Plenty of time to live and no -questions asked. What if I am a editor? It sure is worth while to live -simply and quietly in a community where brotherly love is the motto -and where peace doves nest and suckle their young.” - -Sudden-like I hears the dull rattle of many hoofs, and down the street -comes a lot of men on hosses. They completes a picture of a peaceful -Western village. There ain’t no boisterous or unseemly language as -they ambles along through the dust—just the jingle of bit-chains and -the squeak of saddles. - -They don’t look like they was going far, ’cause they don’t seem to -have no baggage. One of ’em is carrying a big bucket, and another -seems to have a bundle in his arms. - -They swings down towards me, but I merely yawns. They stops in front -of my office, and dismounts. I reckon it’s my chore to go out and get -’em to subscribe, but I don’t do it. I got enough subscriptions. They -must ’a’ thought the only way to get into a newspaper office was by -main force, so they picks up a piece of lodge-pole, and knocks the -door down. - -Comes one shot—no more. Out of curiosity, more than anything else, I -sort of leans forward on my box and takes note of what I can see. Out -in front the crowd sort of surrounds somebody, what ain’t got no -clothes on. I don’t hear much conversation what ain’t profane, and -pretty soon I sees some feathers drift away on the breeze. Two broncs -are linked together with that pole, a bundle what looks like a mighty -buzzard is straddled the pole, and they all moves away as quietly as -they came. - -I watches ’em go away, and then I yawns some more and enters the -sacred precincts of _The Piperock Pilot_. I hunts all over the place -until I finds a can with a little ink left in it. I looks under the -soap-box and finds that obituary. After considerable trouble I -deciphers same, and this is it: - - EPITAPH ON TOMBSTONE - - He was a bad man from Willer Crick. - His bluff was good but it didn’t stick. - He shot at the sheriff till the sheriff got sore, - Now his boots leave tracks on that beautiful shore. - -I wipes the tears off my cheeks when I reads it. Magpie said he had -put his soul into it, but I never knowed before how deep Magpie’s soul -really was. It’s a hy-iu composition, but I got a better idea. I takes -it over to where them lead letters repose, and reconstructs the thing -a bit. - -I ain’t no poet, but in a time like this a man’s spirit guides his -fingers. I works for an hour, trying to make the blamed things stand -up long enough to be read backwards, and I’m sore enough to kick a -baby when Magpie shows up. He looks at me and grins, when he sees what -I’m doing, and rolls a smoke. - -“One of ’em has left, Ike,” he states. “Hank Padden rode in a while -ago, and said he met Cactus Collins on his way to Willer Crick. I’ll -get Tombstone before night. Sabe?” - -“Them is noble resolutions, Magpie. You know how to make this stuff -stand up while she leaves her message on paper?” - -“Sure. What yuh want to print it for, Ike? We ain’t got no paper to -waste.” - -“Magpie,” says I, “a editor likes to see his stuff printed. I got a -old piece of paper what will do for this.” - -Magpie sets the stuff in a little oblong affair, rolls on some ink, -lays on the piece of paper, and twists down the handle. This is how -she looks: - - TAR ON TOMBSTONE - - He was a bad man from Willer Crick. - On his birthday suit grows feathers thick. - Feathers and tar instead of a grave, - Mistook for an editor ’cause of a shave. - -Magpie reads it all through. He sets down on a box, rolls a smoke, and -reads it some more. He walks out to the door, looks around, and comes -back. - -“Who?” he asks. - -“Paradise folks, Magpie.” - -“Did you see him in here?” - -“Uh-huh. He was laying for us.” - -“Pshaw!” - -Magpie takes his gun out and looks it over, sad-like. He stares at the -door for a minute, and then— - -“What’s the notice on the door?” - -He walks over and looks. Somebody has printed a notice and pinned it -on that busted door, and she reads like this— - - THIS PAPER HAS QUIT FOR KEEPS - -I went back and got that can of ink, and a stick, and I signs it— - - TOMBSTONE TODD - -“What for, Ike?” asks Magpie. “What did he have to do with it?” - -“Come back here, and I’ll show yuh.” - -I takes him back to the table, and shows him a line of lead letters -setting there on the table. It’s the biggest in sight, and they reads: - - EPITAF FOR MAGPY SIMPKIN. BRAVE - MEN AND DARN FULES DON’T SKARE. - HE WAS A DARN FULE MAY HE - REST IN PIECE - -We walks almost to the door, when Magpie goes back and gets that stick -and the can of ink. - -“I’ll give him all the credit coming to him, Ike,” says he, and -underneath Tombstone’s name he prints— - - EDITOR PRO TEMPORE - - -[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the September 18, 1918 -issue of Adventure magazine.] - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIED UP FOR TOMBSTONE *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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