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diff --git a/78340-0.txt b/78340-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bcd290c --- /dev/null +++ b/78340-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,756 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78340 *** + + + + SIXTEEN TO ONE ON FRIDAY + + By W. C. Tuttle + + Author of “A Bull Movement in Yellow Horse,” + “Fifty-fifty With Bonnie”, etc. + + Back in the dim and distant past, when a certain silvery-voiced + orator, later known as the “Grape-juice Spellbinder,” aspired + to the highest rung of the political ladder, one of the certain + advertising mediums to invade the peaceful atmosphere of Montana + was a gloom-dispelling brand of whisky, labeled, “Sixteen to One.” + + +Its platform was purity and its punch was prodigious. Having more +exhilarating qualities than the ordinary mixture of alcohol, copperas, +alkali water and chewing tobacco, it gained a certain renown, and was +in great demand among the gentry of the range. + +A certain saloonkeeper of Paradise, christened Charles Emmett Brady, +and known socially as “Hip Shot,” made a specialty of this brand. Hip +Shot was not so named for his ability to shoot from the hip. A greaser +with too much whisky under his burnt-umber-tinted skin decided to hold +pistol-practice in front of Hip Shot’s mirror. The shooting was good, +only the greaser didn’t happen to be facing the mirror, and Hip Shot +got the bullet in his hip--hence the name. + +Hip Shot peddled politics with his hooch. He would put a bottle of the +above-named beverage on the bar, square back from it with his left hand +shoved in above the fifth button of his greasy vest, wave his free hand +in a sweeping gesture, and proclaim: + +“Thar she is, boys! Th’ nectar of th’ gods and Willyum Jennin’s. Long +may she wave. Hurrah fer Free Silver! Drink hearty, ’cause th’ cellar’s +full.” + +But it wasn’t always full. One morning Hip Shot wended his wabbling +way to his place of business, only to find his cellar empty. Someone +had broken in the back door, looted his cellar, and all that was left +was an empty whisky-barrel, and nailed to this barrel was a large +piece of cardboard, with this inscription written thereon in six-inch +letters: + + HURRAW FOR McKINLEY + +Out back of the saloon were the tracks of a mule team and a wagon, but +these were lost where they turned into the traveled road. Hip Shot +mourned his loss all the rest of his life. Not so much the loss of the +whisky, but the unlimited gall of the person who printed that card got +under Hip Shot’s tough skin. + +The rest of this tale must be told by Shiner Seymour, as he sat tilted +back in the shade of Frenchy Burgoyne’s stage-station and carved out a +new bridge for his mandolin. + + * * * * * + +No, yuh see, me and Friday McGovern wasn’t what you’d exactly call +desperate characters. Uh course his name wasn’t Friday no more than +mine’s Shiner. He jist happened to come to work fer th’ Bar B on that +day of th’ week, and we was plumb out uh nicknames. We had somebody +named fer every day of th’ week except Sunday, and, rememberin’ th’ +teachin’s of our youth, we aims to keep that day holy by leavin’ it +off our list. They used to call them six th’ “Week Bunch,” but there +wasn’t nothin’ weak about th’ Bar B in th’ year 1904. + +Friday McGovern was about six feet tall, red hair, mustache like uh +greaser and uh chin like th’ King of Spain. He only had one +vanity--small feet. He allus tried to git his number tens into number +nine boots. + +Friday’s been makin’ reg’lar trips to Paradise, and I has my suspicions +that there’s uh girl in th’ case. Them suspicions git stronger when I +finds Friday soakin’ his new boots in th’ hoss-trough to make ’em +soft-like. + +I never could find out why they calls this town Paradise. If it +resembles in any way th’ place what th’ sky pilots tells us about, I +can do th’ rest of my sinnin’ with uh satisfied conscience. + +One noon Friday comes to me and orates that he’d like to speak privately +to me. + +“Shiner,” sez he, “I wants yuh to do me uh favor. Will yuh?” + +I tells him that I’m willin’ to do anythin’ in th’ favor line from +lendin’ him money to takin’ uh shot at th’ sheriff. + +“Th’ first I’ve got uh plenty,” he states; plenty meanin’ about forty +dollars. “But I may desire th’ last.” + +“Meanin’ that yuh wants me to go gunnin’ fer Sheriff Wilmot?” + +“Not right at first, Shiner,” sez he. “Yuh see, it’s thisaway. I’m +in--uh--I’m aimin’ to marry his daughter, Matilda.” + +“Uh-huh,” sez I. “Yuh desires that I remove th’ barrier to yore future +happiness. Does th’ ol’ man object that hard, Friday?” + +“Danged if I know. I writes him uh letter day afore yesterday, in which +I states my desires and I proclaims to appear this evenin’ and fix up +th’ details with him. Will yuh go with me, Shiner?” + +“Why don’t yuh go right up to him and say, ‘Mister Wilmot, I desires +yore daughter in wedlock.’ Jist like that?” + +“Because I knowed that--well, dog-gone it, Shiner, uh letter is th’ best +I figgers. It sorta gives uh feller time to cool off. _Sabe?_” + +“How does Matilda feel toward yuh, Friday?” I asks. + +“Oh, her! She ain’t got nothin’ agin’ me that I knows of. Will yuh go +with me?” + +I been sorta gittin’ in uh rut, layin’ around th’ ranch and I kinda +hankers fer action, so I tells him I’m happy to be of any use on +earth. We saddles up uh li’l later on and pilgrims down toward his +heart’s desire. + + * * * * * + +We’re about three miles from Paradise, ridin’ along slow-like, when we +sees ol’ Sheriff Wilmot and three other men ridin’ toward us, and every +one of them are packin’ uh rifle loose in their hands. + +Friday don’t ask no foolish questions. He swings his bronc around and +throws in th’ spurs, and li’l Shiner is right with him. As we dips into +uh dry gully, I feels th’ wind from uh bullet fan my cheek, but we’re +goin’ so fast that th’ report never irritates our ear-drums. + +We burns up th’ earth fer about three miles to th’ south fork of th’ +Li’l Muddy, where we loses our friends in th’ willers in th’ bottom. +We swims our broncs across and cuts into th’ breaks of th’ west +side. I don’t remember of uh word bein’ spoken since th’ first shot +is fired, but as we slides off our smokin’ broncs, Friday inhales +deep-like on his cigaret and wipes th’ sweat off his manly brow. + +“My Gawd!” sez he, sad-like. “I don’t believe that ol’ man Wilmot likes +me.” + +“Well,” sez I, “mebby he don’t, but if he don’t he’s shore tryin’ +almighty hard to git somethin’ he don’t like.” + +“It ain’t right,” wails Friday, “jist because he don’t cotton to my love +proposition ain’t no reason fer him to git up uh posse to hunt me down. +Hanged ol’ fossilized, sheep-faced----” + +“Don’t! Remember, Friday, he’s her father. No matter how full uh holes +he shoots yuh, he’s still her father.” + +“It’s real nice of yuh, Shiner,” sez he, “to tell me to remember. I +ain’t that danged absent-minded.” + +“Now that we understand each other,” sez I, “and while th’ fond parent +is still lookin’ in th’ willers for his future son-in-law like Pharaoh’s +daughter, suppose yuh tell me what you figger on doin’.” + +“Me? I’m goin’ right back to see my Matilda.” + +“Yore Matilda! Dog-gone it all, Friday, don’t yuh know when you ain’t +wanted? Yore Matilda! Cripes!” + +Friday picks up his reins and climbs back into his saddle. + +“Shiner,” sez he, “I’ve got to see her before I know whether I’m wanted +or not, ain’t I? Mebby th’ ol’ man don’t want me, but yuh got to figger +I ain’t goin’ to marry him.” + +“Did yuh ever ask Matilda?” I asks, as I forks my bronc. + +“Well, not exactly, but I’ve come so danged near it, Shiner, that if +she’s got any _sabe_ a-tall she’s plumb wise that I’m matrimonial +inclined toward her.” + +We pilgrims down th’ west side, and by th’ time we swims our broncs +across th’ river it’s plumb dark. I’m glad it is ’cause I don’t hanker +none to be seen in Friday’s company--not by th’ sheriff. + +We circles th’ town and rides slow up to Wilmot’s gate. + +“You stay out here, Shiner,” sez he. “Yell if yuh need help. I’m goin’ +in to see where I stands.” + +There’s uh lamp burnin’ in th’ front room, and I can hear Matilda +playin’ “Lead, Kindly Light” on th’ organ. Friday has gone around to +th’ back door, and pretty soon th’ “Kindly Light” flickers out, and +I hears voices sorta dronin’ like behind th’ house. + +Friday comes sneakin’ back in about five minutes and gits back on his +bronc. He looks over toward th’ town and then “Come on,” sez he, and +he leads me out into th’ dark, away from Paradise and further from +our downy beds at th’ Bar B. Th’ lights of th’ town die out before he +pulls up his hoss and looks back. + +“Shiner,” sez he sorta sad-like, “what color is yore bronc?” + +“My bronc? Th’ one I’m ridin’?” + +“Uh-huh.” + +“Pinto, yuh color-blind maverick!” + +“What’s mine?” + +“Light sorrel.” + +“And you packs uh .38 six-gun?” + +“Uh-huh.” + +“My Gawd! Lissen, Shiner. Early this afternoon th’ Wind River stage was +held up by two fellers who rode uh pinto and uh light sorrel. One uh +them shoots Mike Evans, th’ driver, three times with uh .38. Nobody at +th’ Bar B knows when we left there. They answers our descriptions. Wore +masks of course.” + +“Why worry?” sez I. “We didn’t do it, Friday.” + +“Thanks,” sez Friday. “That’s cheerin’ news, Shiner, but it won’t put +no ray of light into my soul if I has to stand on nothin’ and look up +uh rope. When mornin’ comes we shore got to be uh long ways away from +here, and I knows jist th’ place to go. Remember that li’l cabin we +found hid away in th’ brush at th’ head of Blue Joint Cañon? I’ll bet +that ol’ man Wilmot never heard of it, and we won’t starve either.” + +“How do yuh know we won’t? There ain’t nothin’ to eat there.” + +Friday laughs and tells me to come on. + + * * * * * + +It’s daylight when we angles around th’ head of th’ cañon and rides up +to th’ cabin. This li’l cabin shore is cached away. Yuh has to almost +stumble on it before yuh finds it, and if yuh stand on th’ roof yuh can +see th’ railroad what connects Paradise with th’ civilized world. Th’ +track is about two miles away. + +We unsaddles and puts our broncs in th’ corral behind th’ cabin and goes +inside. I’m hungry enough to eat th’ bark off uh tree. + +“I reckon th’ stuff is still here,” grins Friday. + +He walks to th’ back of th’ cabin and begins to take up uh section of +th’ puncheon floor. It’s dark in th’ place but we can see that there +is sort of uh cellar. + +Friday gits down on his knees and pokes under th’ floor. He gits hold of +uh box which falls apart some easy, but he gits it out on th’ floor +where it busts up complete, disclosin’ twelve quarts of whisky! “Bottled +in Bond, Spring of 1896. SIXTEEN TO ONE.” + +Friday stares at th’ bottles fer uh minute and then digs deeper into th’ +cellar. More hooch. Box after box he unearths until our cabin looks like +th’ storeroom of uh booze factory. Th’ last thing he brings up is uh keg +uh brandy, th’ same of which he uses fer uh chair, and rolls uh smoke. + +“Well,” sez I, “while I appreciates yore hospitality, Friday, you shore +misunderstood me if yuh thought I said I was dry. I said I was hungry +enough to----” + +“Huh!” he grunts. “Don’t try to be sarcastic when yore surrounded by +spirits, Shiner. Any outlaw what packs uh .38 gun ain’t noways fit to +despise real likker.” + +“’Pears to me it’s open season on sarcasm,” I replies. “When did you +steal all this hooch?” + +Friday rolls another cigaret and knocks th’ top off uh bottle. He does +uh li’l stargazin’ and wipes his lips. + +“That ain’t so awful bad, Shiner--help yoreself. I never stole anythin’. +I’ll tell yuh how I knows about this cache. When I was over to Helena +this Spring I runs across an ol’ jasper who used to _sabe_ this range uh +heap. Strongest Republican I ever heard talk politics. One evenin’ after +he recites th’ tariff and th’ Congressional Record into my willin’ ear, +we gits to talkin’ about this country, and I tells him about this cabin. +I remarks that it would make uh dandy hangout fer rustlers. He listens +deeply, and after I gits through he says: ‘If yuh ever are in real need, +go to that cabin and take up th’ floor at th’ rear. There’s uh fine +cache uh canned goods and yore welcome to it.’ Dog-gone it, I thought he +meant grub, Shiner.” + +“Oh, well,” sez I satisfied-like, pryin’ th’ cork out of uh fresh +bottle, “he meant well and I forgives him for makin’ uh misleadin’ +statement. I don’t seem to hanker fer eats now.” + +Right that evenin’ I forms uh strong friendship fer Friday McGovern. I +loves him like uh brother. In fact I’m so attached to him that I sleeps +with my head on his bosom. + +It was th’ grayest mornin’ I ever saw. There’s uh strong smell of hooch +in th’ cabin, and I seems to have accumulated uh headache and uh feelin’ +of extreme lassitude. Friday wakes up and announces that his feelin’s +runs mine uh dead heat. + +“Shiner,” sez he sorta sad-like, “I know now jist how my ol’ daddy used +to feel. I used to laugh when he gits up in th’ mornin’ and can’t seem +to locate his mouth.” + +“You tells me oncet that yore daddy was uh preacher,” sez I. + +“Ke-rect. I’m speakin’ now of when he was on his vacation. Father was +what you’d call uh human bein’. Will yuh have uh li’l snifter uh booze +fer an appetizer, Mister Seymour?” + +Not havin’ anythin’ to eat, we decides to drown our hunger. My appetite +goes down fer th’ third time inside one quart, and in uh short time +we’re recountin’ our trials and tribulations with great cheer. + +“I wonder if Daddy Wilmot is still pokin’ around in th’ willers fer his +prospective son-in-law?” laughs Friday. “Also I wonder if Matilda----” + +“Lissen, Friday. If I was you I’d go light on that booze. Bein’ in love +that-away uh feller is liable to overestimate his capacity. Thinkin’ of +Matilda sorta makes yore heart come up in yore throat, and gives that +much more room fer yore stummick. When yore insides git back to normal +yuh finds yoreself fuller than uh wood-tick.” + +“Tha’s so,” he agrees, solemnly. “I--uh--cripes, Shiner, I jist +remembers that them broncs been out there in that ol’ corral all night +without uh bite to eat. I reckon I better see about ’em, eh? Goo’ ol’ +light sorrel.” + +Friday weaves out of th’ door and around th’ corner, but he don’t no +more than git out uh sight before I hears him grunt “My Gawd!” and +he’s right back in like uh prairie-dog dodgin’ uh bullet. He leans +agin’ th’ door fer uh minute and then reaches over and gits uh full +bottle uh hooch. + +_Smash!_ That perfectly good likker splashes over th’ floor and he +reaches fer another bottle. I beats him to it and grabs him by th’ vest. + +“What’s th’ matter?” I asks. + +“Gosh A’mighty!” he mumbles, tryin’ to git loose, and reachin’ fer +another bottle. “Smash all of it, Shiner! Don’t drink ’nother drop! +Jis’ saw uh-uh geewhinkus!” + +“You recognizes it to be such?” I asks. + +“Absolutely. Thish is fiersh. Geewhinkus is comin’ ’round th’ head of +th’ cañon, and when he sees me he shoves out his ears and----” + +“Does it usually carry ’em outa sight?” I asks. “Set down and let th’ +pain-killer alone while Uncle Fuller classifies said ani-mile. I’d +admire to see uh geewhinkus--me.” + +I walks outside and goes half-way around th’ corner and--then I ambles +right back again. I wasn’t gone long. + +Sufferin’ caterpillars! What I seen was uh plenty. Right on th’ bank of +that cañon stands uh critter that nothin’ but uh disordered mind could +conceive. There’s about seventeen feet uh spotted neck stickin’ out of +uh mesquite, and when it sees me it leans forward like th’ crane of uh +steam-shovel. Did I stop to classify it? I did not! + +“Yuh--yuh sees it too, eh?” whoops Friday, puttin’ his arms around my +neck and rubbin’ his long nose in my ear. + +“Too!” I snorts, breakin’ th’ clinch. “Why dog-gone it, Friday, you +didn’t see nothin’! Put that bottle down! What yuh tryin’ to do--start +uh mee-nagerie?” + +“Well,” sez Friday, grinnin’ like uh halfbreed, “I’m glad yuh saw it. +Now yuh can’t say I was lyin’.” + +“Friday, you ain’t got enough imaginations to do uh good job uh lyin’. +Geewhinkus! Dad-bust it, Friday McGovern, don’t you know uh speckled +whangdoodle when yuh sees one?” + +“That whisky must be mixed. I states without reservations that what +I sees wasn’t uh whangdoodle, and moreover and otherwise, Shiner, it +wasn’t speckled--it was striped.” + +Jist then we hears uh rattle of busted poles at th’ back of th’ cabin, +uh bronc squeals sorta hysterical-like, and we rushes to th’ door. Right +past th’ cabin comes uh pinto hoss and uh light sorrel, and they seems +to consider th’ case some urgent. We watches ’em out uh sight and looks +foolishly at each other. + +“Oh, lovely!” sez Friday, cryin’ on my bosom. “All th’ world seems +brighter and th’ flowers are singin’ and--don’t yuh git it, Shiner? +There goes th’ evidence.” + +“Yes,” sez I, “I git it. I also gits th’ first-hand information that +it’s about two days’ walk back to th’ dinin’-room of th’ Bar B. Th’ +birds shore are in bloom, Friday. Go and do yore cryin’ in th’ +waterbucket.” + +“Walkin’,” pronounces Friday, “don’t appeal to my finer sensibilities, +but I’d rather have blisters than hemp pizen.” + +We goes back in th’ cabin and sets down. Friday aims to set down on his +private brandy-keg, but his sights are uh li’l off and he misses it by +uh foot. He rolls uh cigaret and ponders deeply before he thinks out +loud-- + +“I wonder if my Matilda is thinkin’ of me now.” + +“I hope so,” sez I. “Not wishin’ her any bad luck, but it wouldn’t seem +right fer uh nice-lookin’ feller like you to not have somebody thinkin’ +of him.” + +“Uh-huh,” agrees Friday. “I feels that in th’ great game of love I’m--my +Gawd!” When Friday starts that sentence I sees his eyes git bigger and +bigger and his voice trails off to uh li’l squeak, and his concludin’ +exclamation was like uh whisper in church. + +I turns and looks to see what he’s starin’ at. There’s uh li’l window at +th’ rear of th’ cabin, th’ glass of which is long departed, and somebody +has made uh li’l door with strap hinges which opens from th’ inside. + +That door is open, and th’ dangdest-lookin’ face in th’ whole world is +lookin’ into our bood-wah. I can’t describe jist what it looks like to +me. Th’ under lip of th’ thing appeals to me more than any other +feature, and I reckon it did to Friday, too, ’cause after uh good long +look he turns to me and foolishly remarks-- + +“Anything with uh droop like that ought to wear suspenders.” And then he +comes to himself and starts to git scared. + +Th’ longer he looks at th’ animule th’ wider his eyes git, and his long +chin dangles to th’ top button of his vest. Finally he can’t stand it +no longer. He lets out uh whoop that would win him a head-dress in th’ +Piegan tribe, and goes through the front door like uh shot. + +I quits makin’ faces at th’ monstrosity in th’ window long enough to +observe Friday’s movements. He lights on his knees, slides along fer uh +spell, and then lights back on his feet at th’ side of his geewhinkus. +Honest to grandma! Talk about uh wolf in sheep’s clothing. This looks +to me like uh burro in tiger’s clothing. + +I reckon if uh man gits scared enough he’ll tackle anythin’, ’cause when +Friday lands on his feet and sees that convict jackass beside him, he +jist lets out another of them yelps and forks th’ blamed thing. + +Mebby it was th’ critter of uh delerious brain, but jist th’ same +Friday locks his long legs around that striped belly and away they +goes, buckin’ and bawlin’ down th’ side of th’ cañon. + + * * * * * + +I rolls uh cigaret and ponders deep on th’ failin’s uh mankind. Not too +deep, ’cause nobody can git their thoughts connected with uh face like +that lookin’ on, so I hits it dead center with uh quart uh Sixteen to +One and shuts th’ window. + +Mebby I’d have been better off if I’d have shut th’ door first, ’cause +when I turns around, there stands th’ same animile or its mate lookin’ +in th’ door. + +Mebby I was as scared as Friday was or mebby I jist lost my head, +’cause th’ next thing I knowed I was outside and runnin’ long side of +th’ thing. Not carin’ much for th’ manly art of foot-racin’, I manages +to git uh holt on th’ critter’s neck and climbs aboard. + +It’s like tryin’ to stick on uh steer with uh pack on his back. Some of +th’ time I’m up on its long neck, and then I takes uh trip to th’ rear, +behind th’ hump, but no matter where I rode we went some. Th’ shifts +didn’t seem to bother it none. I never rode anythin’ with uh gait like +that. Feels to me like uh pacin’ hoss with th’ blind staggers. + +I reckon we’re gone about uh mile down th’ cañon when I unloads. Yuh +see, I was on th’ observation end when this hanglipped animile decides +to hit uh curve, and I don’t curve a-tall. + +“Aw-revoah!” sez I, as I hits th’ edge of uh clay-bank and sprawls +gracefully to th’ bottom. + +“And -- Satan came also,” quotes uh voice, and I looks up to see Friday +on th’ other side of th’ pit, diggin’ clay out of his ears. He’s uh +sight. + +“Seems to be uh popular stoppin’-place,” sez I. “Where’s yore +geewhinkus?” + +Friday quits diggin’ long enough to grin and state: + +“That blasted penitenchery mewl has went. Fer high and handsome buckin’ +I takes off my hat to that thing, Shiner. Either I’m drunk as uh +hoot-owl or I’ve rode th’ buckinest thing ever foaled. I sticks like uh +man until it starts pinwheelin’. It hops into th’ air and turns over +four times, and I’m there unto th’ third revolution. This clay-pit was +handy but nasty.” + +“I reckon yore drunk, Friday,” I states. “Th’ thing I rides didn’t have +to buck. Th’ gait of th’ thing was worse than any bucker on earth. +Nothin’ on th’ earth could have stuck on if it wants to buck.” + +“Uh-huh,” sez Friday, rollin’ uh smoke. “I reckon we’re both drunk. +There was too blasted much politics distilled in that stuff. I’m goin’ +to climb right out uh this place and see if I can find--git down! Here +comes th’ posse.” + +We climbs up and peeks over th’ edge of th’ pit and sees some riders +comin’ up through th’ mesquite. We can’t see how many. We slides down +to th’ bottom and hugs th’ bank. We hears ’em comin’ along and they +swings into th’ thick brush above our hidin’-place. + +All to oncet we hears ’em stop suddenlike, and then one uh them yells +“Holy smoke!” And then th’ convention is called to order. + +_Bim!_ _Blang!_ I hears two six-guns pop, uh bronc whistles like +somebody was brandin’ th’ map of Texas on its hide, and then th’ privacy +of our li’l mud-pit is invaded. + +I don’t reckon that them broncs know about this clay-bank, but from th’ +way they piles over th’ edge I don’t reckon they cares uh lot either. + +Me and Friday rolls as far as possible from th’ strife, and after th’ +mud quits failin’ we gazes upon th’ disaster. Over by th’ far bank +stands uh light sorrel hoss, with th’ saddle under its belly, th’ reins +looped around its hind feet and uh wild look in its eyes. + +Th’ other bronc, which we decipher to be uh pinto, is on its side, +half-way down th’ bank, and is makin’ good use of its wind and legs +tryin’ to slide th’ rest of th’ way. + +One of th’ riders is jack-knifed in th’ bottom of th’ pit and th’ other +is layin’ flat on his back with his boots stickin’ up th’ bank. Sort of +uh careless attitude. + +Neither uh them riders is showin’ signs uh life, so me and Friday rolls +fresh smokes and deliberates. After a while Friday walks over and picks +uh gun out of th’ mud. He looks it over and shoves it in his pocket. + +“Thirty-eight,” sez he. “I reckon we’ve captured th’ bandits.” + +“Yes,” I agrees, “we shore have. I reckon we ought to git medals fer our +good work. It took uh lot uh schemin’, Friday.” + +“Never look uh gift hoss in th’ mouth, Shiner. That’s what my ol’ daddy +said when th’ bunch down to Maverick gives him twenty minutes to get out +of th’ place.” + +“Was he holdin’ services there, Friday?” + +“No, he--he was takin’ his vacation. Yuh see, he--gosh, here comes some +more folks!” + +Somebody is comin’ up th’ gulch on hosses, and from th’ noise they’re +makin’ they shore are in uh hurry. We tries to git up th’ bank to flag +’em, but it’s too slick and we jist skees back to th’ bottom. Jist when +I fills my lungs to yell out that we’re down in th’ washout, we hears +some cussin’ in about six different voices, and _Zowie!_ uh bronc busts +through th’ mesquite, and before we has time to clear th’ track we has +another mess of man and hoss in th’ bottom of our li’l clay-pit. + +“Our popularity increases!” whoops Friday. “If this keeps up I’m goin’ +to have this pit platted and sell town lots.” We hauls th’ rider from +under th’ hoss, leans him up agin’ th’ bank and gloms th’ clay out of +his features. His eyes open and he stares at Friday. + +“How’s Matilda?” asks Friday. + +“Tolable, Friday, tolable,” sez ol’ man Wilmot, th’ sheriff. “What have +I got into? I--er--huh”--He spits out uh chew of perfectly good moist +clay and looks at th’ other two on th’ ground and at th’ broncs. “Well, +by th’ ha’r on uh fool-hen, if there ain’t th’ pair of them! How’d yuh +do it?” + +“We’d rather not tell, eh, Shiner?” sez Friday. “Yuh see, Mister Wilmot, +me and Shiner--well, there’s th’ men yuh want. We figgers that you’ll be +along pretty soon so we don’t even tie ’em up.” + +Th’ sheriff goes over and inspects th’ pair. They’re still in th’ +land of th’ livin’ but they ain’t fussin’ about it. We helps all th’ +live-stock on their feet and then sets down and enjoys uh smoke. + +“Where’s yore posse?” asks Friday. + +“My posse! By th’ ha’r on th’--huh, I plumb forgot ’em. We was all +ridin’ up th’ cañon, and we figgers that we’re on uh red-hot trail. +All to oncet our hosses goes plumb loco at somethin’. I reckon it was +uh bear. ’Pears to me that I was th’ only one what was pointed this +way. Yes sir, it must ’a’ been uh bear.” + +“Shore,” I agrees. “Must ’a’ been, ’cause that’s th’ only thing in th’ +hills that would scare uh bronc thataway.” + +“Sheriff,” sez Friday, “did yuh ever hear of whisky called ‘Sixteen to +One’?” + +Th’ ol’ man scratches his head fer uh minute and then grins all over his +face. + +“Gosh!” sez he. “I shore have. Reminds me of Hip Shot Brady and his +political orations. Boys, somewheres in these hills is uh hooch cache, +and if anybody ever finds it they’ll have one hy-iu time. I’ll bet by +this time that stuff would give uh man th’ finest collection of animiles +on earth. Where did you hear of Sixteen to One, Friday?” + +“Yes, it shore would,” agrees Friday, turnin’ his face away and gazin’ +up th’ cañon, “it would--oh, my daddy brought some. That is, he tol’ me +about it.” + +“His father was uh preacher,” I explains. + +“Name of McGovern?” asks Wilmot. + +“No,” sez Friday. “Yuh see, his folks didn’t want him to be uh preacher +so he traveled under another name. Different one in each town.” + +“Well,” sez th’ sheriff, “some people are queer thataway. I reckon we +better tie these stick-up artists on their broncs and be on our way. +You fellers can ride behind ’em--that is if th’ broncs don’t object.” + +“I never questions uh bronc’s desires,” states Friday. + +“Me and Shiner can ride anything yuh can put uh rope on, can’t we, +Shiner?” + +“Why qualify yore statement by sayin’ ‘ropes’?” sez I. + +We ropes them fellers on their broncs, and climbs up with ’em. Uh course +no self-respectin’ bronc likes to carry two grown men, but there’s too +much weight to make buckin’ uh pleasure so they gits plumb docile in uh +few minutes. We tops th’ far side of th’ cañon and stops to look around, +but there ain’t nobody in sight. + +“My posse is vanished,” sez th’ sheriff. “I reckon they all know th’ +way home, so we won’t worry. I forgot to tell you boys that there’s uh +thousand dollars reward fer these two clay-spotted hombres. I reckon +yuh won’t have no trouble in collectin’ it.” + +“Thanks,” sez Friday. “How’s Ma--til----” + +“Tolable,” grins Wilmot. “I comes near gittin’ these two fellers last +night. I surrounds ’em in th’ willers up on th’ south fork, but they +gits away. I’m up there in th’ cold all night. Dog-gone, I reckon if +I’d have got sight of ’em I’d shore have punctured somebody. They has +th’ gall to ride right out in th’ open, and not over three miles from +Paradise. What do yuh know about that?” + +“Hardened characters,” I agrees, and Friday burns most all th’ ha’r off +one side of his dinky li’l mustache tryin’ to smoke uh lighted match +after he throws away his cigaret. + +“Say, where’s yore own hosses?” asks th’ sheriff. “I never thought about +them.” + +“I don’t know,” replies Friday, truthfully. “They wasn’t camp broke and +leaves us last night.” + + * * * * * + +We cuts into th’ wagon road about five miles from Paradise, and meets +Barney Metcalf and Hugh Mercer, of th’ Flying M outfit. They’re dustin’ +along in uh buckboard, and stops to talk. We explains what we got with +us and they congratulates us uh heap. + +“We been over to Silver Bend,” states Barney. “Left our rig in Paradise +and pilgrims down there on th’ train. We aimed to see th’ circus, but +th’ danged thing got wrecked some place and ain’t showed up yet. We had +to come home. Anyway, it wasn’t nothin’ but a animile show.” + +“That’s all,” agrees Hugh. “But dad blast th’ luck! I did want to see +that one-humped camule, th’ zeebray and that sixteen-foot ji-raff.” + +“Aw, them folks allus says they got somethin’ they ain’t,” grumbles th’ +sheriff. “I never seen half th’ things that they advertise in circuses.” + +“These people are re-liable,” states Friday. “I know.” + +“Well, mebby,” agrees Barney, gatherin’ up his lines. “So-long, boys.” + +“Say,” yells Friday, “where did yuh say that wreck was?” + +“I didn’t say,” replies Barney, “but I hears that it’s some place +between Paradise and Silver Bend.” + +“Exactly,” sez Friday. + +We ambles along fer uh spell and then ol’ man Wilmot sez: + +“That makes me remember that Matilda tells me that you two fellers had +gone down to see th’ circus day before yesterday. She speaks of it late +last night--or rather this mornin’ early after I gits back from th’ +south fork.” + +“God bless--shore we did intend to,” sez I, “but when we finds out that +it’s nothin’ but a animile show we decides not to. Yuh see, sheriff, me +and Friday ain’t noways partial to animiles.” + +“Did yuh ever see uh geewhinkus or uh whangdoodle, sheriff?” asks +Friday. + +“Not to my certain knowledge, Friday. I’ve seen most everythin’, drunk +or sober, but I never seen th’ things yuh mention,” laughs th’ sheriff. + +“Was yuh ever almighty drunk?” asks Friday. + +“Not so very,” grins th’ sheriff. + +“Well,” sez I, “you never seen ’em then.” + +We was dog-gone glad when we ambles into Paradise and down to th’ +li’l jail on th’ outskirts of town. It ain’t no cinch to ride behind +uh saddle and hang on to uh half-dead outlaw, especially when yore so +danged hungry yuh could eat th’ horn off uh cow. + +Th’ prisoners don’t seem to take no interest in th’ trip a-tall, but +jist as we gits in sight of th’ jail th’ one which I’m chaperonin’ sorta +comes to and looks me in th’ face. He reaches up and picks out uh gob uh +clay which is still stickin’ in between his eye and his nose, rolls it +in his fingers slow-like and then sez to me in uh sort of uh mumble-- + +“It had uh-uh-uh neck--twenty--feet long.” + +“Uh-huh,” sez I. “Go back to sleep and don’t worry. It can’t bother yuh +where yore goin’.” + +“I was sober, too,” he whispers. + +“Don’t feel bad about it,” I whispers right back at him. “I wasn’t.” + +We puts them outlaws into th’ jail and sends fer ol’ Doc Milliken. Th’ +sheriff gives us th’ broncs to ride home on and we starts out fer th’ +restaurant to make up fer lost time. + +“Come down tomorrow, boys, and we’ll fix up about that reward!” yells +th’ sheriff. “And also, Friday, yuh might come down and see how Matilda +is yoreself. Haw! Haw! Haw!” + +“Ain’t he th’ ol’ cuss?” chuckles Friday, searchin’ fer his sack uh +smokin’. “Ain’t he, Shiner? Dog-gone his ol’ hide, I love him. Funny +ol’ cuss in his way, but I reckon we’re all queer some ways. Foxy ol’ +feller, Shiner. Did yuh notice that he never mentioned gittin’ that +let--my Gawd!” + +Friday has been friskin’ all of his pockets fer that sack uh tobacco, +and he happens to reach into th’ inside pocket of his vest. He pulls +out an envelope, looks foolish-like at it fer uh minute or two and then +tears it up and scatters it along th’ trail. When they’re all gone I +hands him his pack of tobacco. He rolls uh smoke sorta thoughtful-like +and lights up. + +“Shiner,” sez he, “I got uh danged rotten memory, but I’m glad of it. +That communication I jist tears up nets us jist five hundred apiece, +and probably saves my life. + +“If th’ sheriff got that letter about th’ time that hold-up is pulled +off--well, I’m glad fer my sake that he never got it. Mebby he won’t +let me marry her anyway.” + +“Not wishin’ to pose as uh sure thing gambler, Friday,” sez I, “but from +th’ present indications, yore chances look to me like about Sixteen to +One. Want to bet?” + +“Not on your whangdoodle!” sez Friday. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78340 *** |