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diff --git a/78633-0.txt b/78633-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..625447a --- /dev/null +++ b/78633-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1017 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78633 *** + + THE WISDOM OF THE OUIJA + + W. C. Tuttle + + Author of “Precedents in Piperock,” “Another Ace for Ananias,” etc. + + +Me and “Dirty Shirt” Jones stops there in the trail and watches +“Scenery” Sims gallop up to us, wild-eyed and weary. He almost falls +over one of our burros, and stands there blowing and heaving, looking +back up the trail like he was scared plumb to death. + +Scenery is one of them squeaky little half-baked hunks of humanity +who everybody feels so sorry for that they won’t kill. Right now he’s +the sheriff of Yaller Rock County, and from the looks of him he ain’t +figuring his official title as much protection. + +Then cometh a larger figure of a man, galloping down the trail towards +us. He’s hitting heavy on his left foot like he’d come quite a ways, +and when he skids up to us we recognize “Wick” Smith, our general +merchandiser of the city of Piperock. Wick is about seven-eighths out +of wind. He grabs a mouthful of mountain air and chaws it plentiful +while he glares at poor little Scenery. + +“Kuk-keep off’n mum-me,” pants Scenery, waving his arms. + +“You-you bub-buster of huh-huh-homes!” weeps Wick, the tears running +into his whiskers. “You--you----” + +“I ain’t,” wails Scenery. “I ain’t none such, Wick.” + +“Spirits don’t lie, ---- yuh,” howls Wick. “They can’t lie, I tell yuh.” + +“That one did,” wheezes Scenery. “I’d tell it to its face, too.” + +“Look out,” warns Wick. “You can’t monkey with the dead, Scenery.” + +“Aw, ---- you and your living ghosts,” howls Scenery, and then the race +starts all over again. + +Scenery ducks between two of our burros and starts back towards town, +and Wick lets out a whoop and starts after him. + +Wick had plenty of time to go around them burros, but I reckon he +figured he could go where Scenery did. Wick was wrong. That Lodestone +burro must ’a’ felt sorry for Scenery, or maybe he wasn’t set, but he +sure was primed when Wick tried to pass his south end. We propped Wick +up against a rock and felt him over for busted bones, but found none. + +“Shall we pack him to town?” I asks, but Dirty Shirt shakes his head. + +“Let him rest in peace, Ike. We don’t know what this is all about, so +we’d better keep neutral as much as possible.” + +We stirred up them burros and topped the hill, when we meets Scenery +Sims once more. Scenery is shy one sleeve of his shirt and seems to be +running regardless. I have my doubts if he even seen us this time. + +We stops and watched him fade off down the trail, towards where we left +Wick, and then we turn to meet Mrs. Wick Smith. Mrs. Smith is too fat to +run, but she can hurry. Dirty Shirt flagged her with his hat, and she +shuffled to a stop. She’s got Scenery’s sleeve in her hand, and she mops +her forehead plentiful with it and wheezes wofully. + +“Tryin’ to reduce?” asks Dirty Shirt, respectful-like. + +“Huh-huh-huh-huh--” she pants. + +“Warm today, Mrs. Smith,” says I. + +“Whu-whu-where’s--huh-huh-huh--Wicksie?” she whistles. Dirty points down +the trail. + +“Dud-dead?” + +“Not dead, but sleepin’,” says Dirty. + +“Did-did he catch Sus-Scenery?” + +“Not the first time,” says I, “but Scenery seems to have gone back to +give him another chance. What in ---- is it all about?” + +But Mrs. Smith shoved them burros to one side and waddled off down the +trail, waving that shirt sleeve and puffing like a compound engine. + +Me and Dirty looks foolish at each other and then pokes on up the trail +towards Piperock. + +If you don’t know where Piperock is--be happy in your ignorance. It’s +a town where ignorance is bliss and where it’s disastrous to have your +gun stick. Old “Half-Mile” Smith says that Piperock is one place where +nobody has ever been hanged by mistake--they all deserve it. + +One thing you can say for Piperock: She never does anything half-way. +When that town starts to pull off something--it’s pulled. It may cost +suffering and regrets, but she’s there to the bitter end, like a dose +of quinin. + +Me and Dirty Shirt had been hunting for placer up around the head of +Whisperin’ Creek and are just getting back home. As usual we didn’t +find nothing but indications of hard work. + +Why Scenery Sims, Wick Smith and Mrs. Smith are seeking each other’s +gore is beyond us, but we don’t marvel much, being as anything is apt +to happen in Piperock. + +We drifts into the main street, where we meets “Mighty” Jones. + +Mighty don’t welcome us as he should, so we chides him about it. + +“I ain’t got no cheer in my carcass,” says Mighty sad-like. “I’ve just +had a message from my wife.” + +“Your wife?” grunts Dirty Shirt. “You ain’t got no wife, have yuh?” + +“I dunno.” + +Mighty scratches his head and squints at us. “I dunno, Dirty. I ain’t +never been married as I knows about, but you can’t get messages from +somethin’ yuh never had, can yuh?” + +“From your wife?” I asks. + +I’ve knowed Mighty for ten years, and he’s never had any wife during +that time. + +“That’s what the message said, Ike.” + +“What did she say to yuh, Mighty?” asks Dirty. + +“She said, ‘Go to ----; this place is full.’” + +“Must ’a’ been your wife,” admits Dirty, “or somebody what knows yuh +well.” + + * * * * * + +We left Mighty standing there in the street, feeling bad about his +message, and pokes up to my cabin--mine and “Magpie’s.” Magpie Simpkins, +my pardner, is another misfit of humanity, being as he’s so tall that he +has to sew an addition to the ends of his pant legs to enable said pant +legs to enter the tops of his boots. + +He’s thirty inches around the waist, wears hair on his upper lip, and +the top of his head is a vast storehouse of ideas with parts missing. + +Me and Dirty prods the burros up to the open front door and looks +inside. There sits Magpie and “Buck” Masterson the saloonkeeper, facing +each other. + +On their laps is a flat board. On top of that is a smaller board with +three spindling legs. Magpie and Buck have got their finger-tips on +this little board, and are both setting straight and stiff, peering at +the ceiling. + +Sort of setting between them and on the far side is Judge Steele. The +judge has got a pencil and paper, and he watches the game real close, +putting something down on the paper every little while. Pretty soon he +says: + +“ ‘Hard-Pan’ Hawkins is talking. Dirty Shirt Jones stole calves----” + +“Just a minute,” interrupts Dirty Shirt. “Who is passing out all this +information, judge?” + +The three of them turn around and looks at us. Dirty Shirt is sort of +toying with a .45 Colt and acts like he is wishful to be answered. + +“Howdy, boys,” says Magpie sad-like. + +“Howdy ----!” snaps Dirty Shirt. “Who says I stole calves?” + +“Hard-Pan Hawkins,” replies the judge. + +“Lay it on to a dead man,” grunts Dirty. “What’s the matter with you +snake-hunters?” + +“You must ’a’ stole calves, Dirty,” says Buck accusing-like. “The dead +don’t lie.” + +“They don’t need to,” explains Magpie. + +“Hard-Pan Hawkins never needed any cause to lie,” says Dirty. “He’s a +---- liar--alive or dead.” + +“Just a moment,” interrupts the judge. “We can prove things, can’t we? +We’ll have Hard-Pan answer Dirty’s accusations.” + +Magpie and Buck put their fingers on that contraption again, and Judge +Steele says-- + +“Hard-Pan, did Dirty Shirt steal calves?” + +The judge watches the thing and puts down the letters. Then he reads-- + +“Dirty Shirt also stole cows.” + +_Bang!_ + +I seen Magpie and Buck yank backwards, and Judge Steele fell backwards +under the bunk. I seen pieces of board splinter against the wall, and +when Magpie stood up a lot of splinters fell off his knees. He glares +at Dirty and then howls-- + +“What did you do that for?” + +“----!” yelps Dirty, waving his gun. “What did yuh think I was going to +do? Now, you danged liars, stand up on your hind legs and talk fluently. +What is that dingus?” + +“That thing you busted was a method of communication between us and the +spirit world,” says Magpie. “It brought us in touch with them what ain’t +visible, but you busted ---- out of it, and there’s only one more in +Yaller Rock County.” + +“Who’s got that other one?” I asks. + +“ ‘Hassayampa’ Harris and ‘Tombstone’ Todd.” + +“Where did yuh get ’em?” asks Dirty. + +“Fortune-teller sold ’em to Scenery Sims, and he sold ’em to us for +fifty dollars per each. Dang you, Dirty, what did yuh want to shoot +it up thataway for? That was a awful thing to do.” + +“I hope Hard-Pan heard the shot,” says Dirty. “I hate a dead horse-thief +what can’t keep his danged mouth shut.” + +“You’re going to get in bad with the hereafter, Dirty,” proclaims the +judge, poking his head out from under the bed. “I won’t be surprized if +Hard-Pan haunts you, being as you cut ---- out of his conversation.” + +“How does the danged thing work?” I asks. + +“It ain’t no ‘danged’ thing, Ike,” says Magpie. “That was a wee-gee +board, the same of which puts us in touch with them what is beyond the +veil. Honest to gosh! Mighty Jones had a message from his wife.” + +“I reckon Wick Smith has had one from his wife by this time,” says Dirty +Shirt. + +“Is she dead?” gasps the judge. + +“Not unless she runs herself to death after Scenery Sims.” + +Just then a shadow darkens the door, and we looks around to see +Hassayampa and Tombstone. They acts sort of awed-like, and then +Tombstone says-- + +“We made the thing work, Magpie, and it said that Hard-Pan Hawkins had a +message for you.” + +“Hard-Pan Hawkins?” gasps Magpie, and the two nods. + +“You ought to go to him, Magpie,” says Dirty Shirt. + +“Why, he’s dead,” says Magpie. + +“Sure,” says Dirty, “and you ought to be.” + +“Wait just a minute,” says the judge. “This is interesting. Where’s your +wee-gee, Tombstone?” + +“Me and Hassayampa put it in the bank, judge.” + +“Keep it there. I’ve got a scheme. Does Curlew or Paradise know anything +about spirits?” + +“Spirits frumenti,” says Buck. “Educated above the average.” + +“The scheme,” says the judge solemn-like, “interests Magpie, Buck, +Hassayampa, Tombstone and myself. The rest of you are _e pluribus +unum_.” + +“Where is your board?” asks Hassayampa. + +“Dirty Shirt split it with a bullet,” says Buck. “Busted it all to ----” + +“My ----!” gasps Tombstone. “Busted it? I’d sure hate to have that deed +upon my soul.” + +“No danged hunk of lumber can accuse me of stealin’ cows,” complains +Dirty Shirt. “You and your messages from the dead can go----” + +But they shut the door by main strength, and me and Dirty Shirt sets +down on the steps. + + * * * * * + +Just then cometh Scenery Sims. Poor Scenery looks like he had been too +close to an accident when it happened. He sets down and wipes the tears +off the end of his little blue nose. He looks behind him like he was +plumb scared of his life, and then he whines: + +“I’ve been hounded too danged much--you know it? What in ---- does +Hard-Pan Hawkins know about the condition of my heart? No ---- rustler +ghost can slip over anything like that on yours truly, Lindhardt +Cadwallader Sims, E-squire.” + +“Rustler?” asks Dirty. “Why for rustler ghost, Scenery?” + +“That--squeegee thing,” squeaks Scenery. “Know what I mean? Either +Hard-Pan is a ---- liar or don’t know what he’s talkin’ about.” + +“You might tell us about it,” says I. + +“Hassayampa and Tombstone was doin’ the herdin’,” says Scenery, like +he was giving us a page out of his wicked past. “Me and Wick Smith +was lookin’ on. _Sabe?_ Ricky Henderson was taking down the message +from the dead. Well, it hasn’t much to talk about until it said that +Hard-Pan had a message for Wick Smith. That ---- horse-thief said-- + +“‘Your wife is in love with somebody else.’” + +“Wick pulled his gun and leaned over the board and says-- + +“‘What’s his name?’” + +Scenery licks his lips and takes a deep breath. + +“What name did it give?” I asks. + +Scenery squints at me and rubs his nose. + +“What in ---- do you reckon I’ve been doin’ all this runnin’ for?” + +“Are Wick and his wife reconciled?” I asks. + +Scenery seems to let the question soak in, and then says: + +“I dunno what you mean, Ike, but they’re anything you want to call +’em. Hard-Pan is plumb loco if he thinks for a minute that I covets +Mrs. Smith.” + +“Ike,” says Dirty Shirt, “it appears to me that Piperock has been stung +with the ghost bug. They’re monkeying with the dead too much to suit me. +Let’s me and you go over to my cabin and hole up until they gets through +takin’ advice from them what has passed on.” + +We did. Dirty’s cabin is far from the maddening strife, but we gets +echoes from the dim and distant past even out there. “Sad” Samuels +drifts in from Curlew and eats with us. Sad appears very despondent, +and we asks why. + +“Revelations,” says Sad. “Why don’t they let sleepin’ dogs lie? Tomorrow +night is Revelation Night in Piperock. Ain’t yuh heard about it? Yeah, +that’s what they call it. Them bills says: + + “This is the Night when the Souls of the Departed Comes Back to + Answer all Questions. Nothin’ is Concealed from Them Beyond the + Veil. Get a Front Seat and Hear Strange Truths. Admission One + Dollar and Four Bits. Come One. Come All. Music by Thatcher’s + Orchester. Singing.” + +“Who starts all the revelation stuff, Sad?” asks Dirty. + +“Magpie, Buck, Hassayampa, Tombstone and Judge Steele.” + +“That was the scheme Judge Steele had,” says Dirty. “Dog-goned law-shark +saw a chance to make money out of the dead.” + +“Why are you despondent, Sad?” I asks. + +“Whyfor? ’Cause it ain’t nobody’s business to listen to dead ones. I’m +ag’in’ this here message stuff--me. Yuh can’t go gunnin’ for no lying +corpse, can yuh? Ain’t no way to make ’em admit they lied.” + +“Suppose they don’t lie?” says Dirty, and Sad nods. + +“That’s the ---- of it. You fellers better get tickets if yuh want a +chance to set down.” + +Then cometh Magpie. Deep in my heart I can see disaster coming my way. +Any old time that _hombre_ comes looking for me I can hear the grass +growing over me, and know that Ike Harper’s future is in the sere and +yaller leaf. + +This time I steeled my nerves and shook my gun loose. He leaned +against the side of the door and contemplates us more in sorrow than +in anger. His eyes fills with emotion as he gazes upon my face, and +I turn away--to see if my gun is loaded. + +“How’s the dead ones coming along, Magpie?” asks Dirty Shirt. + +“All right,” says Magpie; “but I’d be more respectful if I was you.” + +“Respectful for who? Hard-Pan Hawkins?” + +“You ought to respect the dead.” + +“Not when they accuse me of rustlin’,” says Dirty Shirt. “If you gets +any more messages from Hard-Pan you tell him for me that he’s a liar, +and that I’ll bet he’s stealin’ ghost cows every chance he gets.” + +“There are no cow-thieves in the hereafter, Dirty,” says Magpie +solemn-like. + +“Then that wasn’t Hard-Pan, that’s a cinch.” + +“How and when did Hard-Pan demise out?” I asks. + +“I dunno. Slim Hawkins, who is his cousin, said that Hard-Pan went to +Canada and outwitted the Mounted Police by dying before they caught +him.” + +“There ain’t nothin’ concealed from the dead,” pronounced Magpie. “They +can look right through anything. _Sabe?_” + +“It was danged hard to conceal anything from Hard-Pan when he was +alive,” says Dirty, “and I’ll bet that _hombre_ works overtime where +he is now.” + +The three of us sets there and sort of thinks it over. Then Magpie +says-- + +“Ike, have you heard about Revelation Night?” + +“Seems to me Sad Samuels was weepin’ about something like that.” + +“It’s going to be a wonderful revelation,” says Magpie soft-like. “It is +going to----” + +“All right!” says I. “Let her revelate, Magpie. Me and Dirty----” + +“You mean you’re not interested in this chance to hear something that +you never heard before? Ain’t you got nobody what has gone hence that +you would like to ask a question of some kind?” + +“Nope. I know too danged much now, Magpie.” + +“I was sent over here by the committee,” says Magpie slow-like, “to ask +you to assist us, Ike. There has been rumors that me and Hassayampa, +Tombstone, Buck and the judge is liable to sort of cold-deck folks on +the result of said messages, and we figure that your reputation for +square dealin’, upright methods, et cettery, might allay their +suspicions. Curlew and Paradise are coming in bunches. We want you to +take down and read them messages as they occur. I reserved a front seat +for Dirty Shirt.” + +“I read them messages from the dear departed and announce to whom and +from which they emanates, eh?” I asks, and Magpie nods. + +“That’s the idea, Ike. It will be interesting and instructive, and the +same of which is new, novel and interesting to all mankind and women +adults.” + +“What assurance has I got that I won’t be scalped by some cowboy who +ain’t respecting the dead?” + +“Shucks, this is too solemn a occasion for such levity, Ike. Can’t yuh +just set and wonder what spirit hands is guiding them messages? Uncanny +but wonderful in the extreme. I longs for tomorrow night to come. Will +ye act as messenger between the dead and the livin’, Ike? + +“There will be music and singing, and speeches too numerous to mention. +Piperock is leadin’ the country in entertainment, and this will put us +so far in the lead that none of ’em can even trail our dust.” + +“Nobody ever helped themselves much by monkeying with the dead,” states +Dirty Shirt. “My idea is to let ’em alone, but if yuh won’t--I’ll take +that front seat, Magpie, and help stir up a few skillingtons myself.” + +“What in ---- is a skillington?” asks Magpie. + +“The dried framework of a human being, also animiles,” says Dirty. + +“My gosh, you ought to study astronomy before you monkey with spirits.” + +“Astronomy means stars,” says Magpie disgusted-like. “There ain’t going +to be no stars. _Sabe?_” + +“I dunno,” says I. “I never monkeyed with a Piperock entertainment +without seeing a few, Magpie.” + +“This is too pious for arguments, Ike. There won’t be no hurrah stuff. +The hall will be darkened, and everything will be still as possible.” + +“How did Scenery and Wick Smith come out?” + +“Scenery ain’t come out yet, Ike. He’s inside the jail, and Wick waits +on the steps for him. It don’t pay to monkey with affections, you +betcha.” + + * * * * * + +Then cometh Revelation Night. Yaller Rock County surprized me. I never +knowed there was so many people in the county what was interested in +messages from the dead. + +“Hair-Oil” Heppner and “Liniment” Lucas pilgrims plumb from Granite to +be in on the deal, and I figures it’s something of interest to pull a +couple of rawhides like them. + +Bill Thatcher brings his orchestra, which holes up near the old town +of Yaller Rock. Curlew and Paradise percolates into town, and by dark +the hamlet of Piperock has more folks on the street than ever before. +Buck does a thriving business, being as Yaller Rock folks believe in +internal spirits a heap. + +“Old Testament” Tilton holds forth in discourse, but don’t get much of a +audience, being as he’s antagonistic to spiritual things thataway. + +“You know danged well that no one ever hears from the dead,” says he. + +“I heard from my wife,” says Mighty Jones. “I sure did, Testament.” + +“You never had a wife,” declares Testament. + +“Which makes it more wonderful than ever,” whoops Mighty. “Proves that +it’s able to do more than the directions says it can. Dawgone it, I +expects to have a family before I gets through.” + +They’ve got a sheet across the front of the stage in the Mint Hall, and +behind the sheet they’ve got a few chairs for the main ingredients of +the show to set upon. Magpie and Buck are to handle the contraption, +while me and Judge Steele reads her off as she writes. + +Then I’m to announce the results. Hassayampa Harris sets on one side of +the stage and Tombstone Todd on the other. In front of the stage sets +the orchestra, and from there on to the back of the room is Yaller Rock +humanity. + +The room is sort of twilight, and everything is so silent and solemn +that I’m almost ready to believe that she’s going to pass into +history as the one time that Piperock got past without casualties. I +say “almost.” + +We’re just about to pull back the curtain when I hears Hair-Oil +Heppner’s hooch-husky voice drawl out: + +“Whew! I didn’t know you was going to bring ’em here to speak for +themselves.” + +“What’s the matter?” asks somebody. + +“Matter? Smell, you danged fool! The dear departed are among us.” + +Tombstone pulls back the curtain, and we looks into that gloomy +audience. + +“Say,” says Hair-Oil, standing up, “I paid one dollar and four bits to +get in here and set down, but if you don’t make ‘Pole-Cat’ Perkins keep +his boots on I wants my money back. _Sabe?_” + +“I’ve got a bunion,” complains Polecat. “Feet dang near kill me.” + +“Dang near ----!” grunts Hair-Oil. “I’d tell a man that you’ve been dead +for over a week.” + +Old Judge Steele stand up and walks to the edge of the stage. + +“Feller mortals, this is a solemn occasion and should be respected. Let +all earthly things drift for a while and silently help us peer behind +the veil from which nobody ever returneth back. + +“Up here on the stage we have the means of getting word from dear +departed souls which are locked in the bosom of eternity. Everything +is an open book to the spirits. Now has anybody any departed soul +which they’d like to talk with?” + +“Ask Polecat Perkins why he didn’t die with his boots on,” says +Hair-Oil. + +“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Pete Gonyer. When Pete haws it shakes the whole +hall. + +“Lay off that ‘haw-haw’ stuff!” yelps Tombstone. “Ain’t yuh got no +respect for the dead?” + +“Could I get another message from my wife?” asks Mighty Jones. + +Magpie and Buck puts their fingers on that little three-legged table, +and Judge Steele says-- + +“Wee-gee, is there any message from Mrs. Mighty Jones?” + +The little table moves around sort of foolish like and points to-- + +“YES.” + +“Who is talkin’,” asks the Judge, and it spells out-- + +“H-A-R-D-P-A-N H-A-W-K-I-N-S.” + +“Hard-Pan Hawkins talkin’,” announces the judge. + +“Just a moment,” says Dirty Shirt. “Ghost or no ghost, I want to say +right now that Hard-Pan Hawkins is a ---- liar.” + +“Hard-Pan Hawkins might ’a’ lied when alive, but the dead don’t lie,” +states the judge. “Hard-Pan was a rustler, and very friendly with +certain folks in Yaller Rock County, therefore able to disclose a heap +about Mighty Jones. Now, Mighty, what does you want to ask Hard-Pan +about your wife?” + +There ain’t no answer. Pretty soon some feller from down near Paradise +says-- + +“If you mean the feller who asked about his wife--he went out.” + +“Anybody wishful to ask Hard-Pan a question?” asks the judge. + +“Ask him who helped him steal them Triangle cows,” says Johnny Meyers, +who owns the Triangle outfit. + +“Just a moment,” says “Doughgod” Smith, standing up in the twilight. + +“ ’Pears to me that we paid our money for entertainment.” + +“Which is correct and proper,” agrees “Swede” Johnson. “I don’t like to +pay good money under false pretense.” + +“I’m all through if this keeps up,” says Art Wheeler. “This ain’t even +instructive. Come on, boys.” + +Then Doughgod, Swede and Art single-filed out of the place. + +“Could you get in touch with Hard-Pan again?” asks Wick Smith. + +“You let that ---- liar of a horse-thief alone!” squeaks Scenery Sims. +“I never coveted your wife, Wick Smith, and I never will. By grab, any +old time I want to get married I’ll pick something besides a waddlin’, +duck-footed--uh----” + +_Crash!_ + +“Ow-w-w-w-w-w! Leggo! Leg--ug--ug----” + + * * * * * + +Comes the sound of something falling down-stairs, and then Wick’s +voice-- + +“The ---- fool might ’a’ paid some attention to who was behind him.” + +“‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’” quotes the judge. + +“Especially when they’re husky like Mrs. Smith, judge. Me and her ain’t +speakin’ until we has further communication with Hard-Pan. I hope she +didn’t hop on him after he lit at the bottom of the stairs.” + +“Does you mean to tell me that you can ask that contraption a question +and have it answered by the dead man?” asks “Jay Bird” Whittaker, +standing up to ask his question. + +Jay Bird owns the Cross J outfit and a couple of banks, and a grouch +against humanity. + +“She is the medium through which we speaks with them what has gone +before, J. B.” says Magpie. “Ask and she shall be told to you. Any +special ghost yuh wants to wau-wau with?” + +“What ones yuh got, Magpie?” + +Magpie and Buck gets into position again, and the judge asks the board +who’s going to talk. It jiggles around and spells out-- + +“H-A-R-D-P-A-N H-A-W-K-I-N-S.” + +I announces such. + +“That windy son of a gun again!” wails Dirty. “Tell him to get off the +wire and give an honest ghost a chance.” + +“What does you wish to ask, J. B.?” inquires the judge. + +“Ask him,” says J. B., “whether he stuck up the Paradise bank last +Summer or if not, who did?” + +“Wait a minute,” says “Half-Mile” Smith from the back of the room. +“Natcherally he’d lie about it if he done it, and anyway it’s all done +with and forgotten long ago. I don’t see why you _hombres_ can’t ask +up-to-date questions.” + +“I’m up-to-date myself,” opines “Cactus” Calkins, “and such questions +make me mad. Might as well ask Hard-Pan who built the Spinks of Egypt. +Shucks, this here entertainment makes me tired.” + +The door opens and Half-Mile and Cactus went outside. + +“Has anybody got a up-to-date question to ask?” queries the judge. + +Bill Thatcher stands up and clears his throat. + +“Last Spring I rode a pinto bronc into Piperock, and some son of a +gun stole my saddle. I rose up and howled loud-like against such +proceedings, and then went on the hunt for the saddle, which I didn’t +find. When I came back the bronc was gone. Maybe Hard-Pan knows +something about it; eh?” + +“Haw! Haw! Haw!” whoops Pete Gonyer. “That’s Bill’s idea of a up-to-date +question. Haw! Haw! Haw! I’m tired of such fool questions; ain’t you +‘Ricky’?” + +“Bored plumb to death,” admits Ricky Henderson, and the two of ’em +crawls back through the crowd and went outside. + +“Never mind the question, judge,” says Bill. “I’m beginnin’ to be a +mind-reader.” + +_Biff! Swat!_ + +Comes the commotion about half-way to the back, and then Hair-Oil’s +husky voice-- + +“I’ve stood all I can--bunions or no bunions!” + +“Did you ask a question?” asks Buck, who is a little hard of hearing. + +“You might ask Hard-Pan if he has met Polecat yet,” says Hair-Oil, and +goes outside. + +“This here meetin’ don’t seem to come out right,” states the judge. +“We’re failin’ to entertain because folks don’t ask the questions +right. Is there anybody what wishes a word or two with dear departed +to be sent through the medium of Hard-Pan Hawkins’ ghost?” + +Old Sam Holt stands up and clears his throat. + +“Yuh might ask my wife what she’d advise me to do.” + +“What about?” asks Magpie. + +“She’d know what I got on my mind. I ain’t got no faith in that ghost +stuff, but I’ll take a chance.” + +Man, that little three-legged jigger sure spelled out that message fast. +I stood up and read her aloud. + +“Mind your own ---- business.” + +“That’s Emmeline!” gasps old Sam. “By ---- that’s her all right!” + +“I’d sure hate to have my wife pussyfootin’ around with a ghost like +Hard-Pan Hawkins,” observes Bill McFee. + +“Easy there, Bill,” warns old Sam. “Your wife is dead, remember.” + +“My wife is in heaven,” pronounces Bill. + +_Bang!_ + +I sees the flash of that six-shooter, and immediate and soon makes a +little prayer for the soul of Bill McFee, but I was a little previous. +I reckon old Sam was too mad to hit Bill, or somebody jiggled his arm, +’cause I seen “Hoot” Gillis rise up from among the orchestra. Hoot is +tall and willowy, and has arms about five feet long, and he swung that +squeeze organ from the floor and crowned old Sam with it. + +Comes the swish of the organ, a jumble of notes mixed with the crash, +and old Sam Holt forgot his insult. + +“He drilled my accor-deen from end to end!” wailed Hoot. “Gosh hang him! +It won’t never play another note!” + +“Yuh might get Hard-Pan to send yuh a few notes,” opines “Telescope” +Tolliver. “I reckon a dead accordion has as good a chance for the happy +huntin’-ground as a horse-thief.” + +“Speakin’ of hoss-thieves,” observes Zeb Abernathy, “reminds me that +maybe this here Hard-Pan can tell me something about them eight horses +what was stole from my corral over on the Picket Rope about a month +ago.” + +“He wouldn’t know,” says “Chuck” Warner, “’cause he left here a year +ago.” + +“Yuh can’t expect a dead horse-thief to know everything, can yuh?” asks +Telescope. + +“Nobody’d believe him anyway ’cause it would be guesswork,” wheezes +“Muley” Bowles, who weighs too much to ride and is too fat to walk. + +“Aw, shucks, let’s go home,” yawns Henry Peck. “It’s bad enough to have +to talk with live horse-thieves, let alone talkin’ with a dead one.” + +And four of them get up and files out of the hall. + +“I had certain suspicions,” says Zeb, and then sets down. + +“As long as questions is being asked,” remarks Hank Padden, owner of +the Seven A outfit, “I might rise to ask if the departed but unlamented +Hard-Pan can give me a list of the men in Yaller Rock who ride with +runnin’ irons or extra cinch-rings on their saddles.” + +“That’s a ---- of a question to ask!” snorts “Weinie” Lopp, and he +walked out of the door in the lead of about twenty upright citizens. + +“That wasn’t hardly a fair question, Hank,” says Magpie. + +“It sure as ---- got a direct reply,” grinned Hank Padden. “I takes off +my hat to the name of Hard-Pan Hawkins.” + +“Feller citizens,” says the judge, “so far the spiritual end of this +here entertainment is null and void. We ain’t had no chance to +demonstrate the ability of the spirits to talk to us. Give us a +question. + +“How many calves will my outfit brand next year?” asks Padden. + +Judge Steele puts the question to the board, and I reads the answer-- + +“Depends on who is looking.” + +“Take off your hat to Hard-Pan Hawkins,” says Tombstone. “He sure is one +enlightened _hombre_.” + +“Ask him how many of my calves Hank got last year,” says Meyers. + +“Never mind, never mind!” howls Hank. “Johnny Meyers lifted my----” + +“Easy, easy,” advises Magpie. “Set down--both of yuh!” + +“Bein’ wishful to _sabe_ some things, I’d ask Hard-Pan to tell me why my +cows all comes in calfless last year while Triangle and Seven A cows all +has twins,” states Zeb Abernathy. “If I’ve got calfless cows, all well +and good, but if I’ve got to handcuff my calves to their maws I want to +know it. _Sabe?_” + +“Same here,” states Jay Bird Whittaker. “I got three calves last year, +and I had about seven hundred cows. + +“You was ---- lucky, at that,” says Zeb. “Lucky to get your cows back.” + +“Who hit me?” wails a voice back in the room. “Say, who hit me? Where’s +my boots?” + +“Ask Hard-Pan Hawkins,” says Liniment Lucas’s voice. + +There is silence for a moment, and then Pole-Cat’s voice-- + +“Zasso?” + +_Swish!_ + + * * * * * + +That’s the worst of working in the twilight--you don’t see all the +little details. Pole-Cat must ’a’ had his sights raised for about five +hundred yards, ’cause he couldn’t ’a’ come anywhere near Liniment +Lucas. + +I seen Judge Steele drop flat. The boot sailed over him and hits +Tombstone right at the root of his nose. Tombstone sort of shivers +like he was chilly, and sets up straight in his chair. + +“Yuh might give Hard-Pan a rest and get some answers from Tombstone +Todd,” states Liniment. + +Tombstone sort of chuckles, and pats himself on the knees. Then he gets +up, and before anybody can stop him he steps right off the stage and +falls into Bill Thatcher. + +Comes a crash of brittle wood, the snap of strings, and I knows we’re +going to be spared the agony of “Sweet Marie” on the bull fiddle. Bill +Thatcher limps out of the mess with the wreck of that fiddle in his +hand and glared up at us. Then he holds out the remains. + +“Magpie Simpkins, you lied to me!” he wails. “You said there wasn’t +goin’ to be no rough stuff. You said--aw----this ghost show!” + +Bill must ’a’ been peeved over that busted fiddle. Bill is slow to +anger, but a artist like Bill is tempermental. Bill done just what I’d +’a’ done, only I’d ’a’ shot straight and hit Magpie with that remnant +of busted chords instead of hitting a innocent bystander--which was +me. + +It hit me in the Adam’s apple, and I felt the seeds go one way and +the core the other, but I kept my balance. I unhooked one string off +my right ear, took the thing in both hands and throwed it as hard as +I could. I didn’t care who I hit--just so I hit somebody. + +You’ve heard of killing two birds with one stone, ain’t yuh? Well, I +danged near killed two cow-men with one bull-fiddle neck. Zeb Abernathy +and Jay Bird Whittaker must ’a’ been going to leave, and I got ’em +both, but I didn’t know much about it until afterwards ’cause Judge +Steele tripped me and I fell over the edge and lit on top of “Frenchy” +Deschamps, the jew’s-harp virtuoso. + +They tell me that Zeb, when he felt that bull-fiddle neck caress his +anatomy, picked up a vacant chair and hung it around Hank Padden’s +neck, and just then some trouble seems to start. + +Frenchy is also tempermental, I reckon, being a soloist on one of them +things what sounds like a Digger Injun with congested lungs trying to +sing his swan song. Also, Frenchy is large enough to know better, but +I reckon I sort of took him by surprize when I lit all over him. + +Anyway he got me by the ankle and the cartridge-belt and seemed to sort +of pitch me high and handsome. The going up wasn’t so bad, and the +coming down was tol’able, but I lit among four disgruntled cow-men who +were settling their differences out of court, and the landing was what +you’d describe as “kay-o-tick.” + +I lit with my legs around Hank Padden’s neck, but before I had time to +spur a cinch I hears Jay Bird yelp-- + +“Here’s a message from the livin’!” + +And I gets a flash of a beautiful light and something seems to rattle +down along my nervous system. I retained enough of my natural senses to +enable me to withdraw from the conflict, and I finds myself crawling +down a crooked aisle of twisted seats with a chair around my neck and +interfering with my progress. + +I finally decides that I’d better get rid of that toggle if I ever +expects to get anywhere in this life; so I sets up and yanks at the +chair. Just then a voice very close to me says-- + +“By ----, I’m goin’ to hang on to one end of this’n until I makes a +hit.” + +I rolls my eyes upward, and there is Pole-Cat Perkins kneeling on a +chair beside me, and he’s got his other boot in both hands. He’s got +the most wonderful pair of purple eyes I ever seen. He looks down at +me and raises up that boot, but stops. He lays down the boot, hitches +a little further forward, and then spits on his hands. + +“I may be all wrong,” says he soft-like, “but I know I’ve only got +stren’th for one wallop, and I’ll make that a good one.” + +He picks up that boot, sort of takes a few hitches to relax his muscles, +and then lifts the boot, heel down. I know how a fool sparrow feels when +a diamond-back gets it hypnotized. + +I knowed that Polecat was going to bounce that boot right off my +alabaster brow. I knowed he was going to plant that heavy heel, spur +and all, upon my lily-white forehead, and I wondered what ---- lie +he’d figure out to tell the jury. I wondered if they’d ever get any +messages from me with their danged wee-gee board, and I mentally +boycotted ’em right then. + +No messages would they ever get from me; and what was more, I intended +to frame up with Hard-Pan to incriminate every danged one of ’em from +Scenery Sims to Magpie Simpkins. Ain’t it funny what a feller will think +of when he’s about to be booted off this mortal coil? + +I figured that Polecat’s face would be the last one I’d ever look upon +in this life; so I looked up at him. It’s ---- to have to shuffle out +knowing that your mortal eyes has got to finish their duties by gazing +upon a face like that, but--well, I looked. + +Polecat wasn’t looking at me! I dragged myself half out of that busted +chair and stared up at Polecat, who is froze solid in one position--with +the boot raised over his head, and looking straight toward the back of +the room. + +I tries to look too, but a leg of the chair got into my ear and +handicaps me. I glances up at Polecat again. His mouth drops open +like somebody had cut the draw-string out of his lower jaw, and he +gasps--almost a prayer, “My ----!” and lets fly with that boot. + +Then he hops off that chair and lit right on my neck with his heel, and +squashed all the sensibilities out of me for a second. + +Somebody stumbled and fell over me and then got up and staggered ahead. + +“Keep away from me!” yelps Hank Padden’s voice, and then comes a rattle +and a crash, and four or five men wiped their feet on me in passing. + +I grabbed the last boot to hit me, and its owner sat down on my face. +I twisted out from under him, and looked into the face of Dirty Shirt +Jones. + +Dirty ain’t looking at me a-tall. No sir, Dirty Shirt ain’t with us, +except materially. + +“What’s the matter?” I asks, and I finds that my voice is weak as +shoestring soup. + +Dirty looks at me and licks his lips. He tries to say something, but the +words don’t seem to come. Comes a sound of folks moving, and I turns my +head to see Magpie and Buck and the judge walking toward the door. They +don’t seem to mind the seats which impede them. + +I sees Magpie stumble over some chairs, but Buck helps him up, and they +goes out the door without saying a word. Everything looks sort of spooky +in that weak light. + +I turns and looks at Dirty Shirt. His eyes are closed, like he was +praying, but pretty soon he shakes his head and looks at me. + +“It ain’t no use,” he mutters; “I can’t think of a darned word that fits +my case.” + +“What do you want--cuss words?” I asks. + +“Sh-h-h-h!” hisses Dirty. “Don’t be sacrilegious, you ---- fool!” + +Then he unhooks from me, crawls slow-like to his feet and weaves out of +the door. + +I rubs my sore head and gets to my feet. The figure of a man turns from +up by the stage and walks down to me. His back is to the light, and I +can’t see his face. He stops, sort of weaves on his feet, and says: + +“What in ---- is the matter around here, Ike? Is this the way to treat +a feller when he comes back to his own home town? My gosh, is everybody +loco? I tried to shake hands with Magpie, and look what he gave me.” + +He holds it out to me, and I took it. Uh-huh, I took it in both hands. I +ain’t no hand to monkey with the unknown, but I knowed right then that I +wasn’t monkeying with no ghost, ’cause that hardwood wee-gee splintered +all to ---- on the head of Hard-Pan Hawkins. + +Magpie Simpkins says there is lots of things beyond the veil that we +don’t know a danged thing about, and all that may be true, but it’s +a cinch that Yaller Rock County ain’t never going to take a chance +on getting any more messages from departed horse-thieves--they might +be dead. + + +[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Mid-September, 1920 +issue of Adventure magazine.] +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78633 *** |