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diff --git a/78676-0.txt b/78676-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fe499d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/78676-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1201 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78676 *** + + IKE HARPER’S HISTORICAL HOLIDAY + + W. C. Tuttle + + Author of “Inside Information,” “Playing Safe in Piperock,” etc. + + +“I ain’t figured none on making it a personal holiday,” says old Judge +Steele, shifting his position on the sidewalk. “I’ve been thinking about +taking myself plumb out of range of earthly things on said date. A man +of my age has got to look out for his health.” + +“The Lord giveth and, also and moreover, He taketh away in His own +time,” states “Old Testament” Tilton pious-like. + +“Gospel fact, Testament,” nods the judge. “But there ain’t no use of a +fellow trying to force the issue. I know Piperock.” + +“Needs tempering,” orates Mike Pelly. “Piperock is all right for a +little town and she plumb exhibits energy beyond her capacity, and that +is one of the reasons I’m trying to get you pelicans to see things my +way. Paradise will act as an anchor. _Sabe?_ You Piperockers would be +lost in a place like Paradise.” + +“Too true,” nods Magpie Simpkins, sheriff of Yaller Rock County, +caressing his long mustache. “Great place to lose things, Mike. I had +two horse-thieves stolen from me in that city.” + +“Curlew is a comer,” proclaims “Hassayampa” Harris, who owns what there +is of the town. “Why not come to Curlew? She stands to welcome you with +open arms.” + +“Any time she does I’ll hide my money in my boot,” squeaks “Scenery” +Sims. + +“Open ----! The only thing what is open in Curlew is the jail.” + +“I fear me that this meeting will soon need legal or medical +assistance,” announces Judge Steele, blowing his long nose +apologetic-like. “There ain’t no use skating so near to air-holes, +folks. There ain’t a danged one of you what ain’t moved your guns +around to the front. What for kind of a way is this to arbitrate?” + +“You unbuttoned your vest, judge,” reminds Magpie. “Don’t you wear a +shoulder holster?” + +“Patriotism, Magpie. It ain’t because I’m belligerent. Any old time +these snake-hunters from foreign parts belittles our shining city I can +only remain cool and collected up to a certain point. I hadn’t ought to +wear a vest.” + +Me and “Dirty Shirt” Jones listens to this elevating conversation in +disgust. Me and Dirty are not with the meeting nor a part of it, +except being as it’s pulled off out in the open we can’t help hearing +it. Magpie represents Piperock, Mike orates Paradise’s opinions and +Hassayampa is there to lay Curlew at our feet. + +Old Judge Steele has to horn in to add dignity to the affair and little +Scenery Sims adds his squeaky voice, which detracts from any dignity the +judge might add. + +“Now about the religious attractions--” begins Old Testament, but Magpie +gives him a look and he sets down. + +“This is a Fourth of July meeting, Testament,” states Magpie. “We may +need you later on to proclaim ashes to ashes, but right now you better +pass the hand. _Sabe?_ You’re all the sky-pilot we’ve got around here, +and for the good of our soul I asks you to keep out. You’re all right +for what you’re intended.” + +“Come on, Ike,” says Dirty. “These _hombres_ will frame up something +awful, you can gamble on that, and the less we has to do with it the +more chance we has to get shot by accident and mourned by few.” + +Then we went over to Buck’s place and leaned against the mahogany. + +“Committee come to a understanding?” asks Buck. + +“As usual,” replies Dirty. “They’ll mistreat each other for a while, +stop by mutual consent and celebrate as they see fit. There ain’t no +sense in having a community celebration, Buck. Ain’t it bad enough for +each community to kill off of their own without joining up to make it +a wholesale slaughter?” + +“If Lincoln knowed what he started when he made the Fourth a holiday +he’d wish he’d kept right on splitting corral poles, believe me,” +grinned Buck. + +“Robert E. Lee,” corrects old Sam Holt, looking up from his solitaire +layout. “Lincoln didn’t have no hand in it, Buck.” + +“Yeah?” grunts Pete Gonyer. “Is that so? Let me tell you both something: +If General Grant hadn’t hankered to march to the sea, where would your +old Fourth of July be, I’d rise to inquire?” + +“I said Lincoln,” reproves Buck, dropping his hands below the level of +the bar. “I can prove it.” + +Pete hitches forward in his chair and rubs the palms of his hands on his +hips. + +“I said Grant--U. S. Grant! _Sabe?_” + +Old Sam Holt yawns and slips his hand unconcerned-like under the +shoulder of his coat. Then he spits out into the middle of the room. + +“Robert E. Lee!” he snaps mean-like. + +“Hurrah for history!” yelps Dirty and we both went out and sat on the +hitchrack. + +“Dirty,” says I, “which one was right?” + +“Ike, I’m ---- if I know. As soon as the convention is over I’ll ask the +judge. He ought to know.” + +Maybe he did. He comes walking along stiff-legged like a bear and Dirty +accosts him thusly-- + +“Judge, who is responsible for the Fourth of July?” + +The old pelican stops, peers at Dirty over his glasses and clears his +throat. + +“I’m surprized to find anybody so danged ignorant,” says he, +pained-like. + +“Yeah? I didn’t ask you to display oratory over my ignorance, judge. You +might at least express an opinion. We won’t dispute you.” + +“The Fourth of July was started--was started back in--let’s see.” + +The judge scratches his chin and peers at the ground. + +“Back in 1492--seems like that’s the date. Anyway, it was along about +that time----” + +“I asked you who, judge, not when,” reminds Dirty and just then Magpie +strolls up. + +“What’s the argument?” he asks. + +“Who started the Fourth of July, Magpie?” + +“Which one, Dirty? This one, the last one or the one before? Be +definite.” + +“There you are,” grins the judge, “Magpie’s a scholar. Your question was +too general, Mister Jones.” + +Him and Magpie locks arms and goes into Buck’s place, while me and Dirty +sets there on the rack and registers disgust. Know what Dirty looks like +when he shows disgust? + + * * * * * + +Dirty is so cock-eyed in one eye that he has to shut it in order to see +straight. His eyebrows grows so high up on his forehead that he looks +plumb astonished at everything, and he walks like somebody was prodding +him in the back of the knees. When Dirty registers disgust on his face, +he’d make a bee-stung grizzly stop scratching to laugh. + +Pretty soon there comes a yelp from the saloon, a shot is fired, and +Pete Gonyer comes out like a comet. He’s looking back as he exits and +he slams right into one of the porch posts, takes it along with him +and acts mean-like over it, like it was alive. Then he sets up and +looks around. + +“Who started the Fourth of July, Pete?” asks Dirty. + +“U. S.----” begins Pete and then glances up at the bunch crowding the +door. + +Buck has got a shotgun in his hands. Pete scratches his chin and says-- + +“Lincoln!” + +“What Lincoln?” asks Buck sweet-like. + +“Nebrasky,” grunts Pete and Buck nods like he’s satisfied. + +Just then Chuck Warner, a freak from the Cross J, rides in. He’s got a +long, tired looking face and short legs. He comes over and leans against +the rack. + +“Chuck,” says Dirty, “who started the Fourth of July?” + +“Well, you might say it was George Washington and again you might say it +was the Delaware River,” replies Chuck, wise-like. “You see, Washington +wanted to get across the river, which was full of ice, so they put him +in a boat and rowed him across. _Sabe?_ In honor of said voyage, which +was on said day and date, they sets same aside as a holiday.” + +“Ice!” squeaks Scenery. “On the Fourth of July, Chuck?” + +“Beyond the shadder of a doubt,” replies old Judge Steele. “I’ve got a +picture of it in my office.” + +“The Delaware River don’t freeze in Summer,” objects Buck. “She’s sort +of a south river, if I reminds myself correct.” + +“In spots,” grins Chuck, wiggling his ears. “Washington crossed her +north end, Buck. She’s a long river.” + +“Sure,” agrees Pete. “River was too long to go around. I knowed that +Lincoln didn’t have no more to do with it than--than Grant did.” + +“Speaking of Fourth of July,” states Sam Holt, “I’d admire to say a few +words about Robert E. Lee.” + +“I’m going home,” says Dirty Shirt. “I don’t care a whoop who did start +it. All I know is this: It might ’a’ been a wise man who started it, but +a lot of danged fools have monkeyed with it until she ain’t no good for +man nor beast. + +“I may attend in a body, but I hereby states that I won’t be part nor +parcel of celebration and I won’t act as pall-bearer on July fifth, nor +the day after nor the next day. I won’t do anything that might carve +‘Died July Fourth’ on my tombstone. _Adios._” + +Dirty Shirt rode out of town and I went up to our cabin. I say “our +cabin” meaning the place where me and Magpie hangs out. We’re pardners +in everything, except when I declare myself out, when Magpie declares +me in and I ain’t long winded enough to argue it. + +Magpie is sheriff of Yaller Rock County, which is something to be proud +of--like being a target--and any time he feels that I ain’t going +fifty-fifty with his troubles he swears me in as a deputy. He comes home +later on and sets down to our table, where he does a little work with a +pencil. + +After while he yawns and rolls a smoke. + +“Ike, it is better so,” says he. + +“It always is, Magpie,” I admits. + +“Curlew won’t go to Paradise,” he states. “Paradise won’t go to Curlew. +Curlew won’t come to Piperock and Piperock won’t go to Curlew. Paradise +won’t come to Piperock and Piperock won’t go to Paradise. See how it +is?” + +“Uh-huh,” I admits. “There ain’t nobody going no place. Good!” + +“Wrong, Ike.” + +Magpie hists his boots upon the table and twists his mustache. + +“We’re going to have a community celebration. This is going to be a +hum-dinger and entirely out of the ordinary. Paradise, Piperock and +Curlew are going to have a three-corner celebration and we’ve picked +Dancing Prairie as the celebration center. How does she strike you, +Ike?” + +“Ker-bump!” says I. “That sure is a fitting place, Magpie. Following an +Injun precedent, we can dance the scalps. There’s an old Injun graveyard +on the river bank which could be put in shape and would save the trouble +of hauling the casualties home. Yes’m, you picked a grand spot.” + +“Aw, this ain’t going to be no hip-hooray celebration, Ike. We’re +getting civilized on celebrations, Ike. There ain’t no hot heads on +the committee, so she’ll all come off cool and collected-like.” + +“Said committee is?” + +“‘Chuck’ Warner, ‘Hassayampa’ Harris, ‘Doughgod’ Smith and Mike Pelly.” + +“Yeah?” says I. “Some class! A liar, a thief, a fool and a bartender. +What are you going to be, Magpie?” + +“Me? I’m going to be the boss of the whole works. I’m the _hombre_ what +sees that every thing is pulled off as per program. I may need an aid.” + +“Then you’ll pick him from the rabble,” I states. “I will be far away +and going farther on that day, Magpie. Three days from now I’m going to +have a hundred miles between me and Dancing Prairie and the distance +will grow farther as the day goes on.” + +“Hold up your right hand, Ike,” he snaps. “Swear to do your duty as +deputy sheriff, so help you Gawd? Huh! Now, dang your bow-legged soul, +you stay hitched to the law for four days! You run out on me and I’ll +get you thirty days for contempt of court.” + +“Who do I have to have contempt for, Magpie?” I asks. + +“Well, Judge Steele and--uh--me, I reckon.” + +“Put me in,” says I. “Thirty days for one contempt, Magpie? Better +hurry up, ’cause my contempts are growing so fast that one lifetime +won’t begin to cover the case.” + +Magpie ain’t a man of his word, so I has to suffer freedom. I permits +myself to be sworn in as a deputy to a sheriff but nothing nor nobody +can swear me in as a deputy to a Yaller Rock celebration. I sets down +in the office and lets nature take its course. + + * * * * * + +I sees Hassayampa and Magpie waving their arms in arguments, which +don’t never seem to be settled. Then I sees Mike and Magpie imitating +windmills, as they thresh out the details. Delegates from Paradise +and Curlew seem to mingle free-like with the gentle folk of Piperock, +but as yet there ain’t no great lot of gun-play. I feel that there is +plenty to come, so I don’t deplore the inaction. + +Lumber and all such needful things are hauled from Piperock, but I sets +there in the office, with my feet on the table and sorrow in my heart, +’cause I know--man, I know there’s going to be sorrow somewhere. + +Cometh to me “Sad” Samuels of Curlew, sets him down at my table and +looks sorrowful-like. + +“Ike,” says he, “can you give me a description of Custer?” + +“Horse-thief?” I asks. + +“Fit Injuns,” says Sad. “Remember him, don’t you?” + +“Not from your description, Sad. Think you seen him?” + +Sad rolls a cigaret and looks sad-like at me. He’d look sad if somebody +left him a million. I seen him cry over a straight flush one night. He +wets that cigaret and then drops it on the floor. Too sad to smoke. + +“Ike, do I look like Custer?” + +“Want me to say yes, Sad?” + +“I’ve got to be Custer.” + +“Yes,” says I. “It’s all right with me, Sad. If you must you must, but +why has you got to be unnatural thataway?” + +“Ike,” Sad chaws his chin-strap and becomes melancholy, “Ike, who +started the Fourth of July?” + +I dropped my feet off the table and yanked out my gun. Sad lit on his +feet and backed toward the door with his hands up. + +“Sad Samuels, did you come here to start something?” I asks. + +“Honest to Gawd, Ike, I never did! Hassayampa orates that General Custer +did, _sabe?_” + +“In such a case I’m ashamed of Hassayampa,” says I. “Just because the +Injuns didn’t like Custer it ain’t giving you and Hassayampa no right +to try and turn the whites against him too.” + +“Don’t blame me, Ike,” wails Sad. “We can’t all be educated. According +to the opinions I’ve heard lately there’s a lot of difference in +histories. Ain’t you got no opinions on the matter?” + +“There’s just one thing I do know, Sad,” says I, “and that is this: +The next _hombre_ what asks me that question is going to get knocked +so far into the Dark Ages that he’ll be able to get his information +first hand.” + +Sad nodded his head and went out. Sad makes me weary with that we’re +all-got-to-go-sometime expression on his face. + +Then cometh Mike Pelly. We exchanges the peace sign. + +“Tomorrow is the Fourth,” states Mike. “Tomorrow morning.” + +“According to Hood’s Sa’sparilly,” says I. + +“Yeah,” admits Mike, drumming on the table with his fingers. “Seems +queer how much ignorance a feller can uncover in this here cow-country, +Ike. Any man with brains knows who started the Fourth.” + +“With brains,” I admits. + +“You know, don’t you, Ike?” + +“I do, Mike, but I promised not to tell.” + +“I ain’t asking, Ike. Any man has a right to his opinions. Magpie’s +bull-headed and so is Hassayampa. I ain’t saying that they ain’t got a +right to their opinions, Ike. So long as Magpie orates that Piperock +is going to do the originator proud, and Curlew aims to do the same, +ain’t it O. K. and proper that Paradise should hold up their ideals +and aims?” + +“What do you wish me to do, Mike?” + +“Me and Judge Steele ain’t friends by about six years, Ike. There ain’t +another one in the county and I’m asking you as a friend if you will try +and borrow the judge’s stovepipe hat for me? See your way clear?” + +I looks at Mike’s head, which takes a number eight, and then I thinks +of about six and seven-eighths for the judge. Everybody is entitled to +their own fancies, so Mike sits there while I gets the hat for him. + +“Ask you if you was going to wear it, Ike?” he asks, tickled over it. + +“Nope! Never asked a question,” I replies, which was true, ’cause the +judge wasn’t in his office. + +Magpie comes home happy that night. He poured beans in his coffee and +put sugar in his soup. I don’t mind, because I’m feeling loco myself. + +“Ike,” says he, puffing on his spoon, “what did Washington do after he +crossed the Delaware?” + +“Search me! What did he cross it for, Magpie?” + +“That’s the ---- of it. Reckon I better go up to the judge’s office and +take another look at the picture. He must ’a’ had a reason.” + +“Yes,” says I. “Maybe there was some danged fools from Piperock on his +side of the river and he wanted to get away while the getting was good.” + +Magpie comes back after I’m in bed. I reckon he thought I was asleep. +He gets out in the middle of the floor, puts one foot on a soap-box, +shoves his hand inside his vest like something itched him and throws +back his head. He keeps rearing back and feeling inside his vest until +I gets nervous. + +“Mister Simpkins,” says I, “if you’d hang your shirt on an ant-hill +they’d all leave. What’s the idea of the foot-rest?” + +He glares at me and I ducks under the blankets. After while I peers +out again and right then I elects him to the highest office in the +loco lodge. He’s got my old blue overcoat on with both sides pinned +back from the bottom, like two big lapels, and he’s got my old fedora +hat on cross-ways. I peeks out after a while and sees him shining his +boots with stove-polish. I hears him grunt-- + +“I’ll make ’em up and take notice.” + +“All but you,” says I. “You won’t notice much, old trailer, ’cause +you’ll be dead. Somebody will kill you too dead to skin and I’ll have +to sew up the holes in that coat before cold weather sets in.” + +Then I went to sleep with a six-gun in my hand. + +Dirty Shirt shows up at our cabin the next morning just after Magpie +left and sets down on the bunk. + +“Happy Fourth of July, Ike,” says he by way of greeting. “We’re going +down to the celebration?” + +“Maybe you, Dirty--not us.” + +“Aw, be patriotic, Ike.” + +“I love my country, Dirty, but she ain’t going to mean nothing to me +after I’m a memory.” + +“The glorious Fourth was invented for patriotic folks, Ike,” says he. +“Foreigners and shepherds are the only ones exempt. I feel it my duty +to hold argument with you.” + +“I defy anybody to make me go!” I yelps. “I mean it, too.” + +Well, when we came in sight of the scene of conflict Dirty gave me back +my gun and asked my pardon. I told him to save his breath for running +and then we went down to Buck’s tent, where we bought a demijohn and +spent the morning welcoming folks to our celebration. + +We welcomed a lot of folks that morning. When we ran out of folks we’d +welcome each other. + + * * * * * + +Later on we had trouble making the turns around the tents, being as we +tangles plentiful in the guy-ropes. We emerges out of one tangle and +are just about to celebrate our narrow escape, when I sort of reaches +out and picks a man out of the air. That man sure is moving plenty and +him and me went into the dirt. I set up and put on my hat, and along +came a hunk of lead and took it right off my head. + +Then I ducks and somebody steps on my head, the same of which drives +my nose deep into Dancing Prairie. When I gets unearthed I finds Old +Testament Tilton setting there with a pair of black eyes and a foolish +expression on his face. Dirty is walking circles on his hands and +knees, like a pup preparing for bed. + +Old Testament feels of his eyes, squints at me and says: + +“I said to him--‘Judge, we’ll open with a prayer,’ and he said-- ‘We +will not. We’ll open with a speech from me. I’ve got a whangdoodler of a +speech all framed up.’ I says to him-- ‘Judge, I takes exceptions----’” + +Old Testament hauled out a paper and held it in front of me. + +“Got a prayer all wrote out, Ike.” + +I picked up my hat and looked her over. I shoved my finger through the +bullet-hole in the crown and looks at Old Testament. + +“Wonder where the other two went?” says he. “He shot three times.” + +“Who?” asked Dirty. + +“Ain’t I just got through telling you that I wanted to open with a +prayer and the judge wanted to open with a speech?” says he +indignant-like. + +“Neither one of you held openers, Testament,” says I. “Next time anybody +starts shooting at you, old-timer, you run away. _Sabe?_ The judge ought +to be ashamed for shooting at a preacher, Dirty.” + +“Yeah,” agrees Dirty. “Very poor shooting. Missed three times. Awful!” + +We left the old pelican setting there on the ground and pretty soon +we bumps into Hassayampa. Hassayampa has got a gun in his hand and a +tearful countenance. When he sees us he wipes the tears away with the +muzzle of his gun and weaves up to us. + +“Goin’ to killum,” says he, quavering-like. “Sure’s ----!” + +“Who’s going to bite the dust?” asks Dirty. + +“Knocked ’im down faster’n he can get up, and then shoot three times at +’im,” states Hassayampa, wise as a owl. “Ol’ Testyment’s frien’ of mine. +No brains but sholid meat. Soon live as die. Tha’s me.” + +Hassayampa rocks on his heels. + +“Goin’ to make speech, eh? Prayer’s best. Got a idea, folks. Le’s let +Old Testyment make prayer for the judge. Thassa good idea. Kill two +birds with one rock.” + +Hassayampa smiles through his tears and goes hunting for the judge. + +“Well,” says Dirty, “let’s check off anybody but the judge, ’cause right +now Hassayampa couldn’t hit the supreme bench of Montana with a shotgun +full of bird-shot.” + +Just then Magpie comes parading along and I accosts him. + +“Just about to open up the show, gents,” says he. “Go on up to the +speaker’s stand and get a good place. Things are working out better +than I thought they would. Never seen the like.” + +“Same here,” says I. “Casualties are too few--so far.” + +We finds the crowd milling around the front of a big tent. There ain’t +no sign of the speaker’s stand, so we asks Doughgod Smith about it. + +“This is it here,” states Doughgod, pointing at the big tent. “The +platform is built inside the tent or the tent is built over the top +of the platform. Danged if I know which is correct!” + +“Private speaking, eh?” grunts Dirty. “Good idea!” + +Just then Magpie mounts a box in front of the tent and raises his hand +in the peace sign. + +“Friends and folks from Paradise and Curlew,” says he, “we meet today to +celebrate in a civilized way the----” + +“I takes that first statement to heart, Magpie,” interrupts Hassayampa. +“I don’t mind being unlisted as a friend but I do object to being put +behind Paradise.” + +“Paradise is my happy home right now,” squeaks Scenery Sims. “You +snake-hunters from the great unwashed had better not let your hearts +enter too much in the festivities. _Sabe?_” + +“You trouble-hunters go crawl in a hole!” yells Magpie. + +“Free country, ain’t she?” asks “Telescope” Tolliver of the Cross J. +“Ain’t a man got a right to talk?” + +“If that’s the way you feels about it, cut your wolf loose!” yelps +Magpie. “I got up here to open this show, which is supposed to be a +heap carefree and joyous, but any time you fellers opine to take it +serious I reckon there’s enough mourners to go around.” + +“Aw, let Magpie open her up,” urges somebody back in the crowd. “If we +don’t like it, there’s plenty of daylight left to enable us to shoot +straight.” + +The crowd seems to see the wisdom of the remark, so Magpie says-- + +“Friends and folks from Curlew and Paradise----” + +I heard that gun click and so did Magpie, ’cause he covers the crowd and +looks us over serious-like. + +“Scenery Sims,” says he, “you put that gun back in your holster or I’ll +heat the muzzle and brand you with the double-doughnut! _Sabe?_ I put +Paradise in front of Curlew the first time.” + +Magpie lowers his gun and faces the crowd. + +“I don’t want no blame for what you’re going to see, folks. There’s a +difference of opinion as to who is to blame for this glorious date, so +in order to keep everlasting peace in the county we lets each and every +participating city show their patriotism in their own way and according +to their own beliefs. The sign will tell the tale. Let ’er go!” + +The flaps of the tent swing open. I don’t know how she looks to anybody +else but this is as she was viewed by Ike Harper. + +There stands Mike Pelly in the middle of the platform. He’s got on Old +Testament’s long black coat which fits him at no place except around the +bottom, being as Old Testament is built like a lodge-pole and Mike is +fashioned after the specifications of a hogshead. On his head balances +Judge Steele’s stovepipe hat; in his hands is an ax, while he stands all +spraddled out over a couple of poles. + +The sign reads: + + ABRAHAM LINCOLN ACCORDING + TO PARADISE HE DONE IT + +_Bung!_ + +A six-gun busts right by my ear, and I sees that tall hat hop off Mike’s +head and sail back into the tent. + +“Punch a preacher, will you?” whoops Hassayampa. He’s got a reserved +space in the back of the crowd, and there he stands, rocking back and +forth on his heels. + +“Hey!” Old Judge Steele worms his way to the front of the platform and +scowls up at Paradise’s donation. “Where’d my hat come from?” + +Mike scratches his head with the handle of the ax and stares down at the +judge. + +“Come from?” he asks. “You mean went to, don’t you?” + +_Bung!_ goes Hassayampa’s gun again. + +“I wishes to call your attention,” explains Hassayampa belligerent-like. +“Do I have to kill somebody to get noticed?” + +Hassayampa’s bullet must have cut the rope, ’cause the flaps dropped +down and saved Mike. + +“That wasn’t the judge,” states Dirty to Hassayampa. + +“Nobody else wears election hats,” mumbles Hassayampa. “I know that +hat.” + +Then Magpie’s head protrudes from between the flaps, and he yelps at me: + +“Ike, you take that codfish from Curlew and stake him to a tree. He’s a +trouble-breeder!” + +“Will he?” yells Hassayampa. “Nobody but me to protect the ministry from +a bunch of heathen hop-heads, is there? Who’s going to take me?” + +Hassayampa’s voice wails with rage, and you can’t blame me for not +taking him, can you? I swore to do my duty, but a man has got a right +to define duty as he sees fit. I figured I’d be worth a lot more to +posterity if I ignored Hassayampa. + + * * * * * + +I didn’t care for the statue of Lincoln. Mike looked about as much like +Lincoln as a fish-pole looks like a bucket of water, and deep down in my +heart I wished that Hassayampa hadn’t held so high. Of course Hassayampa +has to get cocky about it. He yells-- + +“You bow-legged, star-wearing, grinny faced son-of-a-duck, come and get +me!” + +“I don’t want you,” says I. “I ain’t collecting antique eggs today. I’m +going to get me a drink.” + +“I was just funning, Ike,” says he. “I’ll go peaceful, ’cause I’m dry, +too.” + +Then me and Hassayampa runs into an argument. We finds Ricky Henderson, +“Three Star” Thorndyke, Art Miller and “Coyote” Calkins arguing with +Doughgod Smith. Doughgod holds forth thusly: + +“You’ve got to show a little becoming class, ain’t you? I’m bossing the +music end of the program, and she can’t fall below the rest, can she?” + +“She can’t,” agrees Ricky. “She sure can’t, Doughgod.” And the four of +them walks away. + +Doughgod looks at us and sort of grins. + +“Them is the Paradise brass band,” explains Doughgod. “Been tooting +for two weeks for this celebration. Everything is sort of out of the +ordinary, so I wishes my end to show up well. A band is just a band +unless they rides horses, which makes ’em a mounted band. _Sabe?_ +Them _hombres_ is going to dispense music from their broncs.” + +We looks back at the speaker’s tent, and here comes an apparition which +we deciphers to be Mike Pelly. Mike sure looks like the breaking up of a +hard Winter. He’s got the brim of that stovepipe hat around his neck and +in his hand he carries one of them rails he was posing over. He’s still +got on portions of that tight coat. He’s got a bump on his forehead, and +in his face is memories of long ago. He weaves up in sort of waltz time +and pauses to look back. + +“Who done it, Mike?” I asks. + +“Lincoln,” says he sweet-like and weaves on. + +“Lincoln was a great man,” states Doughgod. + +“Was?” grunts Hassayampa. “If he hung that bump on Mike I’d say he is, +not was, Doughgod. Almost as great as Custer. My gosh, I done forgot all +about my contentions, Ike. Let’s go back and see Custer.” + +“All right,” says I. “Why stop at modern history, Hassayampa? Let’s go +further back and see Caesar or the last of the Mohicans.” + +We found a fairly peaceful bunch in front of the tent. Old Judge Steele +wanders up to us. His face sure looks like something had tried to erase +his nose, and in his hand is the remnants of that high hat. Just then +I’m grabbed by the arm, and Magpie’s voice grunts in my ear-- + +“Feller wants to see you, Ike.” + +I suffers him to lead me around back of the tent, where he lifts the +canvas enough to let us both under. I was glad to get away from the +judge right then, ’cause I don’t know what Mike might have told him. + +In there I meets the worst freak I’ve seen this day and date. It happens +to be Sad Samuels, but he sure is disguised. I reckon he’s dug up all +the fringed buckskin in Yaller Rock County and hung it on his lanky +carcass. He stands there, leaning against the platform, puffing away on +an extinct cigaret. + +“Ike, meet General Custer,” says Magpie. + +“Howdy, Cus,” says I. “How’s all your little Big Horns?” + +“Poorly, Ike. You ain’t sore at Curlew, are you?” + +“Not at the town itself, Sad. The town ain’t to blame.” + +“Let me explain it,” says Magpie. “Curlew has ideas of her own as to who +is to blame for the Fourth, Ike. Being a free country and peace on earth +to all men we lets each city worship as they see fit. _Sabe?_ Curlew +opines that General Custer is the one.” + +“All right with me,” says I. “Make it anybody you want, just so you +keeps the name of Harper out of the list. I won’t have my good name +sullied, Magpie.” + +“We’ll respect your wishes, Ike,” says Magpie. “Now here’s what Sad +wants of you; he’s shy one actor for his living picture, and you’re +the only person he can depend upon. He honors you, Ike.” + +“Yeah?” says I. “Honor of that kind is like beauty--it don’t get under +my skin. I won’t have a danged thing to do with it. Not a danged +solitary thing! Rest in peace is my motto, and I don’t care where the +chips fall. I will not do it!” + +Well, they got me into that disguise, and I’m betting that nobody ever +looked like me. + +“Not so danged bad at that,” states a voice, and I turns around. + +It looks like a cross between an Injun painted for the war-trail and an +accident in a paint factory. It’s wearing the headdress of the Sioux, +the breast-plate of a Cheyenne and the pants of a Digger medicine-man, +which consists of a pad at the knees and feathers at the ankle--nothing +more. He’s got a wooden knife about three feet long. His face is painted +like the rainbow, one end of his mustache being pink and the other +green. + +“My ----!” says I. “That last drink broke the camel’s back!” + +It is “Mighty” Jones. + +“Shake hands with your paw,” says he. “I’m Rain-in-the-Face.” + +I looked at Magpie and the tears are flowing down his cheeks. Any man +must be tender hearted to cry at a time like this. + +“Who in the ---- am I?” I asks. + +“My daughter,” says Rain-in-the-Face. “You’re Pokyhontas.” + +All the history I ever knew stood on its head and skidded out of the +picture. I looks at General Custer and then at my paw. + +“With a mustache?” I asks foolish-like. + +“Your face don’t show,” says Magpie choking-like. “You assumes a bowed +attitude over Custer, who is about to get carved by Rain-in-the-Face. +Curlew may be wrong in the main facts, but that part is historical.” + +“It will be,” I agrees. “I feel that this celebration will be wrote up +for posterity--if anybody is left to write it.” + +Just then somebody shows their impatience by shooting twice through the +ridge-pole, so we wobbles up and takes our position. + +Sad is on his hands and knees with his chin on a block of wood, and they +places me on my knees, with my nose muffled in the back of his neck, and +my hands are raised as in prayer. Over us stands Rain-in-the-Face, with +his soft-pine sword raised aloft. I’ve got my head toward the audience +and I gets a glimpse of the sign as the curtain goes up. It reads: + + CUSTER DONE IT AFTER + POKYHONTAS SAVED HIM + FROM HER PAW. FROM CURLEW + +I hears a slight stir in the audience. + +_Bang!_ goes a gun. I glances behind me. Mighty is standing there +looking at his sword, which ain’t nothing but a splinter now. + +“Don’t never try to split up no ladies around here, dog-gone your +painted picture!” whoops Dirty Shirt’s voice. “Don’t you never do it!” + +Dirty is right up against the platform and appears to be trying to get +up with the living pictures. + +“_Yo-o-o-o-ow!_” yelps a voice from the rear of the crowd. “Bust up my +donation, will you!” + + * * * * * + +Hassayampa has got a horse, and just as I glance up he sails a loop of +rope to try and circle Dirty Shirt. He didn’t. That was the second time +he shoots high. I tries to move quick, but my costume was made more for +show than for speed. That loop of rope settles right over the rear of +me, tightens behind my knees and over the small of my back, and poor +Pokyhontas got uplifted. + +I reckon that Pokyhontas didn’t want to leave Custer there even if +Rain-in-the-Face didn’t have no more sword than a toothpick, ’cause +when that rope hit me I got a strangle hold on Custer and we both +moved away from there. + +Me, I’m jack-knifed so that my toes are tickling my mustache and Sad +is yelping like a trapped coyote pup. We turned over just once, swung +in under the railing, where we seem to sort of hang up, and then, as +far as I can see, the railing, platform, tent and all went with us. + +Man, I’d say that the strain was great. I seemed to feel every muscle in +my body stretch a foot and as we sailed into the air somebody reached up +and took one of my moccasins off. + +I lost Custer at an altitude of about forty feet and when I landed I +picked a tub of lemonade to stop in, and then it seems that I took the +tub along with me on a voyage of discovery. I’d say that Hassayampa +and his bronc went regardless and nobody knows whither we might have +wandered if that rope hadn’t busted. + +Anyway, I think it busted, ’cause all to once I gets relief from the +cramps and the sandman visits Ike Harper. + +Then along comes a million needles to penetrate my carcass and I feels +my nervous system yank me to a sitting position. + +I’ve got my back against a tent and right in front of me is Judge Steele +and Old Testament. The sky pilot is kneeling in a prayerful attitude, +while the old judge squats on his heels in an attitude of deep thought. +The judge has got a piece of the busted platform in his hands and on his +head, cocked over on one side, is a gallon tin bucket. A curl of lemon +peel sticks out from under the edge and I opines that the judge must ’a’ +mixed with the retail end of the lemonade business. + +“We--we will open with a pup-prayer,” whispers Old Testament. + +The old judge rocks on his heels and fondles that club. + +“We will open with a spup-speech by me,” he whispers right back. + +“Prayer!” + +“Speech!” + +“Dearly beloved, we----” + +_Bam!_ + +The old judge surges forward and taps Testament on the head and our +preacher shuddered deep-like and pokes his long nose into the dirt. + +Judge Steele pokes his nose toward the sky, shoves one hand inside his +torn vest and begins-- + +“Friends, Romans and feller----” + +_Clank!_ + +I sees that lard bucket hop off the judge’s head and the rock nestled +right up against my shin. + +“He-heathen!” stutters a voice and I turns to behold what is left of +Hassayampa. He’s got his head through one of the armholes of his vest, +which makes him look like he had a stiff neck. The belt of his chaps +has busted, and the two halves of his leather panties are wrinkled +down around his feet. His hat is gone, and if his mind ain’t gone too +his eyes sure lie to me. He’s got another rock in his hand. + +“Pup-pick on a preacher, will you?” he yelps. + +The old judge sets there on the ground, looking sort of dazed-like, and +then he seems to fuss around inside of his bosom. He hauls out a long +six-shooter, cocks it deliberate-like and takes aim at Hassayampa. +Hassayampa don’t mind. He sways on his heels and grins at me. + +“How’s every little th-thing, Ike?” he asks hoarse-like. + +_Bung!_ + +The old judge ain’t got much grip in his hands, and I sees the gun hop +plumb over his head when it exploded. + +“_Woof!_” grasps Hassayampa, swaying backward, and he sets down so hard +that he bounced. He sets there making funny faces at me and hanging on +to his equator. + +The judge twists his neck and peers at his gun. Then he gets up and +weaves away past a tent, talking to himself like a shepherd. I looks +over at the suffering Hassayampa and says: + +“Every little thing is all right, Hassayampa. How’s it with you?” + +He shakes his head and hugs himself some more. + +“Think you’re going to die?” I asks. + +He takes a deep breath. + +“_Hoo-o-o-off!_ Hit me-uh-in the-uh-hoof! Belt-buckle. What do you know +about that? _Hoo-o-o-off!_” + +“Not much,” says I. “He can’t shoot no straighter than you can.” + +“Lead us not into temptation,” states Old Testament, sitting up sort of +jerky. + +“Amen,” says I and then I got up, shook the hoops and staves from around +my neck and limped away. + +I’m a peaceful person and I don’t want to do anything to sully the +atmosphere of this glorious celebration. + +Then I runs in to Dirty Shirt--or rather I stumbles over his boots +which are protruding out from under a tent. I hauls him out, and along +with the haul comes Rain-in-the-Face. They’re locked in each other’s +embrace, and from the looks of them I reckon it was a case of united +we fell. I pries ’em apart and Dirty sets up. He looks at me and then +at Rain-in-the-Face, who is sniffing at me with his swollen nose. + +“Pokyhontas, you smell sour,” says Rain-in-the-Face and then he scowls +at Dirty Shirt. + +“You here yet?” he asks. + +“In spirit,” agrees Dirty Shirt. “Physically I’m dead from my boots +to my dandruff. How do you feel, you cross between a polecat and a +totem-pole?” + +“Feel of me!” snaps Mighty Jones. “Ain’t you had enough yet? Maybe you’d +like to bust up another historical group.” + +“Go home and put on some pants,” advises Dirty. “You look like ----! +Come on, Ike. Let that delirium tremens Injun set there and make patent +medicine if he wants to.” + + * * * * * + +Don’t ask me all that happened that day. I’m just telling you what +happened in my immediate vicinity. Some day I hope to be an innocent +by-stander and be able to tell you everything, but as it is you’ve +got to guess that the others didn’t come out unscathed. + +Me and Dirty found the remains of General Custer sitting near the +location of the defunct speaker’s stand. He looks up at us as we go +past, but there ain’t no recognition in his eyes. + +“How goeth the battle, Cus?” I asks. + +He stares straight ahead and raises his voice in tuneless song-- + +“I am nobodee-e-e-e-e’s darling, nobodee-e-e-e ca-hares for me-e-e-e.” + +“Knocked sensible,” declares Dirty, and we weaved along. + +“Ike, you’re an awful looking thing,” states Dirty, looking me over. +“You better shuck that buckskin Mother Hubbard before somebody accuses +me of being a squaw-man. I hate scandal.” + +“By grab, I’ve been looking all over for you, Ike,” exclaims a voice, +and Pete Gonyer takes me by the arm. “Magpie wants to see you right +away.” + +“What does he want?” I ask. “I’m all through being butchered to make a +Dancing Prairie holiday, if anybody asks you. I’ll go home if he wants +me to, but that’s all.” + +We follered Pete down to the bank of the river where mostly everybody +is collected. Across the river, which is about fifty yards wide at this +point, is hung a wide piece of canvas. A scaffolding has been built out +from around a tree, and the canvas stretched on that. We stops at the +edge and hears old Judge Steele proclaim: + +“This here is authentic, I tell you. Ain’t I got the picture of it in +my office? I sure have. While I’ve got a lot of respect for Custer and +Lincoln, it ain’t noways historically correct that they’re to blame. +Therefore it remains for the city of Piperock to hand honor where honor +is due. I asks everybody to watch the great spectacle--the spectacle +from which Fourth of July owes its being.” + +“Get on, Ike.” + +I turns and here is Pete Gonyer on a bronc. He’s got one foot out of the +stirrup, so I can get up, and like a darn fool I done it. I didn’t know +where we were going, but I do know that we went there. + +Pete must ’a’ picked a bronc what never carried double, ’cause it +whirled around that multitude and we hit the water fifteen feet from +the shore. + +Man, I’d say that bronc could hop high and handsome, and them Pokyhontas +clothes bellied out behind like a balloon. + +Pete herded that animal straight for the bank and as soon as it got +its feet on solid ground we changed ends so fast that I grabs Pete +around the neck and my feet stood straight out. I made one complete +turn, let loose, and when I hit the grass I glided about twenty feet +on the seat of the pants I didn’t have on--being as that costume +consisted of hip-length leggin’s which wouldn’t go over my pants and +a sort of a dress. + +I got up sore. There is Magpie, “Tellurium” Woods, “Buck” Masterson +and Pete looking at me. Tellurium and Buck are in their shirt-sleeves, +with their pants rolled up, but Magpie is dressed in that same costume +he put on that night in our cabin. That fedora hat don’t fit sideways, +so he ties it under his chin with a string. I looked down back of that +canvas, and I seen a boat. Honest to grandma, that was the first boat +I ever seen in Yaller Rock County. I caresses myself a few and then I +squints at the bunch. + +“Welcome, Ike,” says Magpie. + +“You’re not!” says I. + +“Aw, Ike, we needed another oarsman, and you’re from Piperock.” + +“Originally from Missouri,” says I. “What are you sheep-herders trying +to pull off over here anyway?” + +“Washington is going to cross the Delaware,” states Magpie. + +“All right,” says I. “Let him cross it. It ain’t my river.” + +“I reckon we better start, boys,” says Magpie. “Come in, Ike.” + +“Not me! Never and not any!” + +“You helped Curlew, Ike,” he reminds me chiding-like. + +“Yes, and take a look at me! I won’t help nobody no more. I won’t even +help myself. You can all go plumb to thunder!” + +I don’t know anything about boats. I might paddle my own canoe if I +had one, but I don’t know how to row. Buck can’t row, and neither can +Tellurium or Pete. + +In the front end of the boat stands Magpie, with one foot histed up on +the end, and his hand still searching inside his shirt. That fedora sets +almost on his forehead. The multitude lets out a whoop as we emerges and +hits the current, which is fairly fast. + +“Swing her up-stream!” yelps Magpie. + +I hears a couple of shots ahead of us, so I drops my oar and ducks. +I reckon that Buck took the same precaution, ’cause the boat starts +whirling, being as all the motive power is on one side. + +I peeks over the edge and here comes old Judge Steele hopping across +the rocks like a rabbit, and right behind him comes Hassayampa. The +judge hits the edge of the bank, hops high into the air and comes +right down among us. + +I seen Hassayampa stub his toe at the brink and he lands in the water. + +“Pull for the shore!” yelps Magpie and just then the crowd splits. + + * * * * * + +I looks up and for the first and last time in my life my eyes feast upon +the Paradise Mounted Band. + +They rides right up to our landing place and spreads out about five +feet apart. The crowd has forgotten us. Here is something new. They +crowds around and gawps up at the musicians. I seen “Coyote” Calkins +slide out his slip-horn, place it to his lips, wiggle it a couple of +times and then music cometh from the four of them at once. Just +once. + +_Ta-a-a-a, ra-a-a-a-a, dum!_ + +The feller who said that music hath charms to soothe the savage beast +never tried to play a horn from the deck of a half-broke bronc. Our +boat just drifted to the bank below them as the music broke forth, and +we never had a chance to back up. + +The crowd never had any chance to go back either. The bank was about +three feet high at that spot, and St. Patrick never made a cleaner job +of them Irish snakes than those four broncs of the merry-makers. I seen +Rain-in-the-Face hop high to get away from Three Star’s roan, but the +bronc beat him to it, and Rain-in-the-Face got kicked half-way across +the Delaware. + +It ain’t human nature to run up-hill to get out of trouble, so they all +follers the lines of least resistance, which in this case led to water, +and Washington wasn’t the only one to cross the river. + +I seen Coyote’s bronc hurdle some of the crowd and go into the air +right over our craft, and believe me I didn’t wait for the crash. Ike +Harper ain’t no mermaid, but he sure did take to the water. I got my +eyes and ears full of the unaccustomed fluid and then something seems +to come down and crown me. + +A weight seems to press down upon my mind and, like all drowning men, I +grasps at a straw--and got a handful of hair. I hung on and I sure took +a ride down the river. I remember I made a noise like a hardware store +every time I hit a rock. After what seemed an hour I feels terry firma +under my carcass. I looks up in time to see that I’ve got hold of--a +bronc’s tail--and then comes one awful clank. + +It is sundown when I awake. I’m sore in every joint and I feels that +all of my bones have been busted and are sticking out of my skin. My +collar-bone is sticking me in the chin and every time I move it grates +on the gravel. + +After a while I gets nerve enough to open my eyes. Sitting there on that +gravel bar beside me is Judge Steele, Old Testament and Hassayampa. They +hears me rattle to a sitting position and they stares at me sort of +pessimistic-like. + +I nods at them and nearly unjoints my remaining bones in trying to get +loose from the hoarse-voiced horn which encircles my frame. + +“We’ll open with a pup-prayer,” states Old Testament hoarse-like. + +“Speech,” argues the judge, in a far-away voice. + +“You let our preacher alone!” wails Hassayampa in a croaking whisper. +“Doggone you, judge, I’ll run you ragged again. I’m getting peeved.” + +I’m peeved, too. I got up on my feet and crowned Hassayampa with that +horn. He sort of shudders deeper into the sand and murmurs-- + +“Hurrah for Custer!” + +Then I tried to get back on the other side of the river. I’m bow-legged +enough to let most of the river through, but I must ’a’ slipped on a +rock, ’cause I soon found that I’m drifting. I never knew before that I +could swim. Man, I tried to stop. I knowed that a few thousand miles +away this river reaches the ocean, and I don’t like oceans. + +Every time I got my feet on a rock the water comes along and turns me a +flip-flop and I drifts regardless. The last time I went under I got mad +and said to myself-- + +“Well, stay under then!” + +Just about then I feels myself bump into something and I gets hauled +high and dry. I spat out a gallon of alkali water and looks around. + +I’m in the boat. There sets Magpie, Mike Pelly and Sad Samuels, and I +ain’t got nothing on them for looks. The boat is half-full of water, +and they’re setting in it like a bunch of hell-divers. They looks me +over and then Magpie says: + +“We might let him decide. He never had an opinion in his life, but this +is a mooted question.” + +“Kinda mooted,” nods Sad, woful-like, “kinda mooted.” + +“Kinda ----!” whines Mike and I notices that he’s still wearing the brim +of that high hat. + +“Will you decide to the best of your ability, Ike?” asks Magpie, +wringing water out of his mustache. “Without fear or favor will you +speak from your heart?” + +“I’ll speak but I won’t act,” says I. “Ask me what thou wilt.” + +“The question is this, Ike: Paradise says Lincoln, Curlew says Custer +and Piperock says Washington is the party responsible for this glorious +day and date. Being a disinterested party we asks your opinion. Who do +you think started it?” + +I looks around at them bedraggled idiots and then at the water. + +“I ain’t no history hound,” says I, “but if you leave it to me I’d cast +my vote for Jonah. We’ve had a whale of a time to-day.” + +“Which is common sense and beats history,” states Magpie and we all +shook hands. + + +[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Mid-October, 1920 issue +of Adventure magazine.] + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78676 *** |