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diff --git a/78923-0.txt b/78923-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab7649b --- /dev/null +++ b/78923-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1143 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78923 *** + + + HAIR-TRIGGER HOLLIBAUGH + + by W. C. Tuttle + Author of “A Tin Cup Trophy,” “The Wisdom of Cyclops,” etc. + + +Whenever uh man sets down to review his past life he sure must have uh +hardened conscience if he don’t shed uh few tears uh sympathy for +himself. I sure did. I always figured that my conscience was plated with +Harveyized steel, but just the same I weeps copious and fluent like. + +I meditates on what uh fool uh man is who has just turned forty, ain’t +got nothing but two days’ grub, uh denatured jackass to pack it with, uh +strip uh cleaned bed-rock, fifteen feet below the grass roots, and not +uh color to show. + +Hard work? Cripes! That fifteen-foot hole was nothing but uh succession +of lifts, heaves and grunts. Also, I owned uh rocker. It was built on +the spur of the moment and kicked to pieces in uh whole lot less time, +when I pans plumb across that strip uh corrugated rock and don’t find +nothing more exciting than some black sand. I rinses out my gold-pan, +meditates for uh minute, and then sails her off into the crick bottom +like uh blue-rock. + +Just to show that I’m disappointed entirely I waits until she almost +stops sailing, and then punctures her with five or six .41 slugs. I +grins with Satanic glee at my handiwork, and then orates aloud to +nobody: + +“There! I’m through! I don’t believe there ever was any gold.” + +“Everybody is entitled to their beliefs,” states uh tired-sounding voice +behind me, and I turns sudden-like. + +I figured that I was the only human being within twenty miles, and after +taking uh look at the owner of that voice, leaning against uh granite +outcropping, I don’t change my opinion. + +He’d be uh handy thing to measure telegraph poles with, and yuh could +allow the length of his feet for the part of the pole what goes into the +ground. Also, he qualifies in circumference, and on top of that animated +flag-pole is the saddest face I ever saw. His eyebrows hangs down and +matches his mustache, which don’t show enough animation to harbor uh +dandruff germ. + +The pouches under his tired-looking eyes looks like they had been +squeezed dry and then left to shrivel up in the sun like the shell of uh +walnut. The Adam’s apple in his lean neck is so active that I expects it +to knock his hat off at any time, and his speckled hands wobbles +limp-like around his bulgy knees. He yawns, slow and deliberate-like, +when I stares at him, and then yanks uh couple uh times on the rope he’s +holding, which appears to extend around the rock. + +“What you doing with Eveline Ann?” I asks, and he yawns some more. + +He hauls out uh plug of tobacco, looks it over careful-like, and puts it +back. I opines that he’s too tired to bite. + +“This her?” he asks, pointing at my burro. + +“Sure!” I replies. + +He relaxes against the rock and scratches his left leg just above where +the boot leaves off. + +“Your jack?” + +“Yes, mine!” I snaps. “You’re leading my burro! Sabe?” + +He looks the burro over in uh sad sort of uh way, and then nods sort uh +solemn-like. + +“Don’t make no difference,” he states, taking lots uh time between each +word. “It’ll be all the same uh million years from now.” + +“Well, mister,” says I, “you got more gall than any one I ever seen. Do +you intend to appropriate my mule right under my nose?” + +“Might as well,” he drawls. “You opines that there ain’t no gold, and +unless yuh got faith enough to prospect yuh ain’t got no use for uh +burro. Yuh can’t wear it on your person, and—your gun is empty, anyway. +Sabe?” + +“You’re uh philosopher are yuh?” I asks, but he shakes his head. + +“No,” says he. “No, Texan. My maw’s folks were from Arkansaw. I was born +in—in—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate. I forgot where I was born. +Don’t matter none.” + +“No,” I agrees, “it don’t make no material difference. I reckon we can +come to an understanding without your birthplace. Were yuh born tired?” + +“I—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve been tired +for—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Tired for uh long time. Maybe it’s the climate.” + +“Stranger around here?” I asks, and he nods. + +“I hope so. If I thought I wasn’t I’d be on my way. I’m wanted.” + +“What for—exceeding the sleep limit?” + +“Sleep limit? Huh! I wouldn’t put shells in that gun if I was you, +mister. One loaded gun around here is enough. I don’t know your +disposition so I plays safe. Sabe?” + +“Sheriff at Blue Nose,” I states, offhand-like, but he just nods and +yawns. + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Just one?” + +“We only have one to uh county in this State,” I informs him. + +“Poor system,” he states. “One sheriff is enough to handle ordinary men, +but I ain’t ordinary.” + +“No, you’re not,” I agrees. + +“I’m ‘Hair-Trigger’ Hollibaugh.” + +He yawns wide and unhandsome and pats the long Colt, which hangs near +his knee. + +“Ever hear of the Hollibaugh tribe?” he asks. “The longer the family +runs the tougher they gets, and I’m the last survivor. They has all died +with their boots on.” + +“Too sleepy to take ’em off?” I asks. + +“Mister Man,” he puts one hand on my knee and stifles uh yawn over his +wide mouth with the other. “Mister Man, don’t chide me. The Hollibaughs +don’t let no man chide ’em. Who might you be?” + +“I might be General Funston or Admiral Dewey,” says I, sort uh +peeved-like, “but I ain’t. Did yuh ever hear of ‘Comanche’ Cal?” + +He looks at me, solemn-like for uh moment, and then hands me the +lead-rope of that burro. + +“Lead your own stock, Comanche,” says he. “Also and moreover, yuh might +as well fill up your gun. Yuh never can tell what we’ll meet. If you’re +short uh ca’tridges yuh might fill out uh my belt, seeing as we both use +the same size.” + +“Where do yuh figure we’re going?” I asks. + +He yawns uh couple uh times, and tugs at his mustache. + +“I don’t know, Comanche. Doggone me—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Doggone me if I +know. I reckon we might as well go down and kill that sheriff. I believe +in taking folks by surprise. There ain’t no limit to what you and me can +do together. Comanche Cal, eh? Well, dog my cats! You sure are deceiving +to look at.” + +“Yes,” says I, “and I’m also deceiving to talk to. You got any mode uh +locomotion except your feet?” + +“I—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate. Nope. That’s your stuff on +the burro. I came past your camp, so I takes what I wants. I don’t +reckon I left much of anything. Yuh see,” he explains in his tired +voice, “I’m uh Hollibaugh. We takes what we want. My paw was lynched for +stealing uh cow, and my grandpaw was shot for coveting another man’s +hawgs. Grandpaw loved pork right up to the time he died. + + * * * * * + +“I been sojourning over in uh place called Maverick. Ho, hum-m-m! Must +be the climate. Got into uh poker-game over there. Inhabitants are +fish-eaters. Thought I was sucker enough to go to sleep in uh +poker-game. They rings in uh cold deck in uh jack-pot. They didn’t know +I was uh Hollibaugh. I got peeved and stuck up the whole bunch for what +they had. One feller, name uh Kelly, thought I meant table stakes, and +tried to hold out on me. + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Got uh posse after me pretty soon. Shot my hoss from +under me and then crippled my pack-animile. I went to sleep in the brush +and they missed me. No, sir, I ain’t got nothing left but my gun, +clothes, self-respect and the traditions of the Hollibaughs, and I been +on foot for so long that my pants hungers for the squeak of uh saddle. +Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m-m-m!” + +I sets down and rolls uh smoke, and when I gets it to going good I looks +up at him but he don’t say nothing. He’s snoring like uh grizzly in the +Winter-time. + +I steps over, slips his gun loose and prods him in the stummick with it. + +“Hair-Trigger,” says I, “give me back that pocketbook yuh got up at my +camp.” + +He opens his eyes slow-like, busts into uh wide yawn, and produces the +article referred to from inside his shirt. + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m!” he yawns. “Gosh, I wish yuh hadn’t woke me up. I +was dreaming, and I sure love uh good dream. Was that your wallet?” + +“Whose did yuh think it was?” I snaps. “You got it on top uh my roll uh +blankets, didn’t yuh?” + +“Uh-huh. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! That ain’t no sign it belongs to you. Nothing +much in it anyway. I just took it so it wouldn’t be lonesome. If that’s +all the money you got we better rob uh bank right away. Do you believe +in dreams, Comanche?” + +“What kind uh dreams?” I asks. + +“Aw, just dreams. When you woke me up I was dreaming that I wasn’t uh +bit sleepy.” + +“I don’t believe in ’em,” says I. “Your stomach is out of order. Maybe +it’s your liver. Anyway, you needs medical attention.” + +We journeyed to Blue Nose, me and Hair-Trigger and Eveline Ann. The +last-mentioned is my burro. Eveline is of the male gender, but it seems +sort uh home-like to hear uh woman’s name around camp, so I misnames the +brute. + +The two ends of him ain’t mates in disposition. If yuh approaches him +from the front he’ll try his dangdest to kiss yuh, but if yuh gets near +his rear end yuh better hang on to your hat. Eveline can kick the soda +out of uh biscuit and never crack the crust. + +Hair-Trigger makes the mistake of trying to lean his tired carcass on +that jack’s rump, with the result that Eveline kicks him so hard in the +belt-buckle that the suspender buttons snaps off the back of his pants. + +“I could love that animile,” states Hair-Trigger, while he rustles +enough baling-wire to hold up his pants. “Some day I’ll buy him from +yuh, Comanche. He woke me up just as uh Injun was going to annex my +scalp.” + +“Why not buy an alarm-clock?” I asks, but he shakes his head. + +“I’ve tried ’em all. They don’t do nothing but make me sort uh restless +when they explodes.” + +“You ever bothered with insomnia?” I asks. + +“I don’t know,” says he. “While I was on my pilgrimage over into this +country I slept in an old cabin, and I got something. I hung my shirt on +uh ant-hill for uh spell, and then boiled the thing. I ain’t felt +nothing there since. What you noticed me scratching was uh wood-tick +bite. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Must be the altitude.” + +I don’t reckon yuh ever heard uh Blue Nose. It ain’t on no map. It is +one uh them places that’s partial to spittin’-tobacco and justifiable +homicide. The nearest railroad is sixty miles away, from whence uh stage +runs time and again to Blue Nose. It carries the mail, when there is any +to carry, which ain’t often. Nobody in Blue Nose has any friends to +write to. If they had they wouldn’t be in Blue Nose. + +To all appearances the city is dormant when we arrive, and when +Hair-Trigger sees that one dusty, deserted street, he smiles like he had +found his heart’s desire. + +“I been looking for uh place like this for years,” he states, as we +pilgrims toward uh hitching-post. + +“Not me,” says I. “I ain’t like uh wounded animal thataway. I don’t +hanker to sneak into some secluded place to cash in my chips. I hope I +never has to point with pain to the fact that I died in uh place like +Blue Nose. What do yuh suppose Saint Pete would say to uh corpse from +here?” + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m!” yawns Hair-Trigger. “I don’t know Peter, but if he +said anything he’d either be loco, drunk or prodigal with his talk. I +saw enough in your pocketbook to ask yuh to set ’em up, Comanche.” + +We snubs Eveline to the rack, and enters that grog-shop. She sure is one +busy-looking place uh business. + +There’s uh feller reclining half in uh chair and half on uh card-table, +with his head resting on his arms, and he’s snoring plentiful. +Hair-Trigger looks him over with envious eyes, and yawns. + +The bartender is humped over in uh chair at the rear, busy as uh bee at +something. Hair-Trigger sniffs, and I sniffs, and then Hair-Trigger +grins. + +“Bananas!” he whoops. “Doggone! I never expected to find one in this +part of the world.” + +“Does smell thataway,” agrees the hooch-handler, uh fat hombre, of about +forty Summers and sundry whiskers. “Smells like ’em but it ain’t. +Nothing but just paint. Uh feller was going through here, painting +signs, and he left this bottle here. I been putting some on this here +picture-frame. Don’t look so danged bad at that, does it?” + +Hair-Trigger looks it over and yawns, so we moves over to the bar and +samples the elixir. + +“Right lively little city yuh got here,” I opines. + +“You darn well know it,” agrees the bartender. “Blue Nose is about the +best place west uh Boston. She’s uh little quiet right now, but some day +she’ll hit her stride.” + +“Anything in sight?” asks Hair-Trigger, accepting the bartender’s +solicitations to sluice again. + +“Well, not exactly what you’d call visible. Some day there’ll be uh +strike around here, and then she’ll be uh hi-yu place again. Sabe?” +Hair-Trigger looks over at the sleeping figure at the table, and yawns +wide. + +“Plenty uh room if yuh wants to sleep, stranger,” offers the bartender, +but Hair-Trigger shakes his head. + +“I ain’t—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! I ain’t sleepy. It always makes me yawn to +see uh man sleeping thataway. You spoke of uh strike; do you mean +placer?” + +“You darn well know it. There’s uh wide pay-streak around here. Yuh see, +the town was named after me. I’m ‘Blue Nose’ Blucher, discoverer of the +Fare Thee Well.” + +“Think she’s ripe for uh stampede, eh?” questions Hair-Trigger. + +“Mister,” pronounces Blucher, “Blue Nose pines for uh strike like uh +calf for its maw. You fellers prospecting?” + +“You said it,” states Hair-Trigger. “I’m Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh—me. +This person with me is Comanche Cal. Ever hear of him? Him and me is +side-kicks, and when we can’t find gold she ain’t no place, eh, +Comanche?” + +“She ain’t no place, Hair-Trigger,” says I, with conviction, and +Hair-Trigger busts his yawn with uh grin. + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m!” + + * * * * * + +The sleeper over at the table stretches convulsively and opens uh mouth +yuh could put uh tin can into and never touch ivory. Hair-Trigger takes +one look and imitates him to uh gnat’s eyebrow. + +“You—you—you—” stutters the figure at the table, and Hair-Trigger nods. + +“Yes, yes—me. Go on, go on.” + +“You—you—you—you going—going—going—going to pup—pup—pup—prospect +huh—huh—huh—here?” + +Hair-Trigger nods and yawns and the other nods and yawns with him. + +“Let—let—let—let me sus—sus—sus—sell yuh—yuh—yuh—you sus—sus—sus—some +cla—cla—cla—claims.” + +Hair-Trigger looks the feller over, and then leans against the bar. + +“Mister,” says he, “you sound like you had gas on your stummick. Let me +do the talking and you just nod or shake. Sabe? You got some claims?” + +“Sh—sh—sh—sure. I—I—I—I gug—gug—gug—gug——” + +“Nod or shake!” advises Hair-Trigger. “Placer ground?” + +The person nods some industrious. + +“How far from here?” + +“Uh—uh—uh—uh—uh——” + +“Wait!” snaps Hair-Trigger. “My mistake, old-timer,” and then he turns +to the bartender. “You know anything about his claims?” + +“He owns uh claim on Fool Hen Crick, about three miles from here. He +works just like he talks, and sleeps when he ain’t working, so I don’t +reckon he ever got near bed-rock. I don’t reckon there’s anything there +worth digging for, anyway.” + +“I—I—I—I—I—gug—gug—gug——” + +“Nod or shake!” yelps Hair-Trigger. “You don’t need to go into details. +If this here Blue Nose person opines wrong about your personal affairs, +you just shake. Sabe? Did yuh ever find any color?” + +He nods. + +“I—I—I——” + +“Amounts don’t count!” howls Hair-Trigger. “Can’t yuh keep from talking? +Cripes! If talking was as hard for me—ho, hum-m-m-m! Must be the +atmosphere. Now, you nod or shake. How much yuh want for the claim?” + +“Uh—uh—uh—uh——” + +“Ex-cuse me!” whoops Hair-Trigger. “Dog my cats! You’re sure one hard +person for to converse with. Some day you’ll choke to death. Tell yuh +what we’ll do; you turn the claim over to me and Comanche, we’ll open +her up, and we’ll share alike. What do yuh say?” + +“You—you—you——” + +“Shake or nod! Doggone yuh, shake or nod!” + +The person thinks deep like for uh minute, and then begins— + +“I—I—I—I’ll——” + +“Shake or nod!” advises Hair-Trigger, in uh hoarse whisper, and the +person nods. + +“Now,” says Hair-Trigger, accepting another free drink, “we’ll go right +out to our mine as soon as we can raise uh grubstake.” + +He turns to the bartender, and says— + +“Mister, do you know where we can raise the price of uh piece uh grub?” + +“Nope, I don’t. Yuh might go over and tackle old man Swigert at the +bank. He’s got plenty uh money, but if you can pry him loose from any of +it you sure can pan gold out of uh haystack.” + +“Stingy?” I asks. + +“Stingy!” he snorts. “Stingy? Say, that old hombre is so danged stingy +he sleeps with his boots on to save the wear and tear on his socks. If I +had the money handy I’d stake yuh myself.” + +“Well, what are we going to do?” I asks, and when Hair-Trigger +telescopes back to normal, after uh convulsive yawn, he replies: + +“We’ll go over—ho, hum-m-m-m-m!—and make this stingy person hand us the +price of some bacon and beans. The Hollibaughs are great when it comes +to borrowing things. I borrowed uh quart uh alcohol from uh thirsty +Injun once, and I’d uh drank it, too, but danged if I didn’t go to +sleep, and he stole it back. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m!” + +“Now, you—you—you—” begins the spluttering one, but Hair-Trigger holds +up one long freckled hand, and bids him desist. + +“Pardner,” says he, “don’t! Wait till yuh make uh stake and then yuh can +hire an interpreter. Right now yuh resembles uh scratched phonygraft +record.” + +We takes another shot uh hooch all around, and Hair-Trigger cocks his +hat on top of his sad face, and sings in uh voice that sounds like +filing uh saw in uh loose vise: + +“Old man Swigert, was uh generous jigger, and he bought uh grubstake for +little Hair-Trigger. With uh hi-yi and uh hi-yi and uh hi-yi, yippi +aye.” + +Hair-Trigger over-shot when he sings of Swigert’s generosity. That bank +uh Blue Nose wasn’t what you’d call uh palace uh finance, but the +proprietor sure qualified as uh warden for wayward dollars. Every cent +that old hombre had in his bank was kept in solitary confinement, and +I’ll bet that every check had to prove an alibi before he pardoned the +cash. He glares at me and Hair-Trigger, from where he’s bending over uh +desk, writing the obituary of the last ten cents he spent for chewing +tobacco, and snarls— + +“Well, what do yuh want now?” + +Hair-Trigger sizes up the layout, and yawns wide. + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! What yuh say?” + +“I said what I said, and you heard me!” snaps the old turtle. “What do +you want now? Hear that?” + +“Let me see,” grins Hair-Trigger. “What did I ask for the last time?” + +The old sidewinder gets up from his table and peers close-like at us. + +“Was you ever here before?” he demands. + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Danged if I know,” states Hair-Trigger. “You spoke +just like I’d been here before. Do you believe in reincarnation?” + +“I don’t believe nothing I can’t see!” snorts Swigert. + +“Good system,” replies Hair-Trigger. “Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the +climatic conditions. Uh feller done told me about you, but I couldn’t +believe it until I saw yuh. Dog—my—cats! He sure was right.” + +“What did he say?” demands the old pelican. “What’d he say, eh? Said I +was stingy, eh? Said I was, didn’t he?” + +“Nope,” yawns Hair-Trigger, tugging at his dilapidated whiskers. “Said +he wouldn’t say uh word against yuh, Mister Swigert. Said he didn’t have +to, ’cause you’re uh mind-reader, and you know what folks think. He said +he thought you was stingy as ——. He didn’t come right out and say that +yuh was—he just thought yuh was. Sabe? Ho, hum-m-m-m!” + +“Well, I ain’t!” howls Swigert, pounding on uh table. “I ain’t stingy. +I’m careful—that’s all. What you fellers want, anyway?” + +Hair-Trigger yawns and pats himself on the chest. + +“I’m Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh—me. Ever hear of the Hollibaughs? Mining +engineers—whole fambly. Born with second sight. Invented seventeen ways +uh saving gold. Honest as uh hot day is long, and honorable from the +cradle to the grave. This person with me is Comanche Cal, expert on +amalgamation. What I can’t save he can. Sabe? Ho, hum-m-m-m! Must be +something in the climate.” + +“Well!” yelps the old rooster. “What do yuh think this is—uh prospect? +This is the bank uh Blue Nose—not uh mine!” + +Hair-Trigger smothers uh yawn with his hand, glances cautiously around +and then whispers confidential-like to Swigert: + +“Listen: me and Comanche has gone into pardnership with uh feller who +has uh claim up on Fool Hen Crick. We know what we’re talking about when +we say it’s richer than anything Alder Gulch ever showed. Want uh fourth +interest? All that will cost yuh will be enough to grubstake me and +Comanche for uh month or two—say uh hundred and fifty dollars. +You’ll—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! You’ll get rich. Sabe?” + +The old ground-hog draws his lips so close together that his chin and +nose shakes hands with each other, and squints at us like uh badger full +uh cayenne pepper. + +“I will, will I?” he howls. “You say I will, do yuh? Doggone your +panhandling souls, get out uh here! Stake yuh? Why, I’d sooner give it +to uh coyote. Gold-hunters ——! Grub-hunters is what you are. All you +wants is to live off somebody else. Prospecting parasites!” + +That ain’t all he said, but it’s sufficient. Telling uh story in polite +society sort uh hampers direct quotations. Anyway, it ain’t going to +shock nobody to say that he called us uh lot uh unprintable names, while +I absorbs several cigarets. + +After a while he seems to have run out of mean things to say, and is +panting hard from the exertion. + +“Well,” says I, “I hates an argument. If you believe half the things +you’ve said about me and Hair-Trigger, I’d opine that we ain’t going to +get that grub. What do you think, Hair-Trigger?” + +“Think!” howls Swigert. “Think? Say, that cross between uh string-bean +and uh shot uh morphine went to sleep ten minutes ago.” + +Hair-Trigger yawns and pushes his hat back off his eyes. + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Seems close in here. What did you say, Mister +Swigert? Do we get that stake?” + + * * * * * + +Do you know what uh riot gun is? Yuh take uh ten-gage +shotgun—muzzle-loader preferred—and saw off the barrels until she’s +about half the usual length. Uh riot gun ain’t so much in itself—it’s +all in knowing how to load it. + +First yuh take uh quart uh powder and divide it into two parts—one part +for each barrel. Tamp it down tight, using uh crowbar and old +newspapers, felt hats or gunnysacks. Next yuh add uh couple uh +doorknobs, two or three feet uh heavy chain, add uh dash uh +horseshoe-nails and stove-lifters, and yuh might include the horseshoe +if you’re playing in hard luck. + +Now, all yuh needs is caps on the nipples and supreme faith in your +ability to take punishment. It is fully guaranteed to annihilate +everything within half a mile and within uh hundred-yard radius. What uh +riot gun does at close range is awful to behold, ’cause it does +everything except write the obituary of the deceased. + +I’ve beheld their gruesome execution, and I reckon Hair-Trigger had too, +’cause me and him hung in the doorway of that bank for uh second or two +before we can claw our way out, and I’m betting that nobody, no matter +how thirsty, ever entered that saloon with greater dispatch. + +Blue Nose Blucher stops painting long enough to set out that bottle, and +our third-interest pardner heeds our loud call to irrigate. + +“Get it?” asks Blucher. + +“Nope,” replies Hair-Trigger. “We—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Dang this climate! We +would if we’d uh stayed another minute.” + +“You don’t mean to say that old Swigert offered to stake yuh?” exclaims +Blucher, spilling hooch all over the bar, in surprise. + +“I don’t think so,” replies Hair-Trigger. “What did he offer us, +Comanche?” + +“Ten feet head start,” says I. + +“You—you—you——” + +Our pardner starts his usual oration, but Blucher signals him to stop. + +“Let me tell it, Lafayette,” says he. “You fellers ain’t been properly +introduced to your pardner, have yuh? Let me make yuh used to Lafayette +John Paul Jones. Lafe has an impediment in his speech.” + +We shakes hands with him, and wishes him many happy birthdays, and he +manages to dig up enough to pay for uh round. + +“Impediment?” says Hair-Trigger. “You got an impediment, Lafie?” + +“I—I—I—I—” begins Lafe, but Hair-Trigger yells— + +“Nod or shake, dad bust your hide!” and Lafayette John Paul Jones nods. + +Hair-Trigger yawns over his drink, and says to Blucher—— + +“What was you going to tell us uh while ago, in Lafe’s behalf?” + +“Lafe tells me that if yuh can’t raise enough for uh stake out of old +man Swigert yuh can have his. He orates that he’s got enough for two +weeks in his cabin at the mine.” + +“Cripes!” explodes Hair-Trigger. “Is that uh fact? I didn’t think we was +gone long enough for him to tell yuh all that. Is that right, Lafe?” + +“Uh—uh—uh—uh—uh——” + +“Nod or shake! Gosh A’mighty, man! Either do that or write it out.” + +Lafe nodded. + +Well, we has uh few more on each other, and then me and Hair-Trigger +goes after our rolling stock. Eveline has resented our inattention to +such details as dinner by eating up my coat. Eveline Ann’s ancestors +must uh been goats, ’cause he’ll nourish off anything he can get his lip +over. Red shirts is pie to that jackass. Anyway, I ain’t got no coat, so +I wails loud and long and kicks the jack in the floating ribs. + +“Never get mad at uh burro or uh woman, Comanche,” advises Hair-Trigger. +“Give ’em all the credit in the world when they performs right, and +forgive ’em when they does things wrong. It’s their privilege and +inherited rights to do things wrong. Sabe?” + +“You’d have Socrates skinned four ways from the jack if you’d keep +awake,” says I. “But philosophy don’t restore no coats. I pines uh heap +for that coat, Hair-Trigger.” + +“Did I or did I not see uh coat hanging on the walls of the den of +iniquity we just left?” he wonders aloud. “Maybe I dreamed it, Comanche, +but I feels certain sure that on one uh them four walls I has observed +the top garment of the male sex. You might investigate, and thereby fill +uh long-felt want.” + +I wanders back and finds that for once Hair-Trigger had not dreamed it. + +“What’s she worth?” I asks, pointing at the coat. + +“That coat?” asks Blue Nose. “Huh! It ain’t mine, but I don’t reckon the +owner is where he’ll need it. Yuh see, the feller what owned it was uh +sheriff from Horse Heaven. Not having studied geography fluently he +mistakes the boundaries of his own county and comes over here to arrest +one of our prominent citizens. + +“Official jealousy arises in the breast of ‘Sassafras’ Simpson, our +sheriff, when he hears of the invasion, so we ships the Horse Heaven +sheriff home to his widow, and auctions off his horse. Some of our +right-minded citizens takes what money he’s got in his pockets, and buys +him uh nice shiny black suit to be shipped in. It was uh suit that Zeb +Holden has had in stock for years and, while it ain’t exactly suitable +for ordinary wear, it was good enough to put under ground. It helps Zeb +out that much, and it don’t hurt the sheriff’s looks none to speak of. +That coat was left over, and if yuh needs it you’re sure welcome to it.” + +I looks the garment over, tucks it under my arm, and thanks everybody +concerned. Hair-Trigger is asleep against the rack, and acts peevish +when I wakes him up. + +“Dang it all!” he yawns. “Seems like something always wakes me up when +I’m half way through uh pleasant dream. Well, I reckon we got to do some +digging if we’re going to start uh stampede.” + +“What good is uh stampede going to do us?” I asks. “Where do me an you +profit?” + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Ain’t that old banker uh stingy old wood-rat? I’ll +bet he’s got uh lot uh money in that place uh his, Comanche.” + +“Uh-huh.” I agrees. “Also, he’s got uh riot gun. You can’t do nothing +with riches when your hide is full uh doorknobs and nails, +Hair-Trigger.” + +“I’m uh Hollibaugh,” he states. “No Hollibaugh ever passed out from the +effects of uh riot gun. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Must be something in this +air. Darn his old hide! I’ll bet that the sight uh nuggets would give +him apoplexy. Yes sir, I’ll bet—huh! You and me is going to wake up that +hamlet, Comanche Cal. Dog—my—cats, I’m glad I met yuh. Picture-painting +bartenders, stuttering Jones and stingy bankers. Whoo-e-e-e-e! Yes, sir, +we’ll cause ’em all to come and see. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m!” + + * * * * * + +Me and Eveline Ann and Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh found Lafayette John Paul +Jones’s mine on Fool Hen Crick. The faded location-notice proclaims it +to be the Golden Gob Mining and Milling Company. We finds the cabin and +grub cache, which consists of uh few beans, some flour and uh hunk uh +bacon the size uh your fist. + +“Two weeks, eh?” says I. “Stuttering Jones must be uh vegetarian.” + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m!” yawns Hair-Trigger, over that piece uh bacon. +“Mountain air always makes me sleepy. Whoo—e—e—e—e! This sure is one big +layout, Comanche. Dog—my—cats! Let’s me and you go and see how much work +he’s got done. Saw uh place down the crick where he’s been doing uh +little work.” + +Little was the right word. He drifts in about twenty feet through loose +gravel, builds uh few feet uh flume, and then I reckon he must uh went +to sleep on the job or else somebody came along and he took the rest of +his time to tell ’em hello. I takes one look at the place and then +opines aloud that this ain’t no place to find gold. + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m!” groans Hair-Trigger, locking his boots around uh +boulder, and stretching until he’s plumb grotesque. “Gold is where yuh +find it, and stampedes are where yuh start ’em. That old man Swigert +ain’t no good citizen, is he, Comanche?” + +“What’s that got to do with the Golden Gob?” I asks. + +“Being uh white man covers the proverbial ounce of prevention, Comanche. +Did yuh ever notice what uh lot uh misery eventually comes to uh feller +what don’t treat his feller men white? I’m uh Hollibaugh—me. We go and +get things. Would you take what ain’t rightfully yours if yuh had uh +chance, Comanche?” + +“I would not,” I states. “I complies with the law.” + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Everybody to their own ideas. Some folks just covet, +but the Hollibaughs take. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate. Reckon +we might as well dig uh while to keep from going to sleep. You take the +shovel and clean out the flume while I goes up to the cabin and rustles +uh small feed. I’m hungry.” + +I shovels for about an hour and then ambles up to the cabin to eat. I +finds some bread burning in the oven and burnt bacon on top uh the +stove, and Hair-Trigger asleep on the bunk. + +“Here! You copper-riveted sleep-consumer!” I yelps. “You’re uh —— of uh +cook!” + +He raises up and looks at me dumping things off the stove, and then +stretches himself plentiful. + +“Enough for one meal and you incinerates it!” I yelps. + +“Getting excited is bad for your system, Comanche,” he states. “Never +let yourself get above normal. Doggone. I dreamed of gold again. You +believe in dreams?” + +“What kind uh dreams?” + +“I dreamed that we made uh million out of the Golden Gob.” + +“I don’t,” says I. “You need some paregoric.” + +We heaves boulders for uh while, after we eats what is left, and then we +plans on our future operations. I outlines everything and Hair-Trigger +fails to disagree on uh single point, ’cause he sleeps all through the +meeting. + +The next morning he scratches his back on the corner of the cabin, and +opines thusly: + +“Comanche, we can’t work if we don’t eat, so I’m going to Blue Nose and +see about uh stake. Yes, sir, I’m going to take that community jackass +and either bring back uh load uh grub or Blue Nose will regret it. +Sabe?” + +“Going to get it from old man Swigert?” I asks, sarcastic-like. + +“Maybe. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate.” + +“You can’t get nothing in Blue Nose,” I argues, but Hair-Trigger pats +himself on the chest and tugs at his whiskers. + +“I’m uh Hollibaugh, and the Hollibaughs gets what they go after. The +trouble with you, Comanche, is that you’re too honest. You’ll never get +no place. I thought that me and you was going to mix like mud and water, +but—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m-m! Well I’ll go down and see how she looks. + +“Ripe for uh stampede, eh? If yuh never see me again, Comanche, don’t +feel hard against me. The Hollibaughs inherits, and paw was lynched for +rustling cows, and grandpaw was killed with uh strange hawg in his arms. +Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate. So long.” + +He weaves off down the trail with Eveline Ann, while I sets down and +reviews things. In the first place I ain’t Comanche Cal—whoever he is or +was. Hair-Trigger just took it for granted. I starts to feel sorry for +myself, but happens to realize that I ain’t no worse off than I was +before I met this here sleepy freak. + +I don’t do uh tap uh work all day, and the next morning I starts in +right where I left off the day before. My breakfast was slim. In fact I +never had uh slimmer one in my life. I took uh drink out of the flume +and tightened up my belt. + +“Fool Hen Crick,” says I, aloud, “I’m going to bid yuh adoo. I’m going +out and kill me some breakfast, cook it on that little rusty stove, and +then I’m going to foller in the footsteps uh one slumbering hombre named +Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh, the same uh which has annexed my burro under +false pretenses. He ain’t coming back, and it ain’t in my heart to chide +him for it. + +“I’m going to seek fresh pastures. Milk and honey don’t thrive in the +land uh cactus, mesquite and lizards, so yours sincerely is on uh +pilgrimage to find greener vegetation.” + +Fool Hen Crick don’t rise up and dispute my right to navigate, so I +pilgrims up the gulch. Pretty soon I busts into the domestic life of uh +couple uh sage-hens. The first one was going north, so I hits it in the +south end, which makes it unfit for anything except uh pillow. I cuts +the head off the other. It looks uh heap ancient, but even tough meat +keeps uh man from starvation, so I pilgrims back towards the little +cabin with joy in my soul. + +Do I turn kitchen mechanic? I do not! + +I don’t get quite to the cabin when uh bullet shaves my ear, and +proclaims that I’m excess baggage around there. I immediate and soon +drops into the brush and dusts the sight of my .41. + +That bullet came from uh rifle, so I’m wise enough to keep down low. I +hears uh faint yell off to the left uh me, and then away off in the next +gulch I hears uh couple uh scattering shots. Pretty soon I sees two men +on hosses, racing up the ridge. + +“Well,” says I, to myself, “things is looking up around Fool Hen.” I +sneaks low in the mesquite, and gets close to the cabin. I figures that +I’m some Injun when it comes to sneaking, but just as I cranes my neck +for uh peep at the shack, I hears uh twig snap. I turns sudden-like, and +finds myself looking down the muzzle of uh Winchester, and back uh that +gun is Lafayette John Paul Jones. + +He recognizes me, too, and lowers the muzzle. + +“You—you—you—you——” he begins, and I nods. + +“Uh-huh—me. What’s going on around here?” + +“Sus—sus—sus—strike,” he manages to splutter. + +“Don’t jerk your hands thataway when yuh talk!” I yelps. “Ain’t yuh got +no sense? That gun is cocked. Did you say ‘strike’? Nod or shake.” + +He nods. + +“Where?” I asks. + +“Huh—huh—huh—huh—huh——” + +“Let down that hammer, you carbonated coyote!” I whoops. “You mean that +uh strike has been made in this district? Nod or shake.” + +He nods and then starts spluttering again— + +“You—you—you——” + +“Look here, Lafe,” says I, “I hate to kill yuh—I hate to kill any man +who is crippled in the speech, but just as sure as the Lord made little +apples I’m going to do it if yuh don’t lay that gun down. Who made this +strike?” + +“Ha—Ha—Ha—Hair-Tut—Tut—Tut——” + +“Hair-Trigger?” I asks, and he nods. + +We looks foolish-like at each other, and I fumbles for uh smoke. + +“Where’s Hair-Trigger?” I asks, but Lafe looks blank-like at me for uh +minute, and then starts— + +“I—I—I—I—I——” + +“If yuh don’t know, shake your danged head!” I yelps, and he shakes. + +“Well,” says I, “if this property is good I’m uh third-owner, +Lafayette,” but he shakes his head some more. + +“You—you—you—ain’t gug—gug—gug—gug—got n—n—n—n—n—nothin’ +tut—tut—tut—tut—to pup—pup—pup—prove it,” he orates, perspiring fluently +and waving his arms, and when I comes to consider it I finds that he’s +perfectly right. + +“All right, Lafayette and So Forth Jones,” says I. “Far be it from me to +take what ain’t rightfully mine. Over in your cabin is uh coat what +belongs to me. I take what’s mine. Is that proper?” + +“Uh—uh—uh—uh——” + +“Shake or nod,” I advises, so he nods. + +I gets my coat, and then pilgrims off down the trail. About uh mile from +the Golden Gob I hears somebody yell— + +“Git off from here!” + +I sees uh man in the trail, with uh rifle in his hands. + +“What’s the main idea?” I yells, stopping short, of course. + +“This is all located, stranger,” he yells back. “You’ll have to locate +some other place.” + +I nods and goes way around. I’d walk uh mile out uh my way any time to +keep from getting killed. About half uh mile further on uh bullet lifts +my hat off, and I stops to pick it up. + +“Doggone yuh, don’t come on my land!” howls uh voice, and I don’t have +to peer close to see that it’s old man Swigert. “Keep off!” he warns, so +I takes uh little side trip again. + + * * * * * + +I takes off my hat to Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh. He sure is some little +starter. I pilgrims almost into Blue Nose, when I meets that +saloonkeeper, Blue Nose Blucher, galloping some fast on uh bronc. He +pulls up and shakes hands with me some industrious. + +“You’re uh little late, ain’t yuh?” I asks. + +“See old man Swigert?” he pants, and I nods. + +“He’s located,” I tells him, and he looks relieved. + +“That’s good. Me and him is in pardnerships. He beat it to make the +location and I stayed to buy out your pardner. You sold out yet?” + +I shakes my head. + +“Want to?” he asks, and I nods. + +“How much? I’ll pay yuh what I did your pardner. Is that fair?” + +I nods and he pulls out uh roll what would choke uh burro. He peels off +eight hundred dollars and hands it to me. + +“I’ll give yuh the rest after the first clean-up,” says he, and I nods +some more. I find it pays to keep your mouth shut. + +“Where’s my pardner?” I asks, and he waves his hand toward town and +gallops on. + +I kisses that roll uh bills, and takes off my hat to Hair-Trigger once +more. When I gets into that deserted village I sees uh small speck out +in the desert, going away from that land uh strikes. + +I pilgrims over to uh restaurant and helps myself to uh feed that +somebody forgot to eat, annexes uh bottle at Blucher’s place, and then +looks into the bank. I rolls uh smoke, and pilgrims away in the +footsteps of Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh and Eveline Ann. + +It gets cool after sundown, so I finds use for that coat. I sleeps under +uh mesquite that night, and gets an early start. It’s about ten o’clock +when I drops over uh little bluff and sees Eveline Ann. He’s grazin’ +peacefully, so I sneaks up soft like and finds Hair-Trigger at his +favorite occupation. I takes his gun. + +“Nice morning,” I states in something above uh whisper, and he sets up +some sudden-like. He feels for his gun but it’s missing, and he gazes at +me, reproving-like. + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m-m!” he yawns. “I didn’t expect yuh, Comanche.” + +“No?” says I. “Ain’t that queer? What did yuh leave me for?” + +“You’re too—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m!—honest, Comanche. You and me don’t hitch. +Sabe?” + +“You didn’t hesitate to take my jack,” I reminds him, pointing at +Eveline Ann. + +“That’s plumb right,” he admits, yawning some more. “But mules ain’t got +no morals. Didn’t I start some stampede, though.” + +“Uh-huh,” I admits. “You sure did. How?” + +Hair-Trigger grins and reaches in his pocket. He takes out some objects +and lets ’em roll out on the ground. + +“Nuggets!” I yells, but Hair-Trigger yawns and grins some more. + +“Look fine, don’t they? That’s what Blue Nose thought. All I did was to +roll ’em on the bar, and the stuff was all off. Nothing but hammered .41 +bullets. Just plain lead. Remember that paint the bartender was using on +that picture-frame? That wasn’t paint at all. It was gilt. Gilded +bullets! Gosh A’mighty! Picture-painting bartenders, stuttering +prospectors, stingy bankers and gilded bullets. Dog—my—cats!” + +“Why didn’t yuh let me in on that bank robbery?” I asks, offhand-like, +and he breaks right off in the middle of uh yawn. + +“Bank robbery!” he exclaims. “Bank—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the air. Dog +my cats! You sure are one deductive person, Comanche. How’d yuh know I +robbed that bank?” + +“There wasn’t nobody left to guard it,” I states, and he grins. + +“Uh-huh,” he admits. “Stingy old pelican! All he left was three hundred +in silver. That person sure hustled to stake uh claim. Pays him back for +the names he called us.” + +“I’ll take it,” I states, patting the barrel of my six-gun, but +Hair-Trigger yawns and shakes his head. + +“You can’t, Comanche. You’re too danged honest. Sabe? This is stolen +money.” + +“That ain’t it uh tall,” says I, pointing at the lapel of my coat. “This +is the reason, Hair-Trigger.” + +He examines me some close-like and then leans back and yawns. + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Ain’t that the truth? Sheriff! Well, dog—my—cats! +Comanche Cal, you sure are one deceiving person for to see. The money is +in the pack on the burro. Do I have to go, too?” + +“No,” says I, “I ain’t no danged Shylock. I’m uh white man, and I comes +from an honest family. You go in peace.” + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Much obliged. I reckon I’ll be going on. I’m sorry +you’re so danged honest, Comanche, ’cause me and you sure could uh +pulled—oh, well. Give everybody my regards, will yuh?” + +I nods, and watches the last of the Hollibaughs top the first sand-hill. +On the top he stretches his long carcass in uh farewell yawn, and ambles +out uh sight, and me and Eveline Ann pilgrims towards the sun. + +I holes up about forty miles from Blue Nose, and communes with myself +for days. I got too much money on my conscience, and I mourns uh heap +when I consults my immortal soul and finds that I’m an accessory to +Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh. + +Finally I gets Satan behind me, along with Eveline Ann, and we pilgrims +back to Blue Nose. It’s been two weeks since I left there, but the town +ain’t changed uh bit. I ties Eveline to the rack in front of the bank, +and goes inside. + +Old Swigert is right where he was the first time I saw him—humped over +that table, trying to smell out uh missing cent. He glances at me and +growls— + +“Well, what do yuh want now?” + +“What did I want the last time?” I asks. + +He peers at me for uh minute and then gasps— + +“You here again? My ——!” + +I lifts that sack uh coin up on the window-ledge and shoves it toward +him. + +“Here’s your old three hundred silver dollars,” says I. “Take ’em and +get glad.” + +The old pelican grabs them and loves them like they was human. I reckon +that dollars must say sweet things to uh feller like him. + +“All here?” he asks. “All here?” + +“You didn’t think I’d spend any of it, do you?” I asks, peeved-like. + +“Hello, Comanche.” + +I turns and hands that roll uh bills back to Blue Nose Blucher, and the +shock almost petrifies him. + +“Well!” he explodes with joy. “Well, what do yuh know about that?” + +Old Swigert looks at Blue Nose, and Blue Nose looks at Swigert, and that +danged old pack-rat smiled for the first time since he knew uh dime from +uh dollar. Also, he shakes hands with me. + +“Comanche,” says he, “I’d admire to know how yuh got this money, and +also how yuh happens to bring it back. That strike was uh frost.” + +“I never made no strike, and I ain’t saying who got that money. I +brought it back ’cause I’m honest. Sabe?” + +“That’s what Hair-Trigger says,” grins Blue Nose. “We thought he was the +one, so we locks him up, but he don’t do nothing but yawn and grin when +we asks him who done it.” + +“Hair-Trigger in jail?” I asks, and they nods. + +“We locked him up on general principles,” says Swigert. + +“Well,” says I, “there’s your money. Now, I reckon I’ll move on.” + +“Set down,” orders old Swigert. “You’re uh novelty around here. Honest +men ain’t no drug on this market. Can yuh shoot?” + +“Yes, I reckon,” says I, and Swigert grins and says: + +“Comanche, we need yuh. Ever since Sassafras Simpson, our sheriff, +nailed that sheriff from Horse Heaven, he’s been packing uh chip on his +shoulder. Uh little hombre comes here day before yesterday, gets full uh +hooch, and mistakes that chip for uh target. He aims uh little low, and +we plants Sassafras on the hill. Now, we ain’t got no sheriff. How’d yuh +like the job, eh? We can get yuh appointed for the rest of Simpson’s +term and it’s uh cinch to elect yuh next Fall. What do yuh say?” + +“Thanks,” says I. “Give me the keys of the jail.” + +I pilgrims over for uh drink and then goes down to the little jail. +Hair-Trigger is asleep and I has uh hard time to wake him up. After +dumping him off the bunk he sets up and stretches his arms. + +“Ho, hum-m-m-m! Must be the inside air. Well, dog—my—cats! What’d they +put you in for, Comanche?” + +“Me?” says I. “I’m the sheriff, Hair-Trigger.” + +He peers at my breast and yawns some more. + +“Well, dog—my—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Sheriff, eh? I thought—well. Huh! I came +back to see what I could get and I got grabbed.” + +“You can go now,” says I. “She’s uh open road, old-timer.” + +“You—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! You mean that I can go?” + +“Free as air,” says I. “I told yuh I was white.” + +“I can’t find that blasted star no place,” complains Blue Nose, from the +doorway. “We’ve looked every place. I reckon we must uh buried it with +Sassafras. What’ll we do?” + +I points to the star on my breast and Blue Nose grunts: + +“Cripes! It’s lucky we didn’t bury it, now ain’t it? That’s the only one +in the country.” + +“Yes,” says I, “it sure was uh lucky thing all the way around.” + +But I wasn’t thinking about Sassafras: I was thinking of the sheriff of +Horse Heaven, and the coat pocket I found it in. I reckon that +Hair-Trigger thought about the same thing, ’cause he left us without +even uh yawn, and didn’t stop to stretch until he topped the rise out of +Blue Nose. + + +[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, +February 18, 1918. It is believed to be in the public domain in the +United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.] + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78923 *** |