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diff --git a/78924-0.txt b/78924-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0298853 --- /dev/null +++ b/78924-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,701 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78924 *** + + + THE CURSE OF GOLD + + by W. C. Tuttle + Author of “Magpie’s Nightmare,” “All Wool,” etc. + + +“Bein’ uh sheriff,” remarks Magpie Simpkins, rubbin’ his whiskers with +th’ palm of his hand, and kickin’ some books off th’ table so he can +rest his boots, “gives uh feller lots uh prominence in th’ community. It +sort a makes people look up to him with respect.” + +I recognizes th’ sarcastic tone of his voice and I also recognizes them +words, bein’ as I spoke them to him about uh month before th’ county +election. I don’t make no response; jist eases myself into uh chair and +pe-ruses uh reward notice on th’ wall. + +“People jist sort a fear him, too,” he continues. “Ain’t it funny what +uh real nice time uh sheriff has, Ike?” + +“Referrin’ to th’ deputation of prominent citizens I sees amblin’ away +from here uh while ago?” I asks. + +“Uh-ha,” sez he. “That’s th’ ‘What For’ committee.” + +“What for?” + +“Su’pression uh crime, Ike. Them jaspers opine that I’m too diligent +around town and don’t clean up th’ county fast enough. They wants to +know what for. They kindly points out th’ error of my ways and orates +collectively and individually that as uh sheriff I ain’t showin’ no +paystreak.” + +“As uh horrible example of what I ain’t done they points out that th’ +Evans gang is still liftin’ cows without uh pang of remorse, and that +th’ Piegan Kid ain’t noways ceased his operations since th’ star begins +to shine on my manly bosom. They also points out that any day th’ Kid is +liable to hanker fer th’ cash in our new Cattlemen’s bank, and they +opine that I’d better put th’ runnin’ iron on him before he invades our +peaceful domain.” + +“What you needs,” sez I, “is more dignity, Magpie. If I was sheriff and +uh bunch uh mavericks like that tried to stampede me I’d——” + +“Ike.” Magpie rises to his six-feet-six and rests his elbows on top of +th’ windowsill. “I ain’t noways partial to receivin’ advice today. I’ve +got more than I can pack, and th’ next hombre what sez, ‘If I was +sheriff’ is shore goin’ to git this nice li’l silver star shoved down +crossways in his throat. _Sabe?_ I may not be uh hi-yu example as uh +peace officer but I’ll tell yuh——” + +Came uh rattle uh pistol-shots out in th’ street and th’ next thing we +knowed our li’l shack tried to break loose from th’ foundation. I hears +th’ porch go smash and uh big framed pitcher of Roosevelt fell off th’ +wall, and th’ next thing I knowed I was lookin’ through that frame +instead of Teddy, and uh piece uh that glass went plumb down to my +belt-line inside my shirt and punched holes in my backbone all th’ way +down. + +Magpie jerked th’ door open so we could see, and there was th’ Piegan +Kid on his roan hoss out in th’ middle of th’ street. + +Th’ bronk is plumb scared of James Wilson Spreckles, th’ cashier of th’ +Cattlemen’s bank, who has got his face and one arm out of th’ bank door +and is pollutin’ th’ atmosphere with smoke from uh nice li’l .32 pistol. + +Th’ Kid is havin’ uh hard time tryin’ to hang on to two sacks and handle +his rifle at th’ same time. His bronk has done bucked across our front +porch, and th’ two props are squewgeed and th’ roof is saggin’ more all +th’ time. + +Magpie sized up th’ situation and then unlimbers with his .45. I reckon +all would have been well, but jist as Magpie unhooks that ol’ gun th’ +roof of th’ porch heeds th’ call of gravity and comes down in uh heap. +Also th’ cashier has one more ca’tridge in his salute-box and he +proceeds to slam that bullet into th’ door-jamb next to Magpie’s face. + +As uh result th’ Kid fogs outa town and Magpie does uh Cree war dance +around th’ office, yellin’ fer me to git some tweezers so he can git th’ +splinters out of his eyes. That cashier don’t know yet how close he +comes to makin’ uh clean hit. + +I never did like James W. In fact I don’t like no man what has uh middle +name and uses it, and that goes double fer uh jasper who uses his middle +name and perfume, too. I can describe him to anybody who lives here by +sayin’ that he packs uh silk handkerchief, with uh pink border, polluted +with perfume, and rides with short stirrups. _Sabe?_ He jist didn’t +belong a-tall. + +“I deputizes you to help me, Ike,” states Magpie, after we gits most of +th’ white pine out of his features. “Go git uh hoss and come back quick. +I’ve got rifles fer two. Git a-goin’, Ike, ’cause me and you are goin’ +to make th’ Kid hard to catch.” + + * * * * * + +Magpie ducks out of th’ back door, where he keeps his buckskin hoss, and +I goes out into th’ street. There don’t seem to be no excitement. Uh few +shots in Piperock don’t cause no riots, ’cause most every day somebody +takes exceptions to uh cat or uh dog or mebby jist uh Greaser. + +I starts to walk around th’ corner to see if I can locate uh hoss, when +here comes Magpie on his bronk, with uh rifle in each hand. + +“How much did he git?” yells Magpie at James W., who is still on th’ +bank steps with his terrible weapon. + +He waves his arms and yells somethin’, and Magpie nods and rides up on +th’ lope. + +“What did he say?” I asks. + +“Couldn’t understand uh word he said. Here’s yore rifle, Ike. If I was +you I’d take that pitcher-frame off my neck. It don’t fit like it was +made fer yuh. Git uh hoss and trail me out toward th’ Sentinel Butte.” + +He spurs his hoss down th’ street, while I climbs out uh that frame and +heads fer th’ hitch-rack. + +There’s only one hoss there, uh brown mare belongin’ to Art Miller, so I +eases into th’ saddle and points down th’ street. I reckon that bronk +hadn’t hit th’ ground more than three times before I hears Art yell— + +“Where yuh goin’ with that hoss?” + +“I’m takin’ her in th’ name of th’ law!” I yells back, diggin’ her with +my heels, and we sails fer th’ aidge of town sort uh freelike. + +That mare shore could run. I reckon she could start at th’ gun and beat +th’ echo out uh range ’cause jist as we turned th’ corner my hat was +lifted off and I hears uh sort uh “_flut, flut!_” like uh lead bullet +annihilatin’ space, but we’re goin’ so fast I don’t hear th’ report. + +After keepin’ up that pace fer about three miles my back began to pain +me somethin’ awful. Every time that bronk hit th’ ground it hurt me. I +stands it as long as I can and then gits off and takes off my shirt. + +I heaves that piece uh glass far out into th’ desert, replaces my shirt +and overhauls Magpie about three miles further on. + +“He’s shore throwin’ leather into his hoss,” grunts Magpie, as I ranges +alongside uh him. “I seen him uh while ago and he shore was movin’.” + +We lopes along th’ Kid’s trail, which is uh heap easy to foller except +that ankle-deep sand ain’t what you’d pick fer uh fast track. + +We breezes along fer uh spell, and all to once th’ bronks shied wide and +we pulls up. + +It’s th’ Kid’s hoss down and out. I reckon it steps into uh hole and +breaks its leg. Anyway, there it is with uh hole drilled in its head, +still wearin’ th’ Kid’s silver-mounted saddle and th’ silver-gilt +leg-bit. + +“Here’s where we waltzes to slow music,” states Magpie. “We’ll leave our +bronks here and take a _pasear_ on foot.” + +I spots th’ Kid’s tracks where he pilgrims off up th’ side of th’ butte, +and points ’em out to Magpie. + +“Ike,” sez he, “you circle th’ hill, keepin’ yore worthless head below +th’ tops of th’ mesquite, and come up th’ other side. I’ll ease my +carcass up this side and we’ll surround th’ Kid. Don’t ask questions if +yuh see him, Ike. Shoot first and ask afterward ’cause th’ Kid is mighty +previous on th’ trigger.” + +We drops our reins and separates. By th’ great horned toad! I wasn’t +born to be uh man-hunter and I ain’t noways what you’d call nervy. I’ve +been shot at uh plenty out in th’ open, but this Injun stuff in th’ +brush don’t appeal to me a-tall. + +Once durin’ that sneak uh long, hungry jackrabbit lopes out of uh +mesquite bush beside me, makin’ me grow suddenly so danged thin that my +belt jist natcherally slips down around my feet, and I has uh hard time +tryin’ to untangle my stummick from around my vocal cords. + +Anyway, I ambles on and finally gits to th’ top of th’ ridge. There’s uh +big washout at th’ top, all fringed with mesquite. I sees that there +ain’t nothin’ between me and that brush so I starts over to have uh look +at th’ washout. + +I didn’t go over there, for th’ simple reason that jist as I starts uh +bullet burnt right across th’ place where uh shippin’ clerk carries his +pencil and it raised uh blister on my ear. Th’ next bullet lifts +three .45-.90 ca’tridges out of my belt, one of which exploded with +great cheer. + +Nobody can ever say that Ike Harper can’t take uh hint. Say, if anythin’ +ever hugged th’ ground harder than I did it never came loose. + +Pretty soon I hears Magpie’s ol’ Winchester shakin’ th’ hills and +another of about th’ same caliber talkin’ back from some place in th’ +mesquite ahead uh me. + +I forgits my lesson and crawls forward for fifty feet or so. Pretty soon +I sees uh man and I unhooks that ol’ .45-.90. I gits in two shots before +uh bullet sticks its nose in th’ ground in front of me and fills my eyes +plumb full uh sand. + +I rolls over in th’ brush and paws th’ sand out of my eyes, and then +finds out that I had been shootin’ at uh hat on uh stick. All this time +there’s plenty uh fireworks goin’ on and I’m anxious to git back on th’ +firin’-line. I eases myself out of th’ brush and gits ready again. + +_Bing!_ Uh bullet jambs into an ol’ mesquite stalk beside me and another +sings sweetly past my ear and I replies in th’ general direction from +whence they came. + +For th’ next few minutes she’s uh rip-bang proposition. I shoots at +everything until that ol’ gun is hotter than blazes. I reckon I kept +that brush so full uh lead that th’ Kid don’t have uh chance to line his +sights on me, ’cause his nearest shot only cuts my hip-pocket where it +bulges with my chewin’ tobacco, and th’ next nearest drills my canteen. + +Pretty soon I gits uh ca’tridge stuck in that gun and I has to use uh +pocket-knife and uh lot of profanity in order to git a-goin’ again. + +By th’ time I gits it fixed there ain’t no more shootin’ goin’ on so I +takes uh chew and settles down to wait him out. + +I reckon it’s about ten minutes later that I glimpses uh human bein’ +easin’ itself out of th’ very mesquite I’ve been sprayin’ with lead, and +I shoots quick. Said human flops and I sees uh boot wave in th’ air as +its owner upends and slides down into th’ washout. + +“Well,” sez I to myself, “with me on th’ force this ain’t no healthy +climate fer outlaws. When Ike Harper gits on their trail—aw revoir.” + +I fills my rifle again and sa’nters over to th’ washout. Pushin’ th’ +brush to one side I looks down at th’ carcass of—Magpie Simpkins! + +Honest to grandma, that’s who it was. Th’ sheriff of Yaller Rock county +is reposin’ his entire length down th’ side of th’ washout, with his +face stuck in th’ crown of his hat and his rifle is balancin’ across th’ +back of his neck, as if it was weighin’ its owner’s chances. + +“Magpie,” sez I, sort a foolishlike, “yore deputy shot first and there +ain’t no questions to be asked.” But Magpie don’t move a-tall. + +I slides down and turns him over. I know uh dead man when I sees one and +Magpie shore comes up to requirements. + +I sits down to roll uh smoke, I’m that overcome. By golly! I shore am +sorry but that don’t help none. Me and Magpie have been pardners ever +since th’ Sentinel Butte was uh water-hole, and I can’t help feelin’ +sorry that he’s done left this vale uh tears. I can’t find my cigarette +papers so I digs into poor Magpie’s vest to find his, and I gits th’ +shock of my life. + +“They’re in—my—shirt pocket, Ike,” mumbles Magpie, sittin’ up like uh +mechanical toy and swingin’ his long legs around so he’s facin’ down +hill. “I been tryin’ to say somethin’ fer some time,” sez he sort a weak +like, “but I reckon th’ Kid’s last bullet creased me so close it plumb +ruined my voice. Why in —— didn’t yuh swing me around so my head +wouldn’t be down hill? Gimme uh drink out uh yore canteen, Ike. Did yuh +git him?” + +“You bein’ dead, Magpie, I failed to see what difference th’ lie of yore +body makes to you; my canteen gits drilled, and I did not git him!” + +“Clear and concise, Ike. You shore e-liminates unnecessary words. Did +you hit anythin’ a-tall?” + +“You,” sez I. “You shoots my canteen to ribbons and tears th’ +tobacco-pocket out uh my pants, Magpie.” + +Magpie wipes uh trickle of blood off his cheek and runs his finger +tenderlike over th’ furrow on his head. + +“Ike, I’ve allus thought that uh danged fool was an object uh pity and +should be regarded with indulgence, but when one danged fool deputizes +another to help him be uh—huh!” + + * * * * * + +Magpie breaks off his discourse and stares across th’ washout to where +uh few boulders are half buried in th’ sand. + +“Look, Ike!” he yells. “Ain’t that somethin’ behind them rocks?” +Somethin’ was right! Reposin’ behind them rocks is two canvas sacks, +each marked $5000 in black letters and sealed with red wax. They feels +to weigh about twenty pounds apiece, and when yuh shakes ’em they shore +are music to th’ ear. + +“Ike,” sez Magpie, after we gits over th’ shock, “we made it so hot fer +th’ Kid that he jist simply drops his plunder behind them rocks and +fades away. He don’t reckon we’ll find ’em. What do yuh know about that? +Mebby we won’t git th’ Kid, Ike, but we shore can herd that coin back to +th’ home corral, eh?” + +“Uh-ha,” sez I. “Let’s do it right now before any more mistakes are +made. Mebby th’ Kid will think twice before he runs up against us +again.” + +“You dang well know it!” exclaims Magpie. “Fellers like him have got to +be showed, Ike.” + +We each takes uh sack and toils up th’ side of that washout and down th’ +other side to where we left our bronks. + +Th’ Kid’s hoss, which of course couldn’t git away, was still there but +th’ silver-trimmed saddle and bridle was gone and so was Magpie’s +buckskin hoss. My bronk was still there and so was both saddles, but th’ +cinches were all slashed to strings. Pinned to my saddle-horn was th’ +following e-pistle: + + DEAR SHURIF—pleze excuse me fer taking the bukskin the brown + mare won’t ride dubble. I know cause I oned her once. yours Kid. + +“What in blazes does he mean about ridin’ double, Ike? He was alone +wasn’t he?” “Uh-ha,” sez I, “but I ain’t.” + +Magpie sits down on th’ ground and rubs his sore head and cusses th’ Kid +from every angle and across th’ corners. + +“I’ve heard of th’ curse uh gold, Ike, but I never knowed before jist +what it meant. Here we’ve got about forty pounds uh th’ yaller stuff and +it’s at least ten miles to Piperock, and all th’ vehicle we got to tote +it on is uh buzzard-headed bronk what don’t opine to carry double. Also +no saddle, ——!” + +“Well,” sez I, “not havin’ worn uh hat since I turned that corner in +Piperock my brains are about ready to turn over and fry on th’ other +side, so with yore kind permission we will now prepare to prove th’ +superiority of mind over matter. Th’ Kid states that th’ mare won’t +carry double—that’s matter. I think she will, Magpie, and if we thinks +it hard enough th’ theory is proved. _Sabe?_” + +“Mebby,” sez he. “I tried it once on uh wildcat. It might work on uh +hoss.” + +I gits up on that hoss and Magpie hands me up th’ rifles and th’ gold. +Th’ mare acts like she was hep to somethin’, but bein’ uh case of walk +or ride, Magpie drapes himself behind me and gits hold uh my belt. + +“Home, James,” sez he, settlin’ hisself. + +I digs th’ mare with my boot-heels and all she does is to git uneasy +like with her front feet. + +“Well, ain’t we goin’, Ike?” asks Magpie, sarcastic like. + +“I got my end started,” sez I, “and if you boots yore end uh li’l mebby +we’ll git away.” + +He did jist that thing and we starts. Not slow and easy, like we had +plenty uh time, but uh li’l sooner than immediate, if there is such uh +thing. + +That mare starts sunfishin’ right off th’ reel. She sticks her nose +between her front feet and bawls frequent and loudly, and all th’ time +she’s changin’ ends like lightnin’ and hittin’ th’ earth stiff as uh +ramrod. + +Th’ first jump finds me down among her ears, and when she reverses I +lands back on her withers, with Magpie’s leg wrapped around my shoulders +and his hands fussin’ with my back hair. + +“Stay with her, Ike!” he yells. “Ride—um—st—straight—up! Dog-gone +it—don’t—s-s-slide around—so—much!” + +I shore was ridin’ that bronk. I don’t believe there was uh spot on her +hide that I didn’t ride, and all th’ time I’m handicapped by havin’ +Magpie hangin’ onto my belt fer dear life and wrappin’ his legs around +my carcass every time that bronk pulled uh new angle. + +Remember, too, that all this time I’m hangin’ on to them rifles and +forty pounds uh gold. Some exhibition, eh? + +But it couldn’t last. Once she changed ends so quick that she lifts me +straight up, and all I’ve got left is uh holt from my knees down and I’d +have shore been throwed except that Magpie is draped over her rump and +actin’ as sort of an anchor, but at that I loses my nerve and drops th’ +rifles and th’ gold. Th’ bronk hit th’ earth at th’ same time as th’ +guns did and one uh them rifles exploded. + +That’s what might be designated as uh climax. Th’ jump that bronk took +then was uh world beater. I reckon she never even brushed th’ top of uh +six-foot mesquite bush, and I loses Magpie right there. Also I loses my +reins, and there I am adrift in th’ desert without uh rudder and on th’ +deck of uh loco bronk, whose middle name is “Run.” + +We split th’ breeze down that gully and circled th’ lower part of +Sentinel Butte so danged fast that I has to hang on to her mane to keep +from blowin’ off. + +We hits level ground at uh mile-uh-minute clip and I catches uh glimpse +of uh lot uh hossmen comin’ hell bent across country to head me off. +They’re ridin’ some deliberate but they miscalculates my speed, and they +was about uh minute late at th’ crossroads, so to speak. + +Jist about that time I hears some more _flup, flup’s_, and after a while +I hears th’ faint pop of uh rifle. + +“Shootin’ at me!” sez I to th’ bronk. “That’s shore gittin’ to be uh +habit with folks.” + +Pretty soon another bullet buzzes past my ear and I looks back. Th’ gang +is jist toppin’ uh ridge about five hundred yards away and comin’ fast. +Speed bein’ essential I leans over and speaks to that hoss. I reckon +she’s gun-shy too ’cause she bunches herself and, man, I never knew what +speed was before. + +She lays right down to th’ job and we spurns that country like uh bird. +I reckon everythin’ would have been right, but jist as we tears into uh +big draw full uh mesquite I turns to look back. + +I gits that view from an upside-down position and then sinks gracefully +from th’ sight of man into uh bush filled with cactus. I reckon that +mare tried to jump that draw. Anyway, she keeps right on down that draw +and when th’ bunch of riders arrive she’s jist uh memory. + +I’m so deep in th’ brush that th’ bunch don’t see me, and I don’t +advertise my position none whatever. + +“Did anybody see which way he went?” asks uh voice, and I recognizes +Johnny Myers, of th’ Triangle outfit. + +There’s uh heap of profanity and answers from several people, who seemed +to know jist where I am, and then I hears Art Miller remark: + +“It’s uh cinch he ain’t comin’ back to see us. All th’ time we’re +debatin’ here that mare is coverin’ ground like uh scared wolf.” + +“Are yuh shore it was one of th’ Evans gang?” asks uh voice. + +“——!” sez Art. “How could I tell? He jist grabs th’ hoss and beats it. I +said it was one of them ’cause nobody else would have th’ gall to come +right into town that-away.” + +“Aw ——!” complains another, which I know is Pete Gonyer. “If we had uh +real sheriff we’d——” + +Th’ rest of it was cut off as they turns and rides away. + +I reads once about uh feller who smiled uh ‘wry smile’; that’s th’ kind +I used. Pretty fast action when uh feller gits appointed as uh peace +officer, gits shot at fer an outlaw and chased fer stealin’ hosses all +in th’ same day, eh? + +I unlimbers myself out of that cactus mattress and pokes out of th’ +brush. I shore am uh specimen. No hat; one sleeve torn off at th’ collar +and one pant-leg ripped off so far above my boot that I’m positively +indecent to look at, and my whole carcass simply reeks with cactus +spines. + +I shades my eyes and looks back toward where I leaves Magpie. I don’t +need to look. I knows that I covers about three miles in that race, and +anyway there ain’t no chance to see him. Even in th’ thin desert air +that they tell about it’s almost impossible to see uh person at three +miles, when said person happens to be on th’ other side of two ranges of +hills. + + * * * * * + +Well, to make uh long walk short, I simply got back to where I leaves +Magpie and he’s still there. He’s sittin’ in th’ shade of uh bush, +playin’ solitaire. He’s got th’ nicest black eye I ever seen. + +I sits down beside him and watches him make uh misplay before I says uh +word. + +“Yuh can’t play uh red ten on uh red jack,” sez I, pointin’ it out. + +Magpie turns and looks me over with his good eye and plays th’ next card +deliberate. + +“Ike, there ain’t no set rules fer anythin’ in this country. If I +admires to set uh precedent you don’t need to horn in. Remember yo’re +only uh deputy.” + +“Why th’ crape on th’ window?” I asks. + +“Th’ curse uh gold!” he snaps. + +“How?” + +“When me and that hoss parts company I stood on my eye on one uh them +sacks you drops so convenient and uh lumpy spot augers into my eye.” + +Magpie puts th’ cards in his pocket and stands up. + +“Ike,” sez he, “mebby if that bronk hadn’t run away with you, and if I +hadn’t been an honest man we might have taken that ten thousand and beat +it fer th’ state line.” + +“Meanin’ that I’d have been willin’?” + +“You don’t have to be honest, Ike. Yo’re only uh deputy.” + +“I resigns right here!” sez I. “Jist because I helps yuh out when yuh +needs help badly yuh has to keep on insultin’ me by callin’ me uh +deputy. I’ve been shot at today because yuh don’t know yore own hired +help from uh bank robber; I’ve rode high, wide and handsome on th’ worst +bronk that ever bit grass, and got pitched off into uh cactus garden to +pay fer it, and been chased fer uh hoss-thief. Now after walkin’ back +three miles minus uh pant-leg and uh sleeve I has to listen to yuh orate +on my morals. Magpie, I resigns. _Sabe?_” + +“Yuh don’t need to git sore, Ike. I ain’t puttin’ nothin’ in yore way. +Yore usefulness is over anyway.” + +“Where’s th’ gold?” I asks. + +“Oh, that,” sez Magpie. “Th’ Piegan Kid got it.” + +“You—you—” sez I. + +“Don’t git yore temperature up, Ike. Remember yo’re only uh—well, anyway +after you leaves I eases up here in th’ shade to take uh li’l nap. I +knowed you’d come back sometime so I prepares to wait. I jist dozed off +when I feels somethin’ diggin’ into my belt-line. I looks down and it’s +th’ muzzle of th’ Kid’s rifle. Don’t ask foolish questions, Ike. Of +course I let him have it.” + +Bein’ as there ain’t nothin’ to say I don’t say nothin’. I sits there +and spits at uh rock lizard and thinks about uh motto which used to hang +on our wall at home. I reckon it was made of yarn, and it reads “We +Mourn Our Loss.” I don’t mean th’ loss of th’ gold. Pshaw, it wasn’t my +gold. I was jist mournin’ th’ sleeve and pant-leg. + +“Did th’ Kid take our rifles, too?” I asked. + +“No, he jist pumped th’ shells out and threw ’em in th’ brush. + +“I got ’em and laid ’em over there by that rock. Dog-gone it, Ike, this +shore is th’—lissen! There’s somebody comin’.” + +He hadn’t no more than made that remark before here comes that posse +around th’ side of th’ hill and straight toward us. There’s Johnny +Myers, Art Miller, Pete Gonyer, Andy Johnson and two strangers from th’ +Triangle. + +“Don’t mention that brown mare,” sez I. + +“Not any, Ike. Let me do all th’ talkin’.” + +We stands up as th’ bunch arrives and they grins at us. + +“Greetin’s, sheriff,” laughs Art. “You and Ike rusticatin’?” + +“Th’ horrid things,” pipes Andy, in uh falsetto voice, “have been +fightin’ again.” + +“Some fight!” roars Pete. “Ike lands his left to Magpie’s eye, and +Magpie bites Ike’s sleeve and pant-leg off.” + +“You’ll be sorry, Pete, fer them words,” grins Magpie. “Th’ next time I +has to arrest you fer sheep stealin’——” + +“You long disjointed, son-of-uh—well, Magpie, I’d shore hate to repeat +what I’ve heard about you. What are you fellers doin’ out here anyway?” + +Magpie rolls uh smoke and tells them what we’re doin’ and why we’re +stranded. Of course he merely tells ’em that th’ Piegan Kid or one of +th’ Evans gang sets us on foot. He tells ’em about th’ robbery, and asks +if there was much excitement when they left Piperock? + +“Gosh, it’s all clear now!” shouts Johnny Myers. “We been wonderin’ +where that money came from and now we know.” + +“Didn’t you know before?” asks Magpie. + +“We shore didn’t,” stated Art Miller. “One of th’ Evans gang comes right +into town and lifts my brown mare from th’ hitch-rack, so I enlists this +bunch to help me recover. It’s funny about that money.” + +“If yuh didn’t know that th’ bank was robbed,” wonders Magpie, “how do +yuh know about th’——” + +“’Cause she’s right here,” laughs Johnny, reachin’ around and pattin’ a +roll behind his saddle. + +“How did yuh git it?” gasped Magpie. + +“Made him drop it,” explains Johnny. “We’re chasin’ th’ jasper what +stole th’ hoss from Art and we crosses th’ trail of another person who +is fannin’ th’ breeze. He seems to hanker fer solitude so we opines that +he’s one of th’ bunch we want.” + +“He’s ridin’ uh li’l buckskin, which is havin’ uh hard time in th’ sand, +and we’re gainin’ all th’ time. Pretty soon we gits close enough to +start shootin’ and we sees th’ jasper heave somethin’ into th’ brush, +and then we loses him in th’ breaks beyond th’ ol’ Poison Spring. We +goes back and looks where he throws th’ bundle in th’ brush and we finds +th’ sacks uh coin. No wonder that li’l hoss was goin’ hard. That stuff +weighs uh heap.” + +“Well,” sez Pete, “there ain’t no use in holdin’ post-mortems out here, +so let’s git a-goin’.” + +“Right,” agrees Art. “Magpie, you climb on behind me and Ike can double +up with Pete.” + +I climbs right on, but Magpie stands there lookin’ over Art’s hoss and +seems undecided. + +“This hoss is plumb tame and broke to ride double,” sez Art. + +“If it was that mare what got stole I’d shore invite yuh to ride with +somebody else. She shore was uh terror.” + +“She was,” said Magpie, and it wasn’t uh question either. + +As we rides into Piperock there ain’t no reception committee and no band +in sight and I remarks th’ same to Magpie. + +“No,” sez Magpie, lookin’ over at Andy Johnson, who thinks he can play +poker, “there wasn’t no chance to git out th’ band, ’cause all th’ +tin-horns were out of town.” + +We rides straight up to th’ bank, which we finds closed and locked, but +ol’ Eph Whittaker, th’ banker, is jist tyin’ his team to th’ hitch-rack. +He’s been away fer uh few days and we soon finds out that he don’t know +anything about th’ robbery. + +“Ten thousand!” he yelps, turnin’ alkali color. “My Gawd! And you gits +it all back?” + +He shore was so tickled that his bow-legs won’t hardly support his +structure. + +“I wonder where James Wilson Spreckles is?” he mumbles. “I’ll bet th’ +pore boy is plumb prostrated over it. Well, well,” sez he, excited like. +“You boys won’t lose on this.” + +He insists on shakin’ hands with all of us and he congratulates Magpie +several times and then says— + +“Come inside with me, boys, and I’ll show yuh what ten thousand in gold +looks like.” + +Never havin’ seen more than forty dollars in uh bunch at one time we all +goes in gladly and he takes us into th’ back room. + +“Seals not even scratched,” sez he, as he cuts th’ string and lets th’ +contents roll out on th’ table. + + * * * * * + +Th’ silence that went up in that room would have blown th’ roof off an +ordinary building. Eph Whittaker sagged at th’ knees until his long nose +scraped th’ edge of th’ table. Johnny Myers turned his tobacco-sack +upside-down and spilled all th’ tobacco out on th’ floor. Magpie +stretched and tried to lean against th’ wall, which is about ten feet +away, lost his balance and fell over uh chair. One of th’ strange +punchers pushed his finger into th’ pile to see if it was real, and then +looked at that finger like it was uh curiosity. + +Whittaker’s cheeks swelled out like uh red balloon and when his face +couldn’t hold any more he exploded— + +“Brass washers and lead slugs!” + +“Gawd A’mighty, ain’t it queer!” squeaks Andy Johnson. + +Whittaker slashes th’ other sack. Th’ contents were th’ same, and th’ +pore man slumps over on th’ table like uh wet rag. + +“There ain’t no set rules—” begins Magpie, but jist then uh li’l voice +pipes up from th’ doorway and we sees James Wilson Spreckles lookin’ us +over with uh scared look. + +“What—what is th’ matter?” he asks, rubbin’ th’ inside of his rubber +collar with that perfumed handkerchief. + +Whittaker points at th’ metal on th’ table. + +“Look—look, James, I don’t——” + +“I see,” says James. “Is it all there?” + +“Why—why—I—er, James, I——” + +“Should be about forty pounds,” sez James. “Of course th’ weight ain’t +jist——” + +Whittaker straightens up and faces his cashier. + +“James, do you mean to say that you——” + +“Well, you see I was afraid that we might be held up some day so I fixed +up those sacks. I was afraid to tell you for fear that it might get out. +I called them my grouch sacks.” + +“Bein’ uh sheriff,” sez Magpie, about ten minutes later, in th’ sanctity +of our office, “shore gives uh feller uh chance to see what uh curse +gold is to humanity. Uh course you bein’ only jist uh plain, ordinary +deputy——” + +I cut off th’ oration by shuttin’ th’ door, and sneakin’ home to git +somethin’ to cover my bare leg. + + +[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, +January 1917. 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 78924 *** |