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diff --git a/78955-0.txt b/78955-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..77f4160 --- /dev/null +++ b/78955-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1037 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78955 *** + + + INSIDE INFORMATION + + by W. C. Tuttle + Author of “Local Option in Loco Land,” “Pirates from Piperock,” etc. + + +He wasn’t very big, that feller christened Alexander Claypool by honest +but Missouri parents, but he had a heap of faith in his ability. Once +upon a time he hopped on to a big _hombre_ and proclaims to injure him +to a great extent. The big feller says— + +“Little person, put on your coat or I’ll bend you plumb out of shape.” + +And then Alexander Claypool hops upon his discarded clothes, cracks his +heels together and proclaims— + +“I’m small but I’m Gawd A’mighty Jones!” + +Thereupon he becomes known to all men as “Mighty” Jones, and Alexander +Claypool goes into the discard. + +Number two was handed the appellation of Arthur Chesterton when he comes +into this here vale of tears, but later on, after he shucks parental +care, he opines to wear a buckskin shirt. Being as buckskin ain’t noways +partial to laundry trials, in the course of time he acquires the name of +“Dirty Shirt.” This being a heap appropriate, Arthur Chesterton is an +also-ran. + +Number three claims that when his paw and maw looked upon him in infancy +with loving eyes, maw nodded when paw said— + +“We’ll call him Amos Carter.” + +Amos Carter grew up and pilgrimed West, where he ebbed and flowed across +the sands of time until he hives up permanently near Piperock, after +beating a posse across the line. + +Seems like Amos procures a birthday and opines to show the town of Last +Chance what real wear and tear looks like. He went broke during the +opening chapter and goes into a jewelry store to see if he can pawn his +gun. He shoves the gun across the counter and an obliging clerk fills a +sack with all the plunder in the place and hands it to Amos, who thanked +him profusely, left his gun on the counter and went out to show the +natives a new way to drink whisky straight. + +Seems like the clerk mistook Amos’ well-meant motives and joined forces +with the city marshal, and between ’em they busts up Amos’ party. Amos +ain’t got no gun, but he’s got a fast bronc and he arrives in Piperock +broke, being as he left his pistol compensation on the first bar. His +tale of woe lost him his good name and from that time on he pricks up +his ears at the sound of “Jewelry.” + +And they was all named Jones. + +That ain’t all the Joneses in the State, but they’re all that seem to +figure in this tale of trouble. + +Me? I’m Ike Harper. Seems like fate intended me to be a innocent +bystander. I comes of a good family, well bred and all such tender +things that don’t get you nothing in poker games or gun fights, and the +only thing that folks can say against me is the fact that I’m a pardner +of Magpie Simpkins, the sheriff, and tender of heart. + +Dirty Shirt Jones is plumb out of line in one eye, walks like somebody +was kicking him behind the knees, and his mustache don’t grow in no +particular direction. + +Jewelry Jones is about sixteen years old in the head and seventy-five in +the feet. He looks in the face like fate had intended him for a Siwash +totem-pole, then got religion and repented. Jewelry is one of them +tapering sort of _hombres_—tapering from his feet upwards. + +Mighty Jones squeaks when he walks or talks, being as he’s hoarse of +voice and hobnailed of hoof. He lives to argue and feel sorry for +Mighty. He gets religion every time “Old Testament” Tilton stops at his +shack, and he gets drunk every time he stops at a saloon. He owns an +ingrown conviction that he was born to get shot accidental, and a lot of +good citizens have tried to prove him wrong by acting intentional. + + * * * * * + +Now that introductions are over, I will proceed. Comes a morn in Spring +such as the poets sing about, when the magpies hunt for what died during +the last big snow and the coyotes dig new bungaloos in the sunny side of +the hills. + +On such a morn we’re setting in the sun outside of Wick Smith’s store +and post-office at Piperock. The stage has just come in, bringing the +usual amount of plunder from Paradise and mail from all points of the +compass. Mail don’t mean nothing to Piperock, being as them who live +there don’t write for fear folks might find out where they are, and them +who do know we’re here don’t write because we live here. + +Them three Jones persons, old Judge Steele, Magpie Simpkins and myself +sets there on the steps and argues about whether if General Grant hadn’t +been so busy fighting the battle of the Alamo, would the Boer War been +over sooner. We settles that and then comes a difference of opinion as +to whether the _Santa Maria_ was Captain Kidd’s flagship or was it the +Mexican gunboat that sunk the _Merrimac_, when Wick Smith comes out with +a letter in his hand. + +“Gents,” says he, “not knowing your original birth or baptism names, I +asks you all and sundry which of you Jones’ has the initials A. C. +before the family cognomen?” + +“Present,” says Mighty, standing up. + +“Here in person,” says Dirty. + +“Mine!” snaps Jewelry, holding out his hand. + +Wick looks at all three of ’em and shakes his head. + +“One letter can’t be for all three,” says he. + +“This is for A. C. Jones, E-squire.” + +“The same of which differentiates me from the common or hillside +variety,” states Dirty Shirt. + +“Now, now, I know she’s mine,” stutters Mighty, hitching his belt. + +“Like —— it is!” snorts Jewelry. “Hand her over, Wick. Them is the magic +words what makes me sure she’s mine. I got a letter once and that’s the +way she was inscribed. I’m reaching, Wick.” + +“A. C. stands for Alexander Claypool,” announces Mighty in a high voice. + +“She’s Arthur Chesterton, if you asks me,” proclaims Dirty Shirt. + +“Huh!” grunts Jewelry, disgusted-like. “You’re both loco. It means Amos +Carter. Amos Carter Jones, E-squire, which is me and mine. _Sabe?_” + +“Now, now, you fellers quit jangling!” squeaks Mighty. “She’s mine, and +I don’t hanker to be shot as a innocent bystander over something what +don’t concern either of you. Shut up complete-like and let me take what +belongs to me. The Gover’ment of the United States ain’t to be tampered +with, and she sure takes exceptions when somebody steals somebody’s +mail, don’t she, Wick?” + +“Somebody’s,” agrees Wick. “She does at them times, Mighty.” + +“E-squire!” explodes Jewelry, squinting at Mighty. “After your name? You +poor little chuckle-headed chickadee, who would call you E-squire?” + +“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Dirty Shirt. “What they’d call either of you +_hombres_, they’d never dare to even send it inside a letter.” + +“Haw. Haw. Haw!” mimicks Jewelry. “What you laughing at, you cross +between a peanut and a pin-feather?” + +“Halt!” yelps Magpie, hopping out into the road with a gun in each hand +and a pained expression on his mustache. “Shut up three at a time! All +you jangling Joneses cool off and show sense. Judge, what had we better +do with them—outside of putting them in jail?” + +“Well,” says the old judge, cocking his hat over one ear and taking a +salivary shot at a sand lizard, “I’d adjudicate and make a motion that +we read that letter myself, Magpie.” + +“Like —— you will!” yelps Dirty Shirt. “You can’t peer into no private +correspondence of mine, judge. Not while I’m alive you don’t.” + +“I don’t like to bite off more than I can chew, judge,” states Mighty, +“but I will say this much: You won’t read my letters as long as I’ve got +a nerve left in my trigger finger. No lawyer is going to get me into +trouble by poking his nose into my private mail. In order that you may +not misunderstand me, I’d ask you to select your epitaph just prior to +the time you tears the corner off that envelop.” + +“How does you stand, Jewelry?” I asks. + +“Our folks fight for privacy,” declares Jewelry. “All my life I’ve lived +under the impression that what’s mine is mine. I leads a life that is a +open book for all men to read, but what is wrote to me in a letter is a +private affair of mine. _Sabe?_ I hates to make a war-talk, gents, but I +will say this much: When foreign hands start tearing the corner off a +envelop upon which is wrote the name of A. C. Jones, E-squire, I’m going +to shoot.” + +The judge tilts his hat over the other ear, takes another shot at the +lizard and clears his throat. + +“Motion overruled and objection sustained,” says he. + +“And I’ve still got that letter,” says Wick. + +Nobody says anything for a while, but them three Jones’ sure are finicky +about the hang of their belts. + +“The insides of the letter might settle who she belongs to,” suggests +Magpie disinterested-like. “What do you think?” + +“Sure would,” agrees Jewelry. “Let me open it, Wick.” + +“Just a mo-ment, just a mo-ment,” says Dirty soft-like. “I don’t care to +have no danged diamond-thief peering at my letters. I’ll open it.” + +“To which I adds derision,” proclaims Mighty. “As I said before, gents, +I ain’t part nor parcel to no such arrangement.” + +“I ain’t no diamond-thief!” howls Jewelry. “I’ll tell you——” + +“I know,” says Dirty, “you claim to have traded a six-dollar pistol for +the entire contents of a jewelry store.” + +“We’re talking about mail—not morals,” advises Magpie. + +“Property is property,” argues Dirty Shirt. “Who steals my letters +steals as much as if it was my pocketbook, Magpie.” + +“More,” says Mighty. “There’s something in the letter.” + +“What does you think you know about my finances, feller?” asks Dirty. + +“You’re sober,” says Mighty, “and you’ve been in town an hour.” + +“Which is irrelevant and has no bearing on the case,” says the judge. “I +expresses sorrow that your parents happens to pick out the same +initials, but I feels worse that you three ever was born. Better that +you three died in childhood and went to Glory, than to have growed up, +growed whiskers and mean dispositions and came to Piperock.” + +“Your expression of sorrow is like the blatting of a sheep, judge,” says +Dirty Shirt, which is a mean thing to mention in a cow-country. + +“I’ve heard tell that you herded a few over in Custer county a few years +ago, Dirty,” says Mighty, grinning. + +“Yeah? Is that so? Well, let me tell you something, feller. You was sold +with a bunch of sheep two years ago, the same of which is common +knowledge. Yes you was, Mighty. I hears Bill McFee tell the whole tale. +Feller named Woolie Wilson sold you. Told a buyer that he had three +thousand head, and they only totaled two thousand nine hundred and +ninety-nine. + +“‘You’re short one,’ says the feller. ‘I’m not,’ says Woolie, pointing +at you. ‘There’s the odd one!’ ‘He ain’t no sheep,’ says the feller, and +Woolie says: ‘The —— he ain’t. I ought to know—he’s been working for me +six months.’ ‘For that one I deducts ten dollars off the purchase +price,’ says the buyer. ‘Sold!’ says Woolie, and then he went around +telling folks that the buyer beat himself. Ain’t it true, Mighty?” + +Mighty sets there tongue-tied. He’s so mad he can’t swaller. Any time +you accuse a cow-man of being sheep—well, you’re horning in where angels +fear to tread. + +“You _hombres_ better get rational again,” advises Magpie. “You can’t +even argue without getting personal. I asks that Wick put that letter +into a safe place, intact and unglued, there to repose serene until such +a time as you belligerent tribesmen settle the ownership. When you does +you can come to me and I’ll procure same for you. Satisfied?” + +“But not contented,” says Dirty. “She’s mine and I’ll have it myself.” + +“Ain’t you got no reasoning powers, none of you?” asks Mighty. “How many +times do I have to rise up and announce ownership?” + +“Oh, shucks!” Jewelry gets up and hitches his belt. “Of all the +hard-headed _hombres_ I ever seen you’re the worst. Don’t I know my own +mail? Don’t I know who I’ve been expecting a letter from? Ain’t I +familiar with handwriting well enough to identify the writing on that +envelop?” + +“Under certain circumstances,” nods Wick; “but this happens to have been +wrote on one of them typewriter machines, Jewelry.” + +We all sets there for a while, and then Dirty gets up and stretches +himself. + +“I knowed a postmaster to lose his job when a feller complained about +him not giving up his lawful mail,” observes Dirty, “and under them +circumstances I’m sort of obliged to write to the President.” + +“If you knowed his name,” nods Magpie, “but you don’t.” + +“There ain’t but one, and he’d get it,” says Jewelry. + +“If you knowed where he lives,” states Mighty hoarse-like, and the other +two Jones’ nods. + +“Yeah,” admits Dirty, “being as there’s so many towns where he ain’t.” + +“Well,” says I, “this argument seems to have run itself into a corral, +so you might as well drop it. Be sorry that you’re all A. C. Jones and +shake hands.” + +“With that shepherd?” asks Dirty, pointing at Mighty. “Or with a jewel +rustler? Not me, Ike.” + +“A sheep,” says Jewelry, “could easy get disgusted with you both.” + +“Wick, you put that letter in a safe place,” orders Magpie, “until there +comes a understanding or a double vacancy in the Jones tribe.” + +Dirty Shirt seems a heap displeased when me and him strolls over to +Buck’s place. + +“My paw says to me,” says Dirty confidential-like, “when you goes out +into this cruel world, get what is coming to you, Arthur Chesterton +Jones. If you can’t get it honestly—get what is coming to you. _Sabe?_” + +Dirty drifts out after while and Mighty drifts in. I asks him how the +feed is on his side of the range, but his mind ain’t on bunch-grass. + +“Gawd helps them that helps themselves, Ike,” says he serious-like. + +“Suppose he can’t help himself, Mighty?” + +“Well, under them circumstances he has to use force, I reckon.” + +I meets Jewelry on the steps of the grog-shop. + +“One nice day,” says I offhand-like. + +“For what?” he asks. “Can you point out one danged thing she’s good for? +I ain’t appreciative of weather conditions as long as my legal mail is +in escrow. By hook or by crook I gets my letter, Ike. Hear me hooting?” + +“Jewelry,” says I, “you talk like a cross between a shepherd and a bunco +man. Hook or crook, eh?” + +“All I ask is to get what is coming to me, Ike.” + +“You’ll likely get it, Jewelry,” says I, and then I goes down to the +sheriff’s office, where Magpie reposes with his feet on the table and +his nose in a week-old paper. Along about dark Wick ambles in and sets +down with us. + +“That letter,” says Wick explaining-like, “makes me nervous. Them +Joneses are liable to go too far. _Sabe?_ In daylight she ain’t so bad, +but at night they might do something, Magpie. They walks past too much.” + +“Hold up your hand, Ike,” orders Magpie, and after a “s’whelp me Gawd,” +I’m deputized to do as I’m told. + +“Ike will mount guard tonight, Wick,” says Magpie, “and they’ll only do +harm over his dead body.” + +“Feel safe, Wick,” says I, “’cause it won’t never be done. Any old time +they gets anything over my dead body they’ll be so danged winded and so +far away from Piperock that there won’t be anything to get—except back.” + +About nine o’clock Magpie leads me down to the front of Wick’s store, +sets me down on the porch and places a rifle on my lap. + +“Ike,” says he, “the lawful honor of my office is at stake. You set +here, and if any of them three snake-hunters comes monkeying around you, +assassinate him. _Sabe?_ If you die you’re a hero.” + +“If you think I will you’re crazy, Magpie. I didn’t come here to die.” + +“Man is of few days and full of trouble, Ike.” + +“Yeah,” I agree, yanking a shell into the chamber of that .45-70. “As +soon as you get about a hundred feet away, Magpie Simpkins, you better +go fast and crooked, ’cause I’m liable as not to mistake you for +somebody coming. I’d hate to kill you and inherit your office, but dang +your long, hungry carcass, you will insist on swearing me into things +like this.” + + * * * * * + +I sets there a while. It’s a pretty dark night and things are quiet. Up +at Buck’s place I can hear Andy Johnson wailing “Sweet Marie” on his +squeeze-organ, but after a while that dies out and all is still. I gets +tired of setting there alone, so I gets up and walks around the +building. There’s a back door, and a window on one side. I reflects +wise-like that a burglar ain’t noways going to come to the front door, +and how am I going to guard both ends and the side to once? Answer—go +inside. + +I leans a board up against the side of the house, slides the window open +and drops inside. I shuts the window behind me. It’s goshawful dark in +there and I fall over everything in sight and some things I can’t see. +After a while I gets my bearings and pokes back into the post-office +end, where I sets down on a pile of blankets. + +Then I gets to thinking thusly: if there ain’t no letter in that safe, +what’s the use of guarding the place? Them _hombres_ don’t want nothing +but that letter. Now I ain’t no burglar and I don’t want anybody to get +that idea. If postmasters and bankers had the foresight I’ve got there +wouldn’t be no use for burglars. + +I crawls over to the safe and feels her over. I didn’t have no idea as +to how I was to get inside of it, but like any other danged fool I takes +hold of the door, gives a yank, and she opens up like a corral gate. I +gets scared for a minute and then I paws around inside and, by grab, I +found the letter. + +I shoves it down in my pocket, listens for a minute, and I never wanted +to get out of any place so bad before in my life. I just takes one step, +when I hears a noise like somebody shoving that window up, so I drops +down behind that pile of blankets and pulls my pistol, which is handier +at close quarters in the dark. + +I hears somebody fall over something and there comes to my ears a sound +of somebody cussing low and sweet. Then here he comes, squeaking along +the floor, whispering to himself, and sets down in front of the safe. I +hears him grunt when he swings the door open and then I hears him cuss +in mournful whispers. It’s Mighty. + +Then he crawls out of there and I hears the window close behind him. I +sets there to give him plenty of time to get out of sight and then I +hears that window go up again. Comes a dull bump from the other room and +somebody swears out loud. There is silence for a while and then I hears +this second party crawling on their hands and knees, and they stops at +the safe. I can hear him breathing hard, and then comes a cuss word that +would delight the ears of a mule-skinner. + +He gets up and starts to walk away, and I can tell by the cock-eyed way +he has of running into things that it’s Dirty Shirt. He rams into the +wall and sets down hard on the floor, and I reckon it takes him five +minutes to navigate to the window and get out. + +Then comes the next interruption. The window squeaks to the top and I +hears a pair of heavy boots hit the floor. He comes angling along, gets +his feet tangled in something and I hears him fall flat. A rack full of +brooms falls with an awful racket and a minute later here comes the +figure of a man crawling along the floor. + +This party is winded and so scared that he wheezes. I hears him feeling +around inside the safe, and then he says out loud: + +“Too late! The dirty, low-down burglars!” + +And then he crawls back to the window and goes out. By his voice it’s +Jewelry Jones. + +Then I crawls out behind him and went home. There ain’t nothing left to +guard, so why set there and wait for morning? Magpie ain’t there, so I +goes to bed. He’s cooking breakfast when I wakes up in the morning. + +“Have a quiet night?” he asks. + +“Well, I didn’t have no cause to assassinate anybody. Play poker?” + +“Uh-huh.” + +He spins a half-cooked flap-jack up to the ceiling, and just then the +door opens and Wick Smith comes in. Wick ain’t all smiles—not by a +million tickles. + +“Sheriff,” says he, “you says to me last night that you’re going to give +me the protection of the law. Where is said protection?” + +“That’s him, Wick,” pointing at me, “he guards you and yours safe from +harm.” + +“He does like ——!” snaps Wick and Magpie misses the next flop. + +“Meaning which?” + +“The post-office was robbed last night.” + +“My gosh!” grunts Magpie. “Did they get that letter?” + +“Not that one, Magpie. This morning my store looks like a cyclone had +been showing off in there; the safe is open and everything is gone.” + +“Blowed?” asks Magpie, but Wick shakes his head. + +“Nope. I remembers shutting it just when Art Miller comes in to buy some +horse liniment, and I can’t seem to remember whether I turns the +combine. Anyway she’s wide open and cleaned out. There was a registered +letter with five thousand dollars’ worth of bonds in it from the +Cattlemen’s Bank, which were going to Great Falls. Old man Whittaker +knows about it and he’s plumb up in the air. My gosh, ain’t you going to +do nothing but look at that spilled pan-cake?” + +“You didn’t see nor hear anything while you sets outside there, Ike?” +asks Magpie. + +“While I sets there I don’t hear a danged thing. Not a thing.” + +“Must ’a’ been done by a experienced burglar, Wick,” opines Magpie. + +“More like a section hand,” grunts Wick. “They knocked down everything +that wasn’t already on the floor. By grab, you better do something, +sheriff, to save your honor.” + +“He ain’t my honor,” says Magpie, looking at me. “He’s my deputy.” + +Wick goes back up-town, talking to himself, while me and Magpie finishes +our breakfast. + +Magpie pushes back from the table and rolls a cigaret. + +“Ike,” says he, “go get that burglar.” + +“You sure do have the best ideas, Magpie,” says I sarcastic-like, and +then I went up-town, leaving him to clean up the shack. + +Up at Wick’s store I finds Dirty Shirt buying some cartridges from Mrs. +Smith. Then me and him went out and stood on the steps. + +“Post-office got robbed last night,” says I. + +“Gosh, this is a awful sinful place, Ike,” says he. “Didn’t get +anything?” + +“Five thousand dollars.” + +Dirty grabbed for a post and slid down on the steps. + +“Dizzy streak,” he explains foolish-like. “What did you say, Ike?” + +“Out of the safe, Dirty. Who do you reckon done it?” + +“My ——! How should I know, Ike?” + +Just then we sees Mighty Jones plugging down the street. He stops in +front of us and glares at Dirty. + +“Post-office got robbed last night, Mighty,” says I. + +“Yeah? Robbed? Nothing in there for a robber.” + +“Not now,” I agrees. “But there was last night—five thousand.” + +“Five thou——” Mighty stumbles and sets down beside us and wipes his +face. + +“Dollars?” he asks. “In the safe?” + +“Uh-huh. Gone this morning. I’m hunting for the burglar.” + +“Hmff!” says he and glares at Dirty Shirt. + +Dirty glares right back at him, and just then we sees Jewelry ride up to +the hitchrack and get off his bronc. He looks over at us, hitches up his +belt and comes sauntering over. + +“You misguided Jones family misfit still trying to corral my mail?” he +asks mean-like. + +Dirty and Mighty just gives him a look, and he sets down. + +“I’m here to demand my rights,” says he. “My mind is made up today.” + +“Maybe you can buy that letter, Jewelry,” suggests Dirty. “You ought to +be well heeled this morning.” + +“What do you mean, feller?” + +“Speaking of the five thousand dollars which was taken out of the +post-office safe last night,” says Dirty monotonous-like. + +“Five thousand dollars which——” Jewelry’s voice trails off to a whisper +and he peers at us for confirmation. + +“Out of the safe last night,” says I. + +“Any clue?” asks Jewelry scared-like. + +“Yeah,” says I, deliberate-like, “the feller lost his knife.” + +I seen three hands twitch toward pants-pockets, and then three hands +comes back. + +“What kind of a knife?” whispers Dirty, but I shakes my head. + +“Talk’s about sending for a detective,” says I. “He’ll find out.” + +“During which the burglar will leave,” grins Jewelry foolish-like. + +“Which proves his guilt and causes the machinery of the law to grind a +little faster,” says I. “Ain’t you fellers decided about that letter +yet?” + +“Pardon me,” says Mrs. Smith and we all turns to where she stands in the +door of the store. “Has any of you gents a pocketknife I can use for a +minute? Wicksie is gone and I want to cut a piece of rope for Mr. +Miller.” + +“Haw!” says Jewelry with his mouth open like a fish out of water. “As +I—I was saying, I’m in a awful hurry, folks. _Adios_.” + +“Just a mo-moment,” says Mighty, follering in his footsteps. “I wants to +talk with you about them yearling calves you spoke about.” + +The two of them pilgrims over to the rack, gets on their broncs, and +both rides different directions. + +“Knife, ma’am?” asks Dirty, like she had spoken of some prehistoric +freak. “To—to cut a rope with?” + +“I could use the ax,” says she. + +“Yes’m,” agrees Dirty. “It—it don’t haggle so much. Yes’m.” And Dirty +went over, got on his bronc and rode out of Piperock. + +Then I went up to the bank. Old man Whittaker is there and he squints at +me as I leans over the counter. + +“Detectin’?” he asks mean-like. + +“Possibly. Nice bank you got here.” + +“What do you care?” he asks. “Gol dingle-danged town! Robbing +post-offices, et cettery. Worse than living in the East.” + + * * * * * + +The old pelican glares at me like I was to blame and then walks to the +far end of the room. There’s a little box just around the corner of the +cashier’s cage, so when the old man turns I slips that letter out of my +pocket and drops it into that box. + +“Don’t you want me to catch the thief?” I asks, and he whirls around. + +“No!” he yelps, “All I want is them gol dingle-danged bonds! If I put +all the thieves in this county in jail there wouldn’t be anybody left to +transact banking business with.” + +“That wouldn’t handicap you none,” says I, “’cause there wouldn’t be any +bankers out of jail to run the banks.” And then I walked out. + +Along in the middle of the afternoon I goes into Buck’s place. Buck is +leaning over the bar, staring at Dirty Shirt, Mighty and Jewelry, who +are setting around a card-table, whittling like they was making a living +at it. Buck looks at the floor and then at the whittlers. + +“Say, you locoed loafers will have to sweep out this place,” says he. +“What do you think I’m running—a carpenter shop?” + +“I love to whittle with my old knife,” says Mighty, testing the blade on +his thumb. + +“There’s a knife,” says Dirty, holding it out for us to see, “that is a +knife. She’s about ten-year old and I never owned any other. Razor +steel.” + +“Ten years ain’t much when you’re speaking of the age of a knife,” +opines Jewelry, “this old knife of mine was handed down to me by my paw, +who had it given to him at his first birthday. I’ve used it continuous +ever since.” + +“Speaking of knives,” says I, “reminds me of Wick. He found his own +knife on the floor and thought he had a burglar clue.” + +Then three Joneses stares at me until I gets uncomfortable, but just +then the stage comes in, and we all pilgrims over to the post-office. We +stands around while Wick distributes a few mail-order catalogues and +then Mighty walks up to the window. + +“Wick Smith, you’ve got a letter for me?” he asks. + +“Nope,” says Wick and Mighty looks displeased a heap. + +Dirty walks over and peers inside. + +“Nope,” says Wick. “Nor for Jewelry. Nothing for the Joneses.” + +“Now about that letter of mine which arrived yesterday,” says Dirty. +“Suppose she’s serious-like, Wick? Maybe she’s life or death. Under them +circumstances I can sue you to beat four of a kind.” + +“Same here,” nods Mighty. “I asks you before these folks as witness that +you give it to me. In fact, I demands it. You can’t refuse a de-mand, +Wick.” + +“Can’t I?” asks Wick, and then he produces a sawed-off shotgun. “Can’t +I, Mighty?” + +“You can—yes,” admits Mighty, “but it makes me ashamed of you for it.” + +“I ain’t making no de-mands, Wick,” states Jewelry when Wick looks at +him. “Not in the face of present conditions. I’ll e-ventually get what +belongs to me, but right now ain’t e-ventually.” + +“Could you fellers get any idea who that letter belongs to if I was to +show you the envelope?” asks Wick. “There’s a name in the corner.” + +“I’d _sabe_ it in a minute, Wick,” states Dirty. “Show it to me.” + +“Not alone!” snaps Mighty. “All in a bunch and no favors asked.” + +Wick snaps open his money till and fumbles underneath. + +“I didn’t put it in the safe,” says he, as he pulls out a envelope and +wipes it on his overalls. “Now you fellers keep your hands off, and I’ll +give you all a look.” + +He holds the letter in both hands and leans his elbows on the counter. +We all crowds up to see. + +“Well,” says Dirty awed-like. “I may be goshawful ignorant, gents, but I +can’t read A. C. Jones, E-squire out of First National Bank of Great +Falls.” + +Wick turns that envelope over and steps back. He puts it up to his nose +and saws her back and forth like he was looking for a good place to bite +into it. + +“My gosh!” he whoops. “I—I done mixed them two letters! I must ’a’ put +that danged Jones letter into the safe instead of the bonds.” + +“And,” says Mighty, “somebody stole my letter.” + +“That letter of mine entrusted to your careless care,” accuses Dirty; +“that letter which you refuses to divulge to me. I’ll sue you higher +than a kite, postmaster.” + +“You’re accessory to a thief, Wick,” declares Jewelry. “You and the +President would ’a’ dodged a lot of trouble and tribulations if you’d a +handed me my mail as soon as she came in. I begins to sue you today, +feller.” + +“You know what I’m going to do?” asks Wick. “Know what? I’m going to +give you all one minute to get out of that door and out of my sight.” + +Wick cocks both barrels of that old destroyer and lays his watch on the +counter. + +“Well,” says Jewelry, “under them circumstances, Wick, there ain’t +nothing to wait for.” And them three Jones’ hit the narrow door together +and fought their way out. Somebody had to suffer, and there’s nothing +like keeping such things as that in the family. + + * * * * * + +Jewelry was the first one to break loose, and I reckon he still retained +a shred of memory, ’cause he didn’t lose no time going away from there. +He ain’t got no shirt left, but his feet are still in working order. + +Mighty and Dirty sure took each other to pieces and might have kept at +it indefinitely, but Wick Smith’s yearling coyote got the idea that it +was put on for its especial benefit and proceeded to cut button-holes in +the remaining Jones’ pants, which served to bust up the party. + +Mighty points right up the street, but Dirty gets mad and seems to +retaliate to the best of his ability. But his aim is poor and the coyote +don’t suffer none, being as most of the lead sifts into the store +windows, causing me and Wick to burrow under a counter. + +One .44 hunk of lead hives up in Wick’s stock of patent-medicines and me +and him got an external dose of everything from cod-liver oil to Epsom +salts. Another one pokes into a box of shotgun shells, the same of which +causes some discomfort while they lasts. Then we crawls out and sets on +the counter. + +“For something what ain’t never been read, that letter is causing a heap +of scandal,” observes Wick, looking at the disaster around us. “Wonder +who got that letter, Ike? Anyway, I’m plumb glad she’s off my hands, +’cause them three snake-hunters might get troublesome over it.” + +We hears a few shots up the street after while, and here comes Dirty +Shirt, walking backwards, throwing lead from two guns. He backs right +into the door before he sees us, but Wick has him covered and he drops +his guns. + +“Well,” says Wick, “I see you’ve come back, Dirty.” + +“Beyond the shadder of a single doubt,” agrees Dirty, peering out of the +window and getting his eyes filled with splinters when a bullet cuts a +furrow in the sash. + +Dirty grabs one of his guns off the floor and bangs away through the +window. I seen Magpie go hippety hopping across the street and sprawl +down behind Pete Gonyer’s blacksmith shop. + +“You shooting at Magpie?” I asks. + +“Persons don’t count, Ike,” says he, stuffing in fresh shells. + +“He represents the law,” says I. “What’s the trouble, Dirty?” + +“That danged letter!” he snaps. + +_Pow!_ A bullet comes through the window, skids off the head of a pick +and makes a billiard against the sweat-band of Dirty’s hat. + +Dirty shakes his head, does sort of a halfhearted shuffle with his feet +and sets down on the floor, where he bobs his head like a chicken +picking up wheat. + +“One baby down—one se-gar,” says Wick. + +Dirty looks up at us foolish-like and then sings sweet and low: + +“For we’re all growing fee-bul, o-o-ld and gray Mag-e-e-e-e-e, and +the-e-e— What in —— hit me?” + +“That’s what I’d call hitting a feller in a tenor spot, Ike,” grins +Wick. “Sing some more, Dirty.” + +“Did—did I get hit?” asks Dirty, feeling of his head. + +“I’d call it a danged close miss,” states Wick. + +“Tell us what it’s about, Dirty Shirt,” I suggests, and he sort of +shakes his head to get rid of the stars. + +“That letter causes it,” says he, in the tone of a feller who has a +dismal past to disclose. “I—I want that letter. Somebody stole my mail. +_Sabe?_ Well, I went up to Judge Steele and I says, ‘I want to swear out +a warrant for Mighty and Jewelry, charging them with stealing my mail.’ + +“‘You do?’” says he, “‘I’d ’a’ saved a lot of paper and ink if I’d ’a’ +had you all put in jail yesterday. Mighty has swore out a warrant for +you and Jewelry, and Jewelry has swore out one for you and Mighty. Seems +like a case of the Jones family hanging together.’” + +“Everybody is shooting at everybody else, eh?” says I. + +“Something like that. Me and Mighty and Jewelry are shooting at each +other, and Magpie ain’t playing no certain one. Gee cripes, I’ve got a +headache!” + +Dirty gets his other gun and crawls over to the window. Me and Wick +ain’t got nothing to do with it, so we remains neutral. + +All to once comes a rattle of shots up the street and we both stampedes +to the window. Here comes Jewelry on a bronc. He seems to have mounted +in a hurry, without picking up his reins or tightening his cinch. We +sees his hat hop high off his head and the next jump that bronc makes +the saddle goes back to its rump and the cinch hangs in its flank. + +Jewelry is pulling leather with both hands and the bronc is pitching +straight for the store. + +Magpie don’t seem to want to lose any of his future boarders, ’cause he +runs out into the street and waves his hat at that crazy bronc. I hears +Dirty’s gun-roar beside me and I sees Magpie’s feet flip out from under +him and the bronc come merrily on its way. + +The store has a porch about three feet above the ground, and while that +roan sure can go high and handsome he’s a few inches short of hitting +the top. + +Right there that bronc stands on its head, the cinch busts, and the way +Jewelry has of coming into that store was no trouble for anybody. He lit +on his neck, still hanging on to that saddle, knocks Wick’s feet from +under him with one of the stirrups and don’t stop sliding until he jams +up against the front of the post-office. + +Wick lays there and hammers his feet on the floor. Jewelry gets up, +bumps his head on the little ledge where they pass out the mail and sets +down again. Then he gets up, walks circles like a tired hound until he’s +dizzy. Then he leans against the front of the post-office and says in a +voice as thin as a cigaret paper: + +“I—I want that letter. I—I want——” Then he slides down in a heap over +his saddle. + +Wick sets up and looks around. Then he staggers to his feet, picks up +his shotgun and announces— + +“I’m—I’m going—to ki—kill somebody——” + +He steps out of the door just as a bullet whistles inside and smashes +into a showcase. He stumbles back in and leans against the counter. + +“—pretty soon,” he finishes. + + * * * * * + +I sets there, out of line with that window, and enjoys the show. Dirty +leans against a rack of shovels, trying hard to light a match by +scratching a cigaret on his pants. Wick stands there with a big blue +lump over one eye, trying to work the loading-lever, the same of which +ain’t never been put on any double-barreled shotgun I ever seen. He goes +through all the motions, and from the smile on his face she’s working +great. + +I hears a noise behind me and turns in time to see Mighty crawl into one +of the windows, balance on the sill for a moment and then fall inside +with a muffled crash. + +He stays down for a while and then comes weaving into view, covered with +flour. He stands there with a fool look on his face and then crooks his +finger at Wick. + +“C’mere,” says he, goggle-eyed as an old owl, and Wick staggers up to +him. He wags his finger in Wick’s face and says: + +“Ah, ha, dang you! Give me my letter.” Him and Wick stares into each +other’s eyes for a moment, and then Wick nods his head, grasps that +riot-gun in both hands and raises it up. Mighty seen that gun rise above +his head, ’cause I seen him look up at it, but he just grins up at it; +then it comes down on his bare head and he sets down right in his +tracks. + +Wick looks down at him, nods his head like he was satisfied and stands +there with the butt of that gun resting on his stummick and his fingers +wrapped lovingly around both triggers. + +“Wick!” yells Magpie’s voice from the doorway. + +Wick jerks his hand nervous-like and pulls both triggers. + +That gun almost busted my ear-drums. I seen Wick double up like a +jack-knife, expel a terrific “Whoof!” and slide down beside Mighty. + +Magpie looks at me mean-like and steps inside. + +“You’re a —— of a deputy!” he snorted. “Why didn’t you stop ’em?” + +“You didn’t see any of ’em getting away, did you?” I asks. + +He peers around the place and strokes his mustache. + +Jewelry is the first to get up. He crawls to his feet and staggers up to +the counter where Mighty and Wick are laying. He looks at them +disinterested-like and crawls up on the counter, where he humps over and +looks down at them like a buzzard examining a meal. + +Dirty happens to notice Magpie about this time. He rubs his head, +brushes some dust off his cuff and clears his throat. + +“Nice day,” he observes. + +“Uh-huh,” admits Magpie, lifting up his right foot and pointing at a +heel which has been shot plumb off. “What have you got to say about +that, Dirty Shirt Jones?” + +“——!” whispers Dirty, shaking his head. “Don’t ask me—I’m no cobbler.” + +“You shot that off, feller!” snorts Magpie. + +“Did I?” asks Dirty, “Need practise—bad. Shot at your head, Magpie.” + +Mighty crawls to his feet and leans against Jewelry’s knees for a moment +and peers up into Jewelry’s staring face. Then he looks down at Wick. + +“Dead and in ——!” he wails. “Killed accidental!” + +Wick rolls over and looks around. Then he takes hold of Mighty’s legs +and hauls himself up. The three of them looks at each other and then +Wick rubs his eyes. + +“What are you doing here?” he asks, peering at Mighty. + +“Mail,” whispers Mighty, “mail which belongs to A. C. Jones, E-squire.” + +“It—it ain’t here,” stammers Wick. “Didn’t you steal it?” + +“Nope. Maybe Dirty Shirt did.” + +“Do I look like I did?” asks Dirty. “Do I look like I had got what I +wanted last night? What do you reckon I’ve been fighting about today? +I’m here to collect my lawful mail.” + +“Say, Wick,” says a voice at the door, and old man Whittaker trots in. +“I don’t know how in thunder this letter gets into a box at the bank. It +don’t belong to me.” + +He hands a letter to Wick and starts out. + +“Say, Whittaker, I didn’t lose them bonds,” states Wick, producing the +letter out of his inside vest pocket. “I—I mixed it up with another +letter. _Sabe?_” + +Old Man Whittaker grabbed that letter, read the address and walked out, +talking to himself like a shepherd. + +We all stares at each other and Dirty licks his lips. + +“A. C. Jones, E-squire?” he asks. + +“No matter who it’s for,” says Magpie, “you three are under arrest. +_Sabe?_ That danged letter has caused too much ——!” + +Just then a stranger walks into the store and looks around. + +“You the proprietor?” he asks, looking at Magpie. + +Magpie shakes his head and points at Wick. + +“Thanks,” says he, and then to Wick, “I’ve got a little bill of goods +made out here which I’d like to have filled. I’m on my way over to +Powder River to buy sheep for a syndicate and will likely be through +here several times. Had my mail forwarded here. Anything showed up?” + +“What name?” asks Wick. + +“Jones.” + +“A. C.?” asks Wick. + +The stranger nods. + +“E-squire?” gasps Dirty. + +“Well,” says he, grinning, “it might be inscribed thataway.” + +Them three Joneses stares at each other and then at Wick, as he produces +that letter. The stranger hands Wick a list of grub stuff, leans against +the counter and seems to peruse that letter; then he wads up the +contents and throws it on the floor. + +“Be back pretty soon,” says he and goes outside and over towards Buck’s. + +Right then the three Jones’ fell off the counter and lands on that wad +of paper all in a tangle. + +“Halt!” yelps Magpie, prying ’em apart with his gun. “What you fellers +trying to do—start it all over again? Give me that letter!” + +They glances at Magpie’s gun and surrenders the paper. + +Magpie unfolds it and peers at the contents. Then he looks at them three +Jones’. + +“Well?” says Dirty anxious-like. + +“Yes,” says Magpie wise-like, “it could easy ’a’ been for either of you +three. Most any Jones I ever knew would be interested in this letter. +Read it for yourselves.” + +He hands it to Dirty and the rest of us stretches our necks a foot to +read the big black letters written across the top: + + MILLER’S SHEEP-DIP IS THE BEST + +We don’t read any further. Them Jones’ sort of shrinks all over. + +“My gosh!” gasps Jewelry. “I wonder what E-squire means?” + +“As near as I can figure,” says Magpie, “it’s a society name for +shepherd.” + +“Which goes to prove,” proclaims Wick, “that the Jones tribe has +received inside information.” + +The Jones tribe shook hands and agreed. + + +[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, +November 18, 1919. 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 78955 *** |