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diff --git a/78960-0.txt b/78960-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5df6102 --- /dev/null +++ b/78960-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1132 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78960 *** + + + For the Parson of Paradise + + by W. C. Tuttle + Author of “Alias Whispering White,” “How Paradise Lost,” etc. + + +Me and Magpie Simpkins pilgrims into Paradise, ties our burro to a rack, +and looks at the place from an unbiased standpoint. Paradise is a good +little town—to look at; but she ain’t no place to start something you +ain’t prepared to finish. A long time ago they changed the Sixth +Commandment to read: Give him an even break—regardless of ability. + +Over in front of the Ace Full saloon sets a lonely figure, which we +decipher to be “Old Testament” Tilton. He was put on earth—or thinks he +was—to save souls. He almost saved one. He prevailed upon “Sad” Semple +to stop his wayward path, and the said Sad person listens +attentive-like, and publicly hugs Old Testament. + +Sad makes a date to meet Old Testament at the church, but I reckon that +Sad got to thinking it over and decides that so long as he’s going to +slough all of his sins in a bundle he may as well be steeped, so he went +over to Mike Pelly’s saloon and played a dollar on the wheel. + +He lost. Then he rises up and proclaims that, while the wheel is the +invention of the devil, who ain’t noways a visible target, some human +being has been tampering with the mechanism, the same of which makes it +a cinch instead of a gamble. Such remarks lead but to the grave, +especially when directed at “Kid” Kelly, behind the wheel, so Old +Testament’s well-chosen words are spoken over Sad instead of to him, and +Old Testament lost his chance to put a brand on a lost sheep. + +He sets there like an old buzzard, dressed in his rusty, split-tailed +coat, with his shiny pants tucked into the tops of his short boots. He +expectorates when he sees us, and straightens out one leg, with a +convulsive jerk. + +“Howdy, Testament,” says Magpie. “How moves the world with you?” + +“Howdy, Brother Magpie,” says he, sad-like. “Howdy, Brother Ike. +Spiritually, physically or financially? In spirit I am meek and mild, +and physically I am able to nourish at such times as I can secure an +excuse for mastication, but financially—by the butting bull of Bashan, +I’m down to bedrock! Bedrock and no color! The Paradise church ain’t +paying no dividends. She couldn’t pay _ono peso_ on a dobie dollar, and +you can’t lead sheep on an empty stummick. The pastor of Paradise hath +an empty pantry.” + +We sets down beside the old boy, and rolls smokes. Old Testament shifts +his quarter-section of spitting-weed, and hits a lizard dead center. + +“The women of my church tried to give a sociable to raise a few dollars, +but she wasn’t a success,” he announces. “‘Weinie’ Lopp was the first +one there, and he ate six scoops of ice-cream. Yeap! Mighty nigh died of +cramps, and while we’re resuscitating him they forgot to cover the +freezer, and the whole mess melted. Netted one dollar and four-bits.” + +“Which don’t scare no wolf from the wickiup,” observes Magpie. “Ain’t +there no way you can get the money?” + +“Yea, verily, I might turn highwayman,” observes the old boy, squinting +at his toes. “I pray daily for relief.” + +“And set here in the sun and wait,” says Magpie, slipping a five-dollar +bill into the old boy’s pocket. “You’re a lot like other praying folks +I’ve knowed, Testament. Your pack is full of trust but your ability has +leaked out a long ways down the trail. You’re handy for funerals and +marriages, but outside of that—I ain’t got nothing against you, you +understand. I ain’t going to condemn no man, Testament, but I will say +this much to you. There ain’t no use in asking the Lord to get you +things that you can go out and get for yourself. _Sabe_ what I mean?” + +We ambles over to Mike Pelly’s saloon, and left Old Testament there on +the walk, nodding to himself. + +We sure runs into a confab in that den of iniquity. The center of +interest is a stranger to us. He’s about as tall as Magpie, and if +anything he’s thinner, which is speaking of the top notes of a fiddle. +He’s got a shiny stovepipe hat on his mop of gray hair, and he’s got a +nose that looks like forty below zero. I’d also like to state that he’s +got a voice. Man, he don’t talk—he roars. Me and Magpie stops in the +doorway, and waits for somebody to kill him. + +“Ha!” he rumbles, tapping himself on the chest. “Booth! Barrett! Who +were they? I ask you—who were they?” + +“I’ll bite,” says “Ricky” Henderson. “Who were they?” + +He don’t answer. He glares at Ricky, and Mike Pelly slips his riot-gun +over the edge of the bar. + +“Egad!” he roars. “When I, John McBeth, played _King Lear_ the hirelings +of the press crawled at my feet for the scanty interviews I might +condescend to give. My autograph sold at auction! The autographs of the +king of tragedy. + +“What am I doing here? Why do I desert—yea, abandon—the call of Mammon +and the glittering paths which I so lately trod? Why do I hide in +obscurity while the populace clamor my name? I’ll tell you why. You are +the cause. Ye who have never heard my name. I come to you with my +wonderful reputation and repertoire, that those of you who are isolated +may taste of the tales of the Bard of Avon. My art is great but my love +for my fellow man is greater. I thirst.” + +Mike sets out the bottle, and this actor person shows us that his last +remark was no idle bit of conversation. Mike sighs deep-like, and fills +the bottle again. + +“When do you show?” asks “Telescope” Tolliver, of the Cross J ranch. + +“Sho-o-o-o-ow?” He runs from a low note to a high one, and when he +finishes his nose is pointed dead on the ridgepole. + +“That was the question,” admits Telescope. “We want to know when to +come, and under what auspices it is to be held. Down at Silver Bend they +mostly always put ’em under the auspices of some strong organization. We +ain’t got no lodges here, and our strongest organization is the +Vigilance Committee. How would that suit you?” + +“This one will be under the auspices of the Baptist Church,” states +Magpie. + +“Chur-r-r-rch?” roars the tragedian. “Chur-r-r-rch?” + +“Beyond the shadow of a single, solitary doubt,” agrees Magpie. “You and +the church splits the purse fifty-fifty. _Sabe?_” + +“That’s some good idea,” applauds “Chuck” Warner, another Cross J +puncher, who can wiggle both ears like a mule. “What for kind of a play +have you got, mister, what will be suitable for a church auspices? +Something dignified and not gaudy but appropriate and entertaining.” + +“Shades of Hamlet!” he grunts. “Fifty-fifty with a church! Egad, we +might play ‘Ben-Hur.’ But stay! I have no troupe. I am +alone—alo-o-o-one. Again I thirst.” + +“We’ve got a lot of talent around here,” says Henry Peck. “I play a +banjo, and me and Chuck and Telescope and ‘Muley’ Bowles can sing ‘Sweet +Adeline,’ all four to once. She sounds great.” + +“I doubt me not,” growls McBeth, looking longingly at Mike. “‘Ben-Hur’ +requires a large cast, and the trappings of Biblical times. I can not +even think of such an undertaking.” + +“Take your own time,” says Magpie. “We’ll wait while you think. No +think—no drink. _Sabe?_” + +The old spav does a lot of thinking right there, and then: + +“Art willing to help me? Help me? Gadzooks! The talent of the world +would rally to my call, and now I have to beg for assistance. Ah, well, +I will do it. Now I thirst anew.” + +To see that old pelican drink you’d bet he was a desert from his wisdom +teeth to his heels. Magpie gets enthused over the old rumbler, but I +can’t seem to appreciate his talents. Magpie tells me that I ain’t got +no art in my soul, and, not knowing just what constitutes art and souls, +I’m forced to agree with him. + + * * * * * + +I finds “Dirty Shirt” Jones enjoying a siesta in the Ace Full, so I +pulls his chair out from under him and drags him to the bar. We gets +reminiscent and gladsome, and he invites me to visit at his shack. + +“To spend the week-end, Ike,” says he. + +“Which end is that?” I asks. + +“You know your own physical failings better than I do,” says he. “I read +that in a book, Ike. What do you answer?” + +“Me? I’ll spend both ends with you, Dirty. Magpie has hooked up with the +King of Tragedy, who goeth fifty-fifty with a church, and he won’t be of +no use as a pardner until it’s over, and some good folks are dead.” + +“Your conversation is clear as Yallerstone water.” + +“Meaning that Paradise is going to have a show. Tragedy comes to us, +with a stovepipe hat and a painted nose, and opines to enlighten us. He +loves his feller man, Dirty Shirt. Ain’t he a wonder? He cometh with a +reputation, repertoire and a roaring thirst. His voice sounds like a +load of barrels going over a wooden bridge.” + +“The name of said show is?” + +“‘Been Here.’” + +“Before?” + +“‘Been Here.’” + +“Not since 1895,” declares Dirty. “The first one we had was ‘Uncle Tom’s +Cabin’ and the last one was a return engagement of the same show, and +there ain’t been nothing in between.” + +“‘Ben-Hur,’” corrects “Slim” Hawkins, from the doorway. “Some show, +believeth me. I’m going to take a part.” + +“Then believeth me, I’m not coming,” says Dirty. “Them there home +talentless things ain’t no good. Pay two dollars and four-bits for a +chance to get killed. Not me!” + +The crowd drifts in from Mike’s, and the play is the topic of +conversation. + +“This will mark an epoch on local theatricals,” states Muley Bowles, who +speaks in rhyme and gets weighed on the hayscales. “This here is a +religious theme, and will uplift the community.” + +“You _sabe_ this here play by heart?” asks Dirty Shirt. + +“Not me,” grins Muley. “I ain’t no forecaster. It ain’t been wrote yet. +Somebody wrote it once, and this here famous actor knows a little of it, +but he’s going to write what he can’t remember. He told us a little of +it, and she listens like tinkling brooks.” + +“I’m helping him,” states Magpie, important-like. “I know quite a lot +about such things, and him and me can sure lay out an entertainment that +will make you set up.” + +“Well,” says Dirty Shirt, “a while ago I remarked that I won’t come, but +I’d sure admire to see anything that Magpie had a hand in. It will +likely give somebody an excuse to kill somebody else. I’ll come.” + +“Mike Pelly said he’d donate the opery house,” states Ricky. “Wonder if +we can get old man Thatcher to bring his orchestra?” + +“We can,” says Swede Johnson. “He’ll come. He’s got a new bull fiddle +that he wants to try out. Four in his orchestra now. His boy plays the +squeeze organ, and old ‘Calamity’ Clakins can just about blow the keys +out of a mouth harp. And last but not least is ‘Froggy’ Deschamps. He +sure can make that jew’s-harp talk.” + +“Sounds to me like a Piegan with the hay fever having a nightmare +through his nose,” says Dirty, disgusted-like. “Sounds awful, Ike.” + +“You two ain’t got no love of music no way,” says Magpie. “You can’t +appreciate the tender things of life. You won’t appreciate a Biblical +tragedy, so you may as well not come.” + +“What kind of a show is this?” asks Dirty. + +“‘Ben-Hur,’” states Magpie, wise-like. “‘Ben-Hur’ is a story of things +what happened before the spinx was built. Know what the spinx was, +Dirty?” + +“Sure. Which one are you referring to, Magpie?” + +“The one what was built in Greece.” + +“Oh, that one,” says Dirty, relieved. “Now I _sabe_. You’re so vague +about things, Magpie, that a feller has to question. Never mind +explaining any more, ’cause I _sabe_ the drift of the thing now.” + +Old Testament is still setting in the same place, so me and Dirty stops +to break the gladsome news. + +“Testament, good times are coming,” says I. “They’re going to play +‘Ben-Hur’ for you.” + +He squints up at us— + +“Name of a race-hoss, piece of music or a gambling device?” + +“None such,” replied Dirty. “This is a play show. _Sabe?_ A certain +tragic person is going to produce some results, and you get half what he +acquires.” + +“Huh!” grunts the old boy, thinking it over. “I _sabe_, brother. If he +gets sixty days in jail I get thirty. Why multiply my misfortunes?” + +“Be meek,” advises Dirty. “The meek shall inherit the earth.” + +Old Testament shifts his chew, and nods: + +“Eventually, but not yet. When doth this play attempt to happen?” + +“It is now under construction,” says I. “Being made to Paradise’s +measure.” + +“I hope she will fit,” says Testament, earnest-like, “I hope she fits.” + +“She will be a fit,” assures Dirty. “Apoplectic, paryletic—some kind.” + +Me and Dirty don’t show up in Paradise until the next afternoon. Mike’s +place is closed, and so is the Ace Full. We sets down on the sidewalk, +and wonders, like _Rip Van Winkle_, how long we been asleep. Pretty soon +we hears a noise up in the opery house, over the Ace Full, so we climbs +the squeaky stairs, and looks in. + +Looks like a political rally. About all the male population for ten +miles around are grouped around the stage, upon which sets Magpie and +John McBeth. McBeth is discoursing thusly: + +“_Ben-Hur_ was a Jew. He——” + +“I’ll take that part,” says Slim Hawkins, standing up. “Me and Sam +Rosenstein punched cows together in Custer County, and I _sabe_ the +type. He beat me out of a saddle and——” + +“Silence!” roars McBeth. “_Ben-Hur_ was a noble Jew.” + +“Sam was a Russian one,” says Slim, apologetic-like. “I’d love to——” + +“Slim, you set down,” says Magpie. “This here astute tragedian is +explaining as we proceed. You stay down or I’ll come down there and nail +your chaps to the chair.” + +“I suppose you picked that part for yourself, eh?” says Slim. + +“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Pete Gonyer, of Piperock, and Magpie rises up. + +“You’re all through laughing, Pete,” proclaims Magpie. “Go ahead with +the tale, John.” + +“Good breeding is rare,” says McBeth. “A fool laughs when wise——” + +“Shut up!” yelps Magpie. “You cut out the comment, and explain the show. +Most of these men are strangers to you, and you don’t realize how close +to the cemetery you’re riding. Me—I know them well enough to shoot at +the right time, but I’ve got to save you until the church gets its +split. _Sabe?_” + +“What I wish to know is this,” says Chuck Warner. “Is this here to be a +stag show? Ain’t none of the gentle sex included?” + +“What do you think this is—a honkatonk?” yelps Magpie. “Go ahead, John.” + +“_Ben-Hur_ accidentally knocked a brick off the top of his house, and it +hit the new governor on the head. The soldiers get him, and cast him +into a galley, where he is chained to an oar for years.” + +“I’ll throw a brick,” whoops “Mighty” Jones. “But I won’t pack no oar. +Who is the one what gets hit? Pick some of that Seven A bunch.” + +Magpie stretches out his long legs, and shifts his gun: + +“Go ahead, Mr. McBeth. I ain’t got no brick, but the light is fairly +good. Go ahead.” + +“_Messala_ is the heavy,” states McBeth, nervous-like. “He’s a bitter +enemy of _Ben-Hur_, and——” + +“I vote for Muley,” yelps Telescope Tolliver, “he’s the heaviest thing +around here, and he can hate anybody like ——!” + +“I’ll be _Ben-Hur_,” whoops Weinie Lopp. “I’d love to have Muley hate +me.” + +“I quit!” roars McBeth, throwing his paper on the floor. “Ye gods! In +all my years before the footlights I never had less attention. Shade of +General Lew Wallace—I quit!” + +“After the church gets its half,” says Magpie. “Remember the love you +hold for your feller men.” + +“R-r-r-r-ruff!” he roars, shaking his mane like a buffalo bull. “It is +an insult to my intelligence! Be it so. I proceed. As I said before, +_Ben-Hur_——” + +“_Messaly_,” corrects “Doughgod” Smith. “You told us all about +_Ben-Hur_.” + +“Ike,” says Dirty, “this conversation will lead to homicide. Let’s me +and you keep our skirts clean. Eh?” + +“There is wisdom in your words,” says I, and we went out of there. + + * * * * * + +Dirty Shirt has got some stuff at his mine what has to be hauled in, so +we spends a couple of days away from the flesh-pots. + +And it came to pass, as they used to say in olden times, that when me +and Dirty Shirt again come into Paradise we first meets Old Testament. +He seems shy on enthusiasm, and makes figures in the sand with his toe. + +“How goes the auspices?” I asks, and he shakes his head. + +“Verily, it is no better,” says he. “Strife is rampant. Art Miller took +a shot at Magpie Simpkins last night. Deplorable—missed him. John McBeth +is in jail, and tonight the play is due.” + +“They got the King of Tragedy in jail?” I asks. “What’s he done?” + +“Tried to escape. Said he was afraid of the outcome. They put him in +jail until show-time. We’ve sold five hundred dollars’ worth of chairs.” + +We congratulate Old Testament, and pilgrims on up-town. Art Miller is +crossing the street, so we asks him where Magpie is. + +Art glares at us, and then explodes: + +“That hawg? That grasping goof?” + +“The same,” says I. “Do I get a reply?” + +Art gnawed the ends of his mustache for a moment, and then: + +“Him and that cross between a pole-cat and a pail of leaf-lard are up in +Selby’s old cabin, I reckon.” + +“Him and Muley?” asks Dirty, and Art nods. + +“You _sabe_ the description.” + +We pilgrims up to the old cabin, and sets down on the porch. The door is +closed, but through the open window comes this conversation: + +“Gadzooks! I would’st fain bust thee over the head with my saber, +_Messaly_.” + +“Pshaw! You would so? Thinkest thou could’st bust mine helmet, +_Bennie_?” + +“You ain’t got no helmet, Muley, and them ain’t the lines no ways. From +now on I wears my leather cuffs. Dog-gone, I sure have lost some skin!” + +We hears the rumble of vocal cords for a minute, and then Muley’s voice: + +“Let’s do that race scene over again, Magpie. That’s the part what will +make the big hit. Now you ain’t supposed to be here. _Sabe?_ Now watch +me. I sees the bill of fare on the wall. Now I saunter up, clanking my +sword, and now I’m reading. See? Now I turn, and look a heap like I +smell onions. Now I speak to _Simonides_: ‘_Ben-Hur?_ That Jew? +Impossible. It says here that he’s going to herd three broncs in this +race. Ha, ha! Drive? Why he couldn’t herd a cow down a lane.’” + +“That don’t need rehearsing, Muley,” says Magpie. “You get too danged +enthusiastic over that part. Why don’t you get animated over me carving +you up with the sword? This ain’t no comical show, Muley, and you ain’t +no actor, if you asks me. I’ll show you real art. Here’s how I act after +I beats you out in that race. I walk over to you like this, and I say: +‘What ho, you big goof! You fat——’” + +“Aw, hang on to yourself, Magpie! The word fat ain’t used. _Sabe?_ That +word is silent and superfluous. I don’t _sabe_ the word goof, so I’ll +pass that. Now, go ahead.” + +“What ho, you big fat goof! You——” + +“Aw ——!” groans Muley. “What if I am plump? You don’t need to dilate on +it, do you? You get mean in your remarks. I wish that me and Art could +have played together.” + +“You and Art? Art couldn’t play a hand of poker. He’d make a fine +_Ben-Hur._” + +“Well,” says Muley, “he’s a gentleman, anyway.” + +“Which would leave you right where you are now,” says Magpie, and then +there is silence for a while. + +“Some job getting the livestock up there,” opines Magpie. + +“Some race-track,” says Muley. “Pete’s some carpenter. Windmill.” + +“Treadmill,” corrects Magpie. “We’ll sure do well on this show. Or +rather, the church will do well.” + +“Old Testament will,” says Dirty to me. “He gets five dollars for a +funeral, and unless I’m mistaken he’ll work over-time, Ike. I’ll buy a +ticket—in the back of the room. How about you, Ike?” + +“Me? I’ll prospect the roof for knotholes first, Dirty.” + +We pilgrims down-town and has a drink, but there seems to be sort of a +strained feeling about the place, so we goes home. After a while Magpie +limps down our way, and sets down on the steps. + +“You fellers don’t show much public spirit,” he states. “Why don’t you +help us a little?” + +“We’re neutral, Magpie,” says Dirty. “When do you have your show?” + +“It ain’t my show,” says he. “While I’m taking the star part it ain’t +noways to be known to posterity as my show. It will surprise you, +though.” + +“I’ll take a gun,” opines Dirty. “You may surprise me, Magpie, but you +ain’t going to bushwhack Mr. Jones’ favorite son.” + +“Everybody satisfied with their part?” I asks. + +“Them what have them are,” says he, sad-like. “A certain amount of +dissatisfaction is apparent. Art Miller and Pete Gonyer both wanted to +play the star part, and now they’re sore. Pete McCall and Weinie Lopp +wanted to be _Messaly_, and they’re put out a lot. Human nature is a +queer thing. Want to hear me recite some of my part?” + +“We bought two seats at two dollars and four-bits per each,” says Dirty +Shirt. “If you’ll hand us back that five dollars we’ll set and listen to +you recite. I’d rather see the show.” + +“You won’t regret it, Dirty,” says Magpie. “You sure won’t.” + +“Nope. A dead man has no regrets, and if I get out safe I’ll be so darn +happy that I won’t take time to regret, Magpie. I wish you a pleasant +voyage—you and your oar.” + + * * * * * + +I’d say that everybody in Yaller Rock County was inside them four walls +when me and Dirty Shirt squeaks down the aisle. A lot of folks must have +been shy, ’cause front seats are all we can get, and right behind us are +“Yuma” Yates and “Pug” Peters, two mean _hombres_ from over on the +Little Snake. They’re hairy, loud in their remarks, and exhales odors of +alcohol. + +Nailed to one side of the stage is this proclamation: + + TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN + LEAVE YOUR GUNS OUTSIDE + + JOHN McBETH WRITES AND + PRESENTS TO YOU + + BEN-HUR + + A DRAMATIC BIBLICAL DRAMA + + THEM WHO TAKE PARTS ARE + + Simonides, a merchant John McBeth + Ben-Hur, a Jew Magpie Simpkins + Messala, a villain Lemuel Bowles + Sheik Ilderim, a Arab Judge Steele + Esther, a woman Annie Mudgett + Soldiers, livestock, etc. + + Act 1—A housetop in Venice. + Act 2—Simonides’ parlor near a race-track. + Act 3—A Roman chariot-race. + Act 4—The Arena, where Simonides kills Ben-Hur and + Messala in combat before King Herod. King Herod + is out of sight. + + Music by Thatcher’s orchestra. Overture is a jew’s-harp + solo, “Poet and Phesant,” by Jean Baptiste Deschamps. + Songs will likely be sung between acts by the + Cross J Quartette. + +Me and Dirty Shirt deciphers all this, and wonders exceedingly. + +“Listens like a regular show, Ike,” says Dirty. + +“Better be,” states Yuma. “We paid to see something.” + +“That’s whatever, Yuma,” agrees Pug. + +“She better be.” + +“You snake-hunters wouldn’t know the difference anyway,” says Dirty. + +“Any man what ever roamed them Snake Hills wouldn’t _sabe_ anything +entertaining less than murder or a lynching. Why don’t some folks wash +up a little, I wonder. You smell anything from back there, Ike?” + +“Them is fighting remarks in our country, old-timer,” warns Yuma. + +“Do I have to go back there with you?” asks Dirty, sarcastic-like, but I +takes him by the arm, and tries to pacify him. + +“Don’t quarrel with them ant-eaters, Dirty,” says I. “They’re unclean.” + +“You mean them words?” inquires Yuma. + +“Who’s talking to you?” I asks. “It shows darn poor taste to listen to a +private conversation. Lean back and shut up!” + +Just then old man Thatcher stands up, bites off a fresh chew, waves his +bow, and the solo starts. Ever hear classical music on a jew’s-harp? +Frenchy leans back in his chair, and groans and twangs like a busted +guitar. Yuma and Pug crouches down over the backs of our chairs, and +stares at Frenchy. + +“My ——!” explodes Yuma. “What in —— is the matter with him?” + +“Set down!” yelps Dirty. “What do you think he’s playing—‘Stars and +Stripes’?” + +“Playing?” asks Yuma, in a hoarse whisper. “Playing ——! He’s dying!” + +_O-o-o-o-om-m-m-m—twang, twang, twung—e-eeng, zung, twung, twang, +tum-m-m-m,_ goes Frenchy. _Tum-m-m-m, twang, twing, twum-m-m-m._ + +_Bang!_ + +I got the hair burnt off the back of my neck, when Yuma’s gun busts near +my off ear, and then I slides deep into my chair. I looks at the +orchestra, and observes old man Thatcher, with his bow held high, +looking at Frenchy, who is staring at his cupped hands. Thatcher’s boy +is on the floor, with his squeeze organ shielding his face, while +Calamity Clakins is backed up against the stage, with his harp between +his teeth and a gun in each hand. He breathes deep-like, and gets a few +discords out of that mouth-harp. + +“By gar, she’s gone!” yelps Frenchy. “Jus’ whan I get going fine she +went away.” + +“Good shooting, Yuma,” applauds Pug. “A six-gun beats forceps every +time. I don’t know how you picked the right tooth, though.” + +“Give me that gun, Yuma,” demands Bill McFee, the sheriff, coming down +the aisle, and Yuma hands it to him. + +After Bill went back I saw Pug give Yuma one of his. + +“Next man what shoots any of the orchestra is going to get put out,” +announces Bill from the back of the hall. “They ain’t charging us a +thing for their services, so it ain’t no killing matter. I’ll sure boot +any man what throws lead at them again.” + +Yuma stands up and faces Bill. + +“Was that part of the orchestra, Bill?” he asks. + +“It was!” snaps Bill. “You ruined the jew’s-harp, Yuma Yates!” + +“——!” says Yuma, apologetic-like. “My mistake, Bill; I thought he was +French.” + +Then the curtain parts and out comes Old Testament. He gives us the +peace sign and clears his throat. + +“Brothern and sisters,” says he. “Man came from dust and to dust he +returneth back. We are gathered together here this evening on a +solemn—we are here togethered this evening to-to-to——” + +“Cow on the track,” whispered Yuma. + +“To withstand the—to commemorate the—the—to take part in the——” + +“Write it out and mail it to us,” suggests Dirty Shirt. + +Old Testament loosens his collar, and walks to the other end of the +stage. + +“We are gathered together here this evening to-to-to-to——” + +“Clear board!” yelps “Skinny” Skelton, a brakeman from Silver Bend, but +Old Testament merely looks sad-like at Skinny, and continues: + +“In behalf of the Baptist Church I am glad to see so many smiling faces +here together. I am——” + +Just then the curtain went up, and Testament has to hop out of sight. + +She sure is something for to look at. They’ve got things built up so it +looks like the roof of a shack, and up there, sitting on beer kegs, is +Scenery Sims and Annie Mudgett, and beside them, looking over the edge, +is Magpie Simpkins. + +Man, he’s a sight. He’s got on red flannel underclothes, with a short +skirt covered with red polka dots. His skinny legs are encased in a pair +of well-greased boots, and on his head is a little, flat derby hat, +which sets on the tops of his ears. Around his waist is strapped old J. +B. Whittaker’s Civil War saber. + +Scenery is wearing an old Grand Army suit, with a feather in his hat, +and in one hand he holds an old flint-lock pistol. Annie Mudgett, who +looks like Miss Democracy, has got on a long cheese-cloth robe, and a +veil which fits up under her long nose. + +“They come!” squeaks Scenery, poking behind him with his pistol, and +keeping his eyes on the crowd in front. “Here comes the governor!” + +Magpie sticks out his chest, and struts to the edge, where he picks up a +brick. We can hear a lot of noise, like folks cheering, and then Magpie +heaves the brick. The roar of voices seems to get louder, and then a +burst of profanity assails our ears. + +“You danged red-legged pelican!” whoops a voice, and here comes Ricky +Henderson, leading a burro. + +The gore is running down one side of his face, and he leads that burro +right on to the roof. + +“You hunk of limburger!” yelps Ricky. “Where did you aim to throw that +brick?” + +“Shot at the governor and hit the muleskinner!” whoops Yuma. + +“Take that burro off this roof!” squeaks Scenery, poking at Ricky with +that antiquated gun. “Take it back! What do you think you’re leading—a +canary bird?” + +“Gadzooks!” roars Magpie. “Get thee hence, varlet! Tell the soldiers to +come and take me to the oar.” + +“Fly that jassack off this roof or I’ll throw you off,” screeches +Scenery, and Ricky leads the animal away. + +“Some show, eh?” chuckles Pug. “That’s good acting.” + +“Oh, oh, oho, oho, oh, oh!” howls Miss Mudgett, with her nose in the +air, like a coyote objecting to the moon. “Oh, they’ll take you away, +_Bennie_, and it was all an accident.” + +“Fear ye not,” consoles Magpie, twisting his mustache. “My soul is +greater than their punishment.” + +Just then in comes Ren Merton and Doughgod Smith. Ren is wearing a +bearskin overcoat, and a derby with the brim cut off, and Doughgod is +wearing an old lodge uniform. They’ve both got spears fifteen feet long. +They surrounds Magpie, and marches him right off over the edge of the +roof. + +“Farewell,” yelps Magpie. “I go to row a boat for a while.” + +“_Adios_,” howls Yuma, standing up in his chair. “I hope somebody rocks +the boat.” + +Then the curtain goes down and the orchestra hands us “Sweet Marie.” + + * * * * * + +“That was some start, if you asks me,” opines Dirty Shirt, rolling a +smoke. + +“Worst music I ever heard,” growls Yuma, and Dirty turns around. + +“You ain’t tied there, are you?” he asks. “Go home if you don’t like +it.” + +Before Yuma can reply Magpie comes out in front of the curtain. He +stops, and holds up his hand for silence. + +“Get shipwrecked already?” yelps Buck Masterson. + +“Hey, Bill! Bill McFee!” yells Magpie, and Bill answers from the back of +the room— + +“What do you want, Magpie?” + +“Say, Bill, where is _Simonides?_” + +“My ——!” wails Bill. “I forgot to let him out of jail!” + +He lopes out of the hall. Magpie holds up his hand again, and when +everybody stops making a noise, he announces that the Cross J quartet +will render a selection. + +“Is it absolutely necessary, Magpie?” inquires Zeb Abernathy. + +“Almost unavoidable, Zeb,” assures Magpie, “we’ve got to kill time.” + +“I hope that will be all,” says Zeb, and then out comes Chuck, +Telescope, Hen and Muley. + +The first three are dressed in Sunday clothes. But Muley is putting on a +little dog, if you ask me. + +He’s got a little skirt like Magpie has, and pink underclothes that sort +of look a little shameless. Over one shoulder, and draped down the front +of him is a bob-cat skin. His feet are encased in a pair of shiny +leather shoes, and he’s got a strip of red ribbon bound around his manly +head, with the streamers hanging out behind. + +There is considerable applause and comment when they appear, and Yuma +begins to whistle that selection from the “Streets of Cairo,” through +his teeth. Dirty stands up and faces Yuma. + +“Mister Yates,” says he. “You stuff that whistle in your throat! If you +wasn’t evil-minded you wouldn’t think of anything wrong. Stop it!” + +“Ain’t it going to dance?” asks Yuma, sad-like. + +“Sing,” states Dirty, and just then they begins. Muley and Chuck begins +on “The Holy City,” Telescope and Hen hits the high notes of “Sweet +Adeline,” and the orchestra drills into “Sweet Marie.” + +“I hate a liar,” yelps Yuma, in Dirty’s ear. “I hate a liar!” + +“My mistake, Yuma,” yelps Dirty. “I’ve been misled.” + +Just then here comes Bill McFee and John McBeth, and the music stops. +The quartet sees a chance to duck, and they sure did. + +“Who’s the horse-thief that Bill’s got?” asks Pug, as they slides past +one end of the curtain. + +“He’s the _hombre_ what started this show,” says I. “He’s a eminent +tragedian.” + +“He’s got something to answer for,” says Pug. “I hereby apologize to all +decent horse-thieves.” + +We don’t have to wait long for the next act, which discloses Muley and +Ricky Henderson sitting there in chairs. Ricky has got a bandage on his +manly brow. There’s a rocking-chair, with a bearskin on it, and a table +with some books and things to make it look homelike. + +“Dost know aught of this _Ben-Hur_?” asks Muley. + +“Yeah,” says Ricky, rolling a cigaret. “He’s a mean jasper, _Messaly._ I +wouldst—wouldst—wouldst——” + +“Fain,” prompts Muley. + +“Wouldst fain see thou stick him in the vittles, Messaly.” + +“Vitals,” corrects Muley. “Vittles are grub.” + +“Vitals,” says Ricky. “Vittles are grub.” + +Just then cometh John McBeth. He’s got a long, red robe around him, and +draped over his left arm. He comes in, dragging his feet, and scowling. + +“What ho, _Messala_!” he roars. “How goeth things in Rome?” + +“Fine and dandy,” says Muley. “How is things with you? What do you know +about this _Ben-Hur,_ the noble Jew?” + +“_Ben-Hur-r-r-r?_ The Jew who was lately released from the galley, after +accidentally dropping a tile on the governor?” + +“That’s him, old-timer,” says Ricky, “only you used the wrong word and +the wrong person. Accident ——!” + +“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Yuma. “This is better than a honkatonk.” + +Just then Magpie strolls in. Him and Muley glares at each other, and +Magpie turns to McBeth: + +“Howdy, _Simonides._ How’s all your folks?” + +“Art thou _Ben-Hur-r-r-r,_ the Jew?” thunders _Simonides._ + +“Art,” agrees Magpie, patting himself on the chest. “Sure art.” + +Muley walks over across the stage, and looks at a paper on the wall. + +“Gadzooks!” he yelps. “Impossible! Look ye!” + +“Im-m-m-mpossible?” roars _Simonides._ “What is im-m-m-m-possible?” + +“It says that _Ben-Hur_ will drive in the chariot-race. That Jew? Why he +couldn’t herd a cow down a——” + +“Whoa!” whoops Magpie. “Them ain’t your lines, Muley. You lay off that +kind of talk or I’ll bust your nervous system into smithereens. _Sabe?_ +I can drive a lot better than you can, you fat——” + +“Peace!” howls _Simonides_. “Peace!” + +“Peace ——!” whoops Muley, hauling out his cleaver. “Have at you, +_Ben-Hur_!” + +“Same to you and many of them!” yells Magpie, hauling out his saber, and +right then they goes seeking for gore. + +They circles like a pair of wolves, and then rushes. + +Something goes wrong. They’re on opposite sides of the stage when they +makes the grand rush, and they can’t get no closer. Both of them are +running as fast as they can, and it sort of makes me sea-sick. The +carpet gets kicked to one side, and _Simonides_ dives right out through +the wall. Ricky starts to run between them but his feet try to hit him +in the ear, and he pinwheels out of sight. + +Out from the other side comes old Judge Steele, dignified as an owl in +his flowing white robes. He don’t get far when the phenomenon gets him +too, and he ends up over a chair, with his bare feet waving in the air. + +“Ye-e-e-eow!” whoops Yuma, standing up on his seat. + +_Bang! Bang!_ + +He must have cut the rope what rolls the curtain, ’cause it drops down, +and cuts off one remarkable sight. Mostly everybody is on their feet, +yelling and throwing their hats around, but as soon as the curtain is +down they quiet a bit. We hears some commotion behind the curtain, and +Bill McFee stumbles out. + +“Say, who fired them shots?” he whoops. “Who done it?” + +“Yuma Yates,” yells somebody, and Bill hops off the stage, and comes up +to us. + +“Give me that gun!” snaps Bill. “Look what you done—dang you!” + +Bill turns around, and from his carcass comes the odors of alcohol. + +“Look!” he roars. “Your darn lead busted that bottle on my hip, carroms +off and stings the burro, and Old Testament got kicked plumb back into +Proverbs. I’m going to put you Snake River toughs out of here. _Sabe?_ +Rise and travel!” + +“Ho-o-o-o-ld fast! Whoa! Stay with ’em, Ricky! Whoa! Whoa!” yelps +several voices behind the curtain. “Ye-e-e-ow! Let ’em go!” + +_Rip! Crash!_ + +The curtain and half of the front of the stage comes out, and along with +it comes John McBeth, old Judge Steele, Old Testament, and right with +them is that burro. They lights in the aisle, and fights for a good +running position. I think the burro got the rail. + + * * * * * + +I glances back at the stage, and sees the feature act of the show. There +is Magpie and Muley, each standing up on the front trucks of lumber +wagons, to which shafts have been built, like breaking carts, and +hitched to each one is a wild-eyed bronc, fighting for a chance to go +some place and never come back again. + +“Let her go!” yelps somebody, and they slacks up on the lines enough to +let them buzzard-heads hit the floor. + +Man, them broncs lit running, but they’re in the same fix that Muley and +Magpie were. They sure laid down to work, but don’t get no place. Magpie +and Muley are throwing the leather into them, and yelling like +Comanches, and them broncs rattle their hoofs at forty miles an hour. + +Everybody in the place is yelling and breaking up chairs. The candles +along the front of the stage sets the ruined curtains on fire, and I +seen “Swan River” Swanson hop from his seat and swing on to the big lamp +in the middle of the room. Swan River was either trying to play safe or +get a better look, which was all right and proper, but the lamp tore +loose, and he comes right down on top of Bill McFee and Yuma Yates. + +“Forty dollars on the roan!” whoops Pug, hopping up and down on my +shoulders, “Forty to thirty that he——” + +_Crash! Bang! R-r-r-r-r-ip!_ + +Somebody monkeyed with the wheels of progress. Them broncs seemed to +take a toe-hold, and left their spots like a streak. I seen Muley turn +over once on his way up beyond my vision. Magpie was leaning forward on +his truck, and when his animal tore loose I seen him sail into the air +like a big, red-legged crane, and turn end over end far out into the +audience. + +One bronc ripped off a corner of the stage, and I seen it hang up there +for a moment, wheels spinning and bronc kicking. The other one shot +right out over the orchestra, and stood on its head, with that truck +standing on the ends of the shafts, and slowly falling toward me. I +tried to saunter out of the way, but my foot got caught in a chair, and +I bowed my head to the inevitable. + +Darkness covered the land, and I slept. I dreamed that a centipede was +using my cheek for a sidewalk, and I awoke to find Dirty Shirt’s spur +hooked under my off ear. I shoved his heel away, and looks around. +Things seem sort of cramped to me, so I slips my head out from between +the spokes of that chariot, and sizes things up better. + +There’s a couple of candles still burning on the stage, which gives us a +little light. I sets down in a busted chair, and rubs some of the kinks +out of my system. + +Bill McFee and Yuma Yates are still locked in each other’s embrace out +where the aisle used to be, and as I look at them Yuma rolls loose and +rubs his head. He looks at me, and then around the place. + +“Who won?” he asks, in a hoarse whisper. “Who won?” + +“Dead heat,” I whispers, and he nods— + +“It’s a miracle if they’re not.” + +Chairs are squeehawed and busted all over the place, showing that folks +didn’t wait to march out. I hears a clump, and Muley falls out of a +bunch of busted scenery near the roof. He’s got a chair hung on one leg, +and the breeching of a harness circles his neck. There’s a look of +perfect contentment on his fat face, as he bows to us, and recites: + + “The Summer sun was shining + On a glacier gold and white, + ’Round my old Kentucky home + When I went away that night. + I could hear the gophers singing + In their nests among the trees + And the moonshine came a-stealing— + Alcoholic on the breeze.” + +“That’s good,” says Yuma, awed-like, trying to clap his hands. “This is +the first circus that I ever was at and stayed for the concert.” + +Muley walks right off the edge of the stage, and goes down in a heap. He +don’t no more than hit the floor until another apparition stands up. I’d +opine that Froggy Deschamps has been kicked between the eyes, ’cause the +upper half of his face sure is shaded. He nods to us, cups his hands +around his mouth, and: + +_Twang-g-g-g, twum-m-m-m, tung-g-g-g-g, hong-g-g-g, hum-m-m-m, tum-m-m._ + +“My ——!” grunts Yuma, staggering up the aisle. “Going home. Never knew +this was a continuous performance.” + +He faded out of the door. Dirty Shirt sets up, and looks around. He +cocks his ear to the music, and shakes his head, solemn-like. + +“Ike,” says he, “I dreamed that I was dead, and that the angels were +playing harps. Do angels play jew’s-harps?” + +“We won’t hear them, Dirty,” says I. “Music won’t bore us where we’ll +end up. Come on.” + +“Listen!” exclaims Dirty, and we pauses. + +“One for you and one for me, one for you and one for me,” drones a +voice. + +We weaves up to the back of the room. There in the doorway sets Old +Testament, with a sack of dollars in his lap, and across from him, +propped against the wall, is John McBeth. John’s head is hanging on his +chest, and his eyes are closed in sleep. The King of Tragedy is far from +mundane things. + +We stops to watch. Old Testament takes a dollar out of the sack, and +lays it on John’s robe, and then takes one for himself. + +“One for you and one for me,” he sings, and then fumbles into the sack +again. + +He don’t even see us. + +“One for you and one for me.” + +“Fifty-fifty—a—church,” snores McBeth. “Shades—Lew Wallace.” + +“How did the church come out, Testament?” inquires Dirty. + +Old Testament stops dealing for a moment, and squints up at us. He seems +to sort of understand, but shakes his head: + +“Two fiery steeds, one chariot and a multitude of people, but no church +as yet,” he replies, and starts in, “One for you and one for me.” + +Me and Dirty upsets the King of Tragedy as we goes out of the door, but +Old Testament props him up again, and goes on dealing. + +We stumbles down the busted stairs, and runs into a ghost. + +“Salutations, Spook,” says Dirty, and the apparition stops. + +“I am _Sheik Ilderim_,” it states. “I am a Arab, and I still have a part +to play. They couldn’t hold them broncs any longer.” + +“Go ahead and play it,” says I. “You ain’t got nothing on Froggy +Deschamps, and Annie Mudgett. Why don’t you three get together and play +out the hand?” + +We left him pondering the question, and pilgrims up the street. Seems +like everybody is crowding the saloons or loading up to go home. + +“Let us go over and see who got killed,” suggests Dirty, but I shakes my +head. + +“Not me, Dirty. I’ve seen so much that my eyes ache. I’m going to get my +burro, and go home. So-long, old-timer.” + + * * * * * + +I hobbled down to Dirty’s cabin and loaded my burro. I sort of hankers +to get away from the bright lights, so I points the animal up the road. +It is moonlight, and sudden-like I sees a figure ahead of me in the +road. It sure looks fearsome in the dim light, so I halts my burro, and +prepares for the worst. + +“Advance, Ike Harper,” says a hoarse voice, and I recognizes Magpie. + +Beyond him is a figure setting in the dust. + +“Greetings, noble Jew,” says I. “I thought you were still in town, +accepting the plaudits of the populace.” + +“I chased him,” says Magpie, pointing at the figure in the road, which +is slowly getting to its feet. + +It is Pete McCall, the chunky little cross-eyed puncher from the Circle +Star. He weaves around the road, talking to himself. + +“Why chase poor little Pete?” I asks. + +“He double-crossed me!” snaps Magpie. “He done me dirt.” + +“Never did,” wails Pete. “Never did, Magpie. You told me to sneak under +the stage and block Muley’s whirligig, so his bronc goes to the bad, +didn’t you? Well, I never had a chance—dang you! When I crawled under +there I found Art Miller and Pete Gonyer. They was drinking out of a +bottle, and arguing which one of them things you’re going to race on. +They don’t know, so they decides to shove a two-by-four into each, so as +not to make any mistake. They said the whole thing was a fifty-fifty +proposition, anyway.” + +Pete waddles off into the gloom, and we don’t offer to molest him. + +“Where you going, Ike?” asks Magpie, after a period of silence. + +“Home. Old Testament said that we’ll get our reward in Paradise, but I +ain’t going to wait. Piperock looks good to me, Magpie.” + +“I’ll go with you, Ike. There may be a reward in Paradise for me, but it +will likely read: ‘Dead or Alive.’” + +“In them clothes, Magpie?” + +He looks down at his apparel, and scratches his head. He clanks his +sword on a rock, and peers back at the lights of Paradise. + +“Yeap. I left my pants and chaps at Bill McFee’s when I borrowed these +red tights, I paid Mrs. Henderson to make this skirt, I traded hats with +a harness drummer, and Whittaker’s got my six-gun in place of this old +cheese-knife. I’m splitting fifty-fifty with the world. Let’s go home.” + +We plods along for a couple of miles, when Magpie stops, and turns to +me. + +“Ike,” says he, “maybe things didn’t work as per program, but I want you +to understand that I didn’t do all this for applause, reputation or +filthy gain.” + +“No, Magpie,” says I, “I never thought you did, ’cause you’d be hissed +out of Yaller Rock County, broke like a dog and branded as a homicide. +There might have been worse actors——” + +“‘Ben-Hur’ actors?” he asks. + +But I don’t reply, ’cause I’ve got to live with him. + + +[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, +February 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 78960 *** |