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Title: A little help for Hawkins
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: June 26, 2026 [eBook #78954]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1920
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78954
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE HELP FOR HAWKINS ***
A LITTLE HELP FOR HAWKINS
by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Promoting Polecat Perkins,”
“Hashknife—Philanthropist,” etc.
“Lemme alone! Dog-gone yuh, lemme alone. Chuck, get out of that trunk!
Leggo that necktie. Naw, yuh can’t wear that green vest. That
lawn-gee-ree cost me six dollars in Miles. Aw, Chuck, you can’t wear
per-fume with a face like yours. Drop that bottle. Didja ever try
buyin’——”
“Slim,” says Muley Bowles, “you’re in love. Crabbin’ all the time, and
right now you’ve got a face——”
“That’s my face, cowboy,” snaps Slim Hawkins, the latest impediment of
the Cross J outfit.
“I know,” agrees Muley, sad-like; “she’s one awful drawback, but just
the same, when a feller gets touchy about his vests and perfume——”
“That ain’t per-fume,” declares Telescope Tolliver. “That’s hair tonic.
Slim’s usin’ it on his hands, so he won’t have to buy some fur gloves
this Fall.”
“Yeah?” grunts Slim. “Better than vaniller extract.”
“I never used vaniller,” declares Telescope.
“No? Is that so? What made yuh smell like a church sociable then?”
“Well, I never took a shot of hooch at a dance and then tried to prove
an alibi by drinkin’ heel-yuh-trope per-fume.”
“Wasn’t he a sweet-scented daisy,” grins Chuck Warner, wiggling his
ears. “Poor old Slim. Thought he was goin’ to waltz with Ramona McGuire;
so he drinks a bottle of stink-good and burn-bad, and then Ramona turned
him down for the noble son of old man Warner.
“Slim had to set down and smell of himself. Reminded me of one of them
Chinese idol things, which sets cross-legged and exudes smells. Incense,
they calls ’em. I remember once when I was in Shanghai——”
“Drop your voice!” yelps Slim, looking up from a magazine he just
brought from town. “Take it out to the corral.”
“When I was in Canton——”
“Montana, Oregon, Idaho, Wyoming or Arizona?” asks Slim.
“Can’t I get out of the U. S. A.?” asks Chuck, sad-like.
“Aw, shut up, or tell the truth, Chuck—and let me alone.”
“This story needs a Chinese background, Slimmie Hawkins.”
“You ain’t said what makes you look so sad,” reminds Muley. “Honest to
grandma, Slim, you need cheerin’ up.”
Slim just grunts and shoves his nose deeper into the magazine. We looks
at each other, and then Muley picks up my banjo and, after hitting a few
discords, sings soft and low:
“His hear-r-r-t is bowed down.
He has lost all hope;
No more does he smell
Of heel-yuh-trope.
His——”
“Stop it, you fat horse-thief!” wails Slim. “By golly, I’d just as soon
live in a beehive. Gabble, gabble, gabble!”
“Bees don’t gabble,” says Chuck. “Bees quack like lizards.”
Slim marks the place in his magazine, and then glares at us.
“If you strike him, Slim, it will break my heart,” whispers Chuck. “I
will never smile again.”
“You’re among friends, Slim,” says Telescope, serious-like. “Uncinch
your immortal soul and tell us why thou art so sad among your eyes.”
“Yuh would, eh?”
Slim rolls a fresh cigaret, thoughtful-like, and then—
“Suppose yuh left your old home under suspicion?”
“The home?” asks Muley.
“No, you. Suppose your relations figured out that you wasn’t worth
shucks. Suppose you had a aunt with a lot of money. Then this here aunt
shuffles off this mortal coil, but behind her she leaves a will.
“This here will is pe-culiar. This here aunt figures that you ain’t no
good. Sabe. She opines that you’re headed in the general direction of
the penitentiary, but she gives you a chance. All you’ve got to do is to
get married before the first of the month, and——”
Slim puffs slow-like on his cigaret, and after while he grins,
foolish-like.
“And be able to invest ten thousand dollars’ worth of jaw-bone. Sabe? By
the first of the month you’ve got to prove your standing in the
community by bein’ able to spend ten thousand dollars you ain’t got.
Wouldn’t that will make anybody look sad?”
Slim pokes his nose back into the magazine and the rest of us sets there
and looks at each other. After while Chuck says—
“Slim, would you mind recitin’ that again?”
“Aw-w-w, ——!” wails Slim, and throws the magazine across the room. Then
he stamps out and slams the door.
“May the divil fly away with us,” gasps Chuck. “We’re being associated
with a plutocrat—under conditions. No wonder he’s sore.”
“I just wonder where his aunt lives,” says Muley.
“The dead don’t usually leave a permanent address,” reminds Telescope.
“She sure was a hard-hearted old lady.”
“He can’t do it,” declares Chuck. “No cowpuncher could. I wonder if he
was figurin’ on Ramona when he drank the perfume?”
“Slim’s heart is all right,” opines Telescope.
“All of his insides are,” agrees Chuck, “but bein’ complete in your
interior don’t attract the fair sex. Any girl he’d lead to the altar
would have to wear blinders.”
“Aw, he could find a girl, I reckon,” says I, “but he’d never be able to
invest that money. He might as well smile and kiss his inheritance
good-by.”
“Hard to smile under them conditions,” says Muley. “Poor old
Slim—listen!”
* * * * *
From out by the corral comes Slim’s voice, wailing and sad-like:
“Be-e-at the drum slowly and play the fife lowly;
Play the dead march as you bear me-e-e along.
Take me-e-e out to the pra-ree-e,
And throw the sod o’er me-e-e——”
“Aw, that’s awful,” wails Muley. “The poor critter is suffering and it’s
against the law to put him out of his misery. There ought to be a law
that lets yuh put a human out of their misery the same as yuh do a
broken-legged bronc.”
“Go ahead,” says Telescope. “I’ll swear it was self defense.”
“That’s a Turkish way of looking at things,” says Chuck. “Don’t decease
a feller just because he’s suffering. Why not lend him a helping hand?”
“He’d bite it,” declares Muley. “He’d bite the hand that fed him.”
“He ain’t hungry,” says I, “and if he got too snappy we could get a
muzzle. This here outfit has been prone to pack a hammer instead of a
jack-screw. Seems that there ain’t nobody too low for us to stoop down
and tap ’em a little lower. Let’s try raising up the fallen. Bring a
little sunshine and fewer stars into other people’s lives.”
“Do we sing before or after the collection?” whispers Telescope. “I
ain’t been to church for so long that——”
Come Slim’s voice, sighing on the breeze:
“Out in this sad wor-r-r-ld alo-o-o-ne,
Nothin’ but sorrow I see-e-e.
I am no-o-o-body’s dar-r-r-ling,
No-o-o-body ca-a-hares for me-e-e-e.”
“Caruso never had a voice like that,” says Muley.
“Not in any phonygraft song I ever heard,” agrees Telescope. “Sounds
like a jassack tangled up in barbwire.”
“It ain’t the singer, but the song,” says Muley, sad-like.
“Well,” Chuck stands up and looks at us. “Well, do we show a united
front against the world in favor of Slim, or do we side-step and let him
skid?”
“Don’t wiggle your ears,” begs Telescope. “I tries hard to believe
against reincarnation of souls, but every time you wiggle your
ears—sure, I’ll do what I can.”
“We’ll keep it dark,” explains Muley, “and work unhonored and unsung.”
“And unhung, I hope,” adds Chuck.
We shakes hands on it, and then Muley recites:
“Four souls with but a single thought:
To help a brother in distress.
Four noble souls filled with desire,
Three prevaricators—one——liar.
Some mess.”
“I wouldn’t take that from anybody but you, Muley,” says Chuck.
“He sure answers to roll-call,” laughs Telescope.
Old Oreana McGuire was the father of Ramona. I won’t swear to the
spelling of the word “Oreana,” but that’s the way she sounds. It’s a
word they uses down in the Southwest, and means the same as “Maverick.”
Oreana had seven head of cows, which he brought with him, and which were
likely “oreanas,” the same being unbranded calves, with no pa, ma or
visible guardian angel. Anyway, Oreana owned ’em, a shack, a
six-shooter, a grouch against punchers, and Ramona.
Ramona’s mother was Mexican. “Jay Bird” Whittaker said that Ramona was
the same mixture as glycerin and nitric acid. Mrs. McGuire died from
ptomaine poisoning, which was a polite definition of a mixture of
_tortillas_ and _tequila_. Old Oreana declared himself publicly and
audibly that no danged forty-a-month puncher would ever be Ramona’s
blushing bridegroom.
“Be all th’ saints, she’s too good for a puncher,” says he. “I’ll have
no saddle-slickers in me family. It’s bad enough to have to support
Ramona, without takin’ another independint to me bosom, so it is. Kape
off th’ grass.”
I don’t prognosticate on the rest of Yaller Rock County, but I know of
two punchers who liked Ramona—fine. There’s only two other girls in
riding distance of the Cross J—Susie Abernathy and Lizzie Smith. Muley
has been hanging around Susie so long that the assessor lists him as
Zeb’s personal property, and Telescope has worn all the Cross J horses
to a frazzle going to Piperock to see Lizzie.
Ramona was good to look upon. There was a lot of Irish in her, but even
at that you’ve got to figure that the blood of bull-fighters also runs
through her arteries at a fifty-fifty clip with the Irish gore.
“She’s kinda pretty,” opines Slim, “but I don’t want to make love to no
female which I’ve got to search for a knife every time I goes to see
her. If I was her husband I’d wear armor and sleep in the corral. She
can’t cook nothin’ but _frijoles_. _Frijoles!_ My ——! Cornmeal mush and
Cayenne. No wonder they fight bulls in Mexico.”
The four of us goes out and climbs up on the corral fence, where we can
plan things out.
“Let’s consider the bride subject first,” says Muley. “Who can Slim
marry?”
“How about Susie?” asks Chuck.
“Think again, cowboy!” snaps Muley. “Don’t be funny.”
“Think a little yourself,” says Chuck. “Are you setting out here as a
rejection committee of one, Muley Bowles?”
“I seconds Muley’s objection,” says Telescope.
“Then you can go to ——!” grunts Chuck, “I’ve spoke my piece and it
wasn’t applauded,” and then he goes up to the ranch-house.
“You goin’ to act mean, too, Henry?” asks Muley.
“No, I ain’t. I try to get along. How about Lizzie Smith?”
“Might be a idea,” agrees Muley.
“Not a —— bit like it!” explodes Telescope. “Pick Susie if you must.”
“Not while bunch-grass grows and cows have legs,” yells Muley. “How
about Ramona McGuire?”
“Vetoed,” says I. “Also, I’m all through with the convention. I has met
with objections to my choice of weapons. _Adios._”
* * * * *
A full house divided don’t win no pots. Here is Slim, doing nothing
towards helping himself, Muley and Telescope snapping at each other,
which leaves me and Chuck to uphold the honor of the combination.
I rides to town alone and finds Telescope playing solitaire in one
saloon and in another I finds Muley reading a last month’s newspaper.
Later on they rides back, one at a time, and then Chuck comes in.
“Is Slim doing anything towards saving his inheritance?” I asks, and
Chuck nods.
“Yeah—digging post-holes for a new corral, him and Jay Bird. Jay Bird
asks me to grab a pick, but I never hired out to be a sexton to the
south end of a corral post. See anything of the poet and the pelican?
They’re a fine pair.”
They are. Muley is so fat that he almost has to have somebody
diamond-hitch him to his saddle, and Telescope is so long that he has to
ride with short stirrups to save the soles of his shoes. Muley can
compose poetry, I’ll say that much for him.
Chuck ain’t much to look at either. Slim is made from a pole pattern,
and has a long, weepy nose and tired eyes. I’ve got a good figure, and
I’m worth the money. The rest of the bunch are cowboys, ’cause they
don’t know anything else, but I punch cows because it’s a healthy job,
and I hate doctors.
Then cometh Oreana McGuire.
“Has the Cross J gone out av business?” he asks. “Cow-poonchers dallyin’
in the shade and drawin’ the money they niver earn. I ho-ope I niver
have cows enough that I’ll have to hire a pooncher.”
“You won’t,” says Chuck. “The cattle association has issued orders that
no more mavericks are to be taken.”
“Insinuatin’ that I’m a cow thief?”
“Nope—warnin’. Set down and cool off. How’s Ramona?”
“Chuck,” chokes Oreana, “ye have more ungodly nerve than anny—— You’re a
hawrse-faced, ear-wigglin’—— Do ye mean to insult me?”
“Are you insulted? Fine! Witness it, Henry. I bet Muley four bits that I
could insult Oreana, and he gave me odds of ten to one that it couldn’t
be done.”
Oreana sets down beside us and fills his pipe.
“Don’t yuh think Slim Hawkins is a fine fellow?” asks Chuck.
“That wall-eyed, crooked-nosed banshee?”
“He’s goin’ to be rich. You might sell him your seven cows.”
“Tell me about it, Chuck.”
Oreana listens and nods over his pipe:
“Didn’t I tell ye that Slim was av good stock? He’ll go far, he will,
indeed.”
“But there is certain conditions,” says I.
“Ah-hah, I towld ye,” says he, the same of which he did not. “There
always is. Well, well.”
“But keep it dark,” warns Chuck.
“I niver violates the confidences of me friends.”
We watches him go out of town in his buckboard.
“Now what in —— did you tell him for?” I asks. “He’ll try to marry
Ramona to Slim, you danged fool.”
“Aw-w-w, she wouldn’t look at Slim. He’ll likely sell Slim them seven
cows, Henry. I’m pavin’ the way to investments. Oreana will tell
everybody. Let’s have a drink.”
We finds that Mike Pelly is sympathetic, on account of a few tests he
has made of his new stock, and he asks us to tarry a while and talk
politics. Mike’s a Populist. We held a convention, and later on me and
Chuck joined his party. We moved and seconded nominations until the
convention hall gets hazy. After while Chuck says:
“Mike, you’re a business man, ain’t yuh? Well, suppose a man is going to
inherit a lot of money. Before he gets it he’s got to be able to invest
ten thousand dollars, which he ain’t got, to show that he’s well thought
of. Suppose he’s a ordinary puncher like me and Henry. Now, where could
he invest ten thousand he ain’t got?”
“My gosh!” wails Mike. “You’ve got me all bewildered. What was it you
was talkin’ about, Chuck?”
“Now,” says Chuck, deliberate-like, “I knowed what I told you at the
time I told you, but right now I don’t. Do you, Henry?”
“Yes,” says I, “I don’t.”
“Would you sell Slim Hawkins your saloon?” asks Chuck.
“He ain’t got the money yet, but he will have on the first of the month.
You sell it to me and Henry, bein’ as we’re agents for Slim Hawkins.”
“I will,” says Mike. “For two thousand dollars. Give ’m good-will and
everything. Abs’lutely. I wanna go Easht and shee ol’ home. Judge
Steele’s in town t’day, and I’ll have him fix up papers. You run the
place, eh? Tha’s fine.”
Chuck tended bar for me and then I tended bar for him. After while Zeb
Abernathy comes in to wash the trail dust out of his neck.
“How comes such a condition of affairs?” he asks.
“The West is changin’, Zeb,” explains Chuck. “Slim Hawkins owns this
here palace of sin.”
“Naw-w-w-w! Slim Hawkins? How comes that ornery, slab-sided
saddle-slicker gets enough money to buy a saloon?”
Zeb drinks in every word of Chuck’s explanation, along with easier
things to swaller, and then he says—
“Why don’t he buy cows?”
“He ain’t got no visible cash, Zeb, and you know danged well that nobody
trusts Slim.”
“The —— they don’t! Slim Hawkins? Say, that boy can have anything I’ve
got, y’ betcha. Slimmie’s a upright, honorable citizen if there ever was
one, and his word is as good as his bond with me. Where can I find him?”
“We’re handlin’ his investments,” says Chuck. “Yuh see, he’s got to be
married by the first of the month, and he ain’t got no time to monkey
with finances.”
“Married? Say, has he picked any female yet?”
“I don’t know, Zeb. Don’t think so. How many cows can he buy from you?”
“About five thousand dollars’ worth, I reckon.”
“All good stock,” declares Chuck. “No runts, Zeb. Judge Steele is in
town, and you can have him draw up the bill of sale.”
“Suits me to a gnat’s eyelash,” nods Zeb, and hikes out of there to fix
up the papers, just before Wick Smith rides in from Piperock.
“How’s business?” asks Chuck.
“General merchandise is a drug on the market,” he states after
inoculating his nervous system. “How comes you two fellers to be
pilotin’ this here saloon?”
“Tendin’ bar for Slim Hawkins.”
“Tell the truth and shame the devil, Chuck. Slim Hawkins never had money
enough to buy a drink.”
“Death made him a plutocrat,” says I.
“Good!” grunts Wick. “When did he die?”
“His aunt died,” explains Chuck, “and left her fortune to Slim. We’re
his financial agents, me and Henry.” And then he goes ahead and tells
Wick some of the painful details.
“Slim has a lot of natcheral ability,” opines Wick. “He’d do well in
mostly any line—especially merchandise. Wonder if he’d consider my
business in Piperock? Sell it to him for three thousand. Two thousand
nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars and six bits’ worth of property and
two bits’ worth of good-will.”
“Knowin’ the conditions as you does, would you give us a bill of sale to
Slim?” asks Chuck.
“Just thataway,” nods Wick, and we steers him out to find Judge Steele.
* * * * *
When me and Chuck quit tending bar we’ve got bills of sale for a
grog-shop, a general merchandise store, and a hundred and fifty head of
cows. As far as we can figure there ain’t nothing to prevent Slim from
taking the property and never paying a cent.
Slim ain’t at the ranch when we gets back and neither is Telescope, but
Muley is there. He just sort of sniffs at us and makes prohibition
remarks.
“Where is the distinguished inheritor, Mr. Bowles?” asks Chuck.
Just then Telescope comes in and answers the question.
“Zeb Abernathy took Slim over to his house for supper. He said that
Susie had bought some new organ music and wants Slim to sing for her.”
“That’s a —— lie!” chokes Muley, getting red in the face.
“Yeah?” grins Telescope. “Prognosticate, cowboy, if yuh wish, but it’s a
fact.”
“Zeb Abernathy hates Slim,” whines Muley.
“Shore,” nods Telescope. “Make yourself feel good, Muley.”
Muley saddled up and went to town without saying anything more and
Telescope gets joyful over it.
“Suppose he went to see Lizzie?” says Chuck, chidin’-like.
“I’d—I’d—” stutters Telescope. “He won’t. Wick hates Slim too much,
y’betcha.”
Slim don’t come home that night and neither does Muley; so me and Chuck
goes to town the next afternoon and the first person we meets is Oreana
McGuire. He’s had a few drinks and the world looks rosy to him.
“Slim’s got talent,” says he without any preliminary wau-wau. “He’s wan
av them catch-on-quick fellers.”
“How and why?” asks Chuck.
“Ramona’s givin’ him mandolin lessons, and he can play ‘Hoom, Sweet
Hoom’ on wan string.”
“Is that sage-brush scavenger down at your house?” I asks.
“He is. Have ye annythin’ to say about who comes to my house, Misther
Peck?”
Me and Chuck sets down on the sidewalk and watches Oreana go back into
the saloon, which belongs to Slim Hawkins.
“Learnin’ him to play the mandolin,” wails Chuck. “Settin’ close beside
that danged——”
“That’s what we gets for helping him,” says I. “Slim knows danged well
that me and Ramona has——”
“You and Ramona?” gasps Chuck. “You—and—Ramona? Why, you bow-legged,
dish-faced range pirate, she wouldn’t turn to look at you if you yelled
help and fired your gun.”
“I suppose she can hardly sleep nights for thinking of you,” says I.
“Yes, you are beautiful. If I had a face like yours I’d go through life
backwards so as not to scare little children.”
It took Oreana, Mike Pelly, Telescope Tolliver, Art Miller and Wick
Smith to pull us apart. Muley just rode in but had no hand in spoiling a
good fight.
“You horn into my business again and I’ll freckle your danged nose with
powder!” howls Chuck.
“You wiggle your ears at me again and I’ll spoil the only accomplishment
you ever had,” says I.
“Boys will be boys,” says Telescope. “I hope they both shoot at the same
time.”
“When did you buy chips in this game?” asks Muley, scowling at
Telescope. “You nosey old lady.”
“Now, don’t drag old man Colt into this,” begs Wick. “Be friendly. Where
can I find Slimmie Hawkins?”
“Slim Hawkins,” pronounces Muley, “is a extinct bird like the dodo as
far as I’m concerned.”
“He’s down at my house,” says Oreana. “What do ye want av him?”
“If it’s any of your —— business, I have a note for him.”
“A note?” asks Telescope.
“A k-n-o-t-e,” spells Wick. “Know what I mean? It’s my niece’s birthday
today, and she is invitin’ Slim up to dinner, which is to be et this
evenin’.”
“Heh, heh, heh!” cackles Muley. “Heh, heh, heh!”
“Heh, heh, heh,” parrots Telescope. “You animated by-product of a hawg
factory!”
Muley takes a poke at Telescope, a mighty poke, but Wick grabbed Muley’s
arm and swung him around with the result that the mighty poke hit Oreana
right in the nose.
I reckon that every big thing has a small beginning. They say that a cow
kicked over a lamp and burned Chicago; a oak-tree grows from a small
acorn; Henry Clay Peck only weighed seven pounds when he was born, et
cettery.
Oreana McGuire hit me in the mouth with his elbow and I walked on
Chuck’s feet and the hand on the end of Oreana’s elbow hit Wick in the
ear, and Wick butted Muley in the stummick with his head.
I’m just telling what I really know. How I know that much is a mystery
to me. Sort of dazed-like I hears somebody shoot, and I remembers
reaching for my gun, but when I woke up it is dark in the corral, and a
burro is standing on the slack of my torn shirt. How I got there, I
don’t know.
I climbed up on the fence, where I assayed myself for signs of life, but
I don’t find much indications. When I walk one leg goes towards Piperock
and the other towards Silver Bend but I manages to poke around into the
main street, where I finds three fellers roosting on the hitch-rack in
the dark.
“Huh-Henry ain’t dud-dead yet,” croaks Muley.
“Death must ’a’ busted his stinger,” says Telescope.
“What went wrong with yuh, Henry?” asks Muley. “My ——, you acted
terrific.”
“Who got killed?” I asks.
“We ain’t had no detailed report yet,” says Chuck, “but we found the
remains of Wick’s pet coyote and ‘Sage-Hen’ Shawkey’s old yaller cat.
You smashed every window in range, and then went whoopin’ across the
street. We sure let you alone, cowboy.”
“There’s a blank in my life,” says I.
“There wasn’t any in your gun,” states Telescope. “You ripped a bullet
through Oreana’s ca’tridge-belt and the danged old Mick went down the
street explodin’ like a pack of firecrackers. You shot a plug of tobacco
out of Art Miller’s hip pocket, too.”
“You’ve got a gosh-awful reputation, feller,” says Telescope. “Somebody
must ’a’ hit you on the funny-bone.”
“What you got in your arms, Chuck?” I asks.
“Gallon of hooch,” chuckles Muley. “The only bright spot in this here
desert of distrust and destruction,” and then Muley sings soft and low:
“There’s a silver linin’, no matter how you’re pinin’;
For every pizen insect there’s a harmless bug.
When your stummick gets to achin’,
And your heart is almost breakin’,
There’s a little bit o’ likker in the old brown jug.”
“I’m still wondering how the fight ended,” says I.
“Ended ——!” croaks Chuck. “You danged——”
“Peace,” pleads Telescope. “United we stand, divided we fall apart. Are
you with us, Henry?”
“I’ve fell apart a plenty,” I admits. “The union forever, and may Slim’s
inheritance consist of a quart of cyanid.”
“I’ll smoke the pipe with you, Henry,” says Chuck, “but dang your soul,
you keep away from Ramona.”
“Well, what do we do?” I asks after balancing the jug on my mustache for
a few moments.
“Kill Slim Hawkins,” pronounces Telescope.
“Three cheers,” applauds Chuck. “Hope he dies in ag’ny.”
“Did he go up to Smith’s place?”
“We don’t know,” says Telescope. “You got to spreadin’ lead and we all
hid out. Everybody hid out.”
“Tomorrow is last day of the month,” states Muley. “He’s gotta be
married tomorrow.”
“Has the investments been filled?” I asks.
“They has,” says Telescope, “but he’ll never live to collect. I bought
five thousand sheep from ‘Alcohol’ Adams, a autymobile from Art Miller
and some cows from Johnny Myers.”
“I bought cows from Hank Padden,” enumerated Muley. “I bought Abe
Mudgett’s house and I bought——”
“Gents,” says Chuck, sad-like, “we own everything in the county except a
cook-stove and three joints of pipe.”
“And they’ll come to collect tomorrow,” wails Muley.
“Aw, what do we care?” whispers Telescope. “Slim’s sins will be on his
own head, and his head won’t mind a little sin after I get through with
it. We’ll investigate McGuire’s first. Come on.”
* * * * *
We sampled the silver lining again and then started out for McGuire’s,
traveling like Injuns but each follering his own single file.
“Betcha he’s there,” says Telescope as we collects around the front
steps.
The house is lit up, and we can hear somebody picking on the mandolin.
“I’ve brought my rope,” says Chuck. “When he comes to the door I’ll dob
this loop over his head and then we’ll go hither. Slim would argue and
argue and we ain’t got no time for that.”
“Tha’s clever,” applauds Muley. “Lemme get on the extreme end of the
rope, ’cause that Slim feller can hit like a mule’s kick.”
Telescope walks up to the door and knocks real hard.
“Slim!” he yelps. “Slim Hawkins!”
I can hear Chuck’s rope going _swish, swish,_ as he swings his loop, and
then the door opens. A man steps out.
“_Swap!_” goes the rope.
“Heave ho!” yells Chuck. “I’ve got him!”
I made a dive for the rope and got my hands full of dirt, while the
congregation seems to use my carcass for a stepping-stone. I got
massaged from top-knot to toe-nails with sharp heels, and the last to
pass over me seems to kick me to one side, as if I had done my duty and
wasn’t any further use to humanity.
I crawled over and got hung up in a barbwire fence, where I left some of
my shirt. Then I managed to find the road and pilgrims towards town. I
finds the rest of my cohorts on the sidewalk, trying to pump air into
Telescope’s lungs. I lit a match and looks ’em over and they sure looks
like a bunch of scarecrows gone to seed.
“Did you run away?” asks Chuck, hoarse-like.
“Run ——! I crawled. I reckon Slim——”
“You do, do yuh?” grunts Muley. “This is a —— of a time to reckon
anything.”
Just then Telescope sets up and makes noises.
“Ch-Chuck,” he wheezes, “you—you ha-had your lul-loop too big.”
“Where’s Slim’s re-mains?” I asks.
“My ——, you must ’a’ been away for awhile,” grunts Muley. “We-uh—Chuck
caught Telescope and Oreana in the same loop.”
“Was Oreana mad?” I asks.
“Well,” says Muley, “if he wasn’t, Henry, he’s got a danged rough idea
of good nature.”
“I’ll bet a dobie dollar that Slim is up at Smith’s,” says I. “He’s
likely settin’ on the sofy, holdin’ Lizzie’s hand by this time.”
“The danged ungrateful coyote,” wails Telescope. “I wish——”
“Why wish?” asks Muley. “This ain’t no fairy-tale.”
“I was wishin’ I had a quick way of gettin’ to Piperock, and I’ve got
it. Come on.”
We all limps around behind the livery stable, where Telescope lights a
match.
“I’ve got a bill of sale for that automobile,” says he.
“You can’t run it,” objects Muley.
“The —— I can’t. Art explained the whole works. Get in.”
There wasn’t nothing gaudy about that machine. It had a box body, which
Art built, and a sort of a seat in front. Art bought it from a
sewing-machine agent for forty dollars and a pair of Piegan ceremonial
moccasins. We rolls it out to the road, and all got in.
“Yuh have to wind her up,” explains Telescope. “Muley, you wind her up,
will yuh? Twist that dingus on the front end. Sabe? Give her a lift and
a spin.”
“I’m a little winder from Windersville,” says Muley, and then he
commences to make good his threat.
_Wowie!_
Me and Chuck went over backwards, over the rear of that box and lit on
our necks in the road while that danged machine went away up the road
like a flock of cannons.
“He—he went away and left us,” gasps Chuck.
“Thank ——!” gasps Muley’s voice and we sees him set up in the road.
“Did he leave you, too, Muley?” I asks.
“I—I hope so, Henry. I think he left some of me, anyway. Did he run over
you fellers, too?”
“He’ll get killed,” groans Chuck. “Let’s get our broncs and trail along
to pick up the remains.”
“It’s a labor of love,” says I, “and I hope we’ll find enough to make
the trip worthwhile.”
We got on our broncs and fogs out of town towards Piperock. I’m so sore
that I has to set sideways in the saddle, and I’m riding a Bar-20 roan
outlaw, which gallops with stiff knees. We hits the narrow grade along
Wind River, where the road ain’t wide enough for two rigs to pass, and
where it’s fifty feet straight down into the river, when all to once
there comes a roar behind us.
“What in —— is that?” yells Chuck.
“Autymobile!” yelps Muley. “Ride like —— or twang a harp.”
I know that Bar-20 roan can run but that automobile made us look like we
was going uphill with hopples on. I hears somebody yell behind me, and
then that roaring monster crowds between me and salvation. I feels
myself go into space and then I throws myself backwards off the saddle,
praying to every known god, idol or totem that I lands fair.
I lit on my head and shoulders in that automobile body, and I gets a
series of vibrations up and down my spine that would shake the bark off
a green tree. Comes a awful crash, a swapping of ends, and then I slept.
* * * * *
I don’t know how long I slept but when I woke up I finds myself still in
the machine with my feet in the air. I’m a dead loss as far as feelings
goes, and when I tried to turn over I hears Telescope’s voice wailing:
“Can’tcha lay still? For gosh sake don’t shake it!”
“Shake what?” I asks.
“This cursed gas-galloper. I think we’re hangin’ by the skin of our
teeth, and if you shake it loose we’ll fall into Wind River.”
“How in —— did you ever get behind us?” I asks.
“I missed the road, Henry, and had to circle around to pick it up.”
“You likely killed Chuck and Muley.”
“Well,” says he, cheerful-like, “two out of three ain’t a bad average.
Don’t shake! My gosh, don’t shake. I tell yuh we’re just hangin’, tha’s
all. We went over the edge and hung up on a tree, right where she breaks
sharp into the cañon. Go easy; get here with me, and we’ll jump
together.”
According to geography we’re on the west side of the river, and
according to Telescope’s theory we’re about to let loose and fall a
mile. Jumping west will save us. Fine. Never again do I let any
half-witted puncher be a compass to me. We jumped.
After I fell about fifty feet I began to wonder how that machine ever
got up in that tree. Then I hit feet first in the silt slope of the
cañon, turned over in the air and dried up about fifty feet of Wind
River when I landed. I felt myself hit the water, go down to the mud,
and then I skidded out to where it ain’t knee-deep, with my ears, eyes,
nose, mouth and clothes full of alkali mud.
I sets there in the water, trying to remember something of my recent
past, when I hears a very liquid and very sad voice, crying in the
wilderness:
“Oh-h-h, Henry Peck! Hen-ree-e-e!”
“Telescope,” says I, “you’ve got a —— of a sense of direction.”
“Did you fall all the way, Henry?”
“No, I touched once but I didn’t stay.”
“I jumped up-hill,” says he. “I sure did, Henry.”
“Well, you didn’t go up, that’s a cinch.”
The morning sun has greeted us long before we manages to get back to
that grade. I found my bronc, half-way down the hill, with the saddle
under its belly and its rump braced against a tree.
We managed to get the roan back to the grade, and then we finds Muley
and Chuck setting on the bank with their broncs tied to a tree, and just
beyond them is that cursed automobile, still on the grade. It must ’a’
turned half-way around and tried to climb a tree on the outside edge of
the grade, ’cause there she stands, reared up against that tree, and the
whole front end of her is smashed.
“I jumped up-hill,” mumbles Telescope, “but never again do I figure
directions by up-hill or down-hill.”
“Well,” says Muley, “if you _hombres_ are through pesticating around
down there we’ll go home. I hope you found all the little fish at home.”
“They was,” says I, “but there’s two suckers missing now.”
It’s almost noon when we drifts in sight of the Cross J.
“Looks like a auction sale,” grunts Telescope as our eyes behold the
conglomeration of horses and vehicles. As we rides up they comes out to
greet us. There’s Mike Pelly, Hank Padden, Abe Mudgett, Zeb Abernathy,
Johnny Myers, Wick Smith, Art Miller and “Old Testament” Tilton. They
gathers around us, and then Abe Mudgett says—
“We’re just wonderin’ if we’ve been lied unto.”
“In what manner of means?” asks Muley.
“I don’t give a dang,” says Alcohol. “All I wants is the money for my
sheep.”
“I has been told,” states Hank Padden, “that Slim has to only invest ten
thousand, but after lookin’ into things we finds that he’s bought about
thirty thousand dollars’ worth, which causeth a deficiency somewhere.”
“Also some casualties,” grins Art. “I sold my gas go-devil, and it ain’t
got no brake.”
“What about them nuptials?” asks Testament. “I hears rumors of marriage
and the holy bonds of wedlock, and I am here for such a emergency.”
Just then we sees Slim and Jay Bird riding in across the hills, driving
a couple of cows and calves. They rides up and looks us over.
“Somebody dead?” asks Jay Bird.
“Not yet,” says Abe Mudgett, “but there’s hopes.”
“Well, Slim,” says Wick, “we’re here to do business. Do I get the
money?”
“Hold on, Wick,” says Mike. “I’ll talk to Slim about that saloon deal.”
“And my cows,” adds Hank Padden, mean-like.
“Wait a minute,” cautions Alcohol Adams. “I don’t want to quarrel with
anybody, but my sheep comes first.”
“Sheep ——!” snaps Abe Mudgett. “That house of mine——”
Slim shakes his head, slow-like, and wets his lips.
“You ain’t married yet, are you, Slim?” asks Muley.
Slim wets his lips again and shakes his head.
“Is it all off if you don’t get married?” asks Wick.
Slim swallers hard and wipes his eyes.
“Don’t feel bad about it,” advises Zeb. “It’s your own fault, Slim. I
told you that I’d do all I could by talkin’ to Susie, but you——”
“You never accepted Lizzie’s invite,” chides Wick.
“I don’t give a dang about love,” says Abe. “All I want——”
* * * * *
Slim jabs his bronc with his heels and jumps out of the crowd, then
turns and faces the crowd with a gun in each hand.
“Now, hold fast!” he whispers, hoarse-like. “I may be just as crazy as
they make ’em, but I’m goin’ to get an even break or kill somebody.
Muley, you do the talkin’, will yuh? Every danged family in the county
is tryin’ to make love to me, and I don’t like it. Sabe? Now, talk!”
“It ain’t no sufferin’ secret!” snaps Muley. “You danged ungrateful
coyote, you. We all turned in to help yuh, and yuh bit the hand that fed
yuh.”
“Help me?” gasps Slim. “Go on and tell about it.”
“Well,” chokes Muley, “you had to invest that danged ten thousand before
the first of the month, and you had to get married, and——”
“Oh!” grunts Slim, foolish-like. “Oh, I—see-e-e.”
“We’re glad you can,” says Chuck. “We’ve sure helped you more than
anybody else would have, Slim Hawkins.”
Slim scratches his head for a moment, squints his eyes, and then doubles
over his saddle-horn, with tears running down his nose.
“Did you lie to us?” yowls Telescope.
“No-o-o-o!” howls Slim. “Oh, mamma, mamma, mamma mine! Haw! Haw! Haw!
“I remember now. You—you danged fools bothered me, and wanted to know
why I looked so sad. Haw! Haw! Haw!”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” mimics Muley. “What’s the joke, feller?”
“Get that magazine!” weeps Slim. “It’s a story in it, you —— fools! That
hero’s troubles made me look sad. He got in a awful mess.”
We watched that sour-balled bunch drift away, tearing up their bills of
sale, and then Slim says, sort of choking-like—
“Like to have me read that story to yuh?”
“Thank you very kindly,” says Muley, “but you needn’t bother about it. I
reckon it all came out right.”
“No-o-o,” drawls Slim, “it didn’t. Yuh see, that investment
wasn’t—wasn’t in the story a-tall. I just put that in. The real plot
read that he’d inherit a farm in Kansas if he got married before the
first of the month, which he didn’t.”
“Tha-that’s a —— of a plot,” stutters Muley. “Why didn’t he marry?”
“Well,” says Slim, sort of sad-like, “there was only three girls to pick
from, and two of ’em had steady fellers, and the other was—— Say, who,
in —— wants to eat _frijoles_ three times per day and live on a Kansas
farm?”
Slim walks away and leaves the four of us setting there on the
bunk-house steps, looking at each other. After a while Muley stumbles
inside and finds that magazine. We takes turns looking through it, and
then we sets down and looks at each other. Then Muley says—
“He’s either a awful —— liar or a square shooter, boys.”
“His morals don’t bother me as long as he hates _frijoles_,” states
Chuck.
From out by the corral comes Slim’s voice, sad and low—
“For I’m a po-o-o-o-r cowboy and I know I’ve done wrong.”
“Use your own judgment, cowboy,” says Telescope. “You know more about
Kansas and your sense of taste than we do,” and Hawkins’ four little
helpers went to bed—contented.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
December 18, 1920. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
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