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Title: Between Pike's Peak and a pickle
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: July 17, 2026 [eBook #79112]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1921
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79112
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BETWEEN PIKE'S PEAK AND A PICKLE ***
BETWEEN PIKE’S PEAK AND A PICKLE
by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Hashknife, Philanthropist,” “Evidently Not,” etc.
According to the knowledge I’ve absorbed in this vale of sorrow and
tears, there’s one word in our language that is apt to make a liar out
of any of us. She’s a word that’s used kinda careless-like, without us
stopping to consider what she means.
The dictionary orates that she’s: “Any object, state, event, act or fact
whatever; thing of any kind; something or other; in any measure;
anywise; at all.”
She’s a word that hadn’t ought to be used except by folks who are plumb
willing to haul in their horns and admit they’re wrong. She’s a
blood-brother to the word, “Everything,” which also covers a lot of
territory. Tell yuh why I know that “Anything” is a hard word to handle.
“I can ride anything that has hoofs,” proclaims “Yuma” Yates.
We stands there at Buck’s bar and nods just like Yuma knowed we’d nod,
’cause Yuma has just got enough hooch under his belt to act peevish if
somebody disagrees with him; and none of us wants Yuma’s demise on our
soul.
“I can ride anythin’ that wears ha’r,” says Yuma, after another drink
percolates through his nervous system.
“Y’betcha,” grunts “Dirty Shirt” Jones. “Yuma’s some rider.”
“He can ride,” nods “Magpie” Simpkins. “He can do all that.”
“I can ride anythin’ that has a head, tail and legs,” expands Yuma.
“The same of which is a multitude to accomplish,” says Pete Gonyer.
“Once I knowed——”
“You ain’t disagreein’ with me, is yuh?” asks Yuma.
“Not complete and definite,” replies Pete. “Yuh see, Yuma, I knowed——”
“I can ride anythin’,” declares Yuma, “I don’t give a —— what she is or
may have been. _Sabe?_ I’m the champion rider of the world and other
places too numerous to mention and I hereby declares open and
unanimous—I can ride anythin’.
“I don’t care what she consists of, gents. I’ve got five hundred dollars
that says I can ride anythin’ yuh can mention. I’ll cinch my hull to a
June-bug or a jumbo-elephant and I’ll ride ’em till the cows come home.
I am the——”
“Five hundred dollars is a heap of dinero to wager on the stren’th of
scratchin’ a animile,” opines “Mighty” Jones. “Per-s’nally I figger that
there’s too much odds in conjunction with them kinda feats, and I——”
“You-all deserious of wagerin’ said amount?” asks Yuma, belligerent-like.
“’Cause if yuh are, Mighty, I hereby opens my roll——”
“Your proclamation covers your ability to ride anythin’?” says Magpie,
smoothin’ his mustache.
“Anythin’,” nods Yuma. “Anythin’ yuh sees fit to bring to my notice. Of
course she has to be somethin’ visible and also active, whether animate
or inanimate. I rides upright and handsome on anythin’, gents.
Anythin’.”
“Your statement appears like this to me,” said Judge Steele, peering
over his glasses at Yuma. “You states without reservations to wit: that
you, Yuma Yates, bein’ of sound mind, et cettery, also bein’ the party of
the first part, does hereby covenant and specify that you, bein’ the
party of the first part, do openly appear before us this day and date
and proclaim audibly in the presence of reliable witnesses that you lays
yourself liable to wager the sum of five hundred dollars of coin of the
realm upon your ability to ride anythin’.
“The said word ‘anythin’’ covers things of any description, whether
animate or inanimate, fundamentally organic or inorganic and barring no
sex, breed, occupation nor ferocity. That party of the first part agrees
and does despose that the said word, ‘anythin’’ covers just what she
means, without reservations, renegin’ nor rinnacaboo of any kind. Given
under my hand and seal this——”
“My ——!” gasps Yuma. “A eddication is a wonderful thing, judge. I don’t
_sabe_ all that _wau-wau_, but I do _sabe_ the word ‘anythin’’, and I
nods my head when yuh mentions same. I ain’t no four-flusher, and when I
says ‘anythin’’ I means anythin’ from Pike’s Peak to a pickle, the same
of which includes everything yuh can think of to mention between them
same two articles.
“Does anybody speak up? Piperock town lost all its bettin’ blood? Ain’t
there anybody around here what has nerve enough to challenge my
statements, or is my reputation overpowerin’ your sensibilities?
“I’m the best rider in the world! I’m a he-wolf by nature and a glue-pot
by ability. I’ve got five hundred dollars that says——”
“I takes that measly little wager,” states Magpie, easy-like. “It ain’t
much money, the same of which is true, but I can use it to jingle, I
reckon.”
“You do?” Yuma fusses with his mustache and glares at Magpie like he was
astonished a lot.
“You bettin’ ag’in’ my five hundred dollars, Mister Simpkins?”
“Yeah,” nods Magpie. “I’ll take your little bet, Yuma. Judge, will you
make out the papers for this deal? Hates to trouble yuh over a small
matter but I wants it all in legal order.”
“Huh!” grunts Yuma. “Whatcha goin’ to lead out fer me to straddle,
Magpie?”
“Somethin’,” grins Magpie. “Somethin’ between Pike’s Peak and a pickle.”
“When is said ride to be accomplished, Magpie?” asks the judge.
“Make it tomorrow, judge. I reckon I can round up the steed by that
time.”
“Is there any chance to get in on this bet?” asks Mighty Jones.
“Who yuh want to bet upon?” asks Buck Masterson.
“I’ve seen Yuma ride,” says Mighty, “and I might trail my bet with his.”
“I know Magpie,” opines Dirty Shirt. “I sure do _sabe_ that jasper
a-plenty and when he bets five hundred dollars, I trails with him and
plays a cinch. I’m willin’ to dee-po-sit a hundred dollars on his
judgment.”
“I takes the bet,” says Mighty.
“Tomorrow afternoon at two P.M.,” says the judge. “Right in the main
street of this here town of Piperock. I’ll have the papers all drawed
up.”
“Where do yuh aim to get the buckin’ bronc, Magpie?” asks Yuma.
“Bronc ——!” grunts Magpie. “Who said anythin’ about a bronc, Yuma? You
has covered a lot of territory in your remarks.”
“Nobody can ride Pike’s Peak nor a pickle,” says Mighty.
“There’s a danged lot of things between them two,” grins Magpie. “A
danged lot of things, Mighty.”
“I—I sure can ride,” says Yuma.
“You’ll sure as —— have to,” grins Magpie.
* * * * *
Me and Dirty Shirt goes back to the cabin with Magpie, and when we gets
inside I opens my mouth for the first time and I speaks like this:
“Yuma Yates is the best danged rider in the State, Magpie. He can stick
a lot closer to a horse than the hide of the same animal and what’s more
and a lot of interest to me—you ain’t got no five hundred dollars.”
“He’s a good rider,” nods Magpie. “As far as broncs are concerned there
ain’t nobody what can equal him, Ike. There’s other buckers besides
horses, ain’t there? Yuma talked too much. I ain’t got no five hundred
dollars, Ike, but me and you together can rake up that much.”
“I’ve got four hundred and thirty-six in the bank,” says I, “and she’s
goin’——”
“And I’ve got eighty, which leaves us a balance of fifty-six.”
“I’m dependin’ on Magpie’s judgment a hundred dollars’ worth,” says
Dirty.
“Supposin’ he rides it?” says I. “I lose real money.”
“Yeah, mebbe he will, Ike. There ain’t nothin’ impossible in this world,
but I’m willin’ to bet——”
“All my money.”
“Shows how much faith I’ve got in it.”
“Be cheerful,” advises Dirty Shirt. “Either Magpie has something up his
sleeve or he’s gone plumb loco.”
“He ain’t got nothing up his sleeve except his arm and as far as going
loco—he’s been away for a long time.”
“If you’re scared of losin’ a few cents lend me the money.”
“Lend you four hundred and twenty dollars, Magpie? Nope, I’d rather take
a chance on a bad bet. Yuma Yates can ride anything——”
“No, he can’t!” yelps Magpie. “Not right off the reel. Mabbe he could
ride anything if he had a chance to practise. Yuh got to figure that
Yuma has been toppin’ bad broncs ever since he started to wear pants and
she’s natural to suppose that he’s got dexterious in said pastime, but I
ain’t got no bronc in mind. As long as he makes his war-talk about
horses, I keeps still, but when he spreads out and takes in
anything—anything, mind yuh—well, I calls him.”
“And imperils my bank-roll. How does we split if we win?”
“Fifty-fifty. Now, Ike, I know you bears the burden of the bet, but yuh
has to remember that I’m the lizard that finds the unridable steed. Me
and you are goin’ out and have a little talk with ‘Cut Bank’ Cooley.”
“What has that absent-minded coot got to do with it?”
“Considerable. You better get that extra fifty-six dollars.”
“I hear that Cut Bank sold a herd of sheep,” says Dirty.
“He did,” nods Magpie. “Then he got his skin full of hooch and made some
purchases, one of which I has seen in action. I wasn’t takin’ no chances
when I called Yuma Yates’ bluff.”
If there ever was a human being with a reverse-English brain, that one
is Cut Bank Cooley. His past is plumb fogged, and his future is
indefinite. In the morning he can’t seem to remember going to bed, and
if you asks him real quick he don’t remember getting up.
Cut Bank lives about six miles from Piperock, and when me and Magpie
rides up to his cabin that evening we finds him setting on his front
porch. He’s got a bottle of liniment and some bandages in his hands, and
seems to be thinking real hard. He looks up at us and says:
“Ain’t it ——? I hurt myself a while ago and I got the liniment and the
bandages and now I can’t remember where I’m hurt.”
“You been tryin’ it again?” asks Magpie.
“Now I know where I got hurt,” he grins happy-like. “I’ve got a sprained
ankle. I tried to ride it with spurs on and one of ’em got caught. I
hope the wrist won’t bother me none. What did yuh come lookin’ for,
Magpie?”
“Want to borrow it, Cut Bank.”
“My wrist?”
“No—the whatchacallit.”
“Oh, the—uh—thing?”
“Uh-huh. Know Yuma Yates?”
“Think I do.”
“Says he can ride anythin’ on earth.”
“He can’t,” declares Cut Bank. “I’m a good rider, but I ain’t got a
chance with this thing. Yesterday—no, not yesterday, or was it? No, I
think it was today. Anyway, the date don’t make a —— bit of difference.
The cursed thing dragged me fifty feet. Honest, it’s a killer, Magpie.
Howl? Gosh, it threw me down and done a war-dance on my carcass. I’m
gettin’ so I shy at a shadder.”
“What did yuh buy it for?” asks Magpie.
“For? I dunno. What did I buy a baby carriage for? What did I buy a
barber Schair for? I reckon I knowed at the time but I forgot to write
down my reasons.”
“Where is the thing?” asks Magpie.
“The thing? Oh, yeah—down in the corral. I’ve got her roped to the fence
and got the gate blocked. I’m all through. _Sabe?_ It must ’a’ cost me a
lot of money, but I’ll sell cheap—say, about ten dollars—and give away a
can of fodder for the danged thing. It’s either sell or die, I reckon,
and I don’t want to die, do I?”
“Is it in good shape?” asks Magpie.
“Good shape?”
Cut Bank squints at us and licks his lips.
“Good shape ——! That thing’s in prime condition.”
“Will yuh show us how to start it?”
“Sure. That part is a cinch; yuh know it? Anybody can start it, Magpie,
but it sure takes—Ike, you hold the gate, will yuh? I ain’t goin’ to
start it, yuh understand, but yuh never can tell about it; so if she
should start—hold the gate.”
Cut Bank is so crippled that he has to cut a circle going to the corral,
where we climbs the fence and looks down on the thing. It looks a heap
like a bicycle, only it’s a lot bigger and heavier and has a lot of
machinery fastened to its frame.
“She’s kinda like a automobile’s offspring,” says I.
“Nothin’ short of the devil ever sired that thing,” states Cut Bank.
* * * * *
Magpie and Cut Bank climbs to it and Cut Bank explains the principles of
the thing while I sets there on the fence and throws kisses at my four
hundred and twenty dollars. I figures that Yuma will have a cinch riding
that thing. After while Magpie and Cut Bank rolls the thing outside.
“I’ll let yuh take my horse and cart to haul it home with,” offers Cut
Bank, and we accepts his offer.
It’s dark when we got to our cabin, and nobody got a look at the thing.
I argues with Magpie that Yuma will have a cinch, but Magpie can’t see
it thataway.
“Cut Bank can ride,” states Magpie. “Yessir, he can ride quite a few,
but I seen this thing throw him fifty feet.”
“Maybe he forgot to hang on.”
“Yeah? Well, when this starts buckin’ any man is apt to get
absent-minded, Ike. Them tires is full of wind and the street is full of
bumps. Figure it out for yourself.”
Seems like bad news travels fast, and it don’t take Yaller Rock County
long to find out that there’s a chance to make a little bet. Piperock
seems to be backing Magpie’s judgment, while Paradise and Curlew favors
Yuma Yates.
“’Cause why does I take this attitude?” asks “Hassayampa” Harris, from
Curlew. “’Cause I know Yuma can do it.”
“Thinkin’ otherwise, I bets yuh twenty dollars even money,” says “Ricky”
Henderson.
“Yuma can ride anythin’, y’betcha,” states Mike Pelly, from Paradise.
“I’m positive about eight dollars and six-bits that he can’t,” declares
“Doughgod” Smith, and another bet is chalked up.
Yuma comes to me and gets confidential. “Ike, did Magpie pick a wild one
fer me?” “Naw,” says I. “Plumb tame, Yuma. Won’t kick, strike, bite nor
hump its back. Fact is, it ain’t frisky a-tall.”
“Whatcha mean, Ike? Has it ever been rode?”
“I dunno.”
“Branded?”
“Didn’t see none.”
“Shucks! What color?”
“Red.”
Yuma nods like he knew all about it, and then went back to the bar,
where he recites some more of his hard rides.
Magpie listens to Yuma bragging for a while and then he says—
“Ain’t never had to hang on, has yuh, Yuma?”
“Y’betcha I never did. Never found one that I had to.”
“This one is that kind but I’ll concede that much to yuh. Hang on all
yuh want to, Yuma.”
“Mean that I can pull leather if I feel like it?”
“With both hands.”
“Wish I had a million to bet,” groans Yuma. “That’s the worst of bein’
poor. I could ride a cyclone if I pulled leather.”
“Does he lose if his cinch busts?” asks Hassayampa.
“Well,” says Magpie, “there wasn’t anything said about cinches but if he
can put a cinch on this steed we’ll let him have two tries in case his
cinch busts.”
“Anythin’ between Pup-Pike’s Pup-Peak and a pup-pickle,” says Dirty
Shirt, who is organized internally. “Th’ pup-poor fuf-freak!”
“Don’tcha call me no freak!” snaps Yuma, mean-like, fooling with the
butt of his gun.
“Thasso?” grins Dirty Shirt, looking cock-eyed at Yuma. “Go on and brag
about ridin’ and let loose of that gun.”
Yuma done just that. Yuma can ride better than Dirty, but when it comes
to shooting fast Dirty not only shades him but he plumb shadows Yuma
entirely.
The trouble with Piperock is this; she can’t do much betting without
getting kinda sore and in this respect Curlew and Paradise runs us a
dead heat. Before sunrise the next morning there’s more hard feelings
than dogs in our town and that’s more than a bookkeeper could count in a
week. Paradise and Curlew hates Piperock and mistrusts each other.
Poor old Yuma Yates is a bull’s-eye and don’t know it, ’cause he’s got
to a point where nothing short of a violet mastodon would attract his
attention. I finds him behind Buck’s place talking to a loose
wagon-wheel. He’s got the wheel in both hands and is trying to bawl it
out for standing on his feet.
I went over to remonstrate with him for chiding a poor inanimate object
and I got one foot through the spokes. I don’t blame Yuma for talking to
it. There’s something uncanny about a wagon-wheel—a loose one. It ain’t
got no visible means of support but just the same it sure can take care
of itself.
If I’m ever elected sheriff I’m going to carry a wagon-wheel instead of
handcuffs. Did yuh ever see a fly get hoodled into a spider’s web?
That’s how me and Yuma mingled with that wagon-wheel.
Dirty Shirt comes along and helps us get loose from it and we left him
with both feet and his head in the darned thing. Then we meets Magpie,
and he’s happy all over his face.
“This here is goin’ to be a gala day,” says he. “Plumb gala, yuh know
it?”
“Whyfor gala, Magpie?”
“_Fiesta_, like a Mexican, Ike. Paradise is goin’ to bring their band.”
“That’s goin’ to be fine,” says Yuma. “I rides good to music. Where does
I fork this animile, Magpie?”
“Right in the main street, Yuma. We’re goin’ to form a holler square, as
yuh might say, by roping off both ends of the street. Paradise and
Curlew is goin’ to come in force and I reckon she’ll be gala and also
festive. Yuma, you better sober up. I don’t want to win money from no
inebriate.”
“Drunk or sober, I can ride anythin’,” declares Yuma, positive-like.
“I’m plumb sentimental about my ability.”
Yuma leans against a post and sobs over his wonderful ability. There
ain’t no use of me tryin’ to comfort him, so I goes back to liberate
Dirty Shirt. I finds him setting on the wheel talking to Mighty Jones
and they’re talking big money.
“I want to bet him a million dollars,” states Dirty. “I’m a sport, I
am.”
“I ain’t got no million—not with me,” says Mighty. “I’ve got somethin’
less than three dollars.”
“Ain’t yuh got nothin’ to bet?” asks Dirty, and Mighty shakes his head.
“No. I ain’t got nothin’ but my honor left.”
“I’ll bet a nickel against that,” declares Dirty Shirt, “and that’s
givin’ yuh big odds.”
“How much is coyote bounties now, Ike?” asks Mighty.
“Three dollars. Hides worth four-bits per each.”
“I’ve got seven,” says Mighty. “I been raisin’ ’em up a heap, thinkin’
maybe I’d sell ’em to a mu-see-um. Seven times three dollars and
four-bits is twenty-four dollars and four-bits.”
“I’ll bet against your coyotes, Mighty,” states Dirty Shirt.
“That’s a —— of a thing to bet,” says I.
“Ain’t no worse than ‘Swede’ Johnson bettin’ seven dollars against
‘Bantie’ Weyman’s grizzly bear, is it?” asks Dirty. “Ain’t no bounty on
a grizzly bear.”
* * * * *
Then me and Dirty went down to my cabin, where we finds Magpie fussing
with the machine. Dirty looks it over, awed-like, and then climbs up on
the end post of the bunk. Magpie unscrews a little cap and pours in a
lot of stuff from the fodder-can.
“Know how to make her go?” asks Dirty.
“Sure,” grins Magpie. “Lemme show yuh how she starts.”
He sets on her, steps hard on one of them foot-rests and then—took a
recess.
Comes a yelp and a howl, a bombardment from a battleship and I got
knocked under the bunk with part of the cook-stove in my lap and the
pantry on my head. When I got out and looked around I can’t see Dirty
Shirt, nor Magpie. The go-devil is in the middle of the floor, the stove
is upside down and our one window ain’t got neither frame nor pane left.
Just then the door opens and Magpie comes inside. He’s got a red streak
down his nose and one eye is shaded a heap. He looks around the cabin
and then at the machine. He starts to pick it up, when we hears Dirty
Shirt’s voice saying—
“Let it alone!” and he comes up from under the other bunk, with a gun in
his hand and a scared look on his face.
“Don’t do that again, Magpie,” he wails. “I’m willin’ to admit that you
knows how to start it. My ——! How awful is them there de-vices of
menkind. I’m goin’ to pawn my home and future to bet on that
rattletybang. Yuma Yates can just write his own epitaph and give us his
hat to bury, ’cause we’ll never find his remains.”
“Didja see it sunfish?” asks Magpie, feeling of his nose. “That thing
comes as near bein’ ‘anything’ as we could find.”
“May Yuma rest in peace,” says Dirty, solemn-like.
“He might—if he ever comes down,” grins Magpie.
We sets there on the steps of our cabin and watches Paradise, Curlew and
the surrounding country come hither to see the fun. Yaller Rock County
folks don’t have much entertainment and you can shift the whole
population to one central point by just announcing a dog-fight.
Me and Dirty wanders down to the main street after while to see what’s
going on. Paradise brings her band, which is composed of Mike Pelly,
“Slim” Hawkins, “Cactus” Collins, “Dog-Rib” Davidson, “Baldy” Blewett,
and “Sad” Samuels.
Sad belongs in Curlew but they ain’t got no band up there, and a fellow
who is musical like Sad is can’t help getting into a band. He beats the
big drum. They’ve got the main street roped off for a space of about a
hundred yards. On the sidewalk in front of Buck’s place is a big
pole-cage and inside of it is a grizzly bear, the same of which is
Bantie Weyman’s seven-dollar bet. Over on “Wick” Smith’s porch is
another box with seven full-grown coyotes inside.
“All we need is a wild man,” says “Jay Bird” Whittaker. “If we had one
we’d have a reg’lar circus.”
“You will have pretty soon,” grins Dirty. “Watch Yuma Yates.”
Then cometh Mike Pelly and pours out his troubles.
“I’ve got a band,” says Mike, proud-like, “and I ain’t got no place to
set ’em.”
“Does they have to get set?” I asks.
“Down,” says he. “Them music utensils cost a heap of money and we can’t
take no chances on havin’ a bucker come along and bend, dent or damage
’em. ’Pears like we’ll have to dispense with the seri-nade.”
“Why don’t said band set on horses?” asks Judge Steele. “I’ve heard tell
of mounted bands. If they’re on horses they’ll be plumb safe.”
“Daw-gone!” grunts Mike. “Never thought of it. Sure we can play
thataway. Why not? Much obliged, judge.”
“You’re welcome, Mike.”
Me and Dirty went over and watched the band get lined up on their
horses.
“Ain’t yuh goin’ to play pretty soon?” asks Dirty.
“I dunno,” says Sad. “Ask Mike—he’s the leader.”
“Not ’till Yuma starts to ride,” says Mike. “We only know one piece and
there ain’t no use showin’ that one off till we has to.”
“What’s the nature of it?” asks Mighty Jones.
“‘Liver and Lights,’” says Dog-Rib Davidson.
“Aw-w-w ——!” grunts Baldy Blewett. “It ain’t that a-tall, Dog-Rib. It’s
‘Hearts and Flowers.’”
“Yeah,” nods Dog-Rib, “that’s it. I knowed it was somethin’ about a
man’s insides, but I plumb overlooked the bokay end of the thing.”
“How long has yuh been operatin’ on this piece of music?” asks Dirty.
“Once,” says Mike. “Of course we has practised separately but only once
has we been assembled. We sure got her down to a two-step.”
“Who showed yuh how to read music?” asks Mighty. “Sad Samuels can’t even
read plain writin’.”
“I can if I need to!” snaps Sad. “Anyway, yuh don’t have to read to
hammer a drum. All yuh has to do is to keep with the rest of the music.”
“You’ve got a chore, Sad,” nods Mighty, looking at the rest of the band.
“If the sheriffs of about three counties show up you’ll sure have some
chore.”
“Feller citizens and otherwise,” orates a voice, and we deserts the band
to listen to Judge Steele, who has climbed up on the bear-cage and is
standing there with one hand inside his vest and the other on his hip.
“Feller citizens, et cettery,” continues the judge. “We has been called
together this afternoon to gaze with awe and admiration upon the ability
of our feller citizen and compatriot, Benjamin Alexander Claypoole
Yates, otherwise knowed as Yuma Yates, who is a rider of parts. He is
knowed far and wide as the best rider in the country. In honor of this
festive occasion we have with us the Paradise Silver Cornet Band, a
aggregation which is doomed to rival Caruso, Sary Bernhardt, et cettery,
led by Mike Pelly, who plays the bugle.
“There has been many wagers among us and I asks yuh in the name of
Jehovah and the Congressional Record to set on your gun-hand until the
issue at stake is settled. Let us not drag our fair names in the mire of
discord.
“Citizen Simpkins has seen to take umbrage at the statements of Yuma
Yates and has placed bets of five hundred dollars that said Yuma Yates
can’t ride all and sundry things. Others has thought so or otherwise,
until I has been overwhelmed with the responsibility of handling much
money.
“Gents and feller citizens, I has heard that some are not satisfied with
me as stakeholder. There is some so impure in mind and soul that they
mistrusts a lawyer. To me this is _non compos mentis_. I has done my
duty as I seen it, but I hereby states that I will not be responsible
further. I asks you betters to appoint a reliable man to hold the
stakes, the same of which must be done at once. Amen.”
“I seconds the motion,” yells “Big Foot” Forrest, “and I hereby
nominates Ike Harper for the position of trust.”
“Moved and seconded,” says the judge. “Does I hear any questions?”
“I asks one,” squeaks Bantie Weyman. “I’ve got a val’able bear in that
cage and I asks that Ike be empowered to set on the cage while this
buckin’ contest is in duration.”
“Hol’-on!” yelps Mighty Jones. “I’ve got seven coyotes in that box over
there, the same of which is worth more than one measly bear, and I asks
that Ike Harper protects my end of the bet.”
“’Pears to be a task for one man,” nods the judge. “Suppose we appoints
two men to handle the bets? I nominates Dirty Shirt Jones.”
“I won’t have it!” howls Dirty Shirt. “I ain’t goin’ to be no
animile-keeper.”
“If everybody is satisfied we’ll proceed,” says the judge and then he
hands me a valise. It don’t seem to have anything in it and I immediate
and soon tells him about it.
“There ain’t no money in it, Ike. The legal papers, et cettery, are
there. _Sabe?_”
“It’s ——, but directions says take it,” mourns Dirty Shirt. “Which hunk
of natcheral hist’ry does you favor, Ike?”
“I’m a heap neutral between grizzlies and coyotes. Take your pick,
Dirty.”
“I’ll accept the grizzly, Ike. If the worst comes to the worst I wants
to have a fittin’ finish to a pleasant afternoon.”
* * * * *
I went over and climbed up on the coyote-box. It sure is a reserved
seat, being as I’ve got a good view of everything. Down the street comes
Magpie Simpkins, herding that suicide bicycle and the crowd goes out to
meet him. She’s sure something new to Piperock, et cettery, and
everybody wonders deep-like what she can be. They wheels her into the
roped square, and Yaller Rock County talks all to once. Then Yuma Yates
comes out of Buck’s place, ragging his saddle. He looks at the thing and
then goes back for another drink.
“She’s a bicycle,” states Hassayampa. “Nothin’ but a bicycle.”
“Yeah,” admits Jay Bird, “she resembles one a heap, but there’s
somethin’ about it that makes me kinda figure that this thing has a
mission in life, besides to run on two wheels.”
Yuma Yates comes back, wiping his mouth, and examines the thing.
“I dunno how to invigorate it,” he complains. “I ain’t no stationary
rider.”
“Feller,” grins Magpie, “you get aboard, set yourself and say when.
That’s all yuh has to do. _Sabe?_”
Yuma gets on to the saddle and takes hold of the handles.
“I want about seven strong men to hold her,” states Magpie, and
everybody wants the honor.
“How long does Yuma have to stay with it?” asks Hassayampa.
“Gotta be a time-limit, ain’t there?”
“Time ain’t goin’ to mean nothin’ to Yuma,” says Magpie, “but I’ll give
him three minutes.”
“I could ride a boy-constrictor bareback for three minutes,” states
Yuma. “Cut your wolf loose any time, Mister Simpkins.”
“Everybody hang on,” cautions Magpie.
I hear Mike Pelly say:
“Band get ready. The minute Yuma starts, we play.”
I couldn’t see all the action, but I did see Magpie step down hard on
that dingus on the side. Comes a howl, a cloud of dust and smoke, the
rattle of a battle, an upheaval of humanity, the blare of a cornet, like
the wail of a doomed soul, and out of the turmoil comes Yuma Yates.
And the band came also.
Music may have a lot of soothing effect on a savage beast, but a
half-broke range bronc don’t appreciate “Hearts and Flowers,” especially
when they hear it for the first time and also have it tooted right into
their ears.
Yuma came straight for the band and the band met him half-way—six
enthusiastic musicians, clawing for their saddle-horns. Hearts busted
and Flowers was trampled in the dust of Piperock town.
Yuma is some rider. I’ll give him a heap of credit for his ability. He
went right under Cactus Collins’ gray and never touched a hair. I seen a
big brass horn sail through the air, like the loop of a lariat, and I
tried to dodge but it hooked me right around the neck. I seen this and
then Yuma Yates is upon me.
His two-wheeled devil-wagon bounced over the edge of the sidewalk and
hit the coyote-crate dead center. Twenty-four dollars and four-bits’
worth of coyotes went high, wide and handsome and I lit in the middle of
the street on my hands and knees and the valise which contained all the
bets went—somewhere.
I got to my feet in time to let a coyote go between my legs, but before
I can fall, a bucking bronc come along and knocks me about twenty feet,
and hit the ground just in time for Yuma to ride the full length of my
carcass. I dimly hears a howl and a crash, and above the yelping and
yowling comes Mighty Jones’ voice, screeching:
“Head him off! Head him off!”
_Zowie!_
Yuma goes past me again, and if he ain’t goin’ a mile a minute I’ll eat
the barrel off my old gun. That cow-punching fool and his two-wheeled
gatling gun is just a blur—a banging, screaming blur. The street is full
of bucking horses, yelping coyotes, and every dog within a distance of
ten miles seems to have entered our midst.
“Kill him! Kill him!” howls Dirty Shirt, doing a war-dance on the
bear-cage. “Rope him—kill him before——”
_Crash!_
I seen Dirty Shirt turn plumb over in the air, along with a lot of small
poles, and out into the street comes that grizzly bear, telling
everybody how danged scared he is. Believe me, a grizzly bear can lift
his voice in lamentations and this one sure runs the scale.
I seen Dog-Rib’s bronc buck into Buck’s front door, the same of which
knocks Dog-Rib back into the street.
“Go straight, you —— fool!” howls Hassayampa and just then Yuma doubles
in his tracks and knocks Hassayampa plumb over the top of the
hay-scales. Yuma is with that machine, but only on it once in a while.
He hangs to them handles and the go-devil does the rest. Somehow he
seems to have bent the front wheel so she won’t go straight, but that
don’t hinder him from doing that dizzy circle.
I takes a kick at that grizzly bear but any little feeble effect like
the boot of a human being don’t affect that animal. Them dogs has got
the coyotes to running circles and then the bear joins the procession,
with Yuma lapping ’em about twice while they’re going forty feet.
“Stop the bear! Stop the bear!” I hears Mighty Jones yelping.
And just then comes the swish of a lariat into the parade. It was a good
throw. It snagged the grizzly around the neck and over one shoulder. It
was a good rope, too, but cinches are sometimes weak. I seen Mighty
Jones, saddle and all, yanked off a scared-to-death cayuse and he sailed
far out into the whirlpool.
_Zowie!_
Yuma Yates went into that rope like a cyclone and before I can duck out
of the way, I’m tangled with bear, rope, go-devil, Mighty and Yuma.
I landed on the bear, with a loop of rope around one of my legs, and I
got both hands hooked into the rope around its neck. All this was done
inside of a second or two, and then comes the shock, when Yuma took up
the slack. Me and the bear turned a flip-flop and I went plumb inside
Buck’s place and burnt the seat of my pants on the floor before I hooked
one leg around the table and stopped.
“_Ar-r-r-roo-o-o-o!_” bawls the bear and inside it comes, dragging
Mighty Jones, whose feet are caught in the stirrups. The bear climbs up
on the bar, crying like a whipped pup. I sees a couple of punchers fall
backwards into the doorway, and then through the window comes Yuma
Yates.
He turns plumb over, ricochets off a card-table and lands in behind the
old pool-table, flat on his back, with both feet up the wall. Glass and
busted window-frame spills all over everything. The crowd, them what is
still able, comes inside. Behind the bar, kinda wedged in, is Dog-Rib’s
bronc; on the bar is the grizzly and under the stove is two coyotes,
trying to dig a hole in the floor.
“My ——!” gasps Magpie. “This is awful!”
Buck Masterson looks like he had wintered badly, but he still knows who
owns the place. He staggers up to the bar and points at the bear.
“Git down,” says he, croaking-like. “Git down before I——”
Mighty gets to his feet and staggers loose from the stirrups.
“Don’t yuh strike my bear,” he whispers. “Tha’s my bear, y’betcha. Nice
little bearie.”
“Look out! Whoa!” yelps somebody. “Stop it!”
I’m only a few feet from the bar, but somehow I ain’t got the ambition
to look out nor stop anything, and when that fool bronc switched ends in
there and upset the bar I didn’t have energy to do anything except set
there and watch bar and bear fall right on top of me, but I did have
sense enough to grab a handy rope and that bear yanked me out from under
the bar, leaving both of my boots beneath.
* * * * *
I seen Magpie fall backwards out of the window and then me and the bear
knocked Buck’s feet from under him and all three of us went under the
old pool-table. For a moment there ain’t a sound and then we hears Yuma
Yates’ voice saying—
“_Whoa_, bronc, _whoa_, bronc!”
I gets a glimpse of his weaving legs as he sneaks up on Dog-Rib’s bronc,
which is all tangled up in some chairs. Yuma puts one foot in the
stirrup and I see the other leg swing up.
“_Yee-e-e-e-ow-w-w!_” yelps Yuma.
I don’t know what kind of bucking that bronc intended to do, but I do
know that the bear got a idea of taking a look around and it drags me
and Buck out into the open right in the path of the bronc and the danged
bronc sunfished into the bear, turned plumb over and Yuma’s head and
shoulders hit into the framed picture of Napoleon at Waterloo. I got a
glimpse of that fool bronc taking two door-casings from Buck’s back
door, and just then Yuma bounces off the wall and falls flat on the back
of that grizzly bear.
I don’t reckon that grizzly had the kindest disposition on earth to
begin with and she’s a cinch that nothing has happened to arouse its
desire for loving thoughts. Yuma’s eyes are shut tight and his thoughts
are in the sere and yaller leaf, but he still retains his riding
instinct. He hooks one leg over that grizzly’s shoulder and sinks his
spur on to its ribs.
I ain’t here to state that a grizzly can buck harder than a horse. It
ain’t right to come out open-like and say that grizzly bears know the
science of high and lofty bucking, but I’ll say right here and now that
I never seen no animal change ends as quick as that grizzly did. Yuma
never had a chance.
He just seemed to sort of glide into the air over that grizzly’s head,
turns over graceful-like, but before he hits the ground that bear just
reaches out and caresses Yuma where his pants are tight, and I’m betting
yuh could hear that caress plumb over in the next State.
Then Mr. Grizzly went galloping down that wrecked saloon, dragging me
and Buck in that rope, with both of us yelping for help and grasping for
something to anchor. Nobody knows how far we’d ’a’ went if the bear had
picked the door as an exit, but it seemed to favor the window, which
wasn’t big enough for me and Buck to go out of together sideways. The
bear made it fine, but me and Buck jammed like a pair of sawlogs. There
was the bear, rearing up in the street, clawing at the rope and exerting
about seven thousand pounds to the inch on the rope, while we waits for
our nervous systems to collapse or for the saloon to start away from its
resting-place.
“Leggo my bear,” croaks Mighty’s voice. “Leggo my bearie.”
“Leggo ——!” chokes Buck. “Git a ax and widen this winder.”
“Sic ’em pups!” yelps a voice across the street, and that million dogs
that I reckon had been chasing the coyotes comes across the street in a
milling heap and tackles Mighty’s bear. I got a glimpse of the bear
coming back and I turns my head and shuts my teeth; and as I turns my
head I sees Yuma coming down the center of the saloon, hanging on to his
hip pockets and staring straight ahead. Then comes the shock, as the
bear got to the end of the rope, but the rope broke and me and Buck
collapsed, but not before I seen that bear root in between Yuma’s legs
and then I went to sleep. I don’t know how long I slept, but I dreamed I
was working in a boiler-factory. I could hear men hammering and sawing
metal, and then I woke up. I hears Mike Pelly say—
“It won’t be worth a —— any more.”
“Gotta get it off, ain’t we?” asks Magpie, peevish-like.
“I won’t let nobody bury him with a French horn around his neck.”
Then I sat up and looked around. What is left of Piperock, Paradise and
Curlew are propped up in different attitudes around the saloon, while
Magpie and Dirty Shirt are on their knees beside me, trying to file that
danged band instrument from around my neck.
“You ain’t dead?” asks Dirty Shirt. “Honest, ain’t yuh, Ike?”
“Well,” says I, kinda thin-like, “if I am, I sure didn’t go to heaven,
judging by the company I sees around me.”
“What did yuh do with that valise with the agreements in?” asks Magpie.
“I must ’a’ misplaced it,” says I.
“Valise?” croaks Baldy Blewett. “Little valise? I seen it out there in
the street, but it’s all tore up and there ain’t nothin’ in it.”
“Where’s Yuma?” asks Mike Pelly. “Anybody seen Yuma?”
“Yuma Yates?” croaks an apparition at the door. “Yuma Yates?”
We all looks at him and marvels that any human being can look like that
and still have locomotion left in its legs. His face is as flat as a
pancake and he ain’t got clothes enough left to flag a hand-car. He
comes inside and leans against the wall.
“Wh-what happened to you?” asks Hassayampa.
“Me?”
Yuma’s voice is full of tears and kinda squeaks and cracks.
“Wh-what usually happens when a feller with a half-pint throat bites off
a gallon chaw? That —— bear went under Pete Gonyer’s wagon and I knocked
the end-gate out of my face.”
Yuma shifts his feet to keep from falling and then he yowls:
“I—I used to be a huh-he-wolf—me. I—I used to ride—kinda. I was a good
rider, bub-but I—I overlooked one fuf-fact.”
“What was that, Yuma?” asks Magpie.
“Th-the —— bustin’ buckers that re-remain after yuh get past Pike’s Peak
and just before yuh re-reach pickle. She’s a multitude, gents—a
multitude.”
“Let’s make it unanimous,” says the judge.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
April 18, 1921. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
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