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Title: Cows is cows
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: May 6, 2026 [eBook #78614]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1917
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78614
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COWS IS COWS ***
COWS IS COWS
By W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Precedents in Piperock,” “Honest to Doughgod,” etc.
“They who live by the sword shall perish by the sword,” says he.
“Well,” says Magpie Simpkins, sheriff of Yellow Rock County, picking his
six-shooter off the table and shoving it into his holster, “if that’s
the case the mortality uh this here county is going to be uh danged long
ways below par. Swords ain’t stylish uh tall, and ain’t been for some
little time. They’re too danged local for good fighting. I prefers old
man Colt’s products.”
“Just uh figure uh speech, brother,” explains the hairy one. “It means
that as uh man lives so shall he die. Sabe?”
“Then you’ll sure pass out audible, old trailer,” says Magpie. “Ever
since you invades my premises you ain’t done nothing but talk, talk,
talk. Don’t you have nothing to do but orate uplift opinions?”
“It is my mission, brother. I carry the light to dark places, and I have
been called to this end of the earth to scatter seeds.”
He sure looked like uh sower. He’s danged near as tall as Magpie
Simpkins, and if anything he’s uh little narrower. He wears uh long
black coat, and tucks his pantlegs into the tops of his number twelve
boots, which are uh heap run over at the heels, making him arch at the
knees. His face is uh cross between Sandy Claws, uh bock-beer sign and
uh bale uh fox-tail grass. He punctuates his uplift remarks by spitting
through uh hole in the front of his mouth where uh tooth used to stand.
He’s wearing uh straw hat, the same uh which was made man-sized, and it
balances on top of his ears like uh teeter-board.
“Called, eh?” says Magpie. “Well, you sure didn’t get called for much.
What seems to be your trade, anyway?”
“I’m uh Bringer of Light, brother. Meek and lowly I come----”
“Bringer uh Light, eh?” interrupts Magpie. “Never mind the meek part.
Me and Ike are both meek and lowly. If yuh got uh good supply uh seeds
yuh might scatter some where some of our rustling friends would pick
’em up.”
“Rustling?” pronounces the Bringer uh Light. “Wouldst explain?”
“Wouldst. Uh rustler is uh man who can’t tell another man’s stock from
his own. It’s uh sort uh brand blindness. Sabe? We’re burdened with
’em to the extent that three days, hand running, I’ve been accused uh
negligence and favoritism. Just because I’ve been duly elected sheriff
uh this commonwealth they opines that all I got to do is to bleed and
die for my constituents and the glory of the cause. Scenery Sims, Hank
Padden, Zeb Abernathy and Johnny Myers is the constituents what
endeavors to shape my ends. Yuh might pack uh little light to them
four dark places, old-timer.”
“Do they amble in darkness?” he asks, hitting uh knot-hole three times
straight.
“Blacker than the ace uh spades. What’s your name, anyway?”
The hairy one hunches up his shoulders, like uh buzzard with uh full
crop, takes another shot at that knot-hole and rubs his long hands
together.
“I am Obadiah Ezekiel Moses Brown.”
“Pshaw!” says Magpie. “Why didn’t your folks make uh perfect score while
they had uh chance?”
“Meaning which, brother?”
“They left out Proverbs and Genesis. No wonder you’re uh Gospel pedler,
Obie. I thought at first that you’re uh shepherd, but no shepherd ever
had names like----”
“He has came,” announces uh voice at the open door, and there stands
Scenery Sims.
If I had my choice between the friendship of Scenery Sims and that of an
old buck sheep, I’d never speak to Scenery again. Scenery orates that
he’s uh self-made man, that’s about the only thing he can’t blame nobody
else for.
He stands about knee-high to uh tall Injun, wears woolly chaps which
comes just below his knees, and has uh voice that would make the E
string of uh fiddle blush for shame. He owns the Circle-S brand,
which consists of about uh hundred animiles. They looks uh heap like
Scenery--sort uh measly looking.
“What has came?” asks Magpie.
“Spade Wilson, the detective,” squeaks Scenery. “Jist got in from
Helena. Me and Zeb knowed him the minute he rode in. When I says to
him, ‘Hello, Spade,’ he just grins and says, ‘Don’t advertise it.’”
“Have you seen the Light, brother?” asks Obie, peering at Scenery with
one eye, while he aims at the knot-hole with the other--and rings the
bell again.
“My gosh!” whistles Scenery, seeing Obie for the first time. “Is that
under arrest, Magpie, or can it still be within the law? My gosh
A’mighty!”
“This here is Mister Brown,” says Magpie. “Mister Sims, meet Mister
Brown.”
“I gives yuh good cheer, brother,” orates Obie, reaching out uh long
hand and pumping Scenery’s hand some industrious.
“I’ll take it,” admits Scenery. “How’s all your folks, Mister Brown?”
“Obadiah Ezekiel Moses,” corrects Obie, biting off uh fresh chew. “They
are all in the Great Beyond from which no man ever returneth back.”
“All three of ’em?” says Scenery. “That’s too danged bad, old-timer. I
know just how bad yuh feel. I lost twelve more cows myself last night.”
“Don’t weep, Scenery,” advises Magpie, when Scenery finishes off his
discourse in uh wailing tone. “This here cow detective ’ll get ’em all
back for you.”
“Still sore, eh?” pipes Scenery. “Doggone it, Magpie, yuh can’t blame
us, can yuh? Me and Johnny and Zeb and Hank can’t afford to raise cows
and have ’em swiped all the time. As uh sheriff yuh ain’t so danged
awful bad, except to look at, but as uh catcher of rustlers you don’t
show uh trace.
“We figures that the only thing to do is to put up uh howl to the
Cattlemen’s Association, and get ’em to send us uh hyiu detective. They
tells us that they’re sending Spade Wilson over to us, but we got to
stand the expenses. He’s private. He sure looks like he could land ’em.
He’s down at Masterson’s playing seven-up with Zeb and Hank. I reckon
you’ll see him pretty soon.”
“Are the ones you mentioned still in darkness?” asks Obie, folding his
hands, and rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
“No,” says Scenery. “Leastwise they was getting lit up when I left.
Come on down and meet ’em, and have uh scoop or two. They’d admire to
see yuh, old-timer.”
“The joy of meeting would be mutual,” agrees Obie, uncoiling himself
from the chair, and taking one parting shot at that knot-hole. “But
I never imbibe or look upon the wine when it is red. Lead forth,
brother.”
“Well, it’s your eyes and your stummick,” states Scenery, looking up at
Obie, like uh squirrel looking up uh tree. “But if I had uh neck as long
as you got, I’d shut my eyes to the color and let her sluice.”
* * * * *
They goes out together, and me and Magpie watches them amble up the
street.
“Ain’t it funny what mistakes is committed in the name uh humanity,”
orates Magpie. “Now, there goes uh misfit on uh forlorn cause, Ike,
and he’s just as happy over it as uh half-breed kid with uh coyote
pup. Bringer uh Light! That face uh his would snuff uh candle at
sixty yards. I reckon this is the delegation coming down to see us.”
I takes uh look and sees Hank Padden, Zeb Abernathy, Johnny Myers,
Scenery Sims and uh fifth person ambling down our way, and behind
them, with his coat-tails flopping in the breeze comes the Bringer uh
Light.
“Sheriff Simpkins, I’m pleased to make yuh used to Spade Wilson,” says
Zeb Abernathy, bobbing his head toward the stranger. “Mister Wilson is
the detective from Helena.”
“Pleased to know yuh,” says Wilson. “I’ve heard of you.”
“This here person is Ike Harper,” informs Scenery, pointing me out, like
I was uh horrible example. “Ike is sort of uh e-mergency deputy sheriff.
When he ain’t doing that, he’s resting.”
“We has hopes that you can assist Mister Wilson uh little, Magpie,”
orates Hank Padden. “Uh course we don’t wish yuh to do anything to
interfere with your usual occupation, but any help yuh can give the
detective to stop the reign uh terror will be appreciated.”
“Hank,” replies Magpie, “your insinuations cuts me deep-like. Uh
course, being uh peace officer in good standing with smart men, it’s
my duty to give assistance to the weak and needy, but I can’t figure
how you-all can insult my abilities by asking me to help somebody
else. I’m sheriff--me!”
“It ain’t reasonable to suppose that Kirk Kelso or any of his gang is
operating in this county. Just because the party what took them cows out
of the Triangle corral left uh card with compliments uh Kirk Kelso on
it, don’t argue that he done it. Somebody just done that cause Kirk
Kelso’s reputation for foolishness just about covers that kind uh stunt.
He never was over in this part of the state, and ain’t been heard of for
uh long time. Somebody’s trading on his rep.”
“Them cows is gone, ain’t they?” wails Johnny Myers. “Yuh can’t dispute
that, can yuh? All you do is argue. When it comes to sheriffing you’re
about as much use as uh bulldog in uh sheep camp.”
All the time this Spade Wilson person leans against the wall, and grins.
He’s uh long-legged, red-headed hombre, with uh face that resembles uh
contour map of the Bad Lands. He’s got uh lazy look about his face, and
his eyes reminds me of the eyes of uh bronc what’s trying to bluff yuh
into thinking he ain’t got uh buck left in his carcase.
“I agrees with them sentiments exactly, Johnny,” squeaks Scenery.
“Bulldog in uh sheep camp! Haw! Haw! Haw! That sure fits like uh glove.”
“Agreeing with sarcasm is the privilege uh fools,” states uh voice at
the door, and Obie strolls in. “I distribute the Light to fools and
wise men alike.”
“Who’s your friend, Magpie?” laughs Hank Padden. “He opines that he’s uh
light. What sheep range did he drift from?”
“My flocks is on the seven hills, and I search for the lost, strayed
and stolen. I am here to shed the--” but Spade Wilson slams the door
in his face and cuts off his discourse.
“I hates uh fool,” states Scenery Sims.
“All fools do,” orates Obie, from the open window. “Uh wise man uses his
time for better things,” and then we sees him amble back to town.
“Well,” says Zeb, “now that the Light has left us we may as well finish
this business. Magpie, we’ve talked it over uh heap and we’re come to
the conclusion that we better give Mister Wilson uh free hand. He
opines that it’s better for him to work alone, and we promises to stand
for anything he does. He orates that maybe we’ll be shocked and pained
at what he does, but we’ve agreed to suffer in silence. Ain’t that the
how of it?”
“It sure is,” agrees Hank, and Scenery and Zeb and Johnny nods.
“And,” states Hank, “no matter what happens we don’t want no
interference from the sheriff’s office. Sabe? If yuh can’t help him
none, Magpie, we wishes yuh to shut your eyes to what he does. The
three of us is paying the bills.”
“Why waste all that conversation, Hank?” grins Magpie. “I ain’t going
to say uh danged thing. Will Mister Wilson use our little jail or will
me and Ike build him uh bull-pen?”
“I reckon the jail will hold ’em,” says Hank. “Mister Wilson says that
he thinks it’s uh gang uh four, and that the jail will hold that many.”
“I’d be uh heap pleased to get them twenty Herefords back,” states
Johnny Myers. “Them was all blooded stock, and they stands the Triangle
uh lot uh money.”
“Also, I’m loser to the extent of about forty head,” wails Scenery. “The
same night they lifts that bunch from Zeb, they drifts uh bunch uh mine
along, too. Let’s go up to Buck’s and get uh little elixir. So much talk
makes me dry.”
The four of them ambles back uptown and leaves me and Magpie and Spade
in the office.
“Got any idea of where to look for these here rustlers?” asks Spade.
“You’re the doctor,” says Magpie, cocking his feet against the table,
and rolling uh smoke. “I ain’t got uh danged thing to say about it. All
I know is this: I’m the sheriff uh Yaller Rock County, and I feels able
to cope with any rustler what ever vented uh brand, but any time that
bunch uh misfire cow-owners opines to hire outside help, I just lays
doggo. If the time drags too heavy on my hands I may get out and rustle
uh few myself. Sabe?”
“Not wishing to upset your good resolutions,” says Spade, with uh grin,
“but I’d sure like to understand uh little about these four people what
hires me. Are they the principal cow-owners uh this range?”
“Uh-huh,” agrees Magpie. “That old dough-faced maverick, with the meeker
than Moses expression on his face, is Hank Padden. Hank owns the Seven-A
outfit and uh grouch. He ranges his cows on the Roarin’ Crick breaks,
and his grouch any place.
“Johnny Myers is the foreman of the Triangle by marriage. He married
the female what inherited it from her husband. Zeb Abernathy owns the
Cross-L herd. He looks so danged much like uh parson that it interferes
with his cussing.
“The little tin-whistle runt, with the canary voice, is Scenery
Sims. He sold his sheep over in the Big Hole country, and went in
for cows. Not having much idea above uh sheep, somebody unloads the
worst-looking bunch uh cow critters on him yuh ever seen. Scabby lot
uh mongrel stuff, but Scenery opines that they’re the greatest stock
on earth. Now, yuh know all about ’em, Mister Wilson, so shake out
your rope and go to it.”
“Got an extra star?” asks Spade, rolling uh cigaret one handed, without
spilling uh grain of tobacco. Uh man ain’t got much to do when he takes
the time to learn a trick like that. Magpie fumbles in his desk and
tosses Spade uh star.
“Thanks,” says Spade. “As uh general rule I don’t carry uh star, but,
being as this job is an exception, I may need one plumb bad.”
“You’re welcome,” says I. “Being as that is the only star in the county,
except the one what shines on Magpie’s manly bosom, it probably lets me
out of uh lot uh grief.”
“It takes nerve to put the deadwood on uh rustler,” orates Spade, and I
agrees.
“I ain’t lost no rustlers. Why should I use up my visible supply uh
nerve? I never owned but one cow, and no rustler ever got her. I called
her Sylvia. She was just emerging from calf-hood into cow, when she
mistook uh grizzly for something to play with.”
“I thank you for the information and the star,” says Spade. “I’ll go
up now and have uh little talk with my employers. Do you aim to help
me any in this hunt?”
“Not any,” replies Magpie. “My jail is always open to your prisoners,
but further than that I’m neutral. Ike’s neutral too, ain’t yuh, Ike?”
“You know whereof you speak, Magpie,” says I.
“That feller ain’t going to be able to do nothing,” I argues with
Magpie, after Spade leaves.
“You’re wrong, Ike,” says he. “That feller is going to do something
that I didn’t think was possible. He’s going to pry some real money
out of Scenery Sims.”
* * * * *
We sets down to enjoy uh smoke, when in comes Obie, and sets down in his
favorite chair.
“How’s your Light working?” asks Magpie, and Obie grins.
“Fine, brother. There is dark places in Piperock which need illuminating
uh heap but my mission is not confined to the city. I must work among
the meek and lowly, and in order to fulfil my mission I must engage uh
mode of locomotion. Dost know of one who would loan me uh horse?”
“Dost not,” replies Magpie. “Me and Ike has got uh burro named
Lodestone, which yuh might borrow. He ain’t much for looks, being
originally of uh yaller hue, but he’ll get yuh there in time for
meals.”
“The vehicle of the Lord,” says Obie, pleased-like. “I’ll take
Lodestone.”
Obie was pleased with Lodestone. Lodestone looks Obie over, and goes
right back to sleep. I reckon he saw uh critter of his own ambitions,
and figgered that uh trip with him would be uh vacation.
When Obie rode that burro out of town it sure was uh thing to look at.
Obie is so long that he has to set on Lodestone’s rump, and his long
legs stick out in front like uh pair uh buggy shafts.
“All he needs is another mule and uh singletree, and he’s uh tandem,”
howls Magpie. He waves au revoir to Obie and the other jackass, and
then relapses into the shade again.
Scenery Sims comes down to whittle uh while, but he ain’t received with
no open arms. Me and Magpie holds sort of uh local conversation, to the
utter exclusion of Scenery.
“Ike,” says Magpie, “ain’t it funny what critters the Lord produces at
times? Now take humans, for instance. I know one person who ain’t got
brains enough to know when he ain’t wanted. He used to be uh shepherd,
but he got so danged orn’ary that the sheep wouldn’t associate with
him no more, so he sold out and comes over here into God’s country and
tries to raise cattle.
“Now, he didn’t show uh lick uh sense, Ike. He’s been with the woollies
so long that he don’t know cows, so somebody sells him uh bunch uh
alleged cattle which looks like uh bunch of overgrown goats. Later on
some poor deluded rustler, with astigmatism, comes along and burdens
himself with what he mistakes in the dark for cows. Now this here runty
sheep person opines to pay real money to uh specialist to recover said
overgrown goats. I’d say he’s showing poor taste.”
“Them was cows,” pronounces Scenery, in uh chiding way.
“Maybe,” agrees Magpie. “Way back in the miocene period, Scenery, them
things might have been cows, but they never progressed.”
“I want ’em back, just the same. Anything yuh pays real money for is
worth wanting back, Magpie. And what is more, I’m going to get ’em
back, too, and the person what took ’em is going to suffer in durance
vile. Sabe?”
“I love the little trees,” says Magpie. “I love the little children and
the little squirrels and the little babbling brooks, but, by cripes, I
can’t seem to strike uh single spark uh love in my bosom fer uh runty
ex-shepherd. God A’mighty made uh mistake when he made ’em in the image
uh men and furnished ’em with vocal cords.”
“I don’t like you, Magpie,” states Scenery. “By gosh, I don’t! I ain’t
never liked you!”
“Scenery,” says Magpie, “them few words changes my opinion uh you uh
heap. Honest to grandma, I never thought you had soul enough in your
carcass even to hate anybody.”
Scenery goes uptown, and as far as we can hear him he’s talking to
himself.
“I figger that this is going to be uh vacation for us, Ike,” states
Magpie. “We’ll just lay around and let ’em detect, eh?”
“You spoke from my soul that time,” I agrees.
Zeb Abernathy comes down to our office the next day, and sets down on
the step.
“Your yaller burro stayed at my place last night,” says he.
“Alone?” I asks.
“He brought the Light,” laughs Zeb. “He’s going over to illuminate the
Triangle this evening. Seen anything of Spade Wilson lately?”
“He ain’t been here today,” I replies. Zeb sets uh while, and then
pilgrims uptown.
The next day me and Magpie is setting in the office, playing seven-up,
when we hears somebody yell outside.
“Here’s your first prisoner,” states Spade Wilson. Me and Magpie stares
at the party with him, and then grins wide.
“We don’t arrest ’em for getting drunk in this county,” states Magpie.
“He ain’t drunk,” replies Spade. “He’s uh rustler.”
“Rustler ----!” snorts Magpie. “He owns the Seven-A outfit.”
“Uh-huh,” agrees Spade. “He’d own the Triangle, too, in uh short time
if I let him alone. I find him setting on the top of his corral at the
Poison Springs, admiring them Triangle Herefords.”
“Magpie!” yelps Hank. “Tell this danged lying fool that----”
“You tell him, Hank,” advises Magpie. “Didn’t I hear yuh say that you
agreed to suffer in silence?”
“You can’t deny that them cows were there, can yuh?” grins Spade, and
Hank shakes his head, sad-like.
“No, I reckon--aw ----! I never put them there!”
“Maybe the jury will believe it,” replies Spade, and then we introduces
Hank to the Hotel de Simpkins. He don’t make no further protest. He just
flops down on uh bunk and cusses low and earnest-like. We waits until we
feels that he’s about cussed out, and me and Magpie goes over to the
door.
“Hoist with his own petard, Ike,” orates Magpie.
“Yes,” says I, “but it ain’t no more than I expected.”
I never noticed that Hank had one boot off. Magpie wipes the blood off
my temple and fixes the cut up with court plaster, and we resumes our
little game.
“I’ve always had uh sneaking suspicion uh Hank,” states Magpie, loud
enough for Hank to hear, and Hank snorts like uh scared bronc, but don’t
comment none. I makes him throw his boots over in the corner and hold up
his hands when I brings in his supper.
Uh delegation from the Seven-A comes down to try and get us to turn Hank
loose, but we locks up, and they don’t stay long.
The next morning, Hank is too danged mad to talk but he will eat. We
feeds him and then starts our game, again.
I reckon it’s about noon, when we hears a noise at the front door and
there we finds Spade and Johnny Myers.
“Hello, Johnny,” says I. “How’s tricks?”
“Go to ----!” snaps Johnny. “Tell this blasted misfire sleuth where to
head in at, Magpie.”
“You ain’t gagged none are yuh?” asks Magpie. “Maybe yuh don’t care to
talk to uh man you’re paying uh salary to.”
“Gol blast his ignorant pelt!” howls Johnny. “He arrested me for
branding uh calf!”
“Better turn him loose,” I advises. “Branding calves is uh common
occupation in this country.”
“This one was uh Circle-S,” replies Spade, with uh grin.
“The Circle-S had been partly vented, and the Triangle run on with uh
running-iron. Pretty raw stuff! The calf is in that corral near the
Medicine Crick ford, where we can get it for evidence.”
“Johnny,” says Magpie, sad-like, “if there was uh drop of forgiveness
in my soul for uh rustler, you’re the one I’d sprinkle. I’ve always
liked you, Johnny, and I’ve always had uh lot uh respect for your
ability as uh cowman, but right now I can’t dig deep enough in my soul
to find sympathy for you. I can’t grieve over any cowman who will take
uh chance on rustling one uh them scabby little critters what Scenery
designates as cows.”
“My Gawd! What’s he been doing?” snorts Hank, as we leads Johnny into
the cell.
“Petty larceny,” says I. “He stole uh calf from Scenery Sims.”
Johnny and Hank looks at each other for uh spell, and then Hank turns,
appealing-like to us, and says:
“Ain’t yuh got no other cell in this jail, Magpie?”
“Sorry, Hank,” says Magpie. “I know the pollution is awful, but there
ain’t uh danged thing I can do. Maybe I can fumigate the cell uh little
later on.”
* * * * *
Spade goes back to town, me and Magpie resumes our game, and Hank and
Johnny argues in low tones. The next time our game is interrupted, it’s
Obie, the Bringer uh Light.
“How yuh shining?” asks Magpie.
Obie sprawls on the table and takes uh greeting shot at that knot-hole.
“Nicely, brother,” says he. “The path is dark, but I bring the glow
what guides all men. I hear that the minions of the law have been busy
of late.”
“Uh-huh,” agrees Magpie. “That is, if yuh designate uh detective as uh
minion of the law.”
“Have they been walking in darkness?” asks Obie. “I’m here to snatch
brands.”
“You better leave brands alone, old-timer,” I advises. “That’s what
they’re in durance vile for.”
“May I have converse with them?” he asks, and Magpie waves his hand
toward the cell door. Obie wanders over and leans against the door and
we proceeds to deal uh new hand.
“I come bringing great cheer,” we hears Obie state, and the next thing I
know something bounces off my head and slams against the wall. I sees
seven million trumps in my hand for uh minute, and she shrinks to jist
six cards. Obie is leaning against the wall, with his long hands hanging
loose at his sides, and his eyes rolled toward the ceiling.
“We will now sing hymn number--uh--huh--hum,” announces Obie, and slides
to the floor in uh heap.
“Ike,” says Magpie, “yuh sure done uh brilliant trick when yuh loaned
Hank that walrus-tusk cribbage-board. Whoever throwed it sure made uh
perfect billiard shot. Yuh can thank Obie for stopping most of it.”
“Magpie, you keep that blasted thing out uh here!” yells Hank.
“Who in ---- wants cheer, anyway?”
Obie crawls to uh standing position and rubs his head. Then he looks
around, foolish-like, and takes uh fresh chew. He takes uh shot at
that knot-hole and misses it by three feet.
“How’s the Light working, Obie?” asks Magpie.
Obie runs his hand tenderly over the lump over his eye.
“I feel like--uh--uh----”
“Trimmed lamp?” suggests Magpie. Obie thinks for uh minute and then nods
slow-like. He goes outside, gets on Lodestone, and the two of ’em points
away from Piperock.
“I never did like uh preacher,” states Hank, in sort of an explanatory
tone.
“Me neither,” agrees Magpie. “But I don’t try to kill ’em just cause I
don’t like ’em, Hank. Maybe somebody needs ’em.”
We enjoys ourselves in our simple way until the next morning, when we
hears Spade Wilson yell outside. We goes outside and observes Spade’s
prisoner. It’s Zeb Abernathy. Zeb looks uh whole lot put out about
something.
“Well, well!” says Magpie, pleased-like. “Come right in, Zebbie. I’m
getting so used to dry nursing prominent citizens that I welcomes yuh
with all my heart.”
“This--uh--cross between uh--huh--my Gawd!” splutters Zeb. “He arrests
me for branding one uh my own calves!”
Zeb shakes his fist at Spade, but the detective just grins and rolls uh
cigaret.
“What’s his brand?” asks Spade.
“Cross-L,” I answers.
“He don’t own no Seven-A stuff does he?”
“That wasn’t no Seven-A!” howls Zeb. “Gosh A’mighty, can’t yuh spell?”
“The calf is tied to uh tree, and I’ll send somebody out to get it for
evidence. She’s uh Seven-A, all right.”
Zeb shakes his head, sad-like, and then turns to Magpie.
“Put me in,” says he. “Put on two extra padlocks and hire uh guard or
two, Magpie. Jail is the only place where uh man is safe from uh liar
like him.”
“You said he was uh competent man,” chides Magpie. “He sure comes highly
recommended.”
“Highly ----!” howls Zeb. “Don’t talk to me, Magpie!”
“Gee cripes!” yelps Hank, as we eases Zeb into the cell.
“What you doing here, Zeb?”
“Branding Seven-A calves,” says I.
The three of them looks each other over for uh spell, and then Hank
steps over and stares Zeb square in the eyes.
“You been stealing my calves?” snaps Hank, and Zeb swells up like an
indignant old woodchuck.
“You danged old timber rat!” howls Zeb, jumping up and down like uh
Injun full uh turpentine. “Do you mean to insinuate that I’d----”
“I’m asking,” states Hank.
“You be danged! Do you think for uh minute that I’d lower myself to such
uh state as to rustle one uh your lousy animiles, Hank Padden? Dang your
hide, I wouldn’t let uh Cross-L cow drink out of the same spring with uh
Seven-A. What are you and Johnny Myers doing here, eh?”
“What are they in for, Ike?” he asks me, when they don’t seem inclined
to reply.
“Johnny was arrested for branding one uh Scenery Sims’s little calves,
and Mister Wilson discovered Hank setting on the top rail of his corral,
gloating over them Triangle Herefords.”
“Oh, ho! So that was it, eh?” cuts in Johnny Myers. “I asks Hank what
he was put in for and he told me it was none uh my danged business. No
wonder! My Herefords, eh?”
“Johnny, that’s uh danged----”
“Don’t say it, Hank,” advises Johnny. “You been coveting them
white-faced cows for uh long time, but by cripes, I didn’t think you’d
steal ’em.”
Hank sets down on his bunk and stares at his toes. I reckon he’s too
danged mad even to stand up. Zeb seems to forget his grouch, and he
leans against the wall and whoops:
“Haw! Haw! Haw! Johnny Myers, I opined that you knowed something about
cows but--haw, haw, haw! Rustling them Circle-S calves eh? My Gawd!
Taking uh chance on going to Deer Lodge for uh critter like that.”
I figures that about one more word will start uh mix-up so I says:
“I’m going up to rustle some dinner for you fellers, and I don’t want no
trouble to start while I’m gone. Sabe? We only got one cell in this jail
and if you fellers can’t live in peace and brotherly love, I’ll have to
picket some of yuh out in the corral. Also, if you smash them two cots
you’ll have to sleep on the floor. Contemplate on your own sins and let
personalities alone.”
Piperock is quite some excited. There’s representatives from all of
the cow outfits, and it sounds like all was trying to talk to once.
Swede Johnson, foreman of the Seven-A outfit, is standing on uh card
table, waving his long arms and talking uh streak, and over on the
pool table is Andy Johnson, of the Triangle, holding uh special
indignation meeting.
“You can’t never make uh jury believe that Hank Padden would steal!”
yelps Swede. “I wouldn’t put it uh bit past Johnny Myers, but----”
“Johnny is as straight as uh string!” howls Andy. “He’s got uh
first-class alibi too. Nobody could convict uh man if he did steal uh
Circle-S calf. Johnny’s too good uh judge uh cows to even think uh
stealing uh runty little----”
“Cows is cows!” squeaks Scenery. “Doggone yuh, Andy----”
* * * * *
“Peace be with yuh, brothers,” orates uh voice at the door, and there
stands the Bringer uh Light. He rubs the top of his wobbly straw hat
against the top of the door, and masticates some industrious. “Peace
again be with yuh.”
“I’ll take ’em both,” accepts Buck Masterson. “That will make two
pieces. Have uh little drink, old trailer?”
“Lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine,” states Obie. “I thank
thee, brother.”
“My Gawd!” squeaks Scenery. “I wonder if that human lodge-pole thought
somebody was going to kiss him!”
Scenery catches sight of me, and immediate and soon comes over and
whispers so loud in my ear that yuh could hear him for uh mile:
“Don’t take uh chance uh letting Johnny Myers loose, Ike. He’s uh sheep
in wolf’s clothes.”
“You’re going too danged far in your remarks!” yells Pete Gonyer,
grabbing Scenery by the back of the neck and the seat of the pants.
“This is uh free--” begins Scenery, but Pete heaves him plumb into the
corner, and his carcass shakes the whole place.
“Well!” says Spade Wilson, from the doorway. “This seems to be uh lively
gathering.”
Nobody offers him uh greeting, so he swaggers up to the bar and buys
himself uh drink.
“Peace be with yuh, brother,” orates Obie, holding up his hand in the
Piegan peace sign. “Peace be with yuh.”
Spade stares at Obie for uh minute and then fills his glass.
“I thought I left you at the Seven-A ranch,” says Spade. “How in ----
did you get here so quick on uh burro?”
“I know not,” answers Obie, taking uh fresh chew. “I carry the Light to
all men, and speed is of little account. Today I am here, tomorrow I am
there. No matter. There is many dark places.”
Just then Scenery crawls out from under the chair and leans against the
wall.
“---- country, and I got uh right to orate my sentiments!” he croaks,
starting right in where he left off when he hit the wall. “I reckon I
got uh right to howl ain’t I? I don’t suppose that Pete Gonyer would
howl if somebody stole his cows. Oh, no! He’d yell so danged loud that
the soldiers at Fort Missoula would get right on uh train to come over
and put down an Injun uprising. I’m one upright and honest man, and I
wants----”
“I wants too, Mister Sims,” states Spade, grinning. He reaches over and
snaps handcuffs on Scenery’s wrists, and backs him out of the crowd.
“What’s he done?” yells somebody in the crowd.
“Well,” drawls Spade, “if some uh you fellers will go out to Scenery’s
barn yuh will find uh fresh Cross-L cow hide in his barn.”
“That’s uh danged, dinged lie!” wails Scenery. “I never had uh Cross-L
hide in my barn in my whole life!”
Two-Cinch Hogan is asleep on the porch when we comes out, and he wakes
up enough to hear Scenery’s oration.
“That’s right, Scenery,” he states, with the tears running down his
crooked nose. “Neither have I. Ain’t got nothing in my barn. Ain’t got
no barn. Poor’s uh church rat--me! Let me go to jail, too, eh? All good
men in jail now. Nothin’ but riff-raff outshide any more.”
Two-Cinch lays down in the sun and goes to sleep again, and we escorts
Scenery to durance vile.
Magpie looks foolish-like at Scenery, and then points to the cell door.
Our other three prisoners are looking out, and they are sure one fine
looking bunch.
Hank has two beautiful black eyes and is shy all his shirt except the
neck-band and one cuff. Johnny’s got hills and valleys all over his
countenance, and is nursing uh sore jaw. Zeb grins at us and spits out
through the place his front teeth used to inhabit.
“Why?” asks Hank, pointing at Scenery.
“I found uh fresh Cross-L cow hide in his barn,” replies Spade.
Zeb feels of the place where his teeth used to be and grins sweetly.
“Come in, Scenery,” says he, pleasant like. “Walk right in.”
“You don’t aim to put me in there do yuh?” wails Scenery.
“You deposes that I stole uh Cross-L cow from Zeb, and now you aims to
make me mingle with him. This ain’t law--it’s manslaughter!”
Anyway, Scenery went in.
“Cross-L, eh?” lisps Zeb. “Killed uh Cross-L cow for lunch!”
“Keep your big paws off me, Zeb Abernathy!” squeals Scenery. “I’m uh bad
hombre when I’m riled. Johnny Myers stole my----”
“Ho-ho-hold on, old-timer!” stutters Johnny. “Don’t accuse me uh
rustling! You never owned uh cow, in the first place and anyway----”
“Cows is cows,” states Scenery, with uh heap of conviction.
“Better cool down,” advises Magpie. “You fellers ought to have more
faith in detective work than to go right on rustling after he gets on
the job. I could have done as well as he has if I wanted to get myself
disliked. I been watching all of you but I just kept my mouth shut and
let yuh go on.”
The three of them looks at Magpie and then at each other.
“Magpie Simpkins,” pronounces Hank Padden, “when I get loose I’m going
to remove you from office at the end of uh .45.”
“When you get loose, Hank,” states Magpie, “I’ll probably be Governor of
the State.”
The next day we holds the hearing.
Old Judge Steele sets at uh card table in the old Mint hall, where
we holds our court, and looks at the prisoners over the tops of his
glasses. On uh soap box beside him is uh fresh cow hide, bearing the
Cross-L brand and that same hide ain’t no sweet incense.
On one side of the judge is Pete Gonyer and Andy Johnson holding uh
spotted Seven-A calf, and on the other side is old Sam Holt and Ricky
Henderson, trying to suppress the antics of uh runt of an animile,
bearing the Circle-S.
Spade Wilson is the happiest one in the room. That hombre sure is proud
of his handiwork.
The judge pounds on his desk and yells for order.
“Hank Padden, tell me your story,” he commands.
“Well,” says Hank, standing up and hitching up his belt, “I been looking
for uh chance to talk, Judge. There is times in uh man’s life when he
gets so danged shocked and sore that his vocal cords simply freezes up.
Mine’s thawed out now, and I wishes to orate in uh few words just what I
thinks----”
“What you thinks ain’t evidence,” interrupts the judge. “We’ll listen to
your story but not your thoughts.”
“I never stole them Herefords!” howls Hank. “They was in my corral, but
I’ll be uh liar----”
“Very likely, Hank!” snaps the judge. “Set down.”
“Judge,” says Johnny Myers, “I’d like to state----”
“Take the stand, Johnny. All I wants from you is the truth, and I don’t
want yuh to orate about the loss uh them white-faced cows. Sabe? Tell
the court how it comes that you’re caught branding uh Circle-S calf.”
“That’s uh danged lie!” explodes Johnny.
“Ain’t that uh Circle-S calf?” asks the judge, pointing at Scenery
Sims’s animile.
“It don’t need uh brand to show who it belongs to,” replies Johnny.
“Looks like uh goat.”
“Cows is cows,” squeaks Scenery.
“Set down, Johnny,” says the judge. “And I’d admire to have Scenery Sims
keep his mouth shut. I’ll ask Zeb Abernathy to take the stand.”
Zeb stands up and takes uh fresh chew.
“All I’ve got to say, Judge, is this: Seven-A cattle never did appeal
to me. I ain’t never stole nothing in my life, and any time I do turn
rustler I’m going to steal real honest to grandma cows--me--Zeb
Abernathy.”
“Don’t you say one word against my stock, dang yuh!” yelps Hank.
“Say!” The judge rears up on his hind feet, and hammers on the table
with both fists. “What do you cow thieves think this is--uh cattle
show? We’ll not pass on the merits of cows. Set down, Zeb!”
“Scenery Sims, stand up. Don’t git so danged squeaky! Speak up like uh
man, and anything yuh say can be used against yuh. Sabe?”
“All I got to say is that I been paying real money to the dangest liar
on earth!” wails Scenery. “I never had no Cross-L hide in my barn--in
my whole life, Judge.”
“You’re about as honest as the rest, Scenery, so yuh may as well save
your breath. I’ll call on Ricky Henderson and Andy Johnson to stand up.”
“You’ll have to hire somebody to hold these calves,” puffs Ricky. “If we
lets loose there’s going to be uh stampede.”
Somebody relieves them and they stands up.
“Did you fellers find this here Cross-L hide in Scenery’s barn?” asks
the judge, indicating the hairy bunch of odors beside him.
“Uh-huh,” nods Ricky. “We finds it where----”
“Haw-w-w-w-e-e-e--aw-w-w-w!”
In the door stands Lodestone, with his long ears pointing straight to
the front as he sings his song, and on his back is two persons, tied
back to back, with their legs tied under Lodestone’s belly.
“Hee-e-e-e haw-w-w-w-w!” sings Lodestone again, and then he starts right
up through the crowd.
“Clear the court!” yells the judge. “Or-r-r-r-r-der!”
* * * * *
The judge aims to pound right hard on his table, but he misses his
target and hits old Sam Holt right on the head. Old Sam is setting
on his haunches, holding onto that calf, and when the judge slams he
lets go of the rope and takes uh wallop at the judge.
Clear the court is right! Did yuh ever see two locoed calves in uh
crowded room, when they aims to get out, and everybody yelling and
shoving--and uh double-burdened jackass trying to force its way
inside? Talk about uh bull in uh china shop!
If I’d uh kept clear and watched it from afar I could have seen uh lot
more, but somehow I always has to mix into something what don’t concern
me in the least.
I comes out of the mess with uh chair around my neck, just in time to
get my head between Hank Padden’s legs and go to the floor again. Along
comes uh blatting calf, gets his hind legs through that chair, too, and
me and Hank and the calf goes plumb out into the street.
Something steps on my ear, and when I gets back what little sense Ike
Harper usually packs with him, I find Judge Steele setting on my lap
with his eyes closed.
“Yuh might show uh little dignity for your position, Judge,” says I.
“Setting on uh man’s lap out in the street in the daytime! What’ll
folks say?”
The judge opens his eyes for uh minute, looks me over in uh sober sort
of uh way, and shakes his head.
“Ike,” says he, slow-like, sliding off my lap. “Your jackass kicked
me as I came out.” And then he shows his ancestry by hauling off and
kicking me right in the stummick.
Then he gets up and wobbles off down the street. I gets emotional for uh
while, and struggles uh heap with my feelings. Finally I gets up and
pilgrims into the hall again. At first I thinks she’s deserted, but when
I looks real close I sees two pair uh boots.
One pair is protruding from under the judge’s table, which is caved in
on one side, and the other pair is draped over uh chair. The last pair
belongs to Magpie. He’s snoring like uh shepherd, so I goes over and
hauls Scenery Sims out from under the table.
Pretty soon Magpie sets up and looks around. He sizes up the destruction
for uh while and then looks at me and Scenery.
“Ike,” says he, “I’ll bet this is the only building standing in the
city.”
“Uh-huh,” I agrees. “And this one is only standing on the outside. I
reckon we might as well take Scenery and put him in jail. He’s all we
got left now, Magpie.”
Magpie gets his bearings, by bracing his feet between two chairs, and
we picks up Scenery Sims. Magpie takes him by the shoulders and I get
him by the feet, and away we goes wobbling down the street. Scenery
don’t wake up until we’re almost to the jail, when he sort uh shudders
and opens his eyes. He looks at me and then whispers:
“Cows is cows.”
“Don’t--don’t make so much noise,” croaks Magpie, turning his head,
painful like. “Everybody’s sleeping.”
When we gets in sight of the jail we sees three people on the steps.
It’s Hank and Johnny and Zeb and they sure looks like the breaking up
of uh hard winter. They looks up at us as we pilgrims up, and then
slumps down on the steps again.
“Why didn’t yuh go inside out of the sun?” I asks, but they just shakes
their heads.
“He wouldn’t let us,” explains Hank, in a faraway voice jerking his
thumb toward the door.
We lays Scenery down on the steps and opens the office door. Coming out
of the bright light makes it hard for us to see anything inside, but
when we gets accustomed to the light, we observes Obie, the Bringer uh
Light.
He’s tilted back in his favorite chair, with his long legs drawed most
to his chin, and when we see him he grins and hits that knot-hole dead
center.
“Why didn’t yuh let our prisoners in?” asks Magpie.
Obie grins and takes another shot at the hole before he says:
“Ain’t got no room. Jail’s full.”
We steps over and looks into the cell. Three men are sprawling over
the bunks, but only one is uh familiar one. This one is hunched up on
uh bunk and don’t seem much concerned about his surroundings.
“Sorry to bust up court thataway,” apologizes Obie. “I brought them two
down here, but when I came inside to arrange for my load, that yaller
burro wandered right uptown. I just got up there in time to see him kick
Kirk Kelso in the jaw. He was trying to cut them two loose. I had to
load all three on Lodestone. He’s some burro, that yaller feller. Them
two was the ones who were planting evidence to cinch Padden, Abernathy,
Sims and Myers. I sure been busy lately.”
“Kirk Kelso!” wonders Magpie, out loud. We takes another look inside the
cell, and then Magpie turns to Obie.
“If you’re so danged free with your Light, old-timer, yuh might shed uh
little light around here. Who in ---- are you?”
Obie took another shot at his target and grinned.
“Me? I’m Spade Wilson.”
“I-I-I was afraid of that,” states uh voice at the cell door, and we
observes the former detective hanging onto the bars. “No-nobody asked me
if I was Spade Wilson. They--they told me I was and I-I didn’t have the
heart to deny it. I stayed too long, that’s all. Yuh can’t mix pleasure
with b-b-business.”
He stares at us for uh minute, and then slips out of sight.
“True as Gospel,” agrees Spade Wilson, “If I knew where I could find
some real cowmen I might buy uh drink.”
“Cows is cows,” squeaks Scenery Sims.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Mid-November, 1917 issue
of Adventure magazine.]
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