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Title: Fate and a fool
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: July 19, 2026 [eBook #79133]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1917
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79133
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FATE AND A FOOL ***
FATE AND A FOOL
by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “A Bull Movement in Yellow Horse,” “In Self-Defense,” etc.
“I give Thee thanks,” sez he, scoopin’ up some of th’ bitter water, and
inhalin’ it through his whiskers. “I am Fate.”
“Uh-huh,” sez I, “that’s jist what I figgered.”
He looks jist like th’ pitchers yuh see of th’ ol’-timers who used to
ride herd in Jerusalem. His clothes ain’t exactly entitled to that
appellation, and his ol’ ragged hat seems to have grown to his head. His
shoes—what there is left—is tied to his feet with strips of gunny-sack,
and he holds himself together with an ol’ army ca’tridge-belt. Whiskers?
Say, that ol’ bird didn’t have anything else visible on th’ front of his
head, and when he opens his mouth to speak it looks like uh gash in uh
haystack.
I sees this apparition when I rides up to th’ alkali spring, and from
th’ pose of it out there ag’inst th’ sky-line, with its rags flappin’ in
th’ wind, and whiskers trailin’, I opines to my bronc that if I was uh
painter I’d draw uh pitcher like that and call it “Destiny.”
“Tarriest thou long in these hills, friend?” he asks, when I tightens up
my cinch and starts to roll uh cigaret. “Yonder, about a league, is my
pore domicile, and thou art welcome to break bread. I am a sorrowing one
and my name is Fate—known to men as Wetherbee. I seek my mate and
revenge.”
I don’t like to have to break my bread, and uh man shore is loco to hunt
fer revenge or a mate in th’ Medicine Hills, so I forks my bronc.
“I shore wish yuh luck, ol’-timer,” sez I. “Yuh may find revenge, but I
has my doubt about th’ mate part. I’ll shore keep my eyes open fer
anything that looks like yuh. My name is Ike—known to men as Harper. I
seek fer strays. _Adios._”
I pulls up about half uh mile from there and looks back. He’s still
there by th’ spring, leanin’ on his crooked stick and lookin’ off across
th’ hills. I shore has my doubts about his mate. Nature never made but
one mistake like him. I shakes up my bronc, lifts my voice in song and
points toward Piperock.
Yuh won’t find Piperock on no map. ’Most everybody who used to live at
Yaller Hoss lives there, ’cause Yaller Hoss is only uh memory. As th’
preacher we had for th’ funeral of “Hip Shot” Williams said—
“Th’ Lord giveth and th’ Lord taketh away.”
I reckon th’ Lord gave us th’ big spring at Yaller Hoss, but whether He
had anything to do with th’ takin’ away or not, I don’t know. Anyway it
dried up and everybody moves ten miles further down th’ landscape and
founds Piperock.
Speakin’ of Hip Shot, as uh side issue, I don’t believe that anybody
except Hip Shot himself had anything to do with his demise. He only had
uh few teeth—all front ones—which he used to clamp dynamite caps to
fuses. He got him some store teeth oncet and th’ next time he gits ready
to blast, he plumb forgot them back teeth, and bites down on that cap.
While Piperock ain’t what you’d call uh financial center, there are
times when, accordin’ to rumor, there is uh heap of bullion in our one
li’l Cattlemen’s Bank. Bein’ sort of uh half-way place on uh stage-line,
th’ pay-roll of th’ Mica camps lays overnight there, and th’ products of
th’ three big stamp-mills at Mica reposes there one night on its way out
to th’ mint. Uh course it ain’t commonly known jist when this vulgar
display uh wealth comes in, ’cause it might tempt some hombre from th’
straight and narrow way.
* * * * *
There’s uh bunch celebratin’ Ricky Henderson’s birthday in Buck
Masterson’s saloon when I arrives, and I joins th’ revelry with great
cheer, givin’ my stomach a landslide of alkali from my throat.
“Well, Ricky, here’s hopin’ yuh live to see Hank Padden herdin’ sheep,”
sez Buck. Hank is th’ worst woolie hater west of Cape Cod.
“Thanks, Buck,” laughs Ricky. “Yuh never can tell what fate has in store
fer yuh.”
“Well,” sez I, “if yo’re waitin’ fer Fate, I know right where he is. He
resides about uh league—whatever that is—from th’ alkali spring at th’
foot of Tincup Gulch. He’s uh sorrowin’ son, and he looks fer his mate.”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Pete Gonyer. “I know him, Ike. Ain’t he uh
specimen, eh? Dog-gone, he shore is th’ craziest shepherd in seven
States. Name’s Wetherbee, and he’s tendin’ woolies fer Jim Foster, uh
Camas. I been ridin’ hard all day and my bronc is all in, but when he
sees this crop uh whiskers he makes me pull leather to stay on. He
informs me that he’s lookin’ fer his mate. Haw! Haw! Orates that his
bride gits misplaced some way, and uh feller comes along and swipes her.
His wau-wau ain’t noways lucid. Jist uh plain nutty shepherd—no, he
ain’t plain either. Dog-gone, I reckon yuh might call him fancy.”
Magpie walks over and looks out of th’ window while th’ rest of us
celebrates th’ birthday uh li’l more. Magpie, bein’ th’ sheriff, has to
know when to quit. That’s th’ worst uh bein’ an officer—it restricts uh
feller’s privileges.
“Boys,” sez Magpie, pointin’ out of th’ window, “somethin’ is now comin’
into our young lives. Have uh look.”
Th’ only reason that nobody shot at his stovepipe hat was ’cause we all
’lowed he was uh preacher, and there was a closed season on sky-pilots
in Piperock. He hops down off Art Miller’s stage, stretches his long
legs, wipes th’ dust off his face and lopes over to th’ saloon, where
we’re all crowdin’ th’ doorway.
“This animile,” sez Magpie, “which we sees comin’ our way, is either uh
sky-pilot or uh seegar drummer. Don’t shoot until after he either offers
uh prayer er uh sample.”
“Gentlemen,” sez th’ party of th’ high hat, removin’ said bonnet, and
bowin’ like somebody had yelled, “Salute yore pardners!” “I’m ahead of
Oscuro.”
“Good work!” applauds Ricky. “Tha’s ex’lent. Is Oscuro uh sheriff or uh
gamblin’ de-vice?”
This feller puffs out his chest, slips one hand inside his vest jist
over his heart, places his foot on th’ step and announces—
“Oscuro is th’ greatest livin’ magician and handcuff manipulator.”
“And you got ahead of him, eh?” grins Magpie. “I sort uh reckon yuh
ain’t so slow yoreself.”
“I—uh—see that you don’t understand me. In sayin’ that I’m ahead of
Oscuro, I mean that I’m precedin’ him to yore beautiful city. It is my
pleasant duty to advertise his coming. While Oscuro is one of th’
greatest living exponents of mystic art, he is the greatest manacle
wizard of the age. Without any material aid he can remove from his
wrists and ankles any and all kinds of manacles. Locks and bars have no
terrors for Oscuro. He will offer a reward of one hundred dollars to any
one who can produce a handcuff that he can not remove without a key.
Later we will issue a challenge to your local peace officers.
“With him is Schubert, the musical wonder of Europe, master of all
instruments, and last but not by any means least is Standing Grizzly
Bear, the last of the Myopics. The latter is the greatest living
medicine man. From herbs and roots he has evolved uh cure for all ills.
With his simple remedy he can make th’ blind see and th’ deaf hear, and
th’ lame to walk. Gentlemen, these li’l pamphlets will tell you about it
better than my poor tongue can.”
He hands us uh bunch of printed sheets, and then canters back across th’
street to th’ hotel.
“I could believe some of this stuff if that feller hadn’t alluded to
Piperock as bein’ uh beautiful city,” states Magpie. “Uh man’s either uh
danged liar or he’s got uh motive when he makes uh statement like that.”
“Beauty is only skin deep, Magpie,” sez Pete. “Mebby this party sees
beneath th’ skin.”
“Tha’s right, Magpie, tha’s right,” grinned Ricky. “Beau’ful li’l ol’
Piperock. I shore hate to see ’er skinned by silk hats. Watch’m,
sheriff. Le’s all celebrate ol’ man Henderson’s son’s birthday, eh?
Good!”
* * * * *
This silk-hat person fades out, and four days later this aggregation
shows up. They rides in on th’ afternoon stage and we’re out in force to
meet ’em.
This Oscuro person looks uh heap like uh Greaser I used to know down
near Yuma, but I know it ain’t ’cause he’s taller and meaner lookin’,
and besides I helped lynch that one at Yuma. There’s this musical person
and one Injun with Oscuro. This musical wonder walks uh heap like he’d
spent uh few years in th’ saddle, and so does Oscuro. I suppose people
git that gait from ridin’ jist fer fun. This Injun—Myopic tribe, I never
heard of it before—looks uh heap like uh Flathead half-breed. I forms my
own opinion right there of th’ whole bunch.
“Herb doctor!” grunts Wick Smith, after th’ bunch gits inside th’ hotel.
“Dog-gone it, Ike, all th’ diggin’ that Injun ever did was in
garbage-cans or for camas root. They’ve got some of th’ medicine in th’
hotel there, which is called Marvelous Myopic. I gits hold of uh bottle
and reads th’ epitaph on th’ label. Accordin’ to th’ writin’ that stuff
will cure anything from Maine to Valdez. Th’ guarantee covers every
degree of discomfort from dobie itch to th’ bite of uh sidewinder, and
it’s got uh pitcher of Sittin’ Bull, with th’ bellyache, on th’ label to
prove th’ allegation.”
“All of which is uh delusion and uh snare,” states Magpie wisely.
“Accordin’ to my figgerin’ there ain’t nothin’ in th’ world that is good
for two things at once except hooch. Now, take hooch——”
“There still is wisdom left in Piperock!” exclaims uh voice behind us,
which we recognizes as belongin’ to Dirty Shirt Jones of Mica. “When uh
man sez ‘take hooch,’ then I feels like I’ve met uh long-lost brother.
Magpie, I’m with yuh from th’ hondo to th’ saddle-horn.”
We greets Dirty Shirt in uh dignified manner and adjourns over to Buck’s
place to git out of th’ sun.
Dirty Shirt is almost as big uh freak as Fate Wetherbee. He holes up in
uh li’l dug-out near Mica and, so far as anybody knows, he has worn th’
same shirt fer six years. It’s been patched until there ain’t one piece
of th’ original shirt left.
He’s uh reward fiend. Not bein’ able to read, every time he sees uh
notice posted he immediately and soon goes out to inquire who th’ reward
is for. He lives in continual hopes of catchin’ some notorious outlaw
and gittin’ enough reward to enable him to quit work. He don’t like to
have folks know he can’t read.
“Somebody been cuttin’ up didoes in th’ country, Magpie?” he asks, after
th’ usual formalities.
“Not to my knowledge and observation. Why?”
“Well,” sez Dirty Shirt, “I figgered mebby they had. I was ridin’ across
th’ hills up Roarin’ Cañon way, and I sees uh notice on uh tree near th’
Hell Gate trail. Uh course I wa’n’t near enough to read it. Jist sort a
took it fer granted, and came in to help yuh if yuh needed uh good man
fer uh posse, Magpie.”
“Yo’re welcome,” sez Magpie. “Who did yuh think it was for?”
“Mebby Flint McAllister.”
“Flint McAllister!” laughs Magpie. “You shore are after big game,
ol’-timer. Don’t worry about Flint. It’s goin’ to take uh hy-iu man to
git that outlaw. He’s worth about five thousand—countin’ th’ different
rewards. Them were show-bills yuh saw, Dirty.”
“Meanin’ which?”
Magpie tells Dirty Shirt about Oscuro and his outfit.
“I knowed it, Magpie. I was ’way off th’ road when th’ stage went past,
but I said to myself, ‘Them’s actor folks!’ th’ minute I sees ’em.”
Dirty wraps his thumb and finger around th’ top of his glass so it will
hold an extra kick or two, and reaches fer th’ bottle.
“Bein’ as you’ve spent most of yore life follerin’ uh burro through th’
sand of th’ flats, or pesticatin’ around th’ tops of th’ mountains, yuh
shore ought to be uh judge thataway,” laughs Magpie. “Yuh might be able
to tell uh Chink from uh painted Injun, but that about lets yuh out,
Dirty.”
Dirty Shirt wipes his mustache on his sleeve and hitches up his belt.
“You ain’t knowed me all my life, Magpie, so yuh can’t edzactly go by
what yuh opine. I said that them folks looks like actor folks and I
ain’t copperin’ no bets. I works fer Pete Sellers oncet over in Broken
Bow, where he runs th’ Gem honkatonk. I plumb has to associate with them
actors and actresses fer three mortal weeks, and by mighty, I reckon I
shore ought to know th’ breed.”
“Dirty Shirt, I apologizes,” sez Magpie. “Yo’re competent to classify.”
“I offers mine, too,” states Buck. “While I don’t speak up in uh bold
manner like Magpie, I backs up Magpie’s play down deep in my heart. How
about you, Ike?”
I starts to reply that I bows to superior wisdom, but jist then this
feller in th’ trigger-itchin’ hat, and this Oscuro person comes in.
“Gentlemen,” sez this high-hatted hombre, “I fear that I’ve neglected
you. I’ve been so busy coverin’ th’ country in my official capacity that
I haven’t had time to cultivate th’ acquaintance of yore charmin’ city.
I am Redfield Mulford, and this is Oscuro.” He bows and gently indicates
th’ Greaser, hoss-thief-lookin’ party at his right.
“Charmed,” sez Oscuro, bendin’ in th’ middle like his backbone was made
of spliced crow-bars, and lookin’ at Dirty Shirt like uh water-snake at
a frog.
Oscuro has uh pair of eyes that, if I saw ’em when I was alone, I’d
simply unhook with my six-gun and pray every time it jumped. Dirty Shirt
swaps stare for stare fer uh minute or two and then puts his glass full
of hooch in his pants pocket. He feels th’ liquor trickle down his leg
after awhile and it sort-a wakes him up. He blinks his eyes and slides
his hand toward his gun.
“Bartender, we will be served,” sez Oscuro, shiftin’ his eyes to Buck
and smilin’.
“I—I—I’ll be ——!” sez Dirty Shirt, lookin’ down at his pants. “Who
shoved this glass in my pocket?”
“You did,” replied Buck. “I was jist wonderin’ if yuh was tryin’ to
rustle my utensils.”
Dirty Shirt put th’ glass back gently on th’ bar and looks around sort a
foolish like.
“Mebby it’s th’ heat,” he grunts. “I never done uh thing like that
before. Mebby it’s th’ heat. I don’t feel edzactly well.”
“My friend,” sez Mulford, “you needs some Marvelous Myopic for yore
nerves.”
Dirty Shirt turns and sees Oscuro lookin’ at him, with half a smile on
his lean face. Dirty makes one move and th’ smile all goes out of
Oscuro’s eyes, ’cause no man smiles in th’ muzzle of uh .45.
“Mister,” sez Dirty Shirt through his shut teeth, “I ain’t no freak!
Mebby I don’t take uh bath every Saturday night, and mebby th’ two sides
of my face ain’t mates, but by th’ mighty, muddy Missouri River, if you
don’t quit starin’ at me I’ll be th’ last person yore eyes will ever
behold! I’m plumb docile with my friends and am usually calm and
considerate with strangers, but yuh riles me, mister, with yore starin’.
_Sabe?_ Yo’re as welcome as uh Chinook wind to uh frozen calf, but don’t
confine yore attentions to Mister Jones of Mica. It ain’t noways
conductive to yore health.”
Oscuro wets his lips, shuffles his feet nervous like and fusses with his
collar.
“I—huh—I beg yore pardon, Mister Jones,” sez he. “No offense, no
offense, I hope. I—er—didn’t mean to be—would you please not point that
weapon at me any longer.”
Dirty Shirt stares at his gun for uh minute and then shoves it back into
th’ holster.
“By th’ mighty Yallerstone, what’s th’ matter with me? I never held uh
gun that long before without havin’ somebody on th’ run fer th’ coroner.
I ain’t myself a-tall. Reckon I’ll go down to Jimmy Peyton’s and git
some ham and aigs. Jist think of it, Magpie; pull uh gun and hol’ it
like I would uh fish-pole! Might as well have uh four-year-ol’ club in
my hands!”
Dirty Shirt goes weavin’ off down th’ street, shakin’ his head sorrowful
like and we returns to th’ bar.
“Powerful personality,” sez Oscuro, crookin’ his elbow.
“Uh-huh,” grunts Magpie. “That hombre can look at yuh and tell what yore
business is. Saw you folks on th’ stage at half uh mile and knowed yuh
was actors.”
“That,” sez Mulford, grinnin’ into his glass, “is appreciated by our
entire troupe.”
“Mister Jones of Mica, to you I removes my tile,” sez Oscuro. “Yo’re uh
wonder.”
“Ike,” sez Magpie, when we’re amblin’ over to our cabin, “them fellers
seem to think that Dirty Shirt is some prognosticator. Pshaw, I never
figgered that he was anythin’ but uh common ol’ sourdough.”
“All of which bears out my favorite sayin’, Magpie,” sez I. “Jist
because uh man is caught herdin’ sheep, it ain’t reasonable to opine
that he never done uh stroke of honest work in his life.”
“Them are true words, Ike,” sez Magpie. “In spite of yore bein’
handicapped in life by havin’ uh small brain, you do speak wisely at
times. I hope that nobody kills this Oscuro person before th’ show comes
off, ’cause I hankers fer entertainment.”
I has my doubts. They’ve all got stovepipe hats, and that’s agin’ ’em.
After postin’ notices all over th’ range there’s bound to be uh lot uh
people come who ain’t civilized to any great extent, and silk hats shore
do make restless six-guns.
Magpie and me are layin’ on th’ bunk, talkin’ over th’ show people, when
uh shadow darkens th’ door and we sits up.
“Howdy,” sez th’ shadow, “I wouldst fain relax my feet.”
It’s Fate Wetherbee—whiskers and all.
“Yuh wouldst, wouldst yuh?” laughs Magpie. “Come right in, ol’-timer,
and relax your whole danged carcass.”
“I give thee much thanks,” sez Fate, floppin’ down in our chair. “I
wouldst inquire of th’ entertainment this eve. Th’ proclamations have
appeared on th’ hills of my flock and I wouldst seek knowledge of this
Marvelous Myopic. Know ye of him, friends?”
Magpie tells him all about Oscuro—that is, all we know about him. Th’
ol’ rooster sits there like uh horned owl and nods his head all through
th’ discourse. When Magpie finishes, Fate hauls out his ol’ pipe and
smokes uh long time before he speaks.
“’Tis uh mighty problem,” sez he.
“Meanin’ which?” I asks.
“A man rode out of th’ north, and in his travels he met uh man from th’
east, who wore uh head-dress favored of cannibals; and behold, they met
and held converse, and a certain person lingerin’ in th’ mesquite didst
hear and take notice. I am a son of sorrow. _Hyas kiwa._”
Th’ ol’ man takes th’ lid off th’ stove, knocks th’ ashes out of his
pipe, and, without sayin’ another word, ambles off down-town.
“Pine squirrel’s delight,” sez I.
Magpie scratches his chin and watches th’ ol’ rooster until he’s out of
sight.
“Son of sorrow, eh? Pore ol’ devil! Ike, that’s what uh feller gits fer
tryin’ to drown his troubles in sheep. Some take to mild stimulants like
hooch and poppy-juice, but uh man is mighty hard hit when he gits th’
sheep habit. ‘_Hyas kiwa_’ sez he. That means there’s somethin’ rotten
in Denmark. Mebby he’s havin’ hallu—hallu—well, seein’ things what
ain’t.”
* * * * *
Uh li’l later me and Magpie drifts down-town. There’s quite uh crowd on
th’ street, and we sees Dirty Shirt and Fate talkin’ confidential like,
over by th’ hitch-rack, and Magpie remarks:
“I reckon I’d better keep my eyes on that pair tonight. Dirty Shirt
ain’t got no more sense than Fate, and between them two they’d bust up
th’ battle of Waterloo.”
“When uh crazy shepherd and uh fool sourdough gits their heads together
it’s about time fer honest folks to form uh defensive alliance,” I
agrees.
“Ain’t it th’ truth?” sez Wick Smith, who hears my remarks. “Cripes!
That shore is one loco couple. They comes over to my store uh while ago
and looks th’ hull stock over some careful like. They pokes all around,
but refuses to tell me what they requires. Finally Dirty Shirt locates
th’ article, and ol’ Fate and him are some tickled. What do yuh reckon
it was, Magpie? Flatirons! Honest to grandma! Them things what Chinks
use to smooth boiled shirts with. Had ten of ’em in stock ever since I
buys th’ place, and they buys ’em all. Dirty Shirt takes ’em over to th’
blacksmith shop and knocks th’ handles off. After watchin’ the pair, I
changes my opinion that Siwashes buyin’ hearses fer Sunday rigs is th’
limit in craziness.”
“Yuh can shore copper th’ bet that they’re goin’ to start uh laundry and
play trouble across th’ board,” sez Magpie, and then we goes into Buck’s
place and horns into uh game uh draw, jist to while away th’ time.
We ain’t whiled much of it away, when in comes Oscuro and th’ Mulford
person. They asserts their friendship by callin’ up th’ house, and Fate
and Dirty Shirt smells th’ invitation from outside.
“Gentlemen,” sez Oscuro, sizin’ us all up with them black eyes, “I am
goin’ to ask uh favor. I feel shore that in yore midst is uh man who
would be willin’ to act as uh subject for my demonstration this evenin’.
I could use one of my own troupe, but some would think it a fake if I
did not use a local subject. Will some one volunteer?”
He looks hard at Dirty Shirt, but Dirty ain’t lookin’ at him a-tall;
he’s polishin’ th’ butt of his six-gun with th’ palm of his hand, and
lookin’ at th’ floor.
“Fate might do,” laughs Buck.
Fate has been lookin’ steady at Oscuro ever since he saw him, and when
Buck makes this remark, Fate slips his hand inside his dirty ol’ flannel
shirt and steps close to Oscuro.
“What would you have of Fate?” he asks.
“My man,” sez Oscuro, “I don’t wish to tell the crowd what is in store
for them this evenin’, so I would rather have you go over to the hotel
with me where I can outline it in private.”
Fate looks steady like at Oscuro for uh minute and then turns to Dirty
Shirt.
“_Tahtlelum—lakit kiuatan_,” sez he, deep down in his throat.
“_Kloshe!_” grunts Dirty, and goes right on polishin’ his gun-handle and
studyin’ th’ floor, while Fate ambles across th’ street behind Mulford
and Oscuro.
Me and Magpie cashes in our chips and walks outside.
“Ten—four hosses,” mumbles Magpie, translatin’ Fate’s Chinook. “Now,
Ike, I wonder what he meant? Four hosses, eh? ‘Good!’ sez Dirty Shirt.
Good what? Aw, I suppose it’s jist th’ ramblin’ of uh pair of loco
brains. If that pair tries to pull anythin’ tonight I’ll—hello, Sam!
What yuh doin’ down this way—come to th’ show?”
“Jist dropped in, Magpie. Hello, Ike, how’s tricks?”
It’s Sam Gardner, manager of th’ Golden Harp Mine, at Mica. Th’ Harp is
one of th’ biggest producers in th’ State.
“Come down to see th’ show?” asks Magpie again.
“Yuh might say I did,” sez Sam. “I reads th’ notices as I rides down.
Quite a crowd in town, eh? Thirsty?”
There shore was some crowd to th’ show. I reckon that Mulford person
shore posted that whole range, and range folks shore do hanker to be
entertained. Ol’ man Thatcher and his two boys comes in from their place
about twenty mile above th’ ol’ town uh Yaller Hoss, and th’ ol’ man is
plumb disgusted to find out that there ain’t goin’ to be no dance. Yuh
can’t blame him, ’cause him and th’ boys brings in their music utensils,
and it ain’t no cinch carryin’ uh bull-fiddle on th’ deck of uh
half-broke bronc.
Half Mile Smith and Sourdough Smith are there from Curlew. Hank Padden
comes over from th’ Seven-A, and brings all his punchers, and so does
Johnny Myers of th’ Triangle. In fact she looks like everybody in Yaller
Rock County hankers to be amused.
Dirty Shirt gits me to hol’ uh seat fer him, ’cause he’s goin’ to be uh
li’l late gittin’ in. Th’ odds are ag’in’ me, but I holds it in spite of
heavy opposition. As uh result, Sourdough has to take uh seat behind uh
post, where he has to crook his neck to see th’ stage, and seats retails
at two dollars and four bits each.
“Sourdough is shore livin’ up to his rep!” yells Swede Johnson from
across th’ room. “He even goes into ambush to see uh show. Haw! Haw!
Haw!”
Sourdough jumps to his feet, and reaches for his hip.
“You long-jointed, mule-faced——”
Splinter McFee, who weighs two hundred and thirty-five and rides uh
twenty-inch tree, reached up, put his hand on Sourdough’s shoulder and
pulls down. Sourdough slams back into his seat and hunches up.
“Well,” sez he, “jist to show yuh I ain’t no roughneck like Swede
Johnson, I’ll be gentleman enough to overlook the remark.”
“Sourdough shore has great control of his temper,” laughs Half Mile.
Magpie stands up and faces th’ crowd.
“Gents,” sez he, “for oncet in yore ornery lives be peaceful. I comes
here to be entertained, and, bein’ as th’ coroner is over to Helena,
I’ve got to ’tend to his duties, and I shore objects to any extra work.
_Sabe?_”
“I’m with yuh, Magpie,” sez Slim Hawkins. “I’m fer peace at any price.”
“Slim,” sez Magpie, “I’ve knowed you fer years, and yore daddy before
yuh. Sit down!”
I reckon there would have been an argument started, but jist then th’
curtain goes up and everybody sets down. Out comes Mister Shubert, and
I’ll say this much for that hombre—he shore could play. He plays on uh
lot uh different utensils and ends up by playin’ uh overgrown Dutch
pipe, th’ music of which sounds like uh man down uh prospect hole with
wooden teeth—th’ man, of course. He plays th’ bull-fiddle better than
ol’ man Thatcher, fer th’ reason that th’ ol’ man plays by ear, and,
bein’ uh li’l deef, don’t ride close to th’ tune.
After he gits through Oscuro comes out. He invites Buck Masterson, Pete
Gonyer and Ricky Henderson up on th’ stage as sort of uh committee to
see that he don’t pull no crooked stuff.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” sez he, “I am goin’ to show yuh that th’ hand is
quicker than th’ eye. Watch me closely.”
He walks to th’ front of th’ stage, pulls up his sleeve and shows us
that his hand is empty. Then he turns and pulls uh deck uh cards out of
Pete Gonyer’s nose. Pete swallers hard and looks at th’ cards.
“Cripes!” sez he, while th’ crowd laughs. “I never knowed they was in
there.”
Oscuro reaches over again and pulls uh twenty-dollar gol’-piece out of
Pete’s eye and holds it up.
“I suppose yuh didn’t know yuh had that either, eh?” and puts it in his
pocket.
Th’ hand is quicker than th’ eye. I sees Pete make uh short move with
his right, and his six-gun is givin’ Oscuro’s middle vest button th’
once over.
“Thanks,” sez Pete. “Yuh can keep th’ cards.”
Oscuro starts to splutter, but catches th’ look on th’ faces of th’
committee and thinks better of it. He motions th’ bunch back to their
seats. On th’ stage he’s got uh li’l striped tent rigged up, and he goes
over and lifts th’ sides to show that she’s empty.
“As my notices proclaim,” sez he, “I will now demonstrate my power over
locks and knots. I hope that yore sheriff has taken up my challenge.”
“Both ways from th’ jack,” states Magpie, anglin’ his way up to th’
platform. “We’re uh li’l shy on handcuffs—only havin’ two pair—but I
reckon we can throw enough diamond hitches, Lone Jacks and squaw hitches
to keep yuh interested. I’d like to have Ike Harper, Cobalt Williams and
Slim Hawkins to help in th’ operation.”
Th’ three of us ambles up and proceeds on th’ job with great cheer. We
uses th’ two pair uh handcuffs, and then we ties that hombre some
plentiful to his chair. It was some artistic job uh ropin’, if yuh ask
me, and then we slides him into his li’l tent and lets down th’ sides.
Five minutes was th’ time-limit, and by cripes, he still had thirty
seconds to spare when he walks out with th’ ropes and cuffs in his hands
and uh smile on his face. Th’ irons ain’t been unlocked, and th’ knots
are still in place.
“It jist natcherally ain’t human nor safe,” sez Sourdough, turnin’
around to me. “Th’ sooner uh feller like him is hung th’ better.”
Differences of opinion as to how it’s done is jist about to bust into
real trouble, but Oscuro holds up his hand fer silence.
“Gentlemen,” sez he, lookin’ at his watch, “leave th’ arguments until
after th’ performance. I will now proceed to perform th’ greatest feat
of them all.”
He motions toward th’ rear of th’ room, and down th’ aisle comes Fate
Wetherbee—whiskers and all—and gits up on th’ stage.
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” howls Pete Gonyer. “Look out, mister! If yuh ever gits
tangled in them whiskers you’ll shore need help to git loose.”
“Coarse wit is th’ safety-valve of fools,” sez Fate, lookin’ down at
Pete, and th’ crowd backs th’ shepherd’s play.
I looks at my watch and it’s fifteen minutes to ten.
“Now,” sez Oscuro, “I want th’ same gentlemen to come forward and put
th’ ropes and manacles on Mister Wetherbee. I am goin’ to have him
securely bound and placed in th’ cabinet, and I am goin’ to release him
at a distance.”
He gives us uh long oration about th’ power of mind over matter, and
states that he’s goin’ to release Fate thataway. He orates that he wants
perfect quiet and patience fer fifteen minutes, as it takes him that
long to perform th’ stunt. No one is to be on th’ stage except th’
shepherd in his tent, and he asks us to please not leave th’ hall under
any consideration.
We shore did ourselves proud in th’ ropin’-game this time. I reckon it
would have taken any one of us fifteen minutes to untie them knots with
our hands, and I shore has my doubts about any man’s mind havin’ any
loosenin’ effects on them hitches.
* * * * *
Well, we sits there plumb silent fer fifteen or twenty minutes, but
there was no sign of Fate comin’ out of th’ tent. Meanwhile Oscuro left
the hall.
“I reckon it’s some chore wishin’ them ropes off,” remarked Johnny Myers
out loud.
“Mebby Oscuro didn’t figger that he had uh shepherd to release,” laughs
Magpie. “There’s only one kind of spirits that work on uh—— Wow!”
Magpie’s discourse broke off and th’ whole audience turns to look out
th’ door. Somethin’ shore was doin’ out in th’ street. Yuh could hear
somebody swearin’ like uh mule skinner. Somebody yelped and uh bronc
bawled and we gits uh Wild West show with all th’ trimmin’s. Th’ door,
which was wide enough to drive uh team through, has been open all
evenin’, and th’ next thing we knowed in comes two broncs and sunfishes
right down th’ middle aisle.
_Rickety smash!_ Th’ leadin’ bronc, uh wall-eyed pinto from th’
Triangle, pitches into uh heap of empty chairs, and its rider, which is
known as Oscuro, turns over in th’ air, stands on his face on th’ stage
fer uh second and then slides right under th’ tent where ol’ Fate is
waitin’ to be unhitched.
_Br-r-r-rip!_ Th’ other bronc opines that he’s uh hurdler and pitches
across uh row of chairs, and its rider cuts uh half-circle in th’
atmosphere and lands all spraddled out on top of Judge Steele. It is
Mister Schubert. He shore can play, but when it comes to ridin’ he don’t
harmonize a-tall.
“Look out!” yells somebody near th’ door, and th’ third hoss makes its
entrance. That one don’t come clear in. Its name is Twister, and belongs
to Weinie Lopp of th’ Seven-A. I reckon it jist came in where it could
see to git uh toe-hold, ’cause it jist swaps ends once, high and
handsome, and we observes Chief Standin’ Grizzly, th’ last of th’
Myopics, give an exhibition of how far uh Montana outlaw can heave an
Injun. I reckon th’ Siwash would have went higher but th’ ceilin’ won’t
permit of any altitude records, so he had to alight.
When he goes up he has uh sack or somethin’ in his hand, which he
releases at th’ top of his flight, and said sack describes uh loop and
comes down powerful heavy on th’ head of one Half Mile Smith. Th’
Sandman visits th’ Smith family.
Th’ fourth hoss don’t come in a-tall. It stops at th’ door, but its
rider, which looks uh heap like Mister Mulford, comes right along in and
proceeds to demonstrate uh head spin down th’ aisle, hangin’ on to uh
sack which bumps and rattles along behind like uh derailed car on th’
end of uh freight train.
“Funny thing!” sez I, standin’ on uh chair and lookin’ over th’
livestock, which seem uh heap embarrassed to find themselves amid th’
bright lights. “Them broncs are th’ pick of th’ country as ornery
buckers, and I don’t _sabe_ what this show party wants to pull off uh
buckin’ contest for. It ain’t advertised.”
“Nor refined,” agrees Magpie.
Jist then all eyes are turned to th’ stage. There’s Dirty Shirt dancin’
like uh Piegan, with uh knife and uh coil uh rope in his hand, and
yellin’ at th’ top of his voice:
“Soak th’ son of uh sea cook, Fate! Wow! Who says uh shepherd can’t
fight! Yeo-o-o-ow!”
Out from under th’ tent comes uh swearin’, spittin’, scratchin’ bundle
of humanity, which we observes is Oscuro and Fate. Fate still wears th’
handcuffs, but Dirty is carryin’ th’ ropes. First Oscuro is on top and
then Fate. Talk about revolutions of uh circle-saw. Fate has got his
whiskers buried in Oscuro’s face, and he’s workin’ both hands fast and
frequent into Oscuro’s stomach.
“And—behold—I—huh—am sorrowful—huh—no longer!” we hears Fate yell
between puffs, as him and Oscuro spins over to th’ edge of th’ stage.
Dirty Shirt gits excited and forgets where he is, and when Oscuro and
Fate makes their last revolution they takes Dirty Shirt with them off
th’ stage and under th’ heels of that lop-eared roan outlaw from th’
Seven-A.
Right then, what Half Mile calls “Uh Recess in Hell” begins to happen.
Every one uh them broncs begins to feel th’ call of th’ wild, and wishes
to leave th’ bright lights and flesh-pots and hie forth to bunch grass
and solitude, and they ain’t noways polite in their exits. About th’
time them broncs git organized and on their way, I sees Half Mile
Smith’s head arise above his chair. He stands up, and in his hand is th’
sack which lulled him to slumber. He proceeds to rub his head and look
into th’ sack.
I’m grinnin’ when he catches my eye. I don’t know why I grinned. I’ve
seen men grin at sudden death, but it shore wasn’t ’cause they was
pleased much. Anyway, it peeved Half Mile, but he misses me and hits
Sourdough.
It don’t knock him out of his seat. There’s uh dull _clank!_ when it
connects with Sourdough’s head, and he jist shivers. Pretty soon he
opens his mouth—
“_Nesika papa klaksta mitlite——_”
“Sweet, ain’t it,” sez Magpie, takin’ off his hat and mine, too. “That’s
th’ first time I’ve ever had th’ pleasure of seein’ uh man git hit so
hard that he recites th’ Lord’s Prayer in Chinook, Ike. This shore is uh
real entertainment.”
“People,” sez Dirty Shirt, crawlin’ out of th’ mess in front of th’
stage, and holdin’ up his hand, “if somebody don’t pry that shepherd
loose pretty soon I shudders for Oscuro. I tried it—I’m through!”
Unless uh neckband and one cuff can be patched so as to make up uh shirt
it shore is up to Dirty Shirt to make uh purchase. We stampedes over and
hauls Fate off his victim. Oscuro ain’t what I’d call uh presentable
personage. His shirt is torn plumb off, and his face is promiscuous like
on his head.
“Look,” howls Fate, pointin’ at Oscuro, with his handcuffed hands. “Look
at his bosom! I knew it before I saw th’ sign. It availeth th’ wicked
nothin’ when they flee before fate! See th’ mark?”
“Looks like uh brand,” states Magpie, lookin’ close. “Wait! Cross-L!
Oscuro—— By cripes, it’s Mexican Allard! What do yuh know about that!
He’s worth five thousand in Wyoming, dead or alive. That brand is uh
memento of that outfit’s displeasure of his ability with uh cinch ring.”
“I reckon,” sez Dirty Shirt, tearin’ that neckband and cuff off and
tossin’ ’em to one side, “I’ll take uh rest on that piece uh change.”
“Yuh might buy uh shirt, too,” sez Ricky Henderson.
Jist then some more commotion starts near th’ door.
“Sheriff!” yells uh voice. “Where’s th’ sheriff? Hey, Magpie!” And here
comes ol’ man Whittaker, th’ banker, down th’ hall like uh scared steer.
“Dog-gone it,” he wails, “while everybody’s here gawpin’ at th’ show,
th’ bank has been robbed! Git uh posse! Git somethin’! I tell yuh th’
gold from th’ Harp has been stolen!”
“How about this,” yells Dirty Shirt, holdin’ up th’ article which Half
Mile tried to assassinate me with.
“Dog-gone!” whoops Whittaker, grabbin’ th’ sack. “Where did this come
from? Dog-gone, I’ll have to——”
He pulls out th’ contents. Flat-irons!
“Sufferin’ sidewinders!” he gasps. “Laundry tools!”
“Th’ same of which never were amalgamated at th’ Golden Harp,” states
Gardner foolishly.
“Here’s some more,” sez Pete Gonyer, takin’ th’ other sack from th’
unresistin’ hand of Mister Mulford, who is slumberin’ peacefully with
his head through th’ legs of uh busted chair.
Magpie looks at th’ irons and then takes th’ ropes away from Dirty
Shirt.
“It might be uh handy thing to put hobbles on this bunch while they’re
still sleepin’,” sez he. “I don’t _sabe_ this performance uh particle,
but we can apologize uh lot better than we can repent.”
Oscuro starts to git up on his feet, but Dirty pokes his gun in Oscuro’s
face, and he drops back.
“Better lay still,” opines Dirty. “‘Dead or alive’ shore don’t leave any
doubts, and I’m shore goin’ to collect th’ bounty on you.”
“Friends,” sez Fate, “am I to be deprived of my revenge? This Oscuro
person, known to me as Jim Bowers, is th’ man who stole my gold and my
wife. Let me take him out to my hills. ‘An eye for an eye and uh tooth
for uh tooth.’”
“All of which you’ve collected with interest,” states Dirty Shirt. “Only
yuh didn’t stop at one tooth. Yuh don’t make no shepherd out of this
hombre, Mister Wetherbee. He’s my grub stake, _sabe?_”
Oscuro hunches himself into an easier position and tries to grin, as he
painfully states:
“As to th’ whereabouts of yore wife, Fate, I’d also be glad to know. She
annexed my roll and left me on th’ rocks in Phœnix, two years ago.”
“Th’ knowledge of which takes th’ sting from memory’s hornet,” sez Fate,
with th’ first grin I ever seen on his face. It wasn’t exactly uh grin.
The whiskers jist widened uh li’l. And then he turns to th’ crowd and
waves his arms. “I am no longer uh son of sorrow, and I am weary of
mutton. Kismet.”
“All of which don’t explain nothin’,” states Magpie. “Bein’ as Fate
talks like uh scratched phonygraft record, we’ll jist call on Mister
Jones to elucidate this Wild West celebration, and also th’ meanin’ of
these laundry utensils.”
Dirty Shirt picks up uh flat-iron and grins at th’ crowd.
“This,” sez he, “is th’ latest in fool’s gold. In uh sack she shore does
resemble gold bars—especially at night in uh rush.”
“Here’s th’ which of it: Ol’ Fate is shadin’ hisself in th’ shade of uh
mesquite, when Mister Mulford meets uh puncher in th’ Medicine hills.
They has uh talk, th’ same of which is about th’ gold from th’ Harp
mine. They makes all their plans right there. It’s all been figgered out
long ago, but they makes it definite. Someway, this puncher knows th’
time.”
“They figgers to git everybody in th’ country to come to th’ show, and
while it’s goin’ on this puncher is to bust th’ safe, after placin’ four
extra broncs at th’ hitchrack, and cuttin’ every other hoss in town
loose. That shore eliminates any posse. Their plans was to vamoose while
th’ crowd was waitin’ fer th’ subject to git released under th’ tent.”
“All I did was to eliminate th’ puncher, after he’d busted th’ safe, and
give them th’ flat-irons. I jist popped him on th’ head with uh loaded
quirt.”
“I’d remark that they shore picked some broncs fer their getaway,”
laughs Weinie Lopp. “That Twister hoss is——”
“I done all that pickin’,” sez Dirty Shirt. “I knowed they won’t go far.
I sez to myself——”
“Behold!” yells Fate, pointin’ to th’ door, and we observes th’ daddy of
all woful persons.
It’s standin’ there, weavin’ and weavin’, with its shirt almost tore
off, and th’ belt of its shape is busted, and hangin’ down around its
knees. It ain’t got no hat, and th’ face of it seems to have come in
contact with uh rough obstacle. It has uh six-gun in each hand but don’t
seem strong enough to more than hol’ onto them guns.
“Who—who—who in —— tied them ropes across th’ street?” it manages to
ask, like th’ croak of th’ last frog on earth. “I —I—I hit it and——”
This bunch of woe slides to th’ floor in uh loose heap and sleeps.
“I figgered he would if he tried to git away,” laughs Dirty Shirt. “Them
other broncs wouldn’t jump it, so they jist had to come inside to have
room to perform. Th’ gold is piled on th’ sidewalk outside, Mister
Whittaker.”
Magpie leans over this busted bunch of humanity, and then turns to Dirty
Shirt and Fate, with uh grin, and removes th’ handcuffs from Fate and
puts ’em on th’ sleepin’ figger before he sez:
“I reckon you can buy another clean shirt, Dirty, and Fate can git uh
hair-cut, too. This is Flint McAllister!”
“Five thousand more!” yells Buck Masterson. “Th’ danged fools left Flint
McAllister out there with all that gold, with nothin’ but uh rope across
th’ street to keep him from gittin’ away, and——”
“Two ropes, Buck,” corrects Dirty. “I didn’t know which way he was
intendin’ to go, and I wanted to see th’ fun inside.”
“And that li’l rope,” whispers Wick Smith wonderin’ly, “stopped th’
worst outlaw in Montana. Yuh shore can’t beat——”
“Fate and a fool,” finishes Oscuro, lookin’ down at his trussed-up
carcass. “I recognized Fate, and left him _hors de combat_, but——”
“Like all wise men,” finishes Magpie, “yuh plumb overlooked th’ fool.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
March 1917. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
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