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Title: For the parson of Paradise
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: June 26, 2026 [eBook #78960]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1919
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78960
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOR THE PARSON OF PARADISE ***
For the Parson of Paradise
by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Alias Whispering White,” “How Paradise Lost,” etc.
Me and Magpie Simpkins pilgrims into Paradise, ties our burro to a rack,
and looks at the place from an unbiased standpoint. Paradise is a good
little town—to look at; but she ain’t no place to start something you
ain’t prepared to finish. A long time ago they changed the Sixth
Commandment to read: Give him an even break—regardless of ability.
Over in front of the Ace Full saloon sets a lonely figure, which we
decipher to be “Old Testament” Tilton. He was put on earth—or thinks he
was—to save souls. He almost saved one. He prevailed upon “Sad” Semple
to stop his wayward path, and the said Sad person listens
attentive-like, and publicly hugs Old Testament.
Sad makes a date to meet Old Testament at the church, but I reckon that
Sad got to thinking it over and decides that so long as he’s going to
slough all of his sins in a bundle he may as well be steeped, so he went
over to Mike Pelly’s saloon and played a dollar on the wheel.
He lost. Then he rises up and proclaims that, while the wheel is the
invention of the devil, who ain’t noways a visible target, some human
being has been tampering with the mechanism, the same of which makes it
a cinch instead of a gamble. Such remarks lead but to the grave,
especially when directed at “Kid” Kelly, behind the wheel, so Old
Testament’s well-chosen words are spoken over Sad instead of to him, and
Old Testament lost his chance to put a brand on a lost sheep.
He sets there like an old buzzard, dressed in his rusty, split-tailed
coat, with his shiny pants tucked into the tops of his short boots. He
expectorates when he sees us, and straightens out one leg, with a
convulsive jerk.
“Howdy, Testament,” says Magpie. “How moves the world with you?”
“Howdy, Brother Magpie,” says he, sad-like. “Howdy, Brother Ike.
Spiritually, physically or financially? In spirit I am meek and mild,
and physically I am able to nourish at such times as I can secure an
excuse for mastication, but financially—by the butting bull of Bashan,
I’m down to bedrock! Bedrock and no color! The Paradise church ain’t
paying no dividends. She couldn’t pay _ono peso_ on a dobie dollar, and
you can’t lead sheep on an empty stummick. The pastor of Paradise hath
an empty pantry.”
We sets down beside the old boy, and rolls smokes. Old Testament shifts
his quarter-section of spitting-weed, and hits a lizard dead center.
“The women of my church tried to give a sociable to raise a few dollars,
but she wasn’t a success,” he announces. “‘Weinie’ Lopp was the first
one there, and he ate six scoops of ice-cream. Yeap! Mighty nigh died of
cramps, and while we’re resuscitating him they forgot to cover the
freezer, and the whole mess melted. Netted one dollar and four-bits.”
“Which don’t scare no wolf from the wickiup,” observes Magpie. “Ain’t
there no way you can get the money?”
“Yea, verily, I might turn highwayman,” observes the old boy, squinting
at his toes. “I pray daily for relief.”
“And set here in the sun and wait,” says Magpie, slipping a five-dollar
bill into the old boy’s pocket. “You’re a lot like other praying folks
I’ve knowed, Testament. Your pack is full of trust but your ability has
leaked out a long ways down the trail. You’re handy for funerals and
marriages, but outside of that—I ain’t got nothing against you, you
understand. I ain’t going to condemn no man, Testament, but I will say
this much to you. There ain’t no use in asking the Lord to get you
things that you can go out and get for yourself. _Sabe_ what I mean?”
We ambles over to Mike Pelly’s saloon, and left Old Testament there on
the walk, nodding to himself.
We sure runs into a confab in that den of iniquity. The center of
interest is a stranger to us. He’s about as tall as Magpie, and if
anything he’s thinner, which is speaking of the top notes of a fiddle.
He’s got a shiny stovepipe hat on his mop of gray hair, and he’s got a
nose that looks like forty below zero. I’d also like to state that he’s
got a voice. Man, he don’t talk—he roars. Me and Magpie stops in the
doorway, and waits for somebody to kill him.
“Ha!” he rumbles, tapping himself on the chest. “Booth! Barrett! Who
were they? I ask you—who were they?”
“I’ll bite,” says “Ricky” Henderson. “Who were they?”
He don’t answer. He glares at Ricky, and Mike Pelly slips his riot-gun
over the edge of the bar.
“Egad!” he roars. “When I, John McBeth, played _King Lear_ the hirelings
of the press crawled at my feet for the scanty interviews I might
condescend to give. My autograph sold at auction! The autographs of the
king of tragedy.
“What am I doing here? Why do I desert—yea, abandon—the call of Mammon
and the glittering paths which I so lately trod? Why do I hide in
obscurity while the populace clamor my name? I’ll tell you why. You are
the cause. Ye who have never heard my name. I come to you with my
wonderful reputation and repertoire, that those of you who are isolated
may taste of the tales of the Bard of Avon. My art is great but my love
for my fellow man is greater. I thirst.”
Mike sets out the bottle, and this actor person shows us that his last
remark was no idle bit of conversation. Mike sighs deep-like, and fills
the bottle again.
“When do you show?” asks “Telescope” Tolliver, of the Cross J ranch.
“Sho-o-o-o-ow?” He runs from a low note to a high one, and when he
finishes his nose is pointed dead on the ridgepole.
“That was the question,” admits Telescope. “We want to know when to
come, and under what auspices it is to be held. Down at Silver Bend they
mostly always put ’em under the auspices of some strong organization. We
ain’t got no lodges here, and our strongest organization is the
Vigilance Committee. How would that suit you?”
“This one will be under the auspices of the Baptist Church,” states
Magpie.
“Chur-r-r-rch?” roars the tragedian. “Chur-r-r-rch?”
“Beyond the shadow of a single, solitary doubt,” agrees Magpie. “You and
the church splits the purse fifty-fifty. _Sabe?_”
“That’s some good idea,” applauds “Chuck” Warner, another Cross J
puncher, who can wiggle both ears like a mule. “What for kind of a play
have you got, mister, what will be suitable for a church auspices?
Something dignified and not gaudy but appropriate and entertaining.”
“Shades of Hamlet!” he grunts. “Fifty-fifty with a church! Egad, we
might play ‘Ben-Hur.’ But stay! I have no troupe. I am
alone—alo-o-o-one. Again I thirst.”
“We’ve got a lot of talent around here,” says Henry Peck. “I play a
banjo, and me and Chuck and Telescope and ‘Muley’ Bowles can sing ‘Sweet
Adeline,’ all four to once. She sounds great.”
“I doubt me not,” growls McBeth, looking longingly at Mike. “‘Ben-Hur’
requires a large cast, and the trappings of Biblical times. I can not
even think of such an undertaking.”
“Take your own time,” says Magpie. “We’ll wait while you think. No
think—no drink. _Sabe?_”
The old spav does a lot of thinking right there, and then:
“Art willing to help me? Help me? Gadzooks! The talent of the world
would rally to my call, and now I have to beg for assistance. Ah, well,
I will do it. Now I thirst anew.”
To see that old pelican drink you’d bet he was a desert from his wisdom
teeth to his heels. Magpie gets enthused over the old rumbler, but I
can’t seem to appreciate his talents. Magpie tells me that I ain’t got
no art in my soul, and, not knowing just what constitutes art and souls,
I’m forced to agree with him.
* * * * *
I finds “Dirty Shirt” Jones enjoying a siesta in the Ace Full, so I
pulls his chair out from under him and drags him to the bar. We gets
reminiscent and gladsome, and he invites me to visit at his shack.
“To spend the week-end, Ike,” says he.
“Which end is that?” I asks.
“You know your own physical failings better than I do,” says he. “I read
that in a book, Ike. What do you answer?”
“Me? I’ll spend both ends with you, Dirty. Magpie has hooked up with the
King of Tragedy, who goeth fifty-fifty with a church, and he won’t be of
no use as a pardner until it’s over, and some good folks are dead.”
“Your conversation is clear as Yallerstone water.”
“Meaning that Paradise is going to have a show. Tragedy comes to us,
with a stovepipe hat and a painted nose, and opines to enlighten us. He
loves his feller man, Dirty Shirt. Ain’t he a wonder? He cometh with a
reputation, repertoire and a roaring thirst. His voice sounds like a
load of barrels going over a wooden bridge.”
“The name of said show is?”
“‘Been Here.’”
“Before?”
“‘Been Here.’”
“Not since 1895,” declares Dirty. “The first one we had was ‘Uncle Tom’s
Cabin’ and the last one was a return engagement of the same show, and
there ain’t been nothing in between.”
“‘Ben-Hur,’” corrects “Slim” Hawkins, from the doorway. “Some show,
believeth me. I’m going to take a part.”
“Then believeth me, I’m not coming,” says Dirty. “Them there home
talentless things ain’t no good. Pay two dollars and four-bits for a
chance to get killed. Not me!”
The crowd drifts in from Mike’s, and the play is the topic of
conversation.
“This will mark an epoch on local theatricals,” states Muley Bowles, who
speaks in rhyme and gets weighed on the hayscales. “This here is a
religious theme, and will uplift the community.”
“You _sabe_ this here play by heart?” asks Dirty Shirt.
“Not me,” grins Muley. “I ain’t no forecaster. It ain’t been wrote yet.
Somebody wrote it once, and this here famous actor knows a little of it,
but he’s going to write what he can’t remember. He told us a little of
it, and she listens like tinkling brooks.”
“I’m helping him,” states Magpie, important-like. “I know quite a lot
about such things, and him and me can sure lay out an entertainment that
will make you set up.”
“Well,” says Dirty Shirt, “a while ago I remarked that I won’t come, but
I’d sure admire to see anything that Magpie had a hand in. It will
likely give somebody an excuse to kill somebody else. I’ll come.”
“Mike Pelly said he’d donate the opery house,” states Ricky. “Wonder if
we can get old man Thatcher to bring his orchestra?”
“We can,” says Swede Johnson. “He’ll come. He’s got a new bull fiddle
that he wants to try out. Four in his orchestra now. His boy plays the
squeeze organ, and old ‘Calamity’ Clakins can just about blow the keys
out of a mouth harp. And last but not least is ‘Froggy’ Deschamps. He
sure can make that jew’s-harp talk.”
“Sounds to me like a Piegan with the hay fever having a nightmare
through his nose,” says Dirty, disgusted-like. “Sounds awful, Ike.”
“You two ain’t got no love of music no way,” says Magpie. “You can’t
appreciate the tender things of life. You won’t appreciate a Biblical
tragedy, so you may as well not come.”
“What kind of a show is this?” asks Dirty.
“‘Ben-Hur,’” states Magpie, wise-like. “‘Ben-Hur’ is a story of things
what happened before the spinx was built. Know what the spinx was,
Dirty?”
“Sure. Which one are you referring to, Magpie?”
“The one what was built in Greece.”
“Oh, that one,” says Dirty, relieved. “Now I _sabe_. You’re so vague
about things, Magpie, that a feller has to question. Never mind
explaining any more, ’cause I _sabe_ the drift of the thing now.”
Old Testament is still setting in the same place, so me and Dirty stops
to break the gladsome news.
“Testament, good times are coming,” says I. “They’re going to play
‘Ben-Hur’ for you.”
He squints up at us—
“Name of a race-hoss, piece of music or a gambling device?”
“None such,” replied Dirty. “This is a play show. _Sabe?_ A certain
tragic person is going to produce some results, and you get half what he
acquires.”
“Huh!” grunts the old boy, thinking it over. “I _sabe_, brother. If he
gets sixty days in jail I get thirty. Why multiply my misfortunes?”
“Be meek,” advises Dirty. “The meek shall inherit the earth.”
Old Testament shifts his chew, and nods:
“Eventually, but not yet. When doth this play attempt to happen?”
“It is now under construction,” says I. “Being made to Paradise’s
measure.”
“I hope she will fit,” says Testament, earnest-like, “I hope she fits.”
“She will be a fit,” assures Dirty. “Apoplectic, paryletic—some kind.”
Me and Dirty don’t show up in Paradise until the next afternoon. Mike’s
place is closed, and so is the Ace Full. We sets down on the sidewalk,
and wonders, like _Rip Van Winkle_, how long we been asleep. Pretty soon
we hears a noise up in the opery house, over the Ace Full, so we climbs
the squeaky stairs, and looks in.
Looks like a political rally. About all the male population for ten
miles around are grouped around the stage, upon which sets Magpie and
John McBeth. McBeth is discoursing thusly:
“_Ben-Hur_ was a Jew. He——”
“I’ll take that part,” says Slim Hawkins, standing up. “Me and Sam
Rosenstein punched cows together in Custer County, and I _sabe_ the
type. He beat me out of a saddle and——”
“Silence!” roars McBeth. “_Ben-Hur_ was a noble Jew.”
“Sam was a Russian one,” says Slim, apologetic-like. “I’d love to——”
“Slim, you set down,” says Magpie. “This here astute tragedian is
explaining as we proceed. You stay down or I’ll come down there and nail
your chaps to the chair.”
“I suppose you picked that part for yourself, eh?” says Slim.
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Pete Gonyer, of Piperock, and Magpie rises up.
“You’re all through laughing, Pete,” proclaims Magpie. “Go ahead with
the tale, John.”
“Good breeding is rare,” says McBeth. “A fool laughs when wise——”
“Shut up!” yelps Magpie. “You cut out the comment, and explain the show.
Most of these men are strangers to you, and you don’t realize how close
to the cemetery you’re riding. Me—I know them well enough to shoot at
the right time, but I’ve got to save you until the church gets its
split. _Sabe?_”
“What I wish to know is this,” says Chuck Warner. “Is this here to be a
stag show? Ain’t none of the gentle sex included?”
“What do you think this is—a honkatonk?” yelps Magpie. “Go ahead, John.”
“_Ben-Hur_ accidentally knocked a brick off the top of his house, and it
hit the new governor on the head. The soldiers get him, and cast him
into a galley, where he is chained to an oar for years.”
“I’ll throw a brick,” whoops “Mighty” Jones. “But I won’t pack no oar.
Who is the one what gets hit? Pick some of that Seven A bunch.”
Magpie stretches out his long legs, and shifts his gun:
“Go ahead, Mr. McBeth. I ain’t got no brick, but the light is fairly
good. Go ahead.”
“_Messala_ is the heavy,” states McBeth, nervous-like. “He’s a bitter
enemy of _Ben-Hur_, and——”
“I vote for Muley,” yelps Telescope Tolliver, “he’s the heaviest thing
around here, and he can hate anybody like ——!”
“I’ll be _Ben-Hur_,” whoops Weinie Lopp. “I’d love to have Muley hate
me.”
“I quit!” roars McBeth, throwing his paper on the floor. “Ye gods! In
all my years before the footlights I never had less attention. Shade of
General Lew Wallace—I quit!”
“After the church gets its half,” says Magpie. “Remember the love you
hold for your feller men.”
“R-r-r-r-ruff!” he roars, shaking his mane like a buffalo bull. “It is
an insult to my intelligence! Be it so. I proceed. As I said before,
_Ben-Hur_——”
“_Messaly_,” corrects “Doughgod” Smith. “You told us all about
_Ben-Hur_.”
“Ike,” says Dirty, “this conversation will lead to homicide. Let’s me
and you keep our skirts clean. Eh?”
“There is wisdom in your words,” says I, and we went out of there.
* * * * *
Dirty Shirt has got some stuff at his mine what has to be hauled in, so
we spends a couple of days away from the flesh-pots.
And it came to pass, as they used to say in olden times, that when me
and Dirty Shirt again come into Paradise we first meets Old Testament.
He seems shy on enthusiasm, and makes figures in the sand with his toe.
“How goes the auspices?” I asks, and he shakes his head.
“Verily, it is no better,” says he. “Strife is rampant. Art Miller took
a shot at Magpie Simpkins last night. Deplorable—missed him. John McBeth
is in jail, and tonight the play is due.”
“They got the King of Tragedy in jail?” I asks. “What’s he done?”
“Tried to escape. Said he was afraid of the outcome. They put him in
jail until show-time. We’ve sold five hundred dollars’ worth of chairs.”
We congratulate Old Testament, and pilgrims on up-town. Art Miller is
crossing the street, so we asks him where Magpie is.
Art glares at us, and then explodes:
“That hawg? That grasping goof?”
“The same,” says I. “Do I get a reply?”
Art gnawed the ends of his mustache for a moment, and then:
“Him and that cross between a pole-cat and a pail of leaf-lard are up in
Selby’s old cabin, I reckon.”
“Him and Muley?” asks Dirty, and Art nods.
“You _sabe_ the description.”
We pilgrims up to the old cabin, and sets down on the porch. The door is
closed, but through the open window comes this conversation:
“Gadzooks! I would’st fain bust thee over the head with my saber,
_Messaly_.”
“Pshaw! You would so? Thinkest thou could’st bust mine helmet,
_Bennie_?”
“You ain’t got no helmet, Muley, and them ain’t the lines no ways. From
now on I wears my leather cuffs. Dog-gone, I sure have lost some skin!”
We hears the rumble of vocal cords for a minute, and then Muley’s voice:
“Let’s do that race scene over again, Magpie. That’s the part what will
make the big hit. Now you ain’t supposed to be here. _Sabe?_ Now watch
me. I sees the bill of fare on the wall. Now I saunter up, clanking my
sword, and now I’m reading. See? Now I turn, and look a heap like I
smell onions. Now I speak to _Simonides_: ‘_Ben-Hur?_ That Jew?
Impossible. It says here that he’s going to herd three broncs in this
race. Ha, ha! Drive? Why he couldn’t herd a cow down a lane.’”
“That don’t need rehearsing, Muley,” says Magpie. “You get too danged
enthusiastic over that part. Why don’t you get animated over me carving
you up with the sword? This ain’t no comical show, Muley, and you ain’t
no actor, if you asks me. I’ll show you real art. Here’s how I act after
I beats you out in that race. I walk over to you like this, and I say:
‘What ho, you big goof! You fat——’”
“Aw, hang on to yourself, Magpie! The word fat ain’t used. _Sabe?_ That
word is silent and superfluous. I don’t _sabe_ the word goof, so I’ll
pass that. Now, go ahead.”
“What ho, you big fat goof! You——”
“Aw ——!” groans Muley. “What if I am plump? You don’t need to dilate on
it, do you? You get mean in your remarks. I wish that me and Art could
have played together.”
“You and Art? Art couldn’t play a hand of poker. He’d make a fine
_Ben-Hur._”
“Well,” says Muley, “he’s a gentleman, anyway.”
“Which would leave you right where you are now,” says Magpie, and then
there is silence for a while.
“Some job getting the livestock up there,” opines Magpie.
“Some race-track,” says Muley. “Pete’s some carpenter. Windmill.”
“Treadmill,” corrects Magpie. “We’ll sure do well on this show. Or
rather, the church will do well.”
“Old Testament will,” says Dirty to me. “He gets five dollars for a
funeral, and unless I’m mistaken he’ll work over-time, Ike. I’ll buy a
ticket—in the back of the room. How about you, Ike?”
“Me? I’ll prospect the roof for knotholes first, Dirty.”
We pilgrims down-town and has a drink, but there seems to be sort of a
strained feeling about the place, so we goes home. After a while Magpie
limps down our way, and sets down on the steps.
“You fellers don’t show much public spirit,” he states. “Why don’t you
help us a little?”
“We’re neutral, Magpie,” says Dirty. “When do you have your show?”
“It ain’t my show,” says he. “While I’m taking the star part it ain’t
noways to be known to posterity as my show. It will surprise you,
though.”
“I’ll take a gun,” opines Dirty. “You may surprise me, Magpie, but you
ain’t going to bushwhack Mr. Jones’ favorite son.”
“Everybody satisfied with their part?” I asks.
“Them what have them are,” says he, sad-like. “A certain amount of
dissatisfaction is apparent. Art Miller and Pete Gonyer both wanted to
play the star part, and now they’re sore. Pete McCall and Weinie Lopp
wanted to be _Messaly_, and they’re put out a lot. Human nature is a
queer thing. Want to hear me recite some of my part?”
“We bought two seats at two dollars and four-bits per each,” says Dirty
Shirt. “If you’ll hand us back that five dollars we’ll set and listen to
you recite. I’d rather see the show.”
“You won’t regret it, Dirty,” says Magpie. “You sure won’t.”
“Nope. A dead man has no regrets, and if I get out safe I’ll be so darn
happy that I won’t take time to regret, Magpie. I wish you a pleasant
voyage—you and your oar.”
* * * * *
I’d say that everybody in Yaller Rock County was inside them four walls
when me and Dirty Shirt squeaks down the aisle. A lot of folks must have
been shy, ’cause front seats are all we can get, and right behind us are
“Yuma” Yates and “Pug” Peters, two mean _hombres_ from over on the
Little Snake. They’re hairy, loud in their remarks, and exhales odors of
alcohol.
Nailed to one side of the stage is this proclamation:
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
LEAVE YOUR GUNS OUTSIDE
JOHN McBETH WRITES AND
PRESENTS TO YOU
BEN-HUR
A DRAMATIC BIBLICAL DRAMA
THEM WHO TAKE PARTS ARE
Simonides, a merchant John McBeth
Ben-Hur, a Jew Magpie Simpkins
Messala, a villain Lemuel Bowles
Sheik Ilderim, a Arab Judge Steele
Esther, a woman Annie Mudgett
Soldiers, livestock, etc.
Act 1—A housetop in Venice.
Act 2—Simonides’ parlor near a race-track.
Act 3—A Roman chariot-race.
Act 4—The Arena, where Simonides kills Ben-Hur and
Messala in combat before King Herod. King Herod
is out of sight.
Music by Thatcher’s orchestra. Overture is a jew’s-harp
solo, “Poet and Phesant,” by Jean Baptiste Deschamps.
Songs will likely be sung between acts by the
Cross J Quartette.
Me and Dirty Shirt deciphers all this, and wonders exceedingly.
“Listens like a regular show, Ike,” says Dirty.
“Better be,” states Yuma. “We paid to see something.”
“That’s whatever, Yuma,” agrees Pug.
“She better be.”
“You snake-hunters wouldn’t know the difference anyway,” says Dirty.
“Any man what ever roamed them Snake Hills wouldn’t _sabe_ anything
entertaining less than murder or a lynching. Why don’t some folks wash
up a little, I wonder. You smell anything from back there, Ike?”
“Them is fighting remarks in our country, old-timer,” warns Yuma.
“Do I have to go back there with you?” asks Dirty, sarcastic-like, but I
takes him by the arm, and tries to pacify him.
“Don’t quarrel with them ant-eaters, Dirty,” says I. “They’re unclean.”
“You mean them words?” inquires Yuma.
“Who’s talking to you?” I asks. “It shows darn poor taste to listen to a
private conversation. Lean back and shut up!”
Just then old man Thatcher stands up, bites off a fresh chew, waves his
bow, and the solo starts. Ever hear classical music on a jew’s-harp?
Frenchy leans back in his chair, and groans and twangs like a busted
guitar. Yuma and Pug crouches down over the backs of our chairs, and
stares at Frenchy.
“My ——!” explodes Yuma. “What in —— is the matter with him?”
“Set down!” yelps Dirty. “What do you think he’s playing—‘Stars and
Stripes’?”
“Playing?” asks Yuma, in a hoarse whisper. “Playing ——! He’s dying!”
_O-o-o-o-om-m-m-m—twang, twang, twung—e-eeng, zung, twung, twang,
tum-m-m-m,_ goes Frenchy. _Tum-m-m-m, twang, twing, twum-m-m-m._
_Bang!_
I got the hair burnt off the back of my neck, when Yuma’s gun busts near
my off ear, and then I slides deep into my chair. I looks at the
orchestra, and observes old man Thatcher, with his bow held high,
looking at Frenchy, who is staring at his cupped hands. Thatcher’s boy
is on the floor, with his squeeze organ shielding his face, while
Calamity Clakins is backed up against the stage, with his harp between
his teeth and a gun in each hand. He breathes deep-like, and gets a few
discords out of that mouth-harp.
“By gar, she’s gone!” yelps Frenchy. “Jus’ whan I get going fine she
went away.”
“Good shooting, Yuma,” applauds Pug. “A six-gun beats forceps every
time. I don’t know how you picked the right tooth, though.”
“Give me that gun, Yuma,” demands Bill McFee, the sheriff, coming down
the aisle, and Yuma hands it to him.
After Bill went back I saw Pug give Yuma one of his.
“Next man what shoots any of the orchestra is going to get put out,”
announces Bill from the back of the hall. “They ain’t charging us a
thing for their services, so it ain’t no killing matter. I’ll sure boot
any man what throws lead at them again.”
Yuma stands up and faces Bill.
“Was that part of the orchestra, Bill?” he asks.
“It was!” snaps Bill. “You ruined the jew’s-harp, Yuma Yates!”
“——!” says Yuma, apologetic-like. “My mistake, Bill; I thought he was
French.”
Then the curtain parts and out comes Old Testament. He gives us the
peace sign and clears his throat.
“Brothern and sisters,” says he. “Man came from dust and to dust he
returneth back. We are gathered together here this evening on a
solemn—we are here togethered this evening to-to-to——”
“Cow on the track,” whispered Yuma.
“To withstand the—to commemorate the—the—to take part in the——”
“Write it out and mail it to us,” suggests Dirty Shirt.
Old Testament loosens his collar, and walks to the other end of the
stage.
“We are gathered together here this evening to-to-to-to——”
“Clear board!” yelps “Skinny” Skelton, a brakeman from Silver Bend, but
Old Testament merely looks sad-like at Skinny, and continues:
“In behalf of the Baptist Church I am glad to see so many smiling faces
here together. I am——”
Just then the curtain went up, and Testament has to hop out of sight.
She sure is something for to look at. They’ve got things built up so it
looks like the roof of a shack, and up there, sitting on beer kegs, is
Scenery Sims and Annie Mudgett, and beside them, looking over the edge,
is Magpie Simpkins.
Man, he’s a sight. He’s got on red flannel underclothes, with a short
skirt covered with red polka dots. His skinny legs are encased in a pair
of well-greased boots, and on his head is a little, flat derby hat,
which sets on the tops of his ears. Around his waist is strapped old J.
B. Whittaker’s Civil War saber.
Scenery is wearing an old Grand Army suit, with a feather in his hat,
and in one hand he holds an old flint-lock pistol. Annie Mudgett, who
looks like Miss Democracy, has got on a long cheese-cloth robe, and a
veil which fits up under her long nose.
“They come!” squeaks Scenery, poking behind him with his pistol, and
keeping his eyes on the crowd in front. “Here comes the governor!”
Magpie sticks out his chest, and struts to the edge, where he picks up a
brick. We can hear a lot of noise, like folks cheering, and then Magpie
heaves the brick. The roar of voices seems to get louder, and then a
burst of profanity assails our ears.
“You danged red-legged pelican!” whoops a voice, and here comes Ricky
Henderson, leading a burro.
The gore is running down one side of his face, and he leads that burro
right on to the roof.
“You hunk of limburger!” yelps Ricky. “Where did you aim to throw that
brick?”
“Shot at the governor and hit the muleskinner!” whoops Yuma.
“Take that burro off this roof!” squeaks Scenery, poking at Ricky with
that antiquated gun. “Take it back! What do you think you’re leading—a
canary bird?”
“Gadzooks!” roars Magpie. “Get thee hence, varlet! Tell the soldiers to
come and take me to the oar.”
“Fly that jassack off this roof or I’ll throw you off,” screeches
Scenery, and Ricky leads the animal away.
“Some show, eh?” chuckles Pug. “That’s good acting.”
“Oh, oh, oho, oho, oh, oh!” howls Miss Mudgett, with her nose in the
air, like a coyote objecting to the moon. “Oh, they’ll take you away,
_Bennie_, and it was all an accident.”
“Fear ye not,” consoles Magpie, twisting his mustache. “My soul is
greater than their punishment.”
Just then in comes Ren Merton and Doughgod Smith. Ren is wearing a
bearskin overcoat, and a derby with the brim cut off, and Doughgod is
wearing an old lodge uniform. They’ve both got spears fifteen feet long.
They surrounds Magpie, and marches him right off over the edge of the
roof.
“Farewell,” yelps Magpie. “I go to row a boat for a while.”
“_Adios_,” howls Yuma, standing up in his chair. “I hope somebody rocks
the boat.”
Then the curtain goes down and the orchestra hands us “Sweet Marie.”
* * * * *
“That was some start, if you asks me,” opines Dirty Shirt, rolling a
smoke.
“Worst music I ever heard,” growls Yuma, and Dirty turns around.
“You ain’t tied there, are you?” he asks. “Go home if you don’t like
it.”
Before Yuma can reply Magpie comes out in front of the curtain. He
stops, and holds up his hand for silence.
“Get shipwrecked already?” yelps Buck Masterson.
“Hey, Bill! Bill McFee!” yells Magpie, and Bill answers from the back of
the room—
“What do you want, Magpie?”
“Say, Bill, where is _Simonides?_”
“My ——!” wails Bill. “I forgot to let him out of jail!”
He lopes out of the hall. Magpie holds up his hand again, and when
everybody stops making a noise, he announces that the Cross J quartet
will render a selection.
“Is it absolutely necessary, Magpie?” inquires Zeb Abernathy.
“Almost unavoidable, Zeb,” assures Magpie, “we’ve got to kill time.”
“I hope that will be all,” says Zeb, and then out comes Chuck,
Telescope, Hen and Muley.
The first three are dressed in Sunday clothes. But Muley is putting on a
little dog, if you ask me.
He’s got a little skirt like Magpie has, and pink underclothes that sort
of look a little shameless. Over one shoulder, and draped down the front
of him is a bob-cat skin. His feet are encased in a pair of shiny
leather shoes, and he’s got a strip of red ribbon bound around his manly
head, with the streamers hanging out behind.
There is considerable applause and comment when they appear, and Yuma
begins to whistle that selection from the “Streets of Cairo,” through
his teeth. Dirty stands up and faces Yuma.
“Mister Yates,” says he. “You stuff that whistle in your throat! If you
wasn’t evil-minded you wouldn’t think of anything wrong. Stop it!”
“Ain’t it going to dance?” asks Yuma, sad-like.
“Sing,” states Dirty, and just then they begins. Muley and Chuck begins
on “The Holy City,” Telescope and Hen hits the high notes of “Sweet
Adeline,” and the orchestra drills into “Sweet Marie.”
“I hate a liar,” yelps Yuma, in Dirty’s ear. “I hate a liar!”
“My mistake, Yuma,” yelps Dirty. “I’ve been misled.”
Just then here comes Bill McFee and John McBeth, and the music stops.
The quartet sees a chance to duck, and they sure did.
“Who’s the horse-thief that Bill’s got?” asks Pug, as they slides past
one end of the curtain.
“He’s the _hombre_ what started this show,” says I. “He’s a eminent
tragedian.”
“He’s got something to answer for,” says Pug. “I hereby apologize to all
decent horse-thieves.”
We don’t have to wait long for the next act, which discloses Muley and
Ricky Henderson sitting there in chairs. Ricky has got a bandage on his
manly brow. There’s a rocking-chair, with a bearskin on it, and a table
with some books and things to make it look homelike.
“Dost know aught of this _Ben-Hur_?” asks Muley.
“Yeah,” says Ricky, rolling a cigaret. “He’s a mean jasper, _Messaly._ I
wouldst—wouldst—wouldst——”
“Fain,” prompts Muley.
“Wouldst fain see thou stick him in the vittles, Messaly.”
“Vitals,” corrects Muley. “Vittles are grub.”
“Vitals,” says Ricky. “Vittles are grub.”
Just then cometh John McBeth. He’s got a long, red robe around him, and
draped over his left arm. He comes in, dragging his feet, and scowling.
“What ho, _Messala_!” he roars. “How goeth things in Rome?”
“Fine and dandy,” says Muley. “How is things with you? What do you know
about this _Ben-Hur,_ the noble Jew?”
“_Ben-Hur-r-r-r?_ The Jew who was lately released from the galley, after
accidentally dropping a tile on the governor?”
“That’s him, old-timer,” says Ricky, “only you used the wrong word and
the wrong person. Accident ——!”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Yuma. “This is better than a honkatonk.”
Just then Magpie strolls in. Him and Muley glares at each other, and
Magpie turns to McBeth:
“Howdy, _Simonides._ How’s all your folks?”
“Art thou _Ben-Hur-r-r-r,_ the Jew?” thunders _Simonides._
“Art,” agrees Magpie, patting himself on the chest. “Sure art.”
Muley walks over across the stage, and looks at a paper on the wall.
“Gadzooks!” he yelps. “Impossible! Look ye!”
“Im-m-m-mpossible?” roars _Simonides._ “What is im-m-m-m-possible?”
“It says that _Ben-Hur_ will drive in the chariot-race. That Jew? Why he
couldn’t herd a cow down a——”
“Whoa!” whoops Magpie. “Them ain’t your lines, Muley. You lay off that
kind of talk or I’ll bust your nervous system into smithereens. _Sabe?_
I can drive a lot better than you can, you fat——”
“Peace!” howls _Simonides_. “Peace!”
“Peace ——!” whoops Muley, hauling out his cleaver. “Have at you,
_Ben-Hur_!”
“Same to you and many of them!” yells Magpie, hauling out his saber, and
right then they goes seeking for gore.
They circles like a pair of wolves, and then rushes.
Something goes wrong. They’re on opposite sides of the stage when they
makes the grand rush, and they can’t get no closer. Both of them are
running as fast as they can, and it sort of makes me sea-sick. The
carpet gets kicked to one side, and _Simonides_ dives right out through
the wall. Ricky starts to run between them but his feet try to hit him
in the ear, and he pinwheels out of sight.
Out from the other side comes old Judge Steele, dignified as an owl in
his flowing white robes. He don’t get far when the phenomenon gets him
too, and he ends up over a chair, with his bare feet waving in the air.
“Ye-e-e-eow!” whoops Yuma, standing up on his seat.
_Bang! Bang!_
He must have cut the rope what rolls the curtain, ’cause it drops down,
and cuts off one remarkable sight. Mostly everybody is on their feet,
yelling and throwing their hats around, but as soon as the curtain is
down they quiet a bit. We hears some commotion behind the curtain, and
Bill McFee stumbles out.
“Say, who fired them shots?” he whoops. “Who done it?”
“Yuma Yates,” yells somebody, and Bill hops off the stage, and comes up
to us.
“Give me that gun!” snaps Bill. “Look what you done—dang you!”
Bill turns around, and from his carcass comes the odors of alcohol.
“Look!” he roars. “Your darn lead busted that bottle on my hip, carroms
off and stings the burro, and Old Testament got kicked plumb back into
Proverbs. I’m going to put you Snake River toughs out of here. _Sabe?_
Rise and travel!”
“Ho-o-o-o-ld fast! Whoa! Stay with ’em, Ricky! Whoa! Whoa!” yelps
several voices behind the curtain. “Ye-e-e-ow! Let ’em go!”
_Rip! Crash!_
The curtain and half of the front of the stage comes out, and along with
it comes John McBeth, old Judge Steele, Old Testament, and right with
them is that burro. They lights in the aisle, and fights for a good
running position. I think the burro got the rail.
* * * * *
I glances back at the stage, and sees the feature act of the show. There
is Magpie and Muley, each standing up on the front trucks of lumber
wagons, to which shafts have been built, like breaking carts, and
hitched to each one is a wild-eyed bronc, fighting for a chance to go
some place and never come back again.
“Let her go!” yelps somebody, and they slacks up on the lines enough to
let them buzzard-heads hit the floor.
Man, them broncs lit running, but they’re in the same fix that Muley and
Magpie were. They sure laid down to work, but don’t get no place. Magpie
and Muley are throwing the leather into them, and yelling like
Comanches, and them broncs rattle their hoofs at forty miles an hour.
Everybody in the place is yelling and breaking up chairs. The candles
along the front of the stage sets the ruined curtains on fire, and I
seen “Swan River” Swanson hop from his seat and swing on to the big lamp
in the middle of the room. Swan River was either trying to play safe or
get a better look, which was all right and proper, but the lamp tore
loose, and he comes right down on top of Bill McFee and Yuma Yates.
“Forty dollars on the roan!” whoops Pug, hopping up and down on my
shoulders, “Forty to thirty that he——”
_Crash! Bang! R-r-r-r-r-ip!_
Somebody monkeyed with the wheels of progress. Them broncs seemed to
take a toe-hold, and left their spots like a streak. I seen Muley turn
over once on his way up beyond my vision. Magpie was leaning forward on
his truck, and when his animal tore loose I seen him sail into the air
like a big, red-legged crane, and turn end over end far out into the
audience.
One bronc ripped off a corner of the stage, and I seen it hang up there
for a moment, wheels spinning and bronc kicking. The other one shot
right out over the orchestra, and stood on its head, with that truck
standing on the ends of the shafts, and slowly falling toward me. I
tried to saunter out of the way, but my foot got caught in a chair, and
I bowed my head to the inevitable.
Darkness covered the land, and I slept. I dreamed that a centipede was
using my cheek for a sidewalk, and I awoke to find Dirty Shirt’s spur
hooked under my off ear. I shoved his heel away, and looks around.
Things seem sort of cramped to me, so I slips my head out from between
the spokes of that chariot, and sizes things up better.
There’s a couple of candles still burning on the stage, which gives us a
little light. I sets down in a busted chair, and rubs some of the kinks
out of my system.
Bill McFee and Yuma Yates are still locked in each other’s embrace out
where the aisle used to be, and as I look at them Yuma rolls loose and
rubs his head. He looks at me, and then around the place.
“Who won?” he asks, in a hoarse whisper. “Who won?”
“Dead heat,” I whispers, and he nods—
“It’s a miracle if they’re not.”
Chairs are squeehawed and busted all over the place, showing that folks
didn’t wait to march out. I hears a clump, and Muley falls out of a
bunch of busted scenery near the roof. He’s got a chair hung on one leg,
and the breeching of a harness circles his neck. There’s a look of
perfect contentment on his fat face, as he bows to us, and recites:
“The Summer sun was shining
On a glacier gold and white,
’Round my old Kentucky home
When I went away that night.
I could hear the gophers singing
In their nests among the trees
And the moonshine came a-stealing—
Alcoholic on the breeze.”
“That’s good,” says Yuma, awed-like, trying to clap his hands. “This is
the first circus that I ever was at and stayed for the concert.”
Muley walks right off the edge of the stage, and goes down in a heap. He
don’t no more than hit the floor until another apparition stands up. I’d
opine that Froggy Deschamps has been kicked between the eyes, ’cause the
upper half of his face sure is shaded. He nods to us, cups his hands
around his mouth, and:
_Twang-g-g-g, twum-m-m-m, tung-g-g-g-g, hong-g-g-g, hum-m-m-m, tum-m-m._
“My ——!” grunts Yuma, staggering up the aisle. “Going home. Never knew
this was a continuous performance.”
He faded out of the door. Dirty Shirt sets up, and looks around. He
cocks his ear to the music, and shakes his head, solemn-like.
“Ike,” says he, “I dreamed that I was dead, and that the angels were
playing harps. Do angels play jew’s-harps?”
“We won’t hear them, Dirty,” says I. “Music won’t bore us where we’ll
end up. Come on.”
“Listen!” exclaims Dirty, and we pauses.
“One for you and one for me, one for you and one for me,” drones a
voice.
We weaves up to the back of the room. There in the doorway sets Old
Testament, with a sack of dollars in his lap, and across from him,
propped against the wall, is John McBeth. John’s head is hanging on his
chest, and his eyes are closed in sleep. The King of Tragedy is far from
mundane things.
We stops to watch. Old Testament takes a dollar out of the sack, and
lays it on John’s robe, and then takes one for himself.
“One for you and one for me,” he sings, and then fumbles into the sack
again.
He don’t even see us.
“One for you and one for me.”
“Fifty-fifty—a—church,” snores McBeth. “Shades—Lew Wallace.”
“How did the church come out, Testament?” inquires Dirty.
Old Testament stops dealing for a moment, and squints up at us. He seems
to sort of understand, but shakes his head:
“Two fiery steeds, one chariot and a multitude of people, but no church
as yet,” he replies, and starts in, “One for you and one for me.”
Me and Dirty upsets the King of Tragedy as we goes out of the door, but
Old Testament props him up again, and goes on dealing.
We stumbles down the busted stairs, and runs into a ghost.
“Salutations, Spook,” says Dirty, and the apparition stops.
“I am _Sheik Ilderim_,” it states. “I am a Arab, and I still have a part
to play. They couldn’t hold them broncs any longer.”
“Go ahead and play it,” says I. “You ain’t got nothing on Froggy
Deschamps, and Annie Mudgett. Why don’t you three get together and play
out the hand?”
We left him pondering the question, and pilgrims up the street. Seems
like everybody is crowding the saloons or loading up to go home.
“Let us go over and see who got killed,” suggests Dirty, but I shakes my
head.
“Not me, Dirty. I’ve seen so much that my eyes ache. I’m going to get my
burro, and go home. So-long, old-timer.”
* * * * *
I hobbled down to Dirty’s cabin and loaded my burro. I sort of hankers
to get away from the bright lights, so I points the animal up the road.
It is moonlight, and sudden-like I sees a figure ahead of me in the
road. It sure looks fearsome in the dim light, so I halts my burro, and
prepares for the worst.
“Advance, Ike Harper,” says a hoarse voice, and I recognizes Magpie.
Beyond him is a figure setting in the dust.
“Greetings, noble Jew,” says I. “I thought you were still in town,
accepting the plaudits of the populace.”
“I chased him,” says Magpie, pointing at the figure in the road, which
is slowly getting to its feet.
It is Pete McCall, the chunky little cross-eyed puncher from the Circle
Star. He weaves around the road, talking to himself.
“Why chase poor little Pete?” I asks.
“He double-crossed me!” snaps Magpie. “He done me dirt.”
“Never did,” wails Pete. “Never did, Magpie. You told me to sneak under
the stage and block Muley’s whirligig, so his bronc goes to the bad,
didn’t you? Well, I never had a chance—dang you! When I crawled under
there I found Art Miller and Pete Gonyer. They was drinking out of a
bottle, and arguing which one of them things you’re going to race on.
They don’t know, so they decides to shove a two-by-four into each, so as
not to make any mistake. They said the whole thing was a fifty-fifty
proposition, anyway.”
Pete waddles off into the gloom, and we don’t offer to molest him.
“Where you going, Ike?” asks Magpie, after a period of silence.
“Home. Old Testament said that we’ll get our reward in Paradise, but I
ain’t going to wait. Piperock looks good to me, Magpie.”
“I’ll go with you, Ike. There may be a reward in Paradise for me, but it
will likely read: ‘Dead or Alive.’”
“In them clothes, Magpie?”
He looks down at his apparel, and scratches his head. He clanks his
sword on a rock, and peers back at the lights of Paradise.
“Yeap. I left my pants and chaps at Bill McFee’s when I borrowed these
red tights, I paid Mrs. Henderson to make this skirt, I traded hats with
a harness drummer, and Whittaker’s got my six-gun in place of this old
cheese-knife. I’m splitting fifty-fifty with the world. Let’s go home.”
We plods along for a couple of miles, when Magpie stops, and turns to
me.
“Ike,” says he, “maybe things didn’t work as per program, but I want you
to understand that I didn’t do all this for applause, reputation or
filthy gain.”
“No, Magpie,” says I, “I never thought you did, ’cause you’d be hissed
out of Yaller Rock County, broke like a dog and branded as a homicide.
There might have been worse actors——”
“‘Ben-Hur’ actors?” he asks.
But I don’t reply, ’cause I’ve got to live with him.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
February 18, 1919. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
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