The Project Gutenberg eBook of Inside information
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Inside information
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: June 26, 2026 [eBook #78955]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1919
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78955
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INSIDE INFORMATION ***
INSIDE INFORMATION
by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Local Option in Loco Land,” “Pirates from Piperock,” etc.
He wasn’t very big, that feller christened Alexander Claypool by honest
but Missouri parents, but he had a heap of faith in his ability. Once
upon a time he hopped on to a big _hombre_ and proclaims to injure him
to a great extent. The big feller says—
“Little person, put on your coat or I’ll bend you plumb out of shape.”
And then Alexander Claypool hops upon his discarded clothes, cracks his
heels together and proclaims—
“I’m small but I’m Gawd A’mighty Jones!”
Thereupon he becomes known to all men as “Mighty” Jones, and Alexander
Claypool goes into the discard.
Number two was handed the appellation of Arthur Chesterton when he comes
into this here vale of tears, but later on, after he shucks parental
care, he opines to wear a buckskin shirt. Being as buckskin ain’t noways
partial to laundry trials, in the course of time he acquires the name of
“Dirty Shirt.” This being a heap appropriate, Arthur Chesterton is an
also-ran.
Number three claims that when his paw and maw looked upon him in infancy
with loving eyes, maw nodded when paw said—
“We’ll call him Amos Carter.”
Amos Carter grew up and pilgrimed West, where he ebbed and flowed across
the sands of time until he hives up permanently near Piperock, after
beating a posse across the line.
Seems like Amos procures a birthday and opines to show the town of Last
Chance what real wear and tear looks like. He went broke during the
opening chapter and goes into a jewelry store to see if he can pawn his
gun. He shoves the gun across the counter and an obliging clerk fills a
sack with all the plunder in the place and hands it to Amos, who thanked
him profusely, left his gun on the counter and went out to show the
natives a new way to drink whisky straight.
Seems like the clerk mistook Amos’ well-meant motives and joined forces
with the city marshal, and between ’em they busts up Amos’ party. Amos
ain’t got no gun, but he’s got a fast bronc and he arrives in Piperock
broke, being as he left his pistol compensation on the first bar. His
tale of woe lost him his good name and from that time on he pricks up
his ears at the sound of “Jewelry.”
And they was all named Jones.
That ain’t all the Joneses in the State, but they’re all that seem to
figure in this tale of trouble.
Me? I’m Ike Harper. Seems like fate intended me to be a innocent
bystander. I comes of a good family, well bred and all such tender
things that don’t get you nothing in poker games or gun fights, and the
only thing that folks can say against me is the fact that I’m a pardner
of Magpie Simpkins, the sheriff, and tender of heart.
Dirty Shirt Jones is plumb out of line in one eye, walks like somebody
was kicking him behind the knees, and his mustache don’t grow in no
particular direction.
Jewelry Jones is about sixteen years old in the head and seventy-five in
the feet. He looks in the face like fate had intended him for a Siwash
totem-pole, then got religion and repented. Jewelry is one of them
tapering sort of _hombres_—tapering from his feet upwards.
Mighty Jones squeaks when he walks or talks, being as he’s hoarse of
voice and hobnailed of hoof. He lives to argue and feel sorry for
Mighty. He gets religion every time “Old Testament” Tilton stops at his
shack, and he gets drunk every time he stops at a saloon. He owns an
ingrown conviction that he was born to get shot accidental, and a lot of
good citizens have tried to prove him wrong by acting intentional.
* * * * *
Now that introductions are over, I will proceed. Comes a morn in Spring
such as the poets sing about, when the magpies hunt for what died during
the last big snow and the coyotes dig new bungaloos in the sunny side of
the hills.
On such a morn we’re setting in the sun outside of Wick Smith’s store
and post-office at Piperock. The stage has just come in, bringing the
usual amount of plunder from Paradise and mail from all points of the
compass. Mail don’t mean nothing to Piperock, being as them who live
there don’t write for fear folks might find out where they are, and them
who do know we’re here don’t write because we live here.
Them three Jones persons, old Judge Steele, Magpie Simpkins and myself
sets there on the steps and argues about whether if General Grant hadn’t
been so busy fighting the battle of the Alamo, would the Boer War been
over sooner. We settles that and then comes a difference of opinion as
to whether the _Santa Maria_ was Captain Kidd’s flagship or was it the
Mexican gunboat that sunk the _Merrimac_, when Wick Smith comes out with
a letter in his hand.
“Gents,” says he, “not knowing your original birth or baptism names, I
asks you all and sundry which of you Jones’ has the initials A. C.
before the family cognomen?”
“Present,” says Mighty, standing up.
“Here in person,” says Dirty.
“Mine!” snaps Jewelry, holding out his hand.
Wick looks at all three of ’em and shakes his head.
“One letter can’t be for all three,” says he.
“This is for A. C. Jones, E-squire.”
“The same of which differentiates me from the common or hillside
variety,” states Dirty Shirt.
“Now, now, I know she’s mine,” stutters Mighty, hitching his belt.
“Like —— it is!” snorts Jewelry. “Hand her over, Wick. Them is the magic
words what makes me sure she’s mine. I got a letter once and that’s the
way she was inscribed. I’m reaching, Wick.”
“A. C. stands for Alexander Claypool,” announces Mighty in a high voice.
“She’s Arthur Chesterton, if you asks me,” proclaims Dirty Shirt.
“Huh!” grunts Jewelry, disgusted-like. “You’re both loco. It means Amos
Carter. Amos Carter Jones, E-squire, which is me and mine. _Sabe?_”
“Now, now, you fellers quit jangling!” squeaks Mighty. “She’s mine, and
I don’t hanker to be shot as a innocent bystander over something what
don’t concern either of you. Shut up complete-like and let me take what
belongs to me. The Gover’ment of the United States ain’t to be tampered
with, and she sure takes exceptions when somebody steals somebody’s
mail, don’t she, Wick?”
“Somebody’s,” agrees Wick. “She does at them times, Mighty.”
“E-squire!” explodes Jewelry, squinting at Mighty. “After your name? You
poor little chuckle-headed chickadee, who would call you E-squire?”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Dirty Shirt. “What they’d call either of you
_hombres_, they’d never dare to even send it inside a letter.”
“Haw. Haw. Haw!” mimicks Jewelry. “What you laughing at, you cross
between a peanut and a pin-feather?”
“Halt!” yelps Magpie, hopping out into the road with a gun in each hand
and a pained expression on his mustache. “Shut up three at a time! All
you jangling Joneses cool off and show sense. Judge, what had we better
do with them—outside of putting them in jail?”
“Well,” says the old judge, cocking his hat over one ear and taking a
salivary shot at a sand lizard, “I’d adjudicate and make a motion that
we read that letter myself, Magpie.”
“Like —— you will!” yelps Dirty Shirt. “You can’t peer into no private
correspondence of mine, judge. Not while I’m alive you don’t.”
“I don’t like to bite off more than I can chew, judge,” states Mighty,
“but I will say this much: You won’t read my letters as long as I’ve got
a nerve left in my trigger finger. No lawyer is going to get me into
trouble by poking his nose into my private mail. In order that you may
not misunderstand me, I’d ask you to select your epitaph just prior to
the time you tears the corner off that envelop.”
“How does you stand, Jewelry?” I asks.
“Our folks fight for privacy,” declares Jewelry. “All my life I’ve lived
under the impression that what’s mine is mine. I leads a life that is a
open book for all men to read, but what is wrote to me in a letter is a
private affair of mine. _Sabe?_ I hates to make a war-talk, gents, but I
will say this much: When foreign hands start tearing the corner off a
envelop upon which is wrote the name of A. C. Jones, E-squire, I’m going
to shoot.”
The judge tilts his hat over the other ear, takes another shot at the
lizard and clears his throat.
“Motion overruled and objection sustained,” says he.
“And I’ve still got that letter,” says Wick.
Nobody says anything for a while, but them three Jones’ sure are finicky
about the hang of their belts.
“The insides of the letter might settle who she belongs to,” suggests
Magpie disinterested-like. “What do you think?”
“Sure would,” agrees Jewelry. “Let me open it, Wick.”
“Just a mo-ment, just a mo-ment,” says Dirty soft-like. “I don’t care to
have no danged diamond-thief peering at my letters. I’ll open it.”
“To which I adds derision,” proclaims Mighty. “As I said before, gents,
I ain’t part nor parcel to no such arrangement.”
“I ain’t no diamond-thief!” howls Jewelry. “I’ll tell you——”
“I know,” says Dirty, “you claim to have traded a six-dollar pistol for
the entire contents of a jewelry store.”
“We’re talking about mail—not morals,” advises Magpie.
“Property is property,” argues Dirty Shirt. “Who steals my letters
steals as much as if it was my pocketbook, Magpie.”
“More,” says Mighty. “There’s something in the letter.”
“What does you think you know about my finances, feller?” asks Dirty.
“You’re sober,” says Mighty, “and you’ve been in town an hour.”
“Which is irrelevant and has no bearing on the case,” says the judge. “I
expresses sorrow that your parents happens to pick out the same
initials, but I feels worse that you three ever was born. Better that
you three died in childhood and went to Glory, than to have growed up,
growed whiskers and mean dispositions and came to Piperock.”
“Your expression of sorrow is like the blatting of a sheep, judge,” says
Dirty Shirt, which is a mean thing to mention in a cow-country.
“I’ve heard tell that you herded a few over in Custer county a few years
ago, Dirty,” says Mighty, grinning.
“Yeah? Is that so? Well, let me tell you something, feller. You was sold
with a bunch of sheep two years ago, the same of which is common
knowledge. Yes you was, Mighty. I hears Bill McFee tell the whole tale.
Feller named Woolie Wilson sold you. Told a buyer that he had three
thousand head, and they only totaled two thousand nine hundred and
ninety-nine.
“‘You’re short one,’ says the feller. ‘I’m not,’ says Woolie, pointing
at you. ‘There’s the odd one!’ ‘He ain’t no sheep,’ says the feller, and
Woolie says: ‘The —— he ain’t. I ought to know—he’s been working for me
six months.’ ‘For that one I deducts ten dollars off the purchase
price,’ says the buyer. ‘Sold!’ says Woolie, and then he went around
telling folks that the buyer beat himself. Ain’t it true, Mighty?”
Mighty sets there tongue-tied. He’s so mad he can’t swaller. Any time
you accuse a cow-man of being sheep—well, you’re horning in where angels
fear to tread.
“You _hombres_ better get rational again,” advises Magpie. “You can’t
even argue without getting personal. I asks that Wick put that letter
into a safe place, intact and unglued, there to repose serene until such
a time as you belligerent tribesmen settle the ownership. When you does
you can come to me and I’ll procure same for you. Satisfied?”
“But not contented,” says Dirty. “She’s mine and I’ll have it myself.”
“Ain’t you got no reasoning powers, none of you?” asks Mighty. “How many
times do I have to rise up and announce ownership?”
“Oh, shucks!” Jewelry gets up and hitches his belt. “Of all the
hard-headed _hombres_ I ever seen you’re the worst. Don’t I know my own
mail? Don’t I know who I’ve been expecting a letter from? Ain’t I
familiar with handwriting well enough to identify the writing on that
envelop?”
“Under certain circumstances,” nods Wick; “but this happens to have been
wrote on one of them typewriter machines, Jewelry.”
We all sets there for a while, and then Dirty gets up and stretches
himself.
“I knowed a postmaster to lose his job when a feller complained about
him not giving up his lawful mail,” observes Dirty, “and under them
circumstances I’m sort of obliged to write to the President.”
“If you knowed his name,” nods Magpie, “but you don’t.”
“There ain’t but one, and he’d get it,” says Jewelry.
“If you knowed where he lives,” states Mighty hoarse-like, and the other
two Jones’ nods.
“Yeah,” admits Dirty, “being as there’s so many towns where he ain’t.”
“Well,” says I, “this argument seems to have run itself into a corral,
so you might as well drop it. Be sorry that you’re all A. C. Jones and
shake hands.”
“With that shepherd?” asks Dirty, pointing at Mighty. “Or with a jewel
rustler? Not me, Ike.”
“A sheep,” says Jewelry, “could easy get disgusted with you both.”
“Wick, you put that letter in a safe place,” orders Magpie, “until there
comes a understanding or a double vacancy in the Jones tribe.”
Dirty Shirt seems a heap displeased when me and him strolls over to
Buck’s place.
“My paw says to me,” says Dirty confidential-like, “when you goes out
into this cruel world, get what is coming to you, Arthur Chesterton
Jones. If you can’t get it honestly—get what is coming to you. _Sabe?_”
Dirty drifts out after while and Mighty drifts in. I asks him how the
feed is on his side of the range, but his mind ain’t on bunch-grass.
“Gawd helps them that helps themselves, Ike,” says he serious-like.
“Suppose he can’t help himself, Mighty?”
“Well, under them circumstances he has to use force, I reckon.”
I meets Jewelry on the steps of the grog-shop.
“One nice day,” says I offhand-like.
“For what?” he asks. “Can you point out one danged thing she’s good for?
I ain’t appreciative of weather conditions as long as my legal mail is
in escrow. By hook or by crook I gets my letter, Ike. Hear me hooting?”
“Jewelry,” says I, “you talk like a cross between a shepherd and a bunco
man. Hook or crook, eh?”
“All I ask is to get what is coming to me, Ike.”
“You’ll likely get it, Jewelry,” says I, and then I goes down to the
sheriff’s office, where Magpie reposes with his feet on the table and
his nose in a week-old paper. Along about dark Wick ambles in and sets
down with us.
“That letter,” says Wick explaining-like, “makes me nervous. Them
Joneses are liable to go too far. _Sabe?_ In daylight she ain’t so bad,
but at night they might do something, Magpie. They walks past too much.”
“Hold up your hand, Ike,” orders Magpie, and after a “s’whelp me Gawd,”
I’m deputized to do as I’m told.
“Ike will mount guard tonight, Wick,” says Magpie, “and they’ll only do
harm over his dead body.”
“Feel safe, Wick,” says I, “’cause it won’t never be done. Any old time
they gets anything over my dead body they’ll be so danged winded and so
far away from Piperock that there won’t be anything to get—except back.”
About nine o’clock Magpie leads me down to the front of Wick’s store,
sets me down on the porch and places a rifle on my lap.
“Ike,” says he, “the lawful honor of my office is at stake. You set
here, and if any of them three snake-hunters comes monkeying around you,
assassinate him. _Sabe?_ If you die you’re a hero.”
“If you think I will you’re crazy, Magpie. I didn’t come here to die.”
“Man is of few days and full of trouble, Ike.”
“Yeah,” I agree, yanking a shell into the chamber of that .45-70. “As
soon as you get about a hundred feet away, Magpie Simpkins, you better
go fast and crooked, ’cause I’m liable as not to mistake you for
somebody coming. I’d hate to kill you and inherit your office, but dang
your long, hungry carcass, you will insist on swearing me into things
like this.”
* * * * *
I sets there a while. It’s a pretty dark night and things are quiet. Up
at Buck’s place I can hear Andy Johnson wailing “Sweet Marie” on his
squeeze-organ, but after a while that dies out and all is still. I gets
tired of setting there alone, so I gets up and walks around the
building. There’s a back door, and a window on one side. I reflects
wise-like that a burglar ain’t noways going to come to the front door,
and how am I going to guard both ends and the side to once? Answer—go
inside.
I leans a board up against the side of the house, slides the window open
and drops inside. I shuts the window behind me. It’s goshawful dark in
there and I fall over everything in sight and some things I can’t see.
After a while I gets my bearings and pokes back into the post-office
end, where I sets down on a pile of blankets.
Then I gets to thinking thusly: if there ain’t no letter in that safe,
what’s the use of guarding the place? Them _hombres_ don’t want nothing
but that letter. Now I ain’t no burglar and I don’t want anybody to get
that idea. If postmasters and bankers had the foresight I’ve got there
wouldn’t be no use for burglars.
I crawls over to the safe and feels her over. I didn’t have no idea as
to how I was to get inside of it, but like any other danged fool I takes
hold of the door, gives a yank, and she opens up like a corral gate. I
gets scared for a minute and then I paws around inside and, by grab, I
found the letter.
I shoves it down in my pocket, listens for a minute, and I never wanted
to get out of any place so bad before in my life. I just takes one step,
when I hears a noise like somebody shoving that window up, so I drops
down behind that pile of blankets and pulls my pistol, which is handier
at close quarters in the dark.
I hears somebody fall over something and there comes to my ears a sound
of somebody cussing low and sweet. Then here he comes, squeaking along
the floor, whispering to himself, and sets down in front of the safe. I
hears him grunt when he swings the door open and then I hears him cuss
in mournful whispers. It’s Mighty.
Then he crawls out of there and I hears the window close behind him. I
sets there to give him plenty of time to get out of sight and then I
hears that window go up again. Comes a dull bump from the other room and
somebody swears out loud. There is silence for a while and then I hears
this second party crawling on their hands and knees, and they stops at
the safe. I can hear him breathing hard, and then comes a cuss word that
would delight the ears of a mule-skinner.
He gets up and starts to walk away, and I can tell by the cock-eyed way
he has of running into things that it’s Dirty Shirt. He rams into the
wall and sets down hard on the floor, and I reckon it takes him five
minutes to navigate to the window and get out.
Then comes the next interruption. The window squeaks to the top and I
hears a pair of heavy boots hit the floor. He comes angling along, gets
his feet tangled in something and I hears him fall flat. A rack full of
brooms falls with an awful racket and a minute later here comes the
figure of a man crawling along the floor.
This party is winded and so scared that he wheezes. I hears him feeling
around inside the safe, and then he says out loud:
“Too late! The dirty, low-down burglars!”
And then he crawls back to the window and goes out. By his voice it’s
Jewelry Jones.
Then I crawls out behind him and went home. There ain’t nothing left to
guard, so why set there and wait for morning? Magpie ain’t there, so I
goes to bed. He’s cooking breakfast when I wakes up in the morning.
“Have a quiet night?” he asks.
“Well, I didn’t have no cause to assassinate anybody. Play poker?”
“Uh-huh.”
He spins a half-cooked flap-jack up to the ceiling, and just then the
door opens and Wick Smith comes in. Wick ain’t all smiles—not by a
million tickles.
“Sheriff,” says he, “you says to me last night that you’re going to give
me the protection of the law. Where is said protection?”
“That’s him, Wick,” pointing at me, “he guards you and yours safe from
harm.”
“He does like ——!” snaps Wick and Magpie misses the next flop.
“Meaning which?”
“The post-office was robbed last night.”
“My gosh!” grunts Magpie. “Did they get that letter?”
“Not that one, Magpie. This morning my store looks like a cyclone had
been showing off in there; the safe is open and everything is gone.”
“Blowed?” asks Magpie, but Wick shakes his head.
“Nope. I remembers shutting it just when Art Miller comes in to buy some
horse liniment, and I can’t seem to remember whether I turns the
combine. Anyway she’s wide open and cleaned out. There was a registered
letter with five thousand dollars’ worth of bonds in it from the
Cattlemen’s Bank, which were going to Great Falls. Old man Whittaker
knows about it and he’s plumb up in the air. My gosh, ain’t you going to
do nothing but look at that spilled pan-cake?”
“You didn’t see nor hear anything while you sets outside there, Ike?”
asks Magpie.
“While I sets there I don’t hear a danged thing. Not a thing.”
“Must ’a’ been done by a experienced burglar, Wick,” opines Magpie.
“More like a section hand,” grunts Wick. “They knocked down everything
that wasn’t already on the floor. By grab, you better do something,
sheriff, to save your honor.”
“He ain’t my honor,” says Magpie, looking at me. “He’s my deputy.”
Wick goes back up-town, talking to himself, while me and Magpie finishes
our breakfast.
Magpie pushes back from the table and rolls a cigaret.
“Ike,” says he, “go get that burglar.”
“You sure do have the best ideas, Magpie,” says I sarcastic-like, and
then I went up-town, leaving him to clean up the shack.
Up at Wick’s store I finds Dirty Shirt buying some cartridges from Mrs.
Smith. Then me and him went out and stood on the steps.
“Post-office got robbed last night,” says I.
“Gosh, this is a awful sinful place, Ike,” says he. “Didn’t get
anything?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
Dirty grabbed for a post and slid down on the steps.
“Dizzy streak,” he explains foolish-like. “What did you say, Ike?”
“Out of the safe, Dirty. Who do you reckon done it?”
“My ——! How should I know, Ike?”
Just then we sees Mighty Jones plugging down the street. He stops in
front of us and glares at Dirty.
“Post-office got robbed last night, Mighty,” says I.
“Yeah? Robbed? Nothing in there for a robber.”
“Not now,” I agrees. “But there was last night—five thousand.”
“Five thou——” Mighty stumbles and sets down beside us and wipes his
face.
“Dollars?” he asks. “In the safe?”
“Uh-huh. Gone this morning. I’m hunting for the burglar.”
“Hmff!” says he and glares at Dirty Shirt.
Dirty glares right back at him, and just then we sees Jewelry ride up to
the hitchrack and get off his bronc. He looks over at us, hitches up his
belt and comes sauntering over.
“You misguided Jones family misfit still trying to corral my mail?” he
asks mean-like.
Dirty and Mighty just gives him a look, and he sets down.
“I’m here to demand my rights,” says he. “My mind is made up today.”
“Maybe you can buy that letter, Jewelry,” suggests Dirty. “You ought to
be well heeled this morning.”
“What do you mean, feller?”
“Speaking of the five thousand dollars which was taken out of the
post-office safe last night,” says Dirty monotonous-like.
“Five thousand dollars which——” Jewelry’s voice trails off to a whisper
and he peers at us for confirmation.
“Out of the safe last night,” says I.
“Any clue?” asks Jewelry scared-like.
“Yeah,” says I, deliberate-like, “the feller lost his knife.”
I seen three hands twitch toward pants-pockets, and then three hands
comes back.
“What kind of a knife?” whispers Dirty, but I shakes my head.
“Talk’s about sending for a detective,” says I. “He’ll find out.”
“During which the burglar will leave,” grins Jewelry foolish-like.
“Which proves his guilt and causes the machinery of the law to grind a
little faster,” says I. “Ain’t you fellers decided about that letter
yet?”
“Pardon me,” says Mrs. Smith and we all turns to where she stands in the
door of the store. “Has any of you gents a pocketknife I can use for a
minute? Wicksie is gone and I want to cut a piece of rope for Mr.
Miller.”
“Haw!” says Jewelry with his mouth open like a fish out of water. “As
I—I was saying, I’m in a awful hurry, folks. _Adios_.”
“Just a mo-moment,” says Mighty, follering in his footsteps. “I wants to
talk with you about them yearling calves you spoke about.”
The two of them pilgrims over to the rack, gets on their broncs, and
both rides different directions.
“Knife, ma’am?” asks Dirty, like she had spoken of some prehistoric
freak. “To—to cut a rope with?”
“I could use the ax,” says she.
“Yes’m,” agrees Dirty. “It—it don’t haggle so much. Yes’m.” And Dirty
went over, got on his bronc and rode out of Piperock.
Then I went up to the bank. Old man Whittaker is there and he squints at
me as I leans over the counter.
“Detectin’?” he asks mean-like.
“Possibly. Nice bank you got here.”
“What do you care?” he asks. “Gol dingle-danged town! Robbing
post-offices, et cettery. Worse than living in the East.”
* * * * *
The old pelican glares at me like I was to blame and then walks to the
far end of the room. There’s a little box just around the corner of the
cashier’s cage, so when the old man turns I slips that letter out of my
pocket and drops it into that box.
“Don’t you want me to catch the thief?” I asks, and he whirls around.
“No!” he yelps, “All I want is them gol dingle-danged bonds! If I put
all the thieves in this county in jail there wouldn’t be anybody left to
transact banking business with.”
“That wouldn’t handicap you none,” says I, “’cause there wouldn’t be any
bankers out of jail to run the banks.” And then I walked out.
Along in the middle of the afternoon I goes into Buck’s place. Buck is
leaning over the bar, staring at Dirty Shirt, Mighty and Jewelry, who
are setting around a card-table, whittling like they was making a living
at it. Buck looks at the floor and then at the whittlers.
“Say, you locoed loafers will have to sweep out this place,” says he.
“What do you think I’m running—a carpenter shop?”
“I love to whittle with my old knife,” says Mighty, testing the blade on
his thumb.
“There’s a knife,” says Dirty, holding it out for us to see, “that is a
knife. She’s about ten-year old and I never owned any other. Razor
steel.”
“Ten years ain’t much when you’re speaking of the age of a knife,”
opines Jewelry, “this old knife of mine was handed down to me by my paw,
who had it given to him at his first birthday. I’ve used it continuous
ever since.”
“Speaking of knives,” says I, “reminds me of Wick. He found his own
knife on the floor and thought he had a burglar clue.”
Then three Joneses stares at me until I gets uncomfortable, but just
then the stage comes in, and we all pilgrims over to the post-office. We
stands around while Wick distributes a few mail-order catalogues and
then Mighty walks up to the window.
“Wick Smith, you’ve got a letter for me?” he asks.
“Nope,” says Wick and Mighty looks displeased a heap.
Dirty walks over and peers inside.
“Nope,” says Wick. “Nor for Jewelry. Nothing for the Joneses.”
“Now about that letter of mine which arrived yesterday,” says Dirty.
“Suppose she’s serious-like, Wick? Maybe she’s life or death. Under them
circumstances I can sue you to beat four of a kind.”
“Same here,” nods Mighty. “I asks you before these folks as witness that
you give it to me. In fact, I demands it. You can’t refuse a de-mand,
Wick.”
“Can’t I?” asks Wick, and then he produces a sawed-off shotgun. “Can’t
I, Mighty?”
“You can—yes,” admits Mighty, “but it makes me ashamed of you for it.”
“I ain’t making no de-mands, Wick,” states Jewelry when Wick looks at
him. “Not in the face of present conditions. I’ll e-ventually get what
belongs to me, but right now ain’t e-ventually.”
“Could you fellers get any idea who that letter belongs to if I was to
show you the envelope?” asks Wick. “There’s a name in the corner.”
“I’d _sabe_ it in a minute, Wick,” states Dirty. “Show it to me.”
“Not alone!” snaps Mighty. “All in a bunch and no favors asked.”
Wick snaps open his money till and fumbles underneath.
“I didn’t put it in the safe,” says he, as he pulls out a envelope and
wipes it on his overalls. “Now you fellers keep your hands off, and I’ll
give you all a look.”
He holds the letter in both hands and leans his elbows on the counter.
We all crowds up to see.
“Well,” says Dirty awed-like. “I may be goshawful ignorant, gents, but I
can’t read A. C. Jones, E-squire out of First National Bank of Great
Falls.”
Wick turns that envelope over and steps back. He puts it up to his nose
and saws her back and forth like he was looking for a good place to bite
into it.
“My gosh!” he whoops. “I—I done mixed them two letters! I must ’a’ put
that danged Jones letter into the safe instead of the bonds.”
“And,” says Mighty, “somebody stole my letter.”
“That letter of mine entrusted to your careless care,” accuses Dirty;
“that letter which you refuses to divulge to me. I’ll sue you higher
than a kite, postmaster.”
“You’re accessory to a thief, Wick,” declares Jewelry. “You and the
President would ’a’ dodged a lot of trouble and tribulations if you’d a
handed me my mail as soon as she came in. I begins to sue you today,
feller.”
“You know what I’m going to do?” asks Wick. “Know what? I’m going to
give you all one minute to get out of that door and out of my sight.”
Wick cocks both barrels of that old destroyer and lays his watch on the
counter.
“Well,” says Jewelry, “under them circumstances, Wick, there ain’t
nothing to wait for.” And them three Jones’ hit the narrow door together
and fought their way out. Somebody had to suffer, and there’s nothing
like keeping such things as that in the family.
* * * * *
Jewelry was the first one to break loose, and I reckon he still retained
a shred of memory, ’cause he didn’t lose no time going away from there.
He ain’t got no shirt left, but his feet are still in working order.
Mighty and Dirty sure took each other to pieces and might have kept at
it indefinitely, but Wick Smith’s yearling coyote got the idea that it
was put on for its especial benefit and proceeded to cut button-holes in
the remaining Jones’ pants, which served to bust up the party.
Mighty points right up the street, but Dirty gets mad and seems to
retaliate to the best of his ability. But his aim is poor and the coyote
don’t suffer none, being as most of the lead sifts into the store
windows, causing me and Wick to burrow under a counter.
One .44 hunk of lead hives up in Wick’s stock of patent-medicines and me
and him got an external dose of everything from cod-liver oil to Epsom
salts. Another one pokes into a box of shotgun shells, the same of which
causes some discomfort while they lasts. Then we crawls out and sets on
the counter.
“For something what ain’t never been read, that letter is causing a heap
of scandal,” observes Wick, looking at the disaster around us. “Wonder
who got that letter, Ike? Anyway, I’m plumb glad she’s off my hands,
’cause them three snake-hunters might get troublesome over it.”
We hears a few shots up the street after while, and here comes Dirty
Shirt, walking backwards, throwing lead from two guns. He backs right
into the door before he sees us, but Wick has him covered and he drops
his guns.
“Well,” says Wick, “I see you’ve come back, Dirty.”
“Beyond the shadder of a single doubt,” agrees Dirty, peering out of the
window and getting his eyes filled with splinters when a bullet cuts a
furrow in the sash.
Dirty grabs one of his guns off the floor and bangs away through the
window. I seen Magpie go hippety hopping across the street and sprawl
down behind Pete Gonyer’s blacksmith shop.
“You shooting at Magpie?” I asks.
“Persons don’t count, Ike,” says he, stuffing in fresh shells.
“He represents the law,” says I. “What’s the trouble, Dirty?”
“That danged letter!” he snaps.
_Pow!_ A bullet comes through the window, skids off the head of a pick
and makes a billiard against the sweat-band of Dirty’s hat.
Dirty shakes his head, does sort of a halfhearted shuffle with his feet
and sets down on the floor, where he bobs his head like a chicken
picking up wheat.
“One baby down—one se-gar,” says Wick.
Dirty looks up at us foolish-like and then sings sweet and low:
“For we’re all growing fee-bul, o-o-ld and gray Mag-e-e-e-e-e, and
the-e-e— What in —— hit me?”
“That’s what I’d call hitting a feller in a tenor spot, Ike,” grins
Wick. “Sing some more, Dirty.”
“Did—did I get hit?” asks Dirty, feeling of his head.
“I’d call it a danged close miss,” states Wick.
“Tell us what it’s about, Dirty Shirt,” I suggests, and he sort of
shakes his head to get rid of the stars.
“That letter causes it,” says he, in the tone of a feller who has a
dismal past to disclose. “I—I want that letter. Somebody stole my mail.
_Sabe?_ Well, I went up to Judge Steele and I says, ‘I want to swear out
a warrant for Mighty and Jewelry, charging them with stealing my mail.’
“‘You do?’” says he, “‘I’d ’a’ saved a lot of paper and ink if I’d ’a’
had you all put in jail yesterday. Mighty has swore out a warrant for
you and Jewelry, and Jewelry has swore out one for you and Mighty. Seems
like a case of the Jones family hanging together.’”
“Everybody is shooting at everybody else, eh?” says I.
“Something like that. Me and Mighty and Jewelry are shooting at each
other, and Magpie ain’t playing no certain one. Gee cripes, I’ve got a
headache!”
Dirty gets his other gun and crawls over to the window. Me and Wick
ain’t got nothing to do with it, so we remains neutral.
All to once comes a rattle of shots up the street and we both stampedes
to the window. Here comes Jewelry on a bronc. He seems to have mounted
in a hurry, without picking up his reins or tightening his cinch. We
sees his hat hop high off his head and the next jump that bronc makes
the saddle goes back to its rump and the cinch hangs in its flank.
Jewelry is pulling leather with both hands and the bronc is pitching
straight for the store.
Magpie don’t seem to want to lose any of his future boarders, ’cause he
runs out into the street and waves his hat at that crazy bronc. I hears
Dirty’s gun-roar beside me and I sees Magpie’s feet flip out from under
him and the bronc come merrily on its way.
The store has a porch about three feet above the ground, and while that
roan sure can go high and handsome he’s a few inches short of hitting
the top.
Right there that bronc stands on its head, the cinch busts, and the way
Jewelry has of coming into that store was no trouble for anybody. He lit
on his neck, still hanging on to that saddle, knocks Wick’s feet from
under him with one of the stirrups and don’t stop sliding until he jams
up against the front of the post-office.
Wick lays there and hammers his feet on the floor. Jewelry gets up,
bumps his head on the little ledge where they pass out the mail and sets
down again. Then he gets up, walks circles like a tired hound until he’s
dizzy. Then he leans against the front of the post-office and says in a
voice as thin as a cigaret paper:
“I—I want that letter. I—I want——” Then he slides down in a heap over
his saddle.
Wick sets up and looks around. Then he staggers to his feet, picks up
his shotgun and announces—
“I’m—I’m going—to ki—kill somebody——”
He steps out of the door just as a bullet whistles inside and smashes
into a showcase. He stumbles back in and leans against the counter.
“—pretty soon,” he finishes.
* * * * *
I sets there, out of line with that window, and enjoys the show. Dirty
leans against a rack of shovels, trying hard to light a match by
scratching a cigaret on his pants. Wick stands there with a big blue
lump over one eye, trying to work the loading-lever, the same of which
ain’t never been put on any double-barreled shotgun I ever seen. He goes
through all the motions, and from the smile on his face she’s working
great.
I hears a noise behind me and turns in time to see Mighty crawl into one
of the windows, balance on the sill for a moment and then fall inside
with a muffled crash.
He stays down for a while and then comes weaving into view, covered with
flour. He stands there with a fool look on his face and then crooks his
finger at Wick.
“C’mere,” says he, goggle-eyed as an old owl, and Wick staggers up to
him. He wags his finger in Wick’s face and says:
“Ah, ha, dang you! Give me my letter.” Him and Wick stares into each
other’s eyes for a moment, and then Wick nods his head, grasps that
riot-gun in both hands and raises it up. Mighty seen that gun rise above
his head, ’cause I seen him look up at it, but he just grins up at it;
then it comes down on his bare head and he sets down right in his
tracks.
Wick looks down at him, nods his head like he was satisfied and stands
there with the butt of that gun resting on his stummick and his fingers
wrapped lovingly around both triggers.
“Wick!” yells Magpie’s voice from the doorway.
Wick jerks his hand nervous-like and pulls both triggers.
That gun almost busted my ear-drums. I seen Wick double up like a
jack-knife, expel a terrific “Whoof!” and slide down beside Mighty.
Magpie looks at me mean-like and steps inside.
“You’re a —— of a deputy!” he snorted. “Why didn’t you stop ’em?”
“You didn’t see any of ’em getting away, did you?” I asks.
He peers around the place and strokes his mustache.
Jewelry is the first to get up. He crawls to his feet and staggers up to
the counter where Mighty and Wick are laying. He looks at them
disinterested-like and crawls up on the counter, where he humps over and
looks down at them like a buzzard examining a meal.
Dirty happens to notice Magpie about this time. He rubs his head,
brushes some dust off his cuff and clears his throat.
“Nice day,” he observes.
“Uh-huh,” admits Magpie, lifting up his right foot and pointing at a
heel which has been shot plumb off. “What have you got to say about
that, Dirty Shirt Jones?”
“——!” whispers Dirty, shaking his head. “Don’t ask me—I’m no cobbler.”
“You shot that off, feller!” snorts Magpie.
“Did I?” asks Dirty, “Need practise—bad. Shot at your head, Magpie.”
Mighty crawls to his feet and leans against Jewelry’s knees for a moment
and peers up into Jewelry’s staring face. Then he looks down at Wick.
“Dead and in ——!” he wails. “Killed accidental!”
Wick rolls over and looks around. Then he takes hold of Mighty’s legs
and hauls himself up. The three of them looks at each other and then
Wick rubs his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, peering at Mighty.
“Mail,” whispers Mighty, “mail which belongs to A. C. Jones, E-squire.”
“It—it ain’t here,” stammers Wick. “Didn’t you steal it?”
“Nope. Maybe Dirty Shirt did.”
“Do I look like I did?” asks Dirty. “Do I look like I had got what I
wanted last night? What do you reckon I’ve been fighting about today?
I’m here to collect my lawful mail.”
“Say, Wick,” says a voice at the door, and old man Whittaker trots in.
“I don’t know how in thunder this letter gets into a box at the bank. It
don’t belong to me.”
He hands a letter to Wick and starts out.
“Say, Whittaker, I didn’t lose them bonds,” states Wick, producing the
letter out of his inside vest pocket. “I—I mixed it up with another
letter. _Sabe?_”
Old Man Whittaker grabbed that letter, read the address and walked out,
talking to himself like a shepherd.
We all stares at each other and Dirty licks his lips.
“A. C. Jones, E-squire?” he asks.
“No matter who it’s for,” says Magpie, “you three are under arrest.
_Sabe?_ That danged letter has caused too much ——!”
Just then a stranger walks into the store and looks around.
“You the proprietor?” he asks, looking at Magpie.
Magpie shakes his head and points at Wick.
“Thanks,” says he, and then to Wick, “I’ve got a little bill of goods
made out here which I’d like to have filled. I’m on my way over to
Powder River to buy sheep for a syndicate and will likely be through
here several times. Had my mail forwarded here. Anything showed up?”
“What name?” asks Wick.
“Jones.”
“A. C.?” asks Wick.
The stranger nods.
“E-squire?” gasps Dirty.
“Well,” says he, grinning, “it might be inscribed thataway.”
Them three Joneses stares at each other and then at Wick, as he produces
that letter. The stranger hands Wick a list of grub stuff, leans against
the counter and seems to peruse that letter; then he wads up the
contents and throws it on the floor.
“Be back pretty soon,” says he and goes outside and over towards Buck’s.
Right then the three Jones’ fell off the counter and lands on that wad
of paper all in a tangle.
“Halt!” yelps Magpie, prying ’em apart with his gun. “What you fellers
trying to do—start it all over again? Give me that letter!”
They glances at Magpie’s gun and surrenders the paper.
Magpie unfolds it and peers at the contents. Then he looks at them three
Jones’.
“Well?” says Dirty anxious-like.
“Yes,” says Magpie wise-like, “it could easy ’a’ been for either of you
three. Most any Jones I ever knew would be interested in this letter.
Read it for yourselves.”
He hands it to Dirty and the rest of us stretches our necks a foot to
read the big black letters written across the top:
MILLER’S SHEEP-DIP IS THE BEST
We don’t read any further. Them Jones’ sort of shrinks all over.
“My gosh!” gasps Jewelry. “I wonder what E-squire means?”
“As near as I can figure,” says Magpie, “it’s a society name for
shepherd.”
“Which goes to prove,” proclaims Wick, “that the Jones tribe has
received inside information.”
The Jones tribe shook hands and agreed.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
November 18, 1919. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INSIDE INFORMATION ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg
electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg
Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516,
Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
