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Title: Local color in Loco-Land
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: June 28, 2026 [eBook #78970]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1921
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78970
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOCAL COLOR IN LOCO-LAND ***
LOCAL COLOR IN LOCO-LAND
by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “No Wonder,” “Sparing the Family Tree,” etc.
They got on the stage at Paradise. “Dirty Shirt” Jones looks at me with
his one good eye, looking like he kinda blamed me, which he had no right
to do. The Lord knows I wasn’t responsible for them taking the stage.
One of ’em is kinda pink-faced and has got the weakest mustache I ever
seen. Looked like somebody had hit him a glancing blow and knocked his
eyebrow under his nose. Maybe I’d better say that he looked like some
kinda delicate fruit which grew on the shady side of the tree and never
got no chance to ripen.
The other one kinda bulges over the eyes, wears glasses and couldn’t see
Sentinel Butte at fifty feet with a ten-power field-glass. As far as
their clothes are concerned—eleet. The pink one got hold of my hand and
said—
“I am Orville Wellington Chatterton.”
“I’m Ike Harper,” says I. “Middle name failed me in infancy.”
“This gentleman is William Burton Suggs,” says he, pointing at his
pardner.
“The pleasure is all mine,” says Suggs, prospecting for my hand. “All
mine, I assure you.”
“I ain’t trying to beat yuh out of anything,” says I. “Both of yuh get
used to Dirty Shirt Jones.”
“What a peculiar middle name,” says Orvie.
“Were you christened Dirty?” asks Suggs.
“Likely was,” says I, and Dirty’s one bum eye made three revolutions
before it pointed back at the end of his nose.
“Gorgeous sunset,” says Orvie. “Do you have them often?”
“Sunsets,” says Dirty, “occur every day hereabouts.”
“Wonderful country,” applauds Suggs. “Makes one want to gambol like a
sheep, doesn’t it?”
“Sheep do not gamble,” says Dirty.
“Cavort?” asks Orvie.
“Never heard of it, pardner.”
“I have seen pictures——”
“I don’t give a dang if you have,” snorts Dirty. “Sheep do not gamble.
Them artists don’t _sabe_ sheep.”
“Are you fellers gamblers?” I asks.
“Oh, not at all,” says Orvie. “Not in the least. Willie Suggs and I are
of the literati.”
“My ——!” gasps Dirty, pious-like. “Religious fanatics.”
“We write books,” says Suggs.
“Books? I had one once. It was called ‘The Revelations of a Countess.’ I
loaned it to the Cross J bunch and they wore it out.”
“We do not write trash,” explains Orvie.
“Not at all,” agrees Suggs. “Not at all, I assure you. We are planning
to collaborate on an adventurous theme. Primitive men and
women—red-blooded creatures, don’t you know?”
“Sons of guns,” nods Dirty. “Regular hellers, eh?”
“People who know not the veneer of civilization,” says Orvie.
“So,” adds Suggs, “we have decided to penetrate the dim places and live
amid our characters, gathering a wealth of local color before starting
our story.”
“They came here to penetrate,” explains Dirty to me. “Huntin’ for a dim
place what ain’t been veneered. My ——!”
“Yes,” says Orvie, delighted-like; “to live amid the primeval hills. I
have a pistol which will shoot five times.”
He produces a .32 bulldog and gives us a peek at it.
“Wait a moment until I take the cartridges out and then you may handle
it.”
He broke it open, and Dirty let out a squeak—
“Aw, yuh broke its back!”
“Not at all. Merely the mechanics, I assure you. Would you like to see
it?”
“Not me,” says I. “I’m afraid I might get pinched in the hinges.”
“I could have purchased one that would shoot six times.”
“No use addin’ insult to injury,” says Dirty.
Suggs motioned Orvie to put the pistol back in his pocket and adjusts
his specs.
“Ah—er—perhaps you gentlemen could be of material assistance to us. It
is our desire to become acquainted with a—er—outlaw.”
“With a price on his head,” explains Orvie. “We wish to study him, don’t
you see? We would get his viewpoint and an insight of his feelings—know
how it feels to have a price on one’s head. Do I make my meaning clear?”
“Uh-huh,” says Dirty. “Did you ever wear a derby hat?”
“I have indeed.”
“There yuh are. More uncomfortable than a price.”
“But not at all descriptive,” objects Suggs. “Does not the banishment
from society prey on his mind?”
“He won’t mind if they don’t.”
“I see. Perhaps not; but I would love to experience the mental emotions
of one who has committed a crime against society. I want to feel the
exhilaration of the chase across the hills; eluding the posse, listening
to their exclamations of baffled rage as they find I have escaped their
net. Ah, that would be wonderful, would it not?”
“It would be,” grins Dirty; “but I reckon you’d have to fix it up with
the posse.”
“If they used bloodhounds I could strew pepper in my tracks.”
“And if there was snow on the ground one could walk backward, don’t you
know?” adds Orvie. “You see, we are familiar with a number of
subterfuges; but we desire to get into the spirit of the thing, don’t
you know?”
“Ike,” says Dirty, “these fellers don’t want to just peek at——; they
want to help stir the pitch. What had they better do?”
“Talk to ‘Magpie’ Simpkins.”
“Has he a price on his head?” asks Suggs.
“If he has, nobody’d pay it; that’s a cinch,” replied Dirty.
“Has he ever killed any one?”
“He’s the sheriff,” says I. “He has to kill a lot of folks now and
then.”
“Very interesting,” admits Orvie. “Rather a quaint character, I would
say. I wonder if he could introduce us to some outlaws.”
“Sure he could,” says Dirty. “They’re all friends of Magpie’s.”
If you don’t mind I’ll let Orvie and Suggs tell the rest of this tale. I
reckon Orvie will do most of the telling, ’cause Suggs, being short of
sight, might ’a’ missed some details. Mr. Orville Wellington Chatterton
talking:—
* * * * *
There is no doubt in my mind that Willie Suggs and I were right in
seeking local color for our stories of the Old West. College professors,
both in this country and abroad, have commented on my ability to
describe locale, characters, etc., but I felt at a loss when I decided
to write of the Old West.
Willie Suggs, a writer of witty dialogue—refined humor, I might
say—agreed to collaborate with me in this effort. Reference books did
not give us just the touch needed, so we decided to go to the source of
information.
I do not know why we chose Montana. Paradise seemed a pleasant name, so
we purchased our transportation to this point, where we boarded a stage,
which would take us still farther into the primeval hills.
On this stage we made the acquaintance of two quaint, harmless
characters, Mr. Jones and Mr. Harper. Mr. Jones has one eye, which is
not all reliable, very large wrist-joints and toes inward as he walks.
Mr. Harper’s eyebrows appear to have been set in a quizzical angle, and
his pedal extremities are far from being perpendicular to his torso. I
find that neither of them has the slightest conception of true humor,
caused no doubt from living-conditions, as these people have no means of
relaxation from their humdrum existence.
I asked Mr. Jones where we might find a dashing cowboy, of whom we might
write, using him as a model for our hero. Mr. Jones took up the matter
with Mr. Harper, who told me that very few of the cowboys were doing any
dashing this year.
He also said that it was dangerous to do much dashing. He did not say
why, but I conclude that, from the way he spoke, it is illegal.
They took us down to the sheriff’s office and introduced us to Magpie
Simpkins, who is a very tall person, with long, stringy mustaches. He
tugged at one of these mustaches several times before shaking hands with
us. I noted that his boots were badly run over at the heel, and the
wrinkles of his rough shirt seemed a depositary for loose crumbs of
tobacco. I said to him—
“It is indeed a pleasure.”
He rolled and lighted a cigaret before he said—
“Feller is entitled to all the fun he can get out of life.”
I am going to endeavor to reproduce their language as near as possible.
Mr. Suggs said to him—
“You have a wonderful country, Mr. Simpkins.”
It appears that none of the trio seemed pleased over this statement. Mr.
Simpkins said—
“What for?”
I confess that I did not know, and I’m sure Willie did not, but Mr.
Harper came to our assistance by saying—
“They write books.”
Mr. Simpkins’ face seemed to lengthen, and his lips formed the letter
“O,” but no sound came forth. Then his face gradually became normal
again. Mr. Jones volunteered this ungrammatical information—
“It has a gun.”
I took it from my pocket, intending to let Mr. Simpkins examine it, but
he stopped me.
“Sh-h-h-h!” he said. “Don’t let any one know you’ve got it.”
“Will I have to use it?” I asked.
“If you get a chance.”
“I should hate to kill a man with it,” said I.
“I’d hate to try and kill one with it.”
“What is the difference?” I asked.
He shook his head and said slowly—
“I don’t know; I have never been killed yet.”
“How many men have you killed?” asked Willie abruptly.
Mr. Simpkins’ face seemed to lengthen again and he shut his eyes as
though in deep thought. Then he opened his eyes and looked at Mr.
Harper.
“Ike, did you check up last week?”
Mr. Harper shook his head and started to explain, but Mr. Simpkins
fairly thundered:
“You’re a fine deputy! Make up that count at once.”
Mr. Harper asked if he should include Indians, but Mr. Simpkins said:
“Nothing less than half-breeds. Indians don’t count.”
I tried to explain that I only wanted an approximate number, but he said
that accuracy was his motto, and that he would not lie to me over such a
small matter.
I find that honesty is cultivated to an astonishing degree with these
people. Perhaps it is on account of their childlike faith. Mr. Suggs
asked them if they had ever heard of George Washington and the
cherry-tree. He told them the tale, and they seemed interested. Mr.
Jones said:
“Nothing to whoop about. You ought to know ‘Chuck’ Warner.”
* * * * *
I was about to evince a desire to meet Mr. Warner, when a cowboy came
in. This newcomer was of peculiar physique. His legs were altogether too
short for the length of his body. His face reminded me of the
aborigine—being rather long, with prominent cheekbones.
His ears were very prominent. In fact, they stood out from his head as
an animal’s ears do when seeking sounds. He looked at Mr. Suggs and
myself, and I will give you my word, those ears moved backward and
forward.
“Chuck,” said Mr. Harper, “this is Chatterton and Suggs. Gents, this
here apparition is Chuck Warner.”
“They write books,” stated Mr. Jones.
Mr. Warner’s ears waved a few times and then he said:
“Shucks. I hope they’re writin’ some more ‘Countess’ stuff.”
I repeated myself by saying that I did not write trash.
“She was a good book,” said Mr. Warner, “but she had one bad fault.”
I was glad to have a chance to test their ability to criticize
literature; so I asked them what that fault was.
“It was too —— short,” said Mr. Warner, and the rest nodded.
Which I think is an unfair criticism of any book, but I suspect they
have little to read, and length is a consideration. I said to Mr.
Warner:
“These gentlemen have recommended you very highly as a model of
veracity. In fact they have compared you with the immortal Washington.
Mr. Suggs and I would like to associate with you, with the idea in mind
of incorporating your character in our great story of the West.”
He stared at me for a long time, wiggling his ears all the while, and
then he looked at Messrs. Jones, Simpkins and Harper. I am going to
write this as near as possible to his actual words, although I can not
depict the voice:
“My ——! Here’s the best chance I ever had, and I’m scared of myself.”
Then he turned and walked out of the door. It was a psychological moment
for him. He realized that this was his opportunity to be immortalized in
prose, but he shrank from the ordeal. Human nature is like that, I
think.
I told them my opinion, and I think Mr. Simpkins shed tears. It is
distressing to see a man cry—a strong man, who kills men without a
qualm. Mr. Jones did not cry, but his affected optic seemed to shuttle
back and forth before becoming fixed at a certain point.
Mr. Harper turned away and appeared to be interested in a piece of
printed matter, but just to illustrate his emotions—the printed matter
was upside down. Mr. Suggs said it was one of the most touching things
he had ever experienced.
I told Mr. Simpkins that I wanted to meet a noted outlaw—one with a
large price on his head.
“You and me both,” said Mr. Simpkins.
Mr. Jones had walked over by the door, and now he turned and said to me—
“There’s the man you’re looking for.”
I walked to the door. Across the street a man was dismounting from a
horse.
“Greatest sheep-thief in the world,” said Mr. Jones. “I’ll bet he can
tell you things you won’t find in books.”
“Who is it, Dirty Shirt?” asked Mr. Simpkins.
“‘Jay-Bird,’” was Mr. Jones’ reply.
Mr. Simpkins repeated the name chokingly.
“Will you introduce us?” I asked.
It seems that my question surprized Mr. Jones, for he said:
“I will not. He has sworn to shoot me on sight.”
This information thrilled me. It was life in the rough. I asked him if
it would be safe to approach this outlaw, and he said the safest way
would be to carry my gun in my hand to show that I was prepared, as a
sheep-thief never shoots any one except unarmed men, so he said.
Willie Suggs was eager to meet this Jay-Bird person, so we excused
ourselves and hurried over across the street and went inside the place.
We found this Jay-Bird standing at a long counter, talking with a number
of rough men. Mr. Warner was sitting on a table, smoking, and when he
saw us he turned away. He seemed to be sitting on his right hand.
I carried my new gun in my right hand. This Jay-Bird person is really
fierce of aspect. I touched him on the shoulder, and he turned just as
he was about to imbibe some liquid from a small glass. He stared at us
and then down at the gun in my hand. I said—
“I want you to understand that we are not policemen.”
He looked at the glass of liquor and then at himself in the big mirror.
Then he placed the glass on the counter and said—
“I think my sins have found me out.”
I said—very kindly, I think—
“I want you to understand that personally we do not care how many sheep
you have stolen.”
* * * * *
I am at a loss to describe what happened, for the reason that I do not
know. When I awoke I found that I was sitting on the ground with my back
against sort of a trough affair, and Mr. Warner was laving my face with
water, which he was pouring from a boot. Mr. Suggs was sitting in the
same position, with his hands folded on his lap. I said to Mr. Warner—
“Was any one else saved?”
He said something about quite a lot of them getting away alive.
“It was a dreadful calamity,” said Willie Suggs, and his voice sounded
far away. “Some powerful explosive, I presume.”
“I am thankful to have gotten away with my life,” said I.
“I am not sure about mine,” replied Willie. “At times I think I am not
going to recover my equilibrium.”
“I reckon you got Jay-Bird’s goat,” said Mr. Warner.
Willie said he was sorry that a dumb animal should suffer. I asked Mr.
Warner what really happened, and he said it was beyond his descriptive
powers. I think he has little imagination.
Mr. Jones and Mr. Harper came over to us, and Mr. Jones said that we had
better quit and call it a day. It was getting dark.
Mr. Jones took us over and introduced us to a Mr. Samuel Holt, who owns
the hotel. Mr. Jones told us that Mr. Holt was a good old Injun, but he
did not resemble one in the least. We procured a room. I have read
considerable about the American Indian, and I never look down upon any
race, regardless of color. I wished to be friendly with Mr. Holt, so I
asked—
“Have you any papooses?”
He did not seem to understand.
“Have you any papooses?” I cried very loudly. “Indian children?”
There were several cowboys coming out of the dining-room when I asked
the question. I know that Mr. Holt understood, or at least I think he
did.
He stooped down behind the counter and when he came up he had a
two-barreled gun in his hands. Then he slowly laid the gun down. I
noticed that Mr. Jones had a pistol in his hand and it was pointing at
Mr. Holt. Mr. Jones said—
“Have a little sense, Sam.”
We went up-stairs, and as we went I saw the cowboys come up to the
counter. Mr. Holt was watching us go up. One of the cowboys began a
peculiar dance around the room, and at each step he would grunt—
“Hy-yah, hy-yah, hy-yah!”
It seemed to amuse the others—except Mr. Holt.
Mr. Jones took us to a room. I asked him why Mr. Holt was angered at my
question, and he said that Mr. Holt had so many papooses that it made
him angry when anybody asked him how many he had. Mr. Jones went away
after bidding us goodnight.
Willie was very thoughtful for a while, and then he said that we really
should go down and apologize to Mr. Holt. He said that it was the only
decent thing to do. I agreed with him.
We went back down the stairs and found Mr. Holt and three other
gentlemen playing cards in the hotel office. I started to speak to Mr.
Holt, and just then several more men came in. I waited until they come
up to us, and then I said:
“Mr. Holt, my friend Mr. William Burton Suggs and myself have decided to
make a public apology to you. I asked you a very personal question a
short time ago, and I wish to apologize for it.
“I did not know at the time that you were the father of so many
papooses, or I would have never spoken as I did. Although you are a
proud Indian I hope you will accept this apology from a white man.”
Mr. Holt got to his feet very slowly and faced me. I put out my hand to
shake hands with him when something seemed to hit me right between the
eyes, and when I quit rolling I was almost to the door. Then I heard a
voice cry, “Run, you —— fool!” and the form of William Burton Suggs
hurdled over me, evidently intending to go out of the door; but poor
Willie is a trifle nearsighted and mistook the window for the door. I
heard the crash of glass, and then came two thunderous reports. Missiles
seemed to rain all around me, and I tumbled outside.
I know I ran and ran until some one caught me. It was Mr. Warner.
“Where is Willie?” I asked. “William Burton Suggs?”
“I heard a splash,” said Mr. Warner. “I think Willie fell into Pete
Gonyer’s horsetrough.”
“He can not swim!” I panted.
Just then we heard Willie crying:
“Assistance! Assistance! Will no one assist me?”
“He is drowning!” I gasped.
“Well,” said Mr. Warner, “if he is he has a different way of drowning
than most folks.”
We found Willie sitting in about three inches of water. He had lost his
glasses and his hat, and his coat was split from the bottom to a point
very near his collar.
Mr. Warner asked me what had happened, and I told him of the apology. I
told him what Mr. Jones had said. I do not know what Mr. Warner meant
when he said—
“I reckon I better hump myself or Dirty Shirt will have me beat four
ways from the jack.”
“But I am still in ignorance!” wailed Willie.
“Cinch,” replied Mr. Warner.
Just then Mr. Simpkins came along. He asked Mr. Warner what the trouble
was, and Mr. Warner told him of the apology to Mr. Holt. Mr. Simpkins
did not say anything, so I said—
“I know I shall never apologize to an Indian again.”
“I am all wet,” declared Willie, “all except my head, and I fear that my
head is fearfully injured.”
“Lucky for you,” said Mr. Warner. “You might have stubbed your toe and
hurt yourself.”
“I will not go back to that hotel,” I declared. “I will sleep in a
gutter before I will go back there.”
“Let ’em sleep in the jail, Magpie,” suggested Mr. Warner. “It will be
an experience for them. Got anybody in there?”
“‘Scissorbill’ Seeley and ‘Cinch’ Cooley.”
“I thought you sent them to the pen.”
“Tomorrow. Sure you fellers can sleep in the jail if yuh want to. I’ve
got a couple in there now, but they’re in a different room.”
“Did they insult somebody?” asked Willie.
“Nope—just a pair of honest horse-thieves.”
“Can a horse-thief be honest?” asked Willie.
“As long as he minds his own business,” says Mr. Warner.
* * * * *
It was surely a novel experience to sleep in a jail. There were two
narrow cots, but no other furniture. After Mr. Simpkins and Mr. Warner
were gone I said to Willie—
“Now is our chance to visualize the feelings of men who are incarcerated
for crime.”
From the next room came a voice saying:
“My ——, Scissorbill, somebody opened the booktionary!”
We did not say anything for a while, and then I said—
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen; but are you the pair of honest
horse-thieves Mr. Simpkins spoke about?”
“The only two in captivity,” said a voice.
“Orville, here is our chance,” whispered Willie. “These are _bona-fide_
horse-thieves, and this is an opportunity we have wished for. Let us
converse with them.”
We went out into the main room and up to their door. The upper half of
the door is a series of iron bars. The moment I saw them I was
delighted. Types! I give you my word of honor, I have never seen such
types.
They were delighted to see us. I told them what we were doing. Mr.
Cooley spoke feelingly of literature. Asked him if he knew any of the
great authors. He said he was very familiar with Sears and Roebuck. I
have never heard of them. In fact, up to the present time, I have cared
little for collaborators.
Mr. Seeley said it was a shame that we couldn’t all sit down together,
but the door was locked. I offered to find Mr. Simpkins and have him
open the door, but Mr. Cooley said it was too much bother. Then he told
me where he thought I could find the key, and sure enough it was
there—in a drawer of the sheriff’s desk.
We went in and sat down. Mr. Seeley asked us if we wouldn’t like some
refreshments, and I said that I surely would, as I had neglected to eat
any dinner. They were very thoughtful. Mr. Cooley said that he and Mr.
Seeley would go out and get us all something to eat and drink. I thanked
them kindly.
They shut the door and went out. Willie was near the door, and after
they went out the office door he said to me—
“Orville, this must be a very primitive place.”
I asked him why, and he said:
“Well, they each took a gun from the cabinet behind the sheriff’s desk.
Queer, don’t you think, that a man should arm himself when going after
refreshments?”
I said, “They must know what they are doing, William.”
We sat there waiting for at least an hour. There was only one lamp in
the place. It was suspended from the center of the room. It began to get
dim and finally flickered out, leaving us in darkness.
“I do not think we did quite right in letting those men out of here,”
observed Willie.
“Somehow I seem to have an idea that Mr. Simpkins will be displeased.”
I said: “Well, they will surely be back. Their honesty seems
unquestioned.”
But they did not return, so we decided to go back to our own room, but
were unable to, as the door was locked from the outside. It must have
been one of those spring locks which lock automatically. It was of no
great concern, as the rooms seem to be very much alike; so we undressed
and went to bed.
I do not know what time of night it was when I awoke. I know it was
very, very dark, but I could sense the presence of human beings. I heard
a voice say, very softly—
“If they make a yelp—bend a gun over their heads.”
I mentally decided not to utter a sound. William Burton Suggs was
snoring, unmindful of it all.
I was tempted to rouse him and convey a warning for silence, but decided
to let him remain as he was. Oftentimes one will cry out on being
aroused, and I knew that Willie would shrink from having a gun bent over
his head.
I still had my gun; but I have no desire to shoot in the dark, so I did
not take it from my pocket. It seemed that the room was full of men,
although I could not see any of them. I heard one of them say:
“Rattle your hocks a little. Don’t take all night to open one little
door.”
Just then came a splintering sound, and some one said—
“It’s —— funny that they don’t wake up.”
And then another said—
“Betcha forty dollars they ain’t here.”
Then the room seemed to fill up with men. One of them grasped me by the
throat. I am not used to such treatment, don’t you know, so I struck him
viciously. I know he swore.
Then I heard Willie Suggs scream, and my blood turned cold. The blood of
my ancestors boiled in my veins, and I fought—a little. I dimly heard a
voice saying—
“This is one pair of horse-thieves that won’t cost the tax-payers
anything.”
* * * * *
It suddenly struck me that there had been a mistake made, but the rope
around my neck prevented me from exposing their error. I had one free
arm, and it suddenly struck me that I might attract their attention by
using my gun.
Gasping for breath, I drew my gun and pressed the trigger. I heard a
voice swear in my ear; some one crashed into me and then I fired once
more. I heard some one yell—
“Where did that —— fool get a gun?”
I tried to tell him, but just then I appeared to be yanked upside down
and felt myself being dragged across the floor and out into the night.
Men were running around, and I may also add that I have never heard so
much profanity before. Dimly I heard a man say:
“Put ’em both on that sorrel! Rattle your hocks! That —— gun has woke
everybody up!”
I felt myself lifted on to a horse, which was surging and snorting, and
then some ropes seemed to grasp my ankles.
The pressure on my throat was relieved. I reached out with my hands and
grasped a man who seemed to be sitting in front of me. Just then I heard
a yell:
“Hit the grit! Here they come!”
Some one struck the horse, a man yelled a curse, and a gun was fired.
Several horses seemed to crash into us, and then began a strange voyage
in the dark, accompanied by yells and the sound of pistol-shots.
At the first sudden movement of our horse my nose came in sharp contact
with the back of my companion’s head. I give you my word of honor that
if I ever have occasion to strike a man it will not be on the nose.
For a few moments I did not take much heed. I know that I lost my
customary poise. In fact, the erratic movements of that horse
disconcerted me greatly. From where I sat it was impossible to judge
which way we were going, because the horse did not seem to have any
definite objective point.
I feel sure that if it were not for the confining ropes I would have
escaped. As it was there was just enough slack to cause me discomfort.
I caught a glimpse of the lighted street as we passed through. Men were
running and shouting, trying no doubt to attract my attention, but
whether they did or not I really can’t say, as the party in front of me
seemed to delight in swaying back and bruising my sore nose.
I started to call his attention to this matter, but he hit me again and
drove the words from my lips.
Then we left the city behind. I was holding both hands before my nose as
a protection from the brute in front of me, when suddenly the horse gave
an extra severe lunge, and I seemed to feel nothing under me except
vacant atmosphere.
Then came a terrific crash, which completely squelched me, if I may use
that word. I do not know how long I lay there, but it seemed years. A
great weight seemed to press down upon my chest, which interfered with
my respiration.
I tried to struggle to a sitting position, but was unable to move. Then
I said aloud—
“Orville Wellington Chatterton, I greatly fear that your usefulness to
mankind is over.”
“Ditto for William Burton Suggs,” said a voice weakly, and the weight
seemed to slide from my chest.
“Willie!” I gasped. “Are you here?”
“Well,” he replied, and his voice fairly croaked, “it is a debatable
point, Orville. I am here in spirit, but there is a serious doubt in my
mind as to the flesh. Are you hurt?”
“I am not,” I replied with difficulty. “Either I am uninjured or I am
completely paralyzed.”
I moved my legs and immediately discovered that it was not paralysis. My
nose was swollen to twice its natural size, and one of my eyes appeared
quite useless. I asked Willie where our horse had gone, and he said that
he did not know, but that it may have gone straight up. I told him that
horses were not capable of going straight up, and he said, very
vehemently, that this was an entirely capable horse.
“It did quite well in that respect with our weight on its back,” said
Willie, “so I can see no reason why it could not accomplish its purpose
after we were no longer astride its back.”
I said—
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“If you think it is funny, Orville, you have weird ideas of humor. I was
merely disputing your ideas of natural history.”
“But,” said I, “it is an indisputable fact——”
I am not going to quote Willie’s interruption, because it was very, very
profane. I did not think it of him.
We struggled to our feet and examined our surroundings as well as we
could in the dark, but could see no lights.
“I am sure I do not know where to go,” said Willie.
“I have not asked you for a direction, have I?” said I. “I think I am
entirely capable of finding a place.”
“If I had a hat I’d take it off to you, Orville. Lead on.”
Thus challenged, I started out, with Willie at my heels. In the daytime
one may find a certain direction by consulting the sun. I have heard
that woodmen can tell the compass points by the foliage of trees. We had
no sun and no trees. We were fortunate, I think, to go in any direction.
* * * * *
We went silently and slowly. In the dim light I could see darker mounds
around us. It was very peculiar. I stopped and mentioned the fact to
Willie, who said:
“The topography of the country has little appeal to me. I am going to
cry for help.”
William Burton Suggs had a very penetrating voice, and his cry for help
was loud and earnest. We listened for a reply.
Suddenly Willie grasped me by the arm.
“Orville, the peculiar lumps are getting up!”
They were, sure enough! They not only got up, but seemed to draw closer
to us. One of them made a low grumbling noise.
“I think,” said Willie nervously, clutching my sleeve, “I think it is
cows—I—er—I believe those are cows.”
Another of the bulky figures emitted a sneezing noise, and then another
said—
“Ba-a-a-a!”
Then they moved in closer.
“They have nothing against us,” said I, trying to reassure Willie.
“I—I know that,” said Willie, “but it is so dark that they do not know
who we are.”
I looked around, but found that we were hemmed in completely. In fact,
it was a veritable cow _cul de sac_.
“Sh-should one pray?” asked Willie.
I believe in prayer, but I think there is a right and a wrong time for
it. Anyway my nerves were too unstrung for cool and collected thought,
and before I knew what I was doing I had rushed right at the barrier of
cows, shouting:
“Boo! Boo! Boo!”
I really did not know I was so close to them. Darkness is deceiving, I
think, and I crashed into the front end of one of the animals as I
uttered my final “Boo!”
I am not sure, but I think the animal was unable to escape my rush. At
any rate my coat became entangled in its horns, which prevented me from
withdrawing. I heard William Burton Suggs cry for help, but I was in no
position to give assistance to any one.
My cow—I will call it my cow to differentiate it from the other cows,
although I had no legal title to ownership—my cow, instead of going away
from me, came forward, with such force and abruptness that I sprawled
across its neck and horns. The skin of its neck was sufficiently loose
to enable me to grasp its folds firmly, and then I appeared to be
moving, although I had no idea of whether the cow was going backward or
forward.
I succeeded in lifting my head and I beheld a sea of dark forms moving
with us. The earth seemed to tremble with their tread, and ever and anon
one of them would moan loudly. Suddenly I heard a human voice crying—
“Yee-e-e-e-ow!”
And I glimpsed the flash of a pistol, but heard no report. Then I heard
another voice crying—
“Let ’em go to——; we can’t stop ’em!”
I am not sure but what the cows went to the designated place, for
suddenly the ground gave way under us. I remember feeling my hands slip
and hearing the tearing sound from my coat, and then there came a bright
light. I really remember nothing more for some time.
When I awoke I appeared to be reclining in some very sticky substance,
which emitted a sucking noise as I sat up. I believe it was mud. I did
not have complete control of my limbs, and my nose and ears seemed to be
entirely out of commission. Stumbling around in the ooze, I discovered
what I took to be a stump; but when I sat down on it it collapsed with
an audible grunt.
“Who and what are you?” I managed to ask.
“I am William Burton Suggs,” says he dazedly. “I think I am a —— fool.”
“Why are you?” I asked.
“Because I did not let loose of that cow’s tail before the cow jumped
off the earth.”
“Well,” said I, “I think we are in a depression in the earth, Willie.
Let us get back to the town if possible, and procure dry clothing.”
Willie grunted an assent and we made our first attempt. No less than
seven times did I almost reach the top, only to slide down and half-bury
myself in that sticky mud. The eighth time I was successful.
I think that Willie made it on his first attempt. At any rate he called
across to me and asked what I was doing on that side. I said, “Nothing.”
Then he made this suggestion:
“If you will run down your side the momentum will carry you up this
side.”
The theory was very good, and it would have worked if I had not slipped
on the downward run. My head and shoulders plowed into the mud, but I
got to my feet and marched right up to him. I fear that I was
exasperated, but I said nothing.
It was getting lighter now, but we had no idea of the right direction.
Neither of us was in any condition to walk. I was barely able to see,
and I ached in every muscle.
Willie was nearly as badly mutilated as I was, especially in the limbs.
He said it was caused from keeping up with the cow. He also said there
was another cow close behind him, which prodded him to swifter action.
He said it was what he would call a “cowpuncher.”
* * * * *
Suddenly we entered a clump of small trees, and right before us stood
two horses, saddled and bridled. There was no one in sight.
“I think,” said Willie, “I think this is a pair of abandoned horses,
Orville. We will ride.”
“Perhaps you are right,” I replied. “But suppose they are not? We would
be horse-thieves.”
“Precisely. It is a chance to experience the mental emotions of a
horse-thief. At any rate I can walk no further.”
We untied the ropes. It was a difficult matter to get on the horses, as
they were rather restive, but at last I succeeded in getting on behind
the saddle. Just then we heard a voice exclaim——
“What in ——!”
And then another voice—
“Let ’em go, Cinch!”
Our horses needed no urging. I clung to the rear of that saddle with
both hands and onward we went. I could see Willie humped up on his
horse, and then I passed him. Suddenly I seemed to hear a peculiar sound
past my ear. It was sort of a _pwee-e-e-e_, and I seemed to hear the
report of a gun.
I turned my head. Behind me thundered William Burton Suggs on his horse,
while seemingly from all directions came riders. There were numerous
puffs of smoke, and a number of bees seemed to pass my head.
It seemed as if one of the bees stung my horse, for it nearly unseated
me for a moment. I clung tightly to the saddle and let the horse pick
its own way. Once I looked back and the riders seemed to be gaining a
little.
I do not know how far we rode before I lifted my head and saw the town
of Piperock just ahead of me. Willie’s horse had increased its speed
until we were almost side by side. Behind us came the riders.
The town seemed aroused. Several men ran into the street, and one of
them seemed to be waving something. This, later on, appeared to be a
rope.
My horse swerved as if to pass them, but evidently thought better of it,
and the next thing I knew my horse was dashing right for the open door
of a business place. This appeared ridiculous, did it not? Perhaps the
horse thought it was a stable. At any rate we went inside, and Willie’s
horse followed us in.
I do not know just what happened, but I seemed to get a momentary
glimpse of the place, which showed it to have been the same place where
I had questioned Jay-Bird, and then my horse struck the stove, I think,
and I struck the top of the rear door as I fairly flew outside.
No, I was not injured—that is, I was not hurt. I felt no pain. I got to
my feet, which did not feel at all like my feet, and started away on
legs that I am sure did not belong to me, when something seemed to coil
around my body and I was flung down. I dimly heard a voice say—
“This ain’t neither of them, Magpie.”
And then another voice said—
“If yuh wash the alkali mud off this one I think you’ll find Orvie
underneath.”
Somebody swore very profanely, and then another voice said:
“The other —— fool went plumb through Buck’s mirror. He’s got seven
years of bad luck comin’ to him.”
“If this hunk of mud ever gets its voice back I’ve got a few questions
to ask it,” stated a voice, which I think belonged to Mr. Simpkins.
“Do yuh reckon that bunch tried to lynch these two, thinkin’ they was
Cinch and Scissorbill?” asked a voice.
“If they did they ought to be sent up for not makin’ a good job of it.”
Then everything seemed to fade away. I do not know what happened in the
interim. It was very much like the moving picture, where a lapse of time
is shown. One never knows what the characters have been doing during
this time. At any rate, I awoke and stared around.
I was sitting on a seat, and beside me was something which I knew must
be William Burton Suggs, although he did not look so much like William.
On the seat ahead of us sat the man who drove the stage when we came in.
Standing on the sidewalk were a number of men; among them were Mr.
Harper, Mr. Simpkins, Mr. Warner and Mr. Jones.
“He’s awake now, so yuh can take the ropes off,” said Mr. Simpkins.
* * * * *
I looked down and beheld my hands and feet tied with rope, which
extended behind me and was tied to the rear of the seat. Mr. Jones began
unfastening the knots.
“Why was I tied?” I asked, and my voice did not sound at all familiar to
me.
“You was loco,” explained Mr. Jones. “You had a idea you wanted to rob a
bank.”
“You sure are a hog for action, feller,” said Mr. Simpkins. “You turned
two of the worst horse-thieves in the county loose, almost got lynched
by mistake, took them same horse-thieves’ horses away from right under
their noses when we had ’em surrounded; ducked about fifty pounds of hot
lead and wrecked a saloon.”
“And then insisted on robbin’ a bank,” grinned Mr. Warner, wiggling his
ears.
“Where are we going now?” I asked.
“Out!” said Mr. Simpkins, pointing down the road. “If yuh simply must
write stories—stay at home, in the house.”
“But,” I objected, “one must have experience——”
“Don’t come here,” said Mr. Simpkins. “This ain’t no place for to get
experience.”
“The feller what wrote ‘The Revelations of a Countess’ didn’t have
experience,” said Mr. Warner. “He used his imagination.”
“I—I think,” said Willie, “I think that is sufficient.”
“It sure as —— was for us,” nodded Mr. Jones.
“Shake a hoof, broncs!” cried the driver, and we went out of the West—a
very peculiar place, and utterly devoid, I think, of romance. I said to
William Burton Suggs:
“Willie, could you describe any of the emotions, feelings, etc., that
you experienced?”
“Yes,” said he, very thoughtful. “Yes, I can, Orville.”
For a while he was silent as the stage rocked along over the dusty road.
Then he grimaced with pain and said—
“Slow recovery from complete paralysis.”
I said—
“Please do not explain it.”
I wanted to find out the sensation for myself.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
August 3, 1921. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
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