The Project Gutenberg eBook of Local option in Loco-Land
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: Local option in Loco-Land
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: July 29, 2026 [eBook #79221]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1919
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79221
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOCAL OPTION IN LOCO-LAND ***
LOCAL OPTION IN LOCO LAND
by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Dirty Work for Doughgod,” “The Color of His Boots,” etc.
Me and “Dirty Shirt” halts our burros and peers at the proclamation.
There she is, tacked to a tree beside the trail for all men to see. We
spells her out loud, and then we sets down to try and figure out the
meaning.
VOTE FOR
LINDHARDT CADWALLADER SIMS
FOR SHERIFF AND
DEFEAT THE DEMON RUM
Me and Dirty looks at each other.
“Lindhardt Cadwallader!” snorts Dirty. “My ——, what a name!”
“For a sheriff,” I admits. “Yaller Rock needs us, Dirty Shirt.”
“And defeat the demon rum,” peruses Dirty. “Who’s he, Ike?”
“Not being a mind-reader, Dirty, I has to remain silent. I feel that we
will find our answer in Piperock town.”
Me and Dirty Shirt Jones are just getting over our annual hunch that we
know where there’s some gold. Said hunch takes us away from the
flesh-pots in the gentle Springtime, and there’s almost a smell of snow
in the air when we returneth back, chastened in spirit, short on
spondulix and hairy as to face.
Our faith in our own county is about on par with our hunches when we
reads that “Scenery” Sims is candidate for sheriff. Scenery is only a
cipher in a country where men talk in figures. He’s knee-high to a tall
Injun and has a voice that sounds like an asthmatic fiddle.
He used to be a practising shepherd, but he got scared and sold his
flocks when the cowmen declared war on the woolies. Then he purchases a
lot of alleged cows, builds him a house on top of a hill, where he can
see all directions, and tries to become a citizen.
Me and Dirty punches our long-eared rolling-stock in the direction of
Piperock. A little farther on we finds another notice on a tree.
IT STEALS AWAY MEN’S MINDS. DOWN IT.
“Now,” says Dirty, “I wonder if that means Scenery Sims.”
The next one reads:
DID YOU EVER SEE TEN NIGHTS IN A BARROOM?
Me and Dirty peruses each notice careful-like and prods our jassacks
along and wonders what anybody could hope to see after half that many
nights in a barroom.
At the fringe of civilization we meets “Old Testament” Tilton riding a
mule. The old pelican greets us, calling us “brothers,” which we ain’t,
and then discourses thusly—
“Have you declared for or against the evil things of life, the same of
which is the leading question in Yaller Rock County?”
“If you mean Scenery Sims, I’m against,” states Dirty Shirt. “I sure am
anti-Sims, now, then and after while, Testament.”
“Him being incidental to the main issue, we will discuss him later,”
says the old sky-pilot. “Ye have heard of the wave of reformation that a
few of us martyrs have stirred up hereabouts?”
“Martyrs?” asks Dirty. “What’s a martyr?”
“Testament is, Dirty,” says I. “Maybe Scenery is another one. Is he,
Testament?”
“Yea, verily.”
“Come on, Ike.” Dirty slaps a burro with his hat and heads it on to the
trail.
“That’s a plenty. Any old time they changes s-h-e-p-h-e-r-d to spell
martyr, I’m too thirsty to argue about it. Come on.”
“’Tis of thirst I would discourse,” states Testament grieved-like.
“Touch it not, Mr. Jones. It steals men’s minds away and leads them to
ruin. Strong drink is a mocker, and hooch knocketh thunder out of your
stummick. Look upon it not when it is red, and—and you _hombres_ better
get used to drinking water, ’cause we’re sure going to hang padlocks on
all the grog-shops of this here county. _Sabe?_”
Me and Dirty looks at each other and then at Testament.
“Too much sun,” pronounces Dirty, sad-like. “Poor old preacher is done
headed for the loco lodge. That’s what a feller gets for riding herd on
the devil in a country like this, Ike. He was a good old buggy, but he’s
done broke down.”
“Huh!” snorts Testament. “Going dry, I tell you. Yaller Rock is going to
be through with the demon rum, and then she’ll start progressing like
she should. It will be a glorious victory for the—the——”
“Martyrs?” I asks.
“Brother, you begin to see the light,” says he.
Then me and Dirty herds our animals off down the trail, while he stands
there beside his fuzzy mule, his long black coat waving in the breeze as
he peers over his specs at our cavalcade. He looks a heap like a big
he-buzzard up there against the sky-line.
Then we hits the road and runs into “Mighty” Jones. Mighty is driving a
pinto bronc to a breaking cart, said cart being full to the top with
bundles and jugs. Mighty is the only goat-herder in the State, and each
and every one of them goats is a cross between a peeve and a
pile-driver. Mighty got his stock from some place in the Southwest where
said goats have to hold their own with cougars and grizzlies. Believe
me, they ain’t lost none of their belligerency.
Mighty’s pinto skids to a stop as we pilgrim up, and Mighty arises up in
his seat.
“It ain’t noways according to the Constitution of the United States,”
says he, pointing to the four winds like a medicine-man. “This here is a
free country, ain’t she? I asks you in kind tones if it’s anybody’s
business if I admires to drink something besides water? I asks you that,
gents. All my life I’ve had it when I wanted it, and right now I orates
wild and free that anybody who takes it away from me has got to hold a
gun against my belly. I’m free, white and twenty-one—me! I asks you—is
it right? I ain’t thinking for a second that this here county is going
to get padlocked, but just the same I’m carting home enough to kill all
the snakebites in the county. What do you fellers think? Ain’t it the
gol-dangdest thing you ever heard tell about? Ain’t it?”
“What are you talking about, Mighty?” asks Dirty, soothing-like.
Mighty sets down slow-like and looks at us with his mouth wide open.
“Talking about?” he whispers hoarse-like. “Go to ——!”
And then he slaps the pinto with his whip, and they went away on the
lope.
“Well,” says Dirty, punching a burro back to the straight and narrow
way. “It must be a regular question, Ike.”
We pilgrimed into the main street of Piperock. There don’t seem to be
much excitement, but you never can tell about Piperock. She’s like a
stick of dynamite—sort of brown and smooth looking, but, man, oh man,
when you give her a jar, you sure better keep your distance and hang on
to your hat.
* * * * *
Right in front of Buck Masterson’s place we meets Mrs. Wick Smith and a
long, lean, pious-looking jasper, who looks like the sins of the world
depressed him a heap.
Me and Dirty aims to bolster up some of our weak nerve-centers at
Buck’s, but they heads us off. Mrs. Smith don’t ordinarily speak to me
and Dirty, but now she acts like we’re her long-lost brothers and makes
us used to the Rev. Algernon Pettingill Parsley.
“The reverend is doing a good work among us,” states Mrs. Smith, whose
physique runs a dead heat with a bureau—minus the top.
“He looks like a good worker,” admits Dirty. Then, being a hale fellow
well met, “Have a little drink, Algernon?”
Algernon rears back on his heels, and I figures in my own mind that Algy
needs a martingale to keep his head down.
“Oh!” snorts the lady. “The reverend is a minister.”
“With the necessary failings of human beings,” admits Dirty
apologetic-like. “He can’t no more than refuse, can he?”
“Of course,” says Algernon, “you were joking, my good man.”
“At two-bits a drink, it is more finance than fooling,” grins Dirty.
“Drink is a mocker,” states Algy serious-like. “It wrecks——”
“So Testament said,” interrupts Dirty. “What’s the joke, folks?”
“Joke?” snorts Mrs. Smith. “It is no joke. The Rev. Parsley came here to
volunteer his services to stamp out the demon rum. With the help of the
local clergyman we hope to bring local option to this county. Strong
drink has been our worst enemy, and we are going to wipe it out.”
“I’ve done my dangdest,” says Dirty reflective-like. “I’ve sure wiped
out considerable. Has Wick quit drinking?”
“Wicksie never did drink much!” she snaps.
“Much is a peculiar word,” says I, “and she covers a lot of things. For
instance, a barrel of whisky per day ain’t much when you consider all
the distilleries work day and night.”
“This ain’t a question of individuals,” states Algernon, peeking over
his glasses at us. “We ain’t working on the basis that one man is a
heavier drinker than another. Your thirst and Mr. Jones’ thirst——”
“Is of several months’ standing,” states Dirty, and he walks right away
from them and goes into Buck’s place.
As we came through the door, we seen Buck rise up from behind the bar
and look us over. He shakes hands with us nervous-like.
“Did my eyes deceive me, Buck, or did you have a riot gun in your
hands?” asks Dirty, measuring his thirst.
“Eyesight O. K.,” admits Buck.
“Who for is the assassination article?” I asks.
“Scenery Sims.”
“Lindhardt Cadwallader?” asks Dirty.
“Same thing,” nods Buck. “Both barrels, legally and lawfully.”
We accepts of Buck’s compliments and rolls smokes.
“Whyfor does you admire to smear Lindhardt Cadwallader, and how so are
you doing it lawfully?” inquires Dirty. “Is he deserving of demise?”
“Sure thing,” says Buck earnest-like. “He’s a menace. That cross between
a crippled crawler and a coyote is running for sheriff on the Democratic
ticket! That nasty blot on the clean pages of our county records is
seeking office! That—” Buck rises half-way up the bar and hammers it
with his fist—“that bandy-legged, squeaky-voiced, skinny-brained
son-of-loco-eating ancestors is running as the Prohibition candidate!
Prohibition, ——! He pokes his nose inside my door and squeaks at me,
‘Your doom is sealed!’ And then he spits out in the middle of my floor
and slams the door. I busts right out there and cuts one of his
suspenders loose as he turns the corner.
“A six-gun ain’t no good for wing shooting; so I loads up my shotgun.
Believe me, I’ll seal his doom if he pokes his nose in here again. He
sends old Judge Steele down here to hold council with me, and the old
Blackstone blatter orates that I’ve got to conduct myself in a decorous
manner, ’cause there’s an injunction against me. I asks him what for.
“‘To keep you from assaulting Scenery Sims with a six-gun,’ says he. I
says, ‘There ain’t nothing to prevent me from spoiling his future with a
shotgun, is there, Judge?’ He says, ‘No, there ain’t no mention of
shotguns.’ That’s how I’m within the law. Sabe?”
“Aw, you’d be safe, Buck,” says Dirty. “No jury would convict you. Tell
us about this demon rum argument.”
“Yah!” Buck climbs plumb up on top of the bar and hammers industrious.
“Demon, ——! Know what they’re trying to do? They’re going to try and
vote this here county into a local option stage of being. Know what that
means? It means that we’ll have to go over into the next county or drink
water when we’re dry! Water!”
“To drink?” asks Dirty awed-like. “Inside your throat, Buck?”
“Uh-huh. Have to take a bath every time you get dry.”
“My gosh, she’s going to the dogs!” wails Dirty Shirt. “Everybody will
have to ride to Powder River to get a drink or drink water. Let’s go up
and see what Magpie Simpkins knows about it. The sheriff ought to have
some authority.”
“He’s quit drinking,” says Buck sad-like. “He—he’s backslid.”
Magpie greets us sad-like. Honest-to-gosh, that lanky, lodge-pole person
is so melancholy that his long mustache hangs on his upper lip like
crape on the front door.
He gives us sort of an undertaker shake and then pulls down the curtain
on the one window. He pulls up a board from the floor and produces a big
demijohn. Me and Dirty looks at him wondering-like, and he shakes his
head.
“Never know who’s peeking in the window,” he whispers.
“You’re scared of what?” I asks.
“Public opinion, Ike. At this stage of the game I can’t take no chance
of them using my thirst as a campaign argument.”
“How does Lindhardt Cadwallader Sims stand?” I asks.
“Well,” says Magpie, “some think of running him for President and some
favor running him out of the State. They’ve branded us Republicans as
despoilers of homes and wreckers of men’s lives. To hear some of ’em
orate, you’d think it was a Republican that invented intoxication.”
“And,” says Dirty, “this country is so demoralized that a man like you
has got to drink in private in order to defeat a cross between a
bull-fiddle and a bed-bug. She’s ruined, Magpie.”
“Uh-huh,” admits Magpie. “The praying portion is supporting Scenery. You
never can tell what will happen at the election. Curlew is sort of
neutral so far, but Paradise is a hotbed of corruption for the
reformers. Them demon rum argufiers are sure going strong. Curlew has
got one candidate—Hassayampa Harris, who is running for the legislature
without no opponent, and they’re betting even money that he’s elected.
It ain’t a even money bet, because somebody will likely kill him before
election.”
“Why don’t your side make a campaign?” asks Dirty.
“They call us the Wets, and there ain’t no argument for hooch, is there?
Can you think of any, Dirty?”
“Not on one drink,” says Dirty; so Magpie pulled down the curtain.
Dirty leaves after a while, and I takes a walk down-town to see how
things are going. Some folks never have any luck. I’m going along as
free as air when I bumps right into Sally Mudgett and the Widder
Sanders. Them ladies shakes my hands, which is out of the ordinary.
Miss Mudgett looks a heap like them funny pictures of Miss Democracy,
and I am too good a Republican to be friendly with any such person. The
widder ain’t spoke to me none since I was on a coroner’s jury that
cleared “High-Card” Hawkins for the killing of “Slim” Sanders. We
brought in a verdict of suicide, which was proper. Slim called High-Card
a liar, and he reached for a gun, which was the same as if he had bit
down on a dynamite cap and dared it to bust. The widder wasn’t filled
with revenge over that part of it, but Slim had insurance in a lodge,
and there was a suicide clause in the policy.
“Oh, Uncle Ike, we’re so glad to see you,” warbles Miss Mudgett.
“Aren’t we though,” agrees the widder.
“You’re welcome,” says I.
“We need stalwart men,” states Miss Mudgett. “We need men of brain and
brawn who are willing to die for a principle. We need men with high
ideals and the courage of their convictions.”
“Yes’m,” says I. “It’s time you both got married. I wish you luck.”
“Oh, Mr. Harper,” coos the widder, getting so red around the ears that I
can feel the heat. Dog-gone it, she ain’t so bad to look at, and I
wonders what she could ever see about a careless feller like Slim was.
“You don’t understand us,” says Miss Mudgett. “Of course, we know that
your pardner is candidate for sheriff on the rum ticket, but what is
mere male friendship when the womanhood of the county appeals to you
with open arms? We are going to have ‘Ten Nights in a Barroom,’ and we
need you.”
“Better get a doctor or a coroner,” I advises. “Why the extended spree?”
“This is a play, Uncle Ike,” states Miss Mudgett serious-like.
“Honkatonk?”
“A play,” says the widder. “A play that points a moral. We are going to
work up great enthusiasm. You’ll help; I know you will.” And she takes
me by the arm like I belonged to her.
* * * * *
Dog-gone it, I didn’t have no excuse right then, and, by the time I
figured out some good alibi, they’ve got me into the Mint Hall.
Lindhardt Cadwallader Sims is there, and he waltzes right up to me.
“Welcome, Ike,” says he. “Welcome to the fold.”
“Get out, you shepherd!” I hisses in his face. “Don’t talk fold to me!”
There’s quite an aggregation up there. A lot of the weaker sex are
setting around. Old man Thatcher and his two boys are there, and so is
“Fog-Horn” Foster, who runs the biggest saloon in Powder River. Old man
Thatcher leads me over into a corner, where he shakes my hand a lot.
Scenery starts over toward me, but I slips my gun loose, and he leaves
the hall.
“Ike,” says Thatcher, “it pleases me a heap to see you here. Dog-gone
me, I’m glad to get to play my orchestra before a show that ain’t going
to bust up in a killing. This one is going to be as safe as a church.”
“I’m dry,” says I. “Listening makes me dry.”
He peers around to see that nobody is looking, and then he leads me
outside the door and produces a pint bottle.
“Cough medicine, Ike,” says he.
“You’ll cough yourself to death after election if you don’t change your
policy,” says I, handing him back the bottle.
“Meaning which?” he asks.
“Local option will close all the saloons, and we can’t buy a drink.”
“Is—is that what she means, Ike?”
“You dang fool, didn’t you know it?” I asks, and he shakes his head.
“Nope. By mighty, I thought it meant that it was optional with you
whether you drank it or not. Why, Ike, Fog-Horn Foster is boosting the
campaign, and he’s a big saloon man.”
“In Dawson County,” I admits. “In riding distance from here, Thatcher.”
“My ——! He’s grinding his ax!”
Just then some of them females drags us back into the hall, but I’ve
spoiled one convert.
“Mr. Harper came along just in time,” says Mrs. Tilton. “Always the Lord
will provide. He has had some experience in plays, and we sure need his
assistance.”
Looking back over my experiences don’t bring me any jolts of joy.
“Ma’am,” says I, “man is full enough of natural trouble without hunting
for more. I’m for peace. If Yaller Rock wishes to be temperate, _tempus
fugit_. There ain’t been a drouth in the Harper tribe since I can
remember, and I’m——”
We hears a loud report out on the street, and a moment later Lindhardt
Cadwallader Sims skids in through the open door and slams into the wall.
He’s got a most painful expression on his face.
“Buck Masterson!” he yelps. “He—he shot me!”
“My heavenly home!” exclaims Mrs. Tilton, and the weaker sex seems to
look upon Sims as a casualty.
“You spit on his floor again?” I asks, but he don’t reply.
“Set down, Mr. Sims, and tell me where you’re hurt,” urges Mrs. Tilton,
starting for him.
Scenery slides toward the door, scared-like.
“Like ——, I will!” he squeaks and ducks outside.
“Maybe it affected his mind!” gasps Miss Mudgett.
“Chances are,” nods Fog-Horn, grinning at me. “Just to show how much I
think of Scenery’s brains, I’ll say—chances are. Ha, ha, ha!”
When them females ain’t looking, I ducks out of there and heads for
Buck’s place. He’s setting there on the bar, looking satisfied.
“He came again,” says he joyful-like. “He pokes his nose in the door and
says, ‘Mr. Rum Seller, it ain’t going to be a year until I’ll be setting
in my sheriff’s office across the street and watch sheep take shelter in
this shack.’”
“I says, ‘Lindhardt Cadwallader, you used the word set when you should
have said stood.’ And then I heezed a handful of number seven shot into
his panties at sixty yards. If they elect that thing sheriff, I won’t
stay here even if the county stays wet.”
Then cometh Judge Steele and Magpie Simpkins. They looks a heap sad.
“Sheriff, I reckon you’ve got to do it,” says the judge.
“I reckon so, Judge. Buck, I’ve done got to arrest you.”
“In favor of Scenery Sims,” explains the judge.
“He called me a rum dealer,” says Buck sad-like, “and then he said that
inside of a year he’d set in his sheriff’s office and watch sheep hive
up in here. All I done was to perforate his panties with shot.”
“You hadn’t ought to have used a shotgun, Buck,” chides the judge.
“Shotguns only irritates folks and makes ’em vindictive.”
“Ain’t you got no rifle, Buck?” asks Magpie.
“Yeah. Dropped it the other day and knocked the front sight over so she
throws to the right.”
“Feller hadn’t ought to let his utensils get out o’ whack,” states the
judge. “Wouldn’t ’a’ had all this commotion if you’d used the proper
weapon.”
“Can I take my shotgun along, Judge?” asks Buck.
“Uh-huh,” nods Magpie. “Give me that rifle, and I’ll set that sight.”
“Trade as soon as it’s fixed, Sheriff,” says the judge. “Scenery might
come monkeying around the jail, and I believe in giving a prisoner all
the protection possible.”
* * * * *
Then Buck asked me if I’d run his grog-shop while he’s in durance vile.
I don’t _sabe_ that side of the bar much, but I leans on the bar and
acts as much like a bartender as I can.
Then I gets the shock of my young life. The back door opens slow-like
and then closes softly behind the figure of Rev. Algernon Pettingill
Parsley. He peers all around and then comes sneaking up to the bar.
“Brother,” says he, “it pains my soul to come in thusly, but the pain in
my stummick is worse than the twinges of my soul. I crave something in
the nature of sody to ease the cramps of my interior. I must have relief
from generated gases.”
“You’ve got a bellyache?” I asks as he groans against the bar.
“Yea, verily. I am in torment.”
I pokes around under the bar. Buck’s patrons ain’t addicted to gas on
their stummicks, and he ain’t prepared for no such an emergency. But I
finds about a dozen bottles, the epitaphs of which orate them to be
ginger ale. I’ve had cramps, and I know what I used. But I ain’t never
been called to minister to a minister; so I disguises the dose.
He takes a sip, another sip and then points the bottom of the glass
toward the ceiling.
“If that don’t unhook ’em, I’ll slip you another,” says I. “These are
free gratis in acknowledgment of the great and noble work you are
doing.”
“I still feel depressed a little,” says he; so I hands him another.
Pretty soon he sighs deep-like and says: “Brother, that ginger ale was a
boon and a blessing to me. I was suffering, and ye took me in. Let’s
have one on me.”
We each had one, and I sets ’em up again.
“Brother,” says he, shaking hands with me, “I am glad I am here to
snatch brands from the burning. Tonight I am going to make a great
speech. I am going to flay the demon rum as he has never been flayed
before.”
“Happy returns of the day,” says I. “How’s the cramps?”
He feels of his stummick, and then we has some more.
“Going to hop on to poor old alcohol, eh?” I asks.
“Ab’stively. Goin’ to make a schpeech that will go down in hist’ry as
the greatest schpeech ever made in hist’ry. What’s the use of alcohol
when ginger ale is so—— Le’s have ’nother cramp, eh?”
“Where you going?” I asks when he pulls his hat down over one eye and
starts for the front door. “Remember, you’re a backdoor patron.”
“Tha’s right. Ex-coos me. I’m goin’ t’ shing a shong.”
And I seen him kick that back door open and go out.
Ginger ale is a whole lot like a six-gun. It ain’t the thing itself so
much as what you put in it. I don’t want anybody to chide me for what I
done. I never asked him in, did I? I didn’t offer to cure him. He took
what I gave him.
Then Lindhardt Cadwallader Sims sticks his nose inside the front door
and squints at me.
“Don’t do it or say it, Scenery,” says I. “I ain’t under no bonds to let
you live.”
“Did they arrest Buck?”
“Uh-huh. Come in and set down.”
“I’ll come in,” says he. “That’s all. Did they appoint you receiver?”
“I’ll get my share,” says I, and then I innoculates Scenery with my new
drink.
Scenery gets enthusiastic over it. Then Fog-Horn comes in and joins our
temperance circle. Then old man Thatcher with his two sons and “Froggy”
Deschamps, who plays the jew’s-harp in Thatcher’s orchestra.
They all gives that soft drink a trial and orders more. I pokes down
into Buck’s cellar and finds another case of the same thing. Later on
somebody knocked on the door.
Can you imagine anybody knocking on a saloon door? Nobody but Algernon
would have done it. He shuts one eye and peers at us.
“Brother,” says he, “would it be possible for me to purchase a container
of that ginger ale? I feel a recurrence of the cramps.”
“Welcome to our glorious land, Reverend,” yelps Fog-Horn. “Come right
inside.”
“Yes,” says Scenery. “Come in and set. This is a meeting of the
faithful, and this place is no longer a den of vice. You can set here
without casting a stain.”
“That’s good,” says Algernon, and I adds another glass to my tray.
“Day after tomorrow we casts our votes,” states Scenery. “Day after
tomorrow. In the course of human e-vents it has become necessary to
e-vict the juice that joggles; having said so, I’ll——”
“Going to be some play,” interrupts Fog-Horn. “‘Ten Nights in a Barroom’
all in one short evening. First we has a speech by the Reverend Algernon
Pettingill Parsley, interrupted by Old Testament Tilton——”
“Introduced,” corrects Scenery.
“That’s at first,” admits Fog-Horn. “Then we have a speech by our next
sheriff and maybe a discourse by Hassayampa Harris, who will be
Honorable Hassayampa Harris if the people ain’t lied to him. Some
program, eh?”
“If we can carry Paradise, we’ve got a cinch,” states Scenery.
“If that’s the place you’re scared of, that’s the place to fight ’em,”
says I. “Make a campaign in the enemy country.”
“Paradish might be a schtumbling sus-stone,” gulps Algernon wise-like.
“Let’s go to Paradise and campaign a little,” says I.
“With music,” gurgles old man Thatcher. “Let’s go and have mass meeting.
Go there and split the enemy’s bulwarks. What shay?”
“A little child shall lead them,” says Algernon.
“Plenty for some,” says I, “but I reckon you’re going to need two
grownups and a cane, old-timer.”
Sure, I went along. We found a hayrack half full of straw; somebody got
a team, and we went campaigning.
The Thatcher family took along their musical utensils, Scenery took
along a speech that somebody wrote for him, and I took along the ginger
ale and a couple of guns.
We gave three cheers as we went past the jail, and a little later I
picked three shot out of my shoulder. I reckon that Magpie hadn’t got
that rifle fixed yet. I don’t know what time we got to Paradise. I
remember that we stopped the team once to let Scenery make a speech. He
got up on the seat to read it.
I reckon I held the light too low for him to see, ’cause he yells—
“Get up!”
Of course them broncs started, and Scenery fell off. We didn’t stop for
him, ’cause nobody had hold of the lines, and we hit the high spots
until we ran into a hitch-rack at Paradise.
“She’s wan gran’ speech,” declared Froggy. “Wan gran’ cli-max, eh?”
Then what couldn’t climb out fell out. It must ’a’ been midnight. I
fired a couple of shots into the air to sort of announce our arrival,
but there ain’t even a light in the saloon.
Then we went over to the sidewalk; all sat down in a row, and the
orchestra busts into being. Thatcher’s orchestra is some musical bunch,
if you asks me. The old man plays the bull-fiddle; one son plays a
squeeze-organ; the other one plays a mouth-harp and Froggy Deschamps
plays a jew’s-harp.
They’d play a lot better if they’d come to some understanding as to what
tune they’re going to attempt before they start.
It don’t do an orchestra any good when each member plays his favorite
tune regardless of anybody else. “Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep” on a
bull-fiddle don’t harmonize with “Sweet Adeline” on a jew’s-harp, with a
mouth-harp playing “Stars and Stripes Forever” and a squeeze-organ
yelping “Turkey in the Straw” between times.
It sort of confuses your ears until you can’t tell right from wrong.
Under them conditions any man what decides against murder is a danged
hypocrit.
* * * * *
When it was over, we gave three cheers. I don’t know what for, unless it
was because the music had ceased. Anyway, we cheered, and then the Rev.
Parsley offers to recite, “Lips that Touch Liquor.”
We debated the question.
“All in favor say ‘aye,’” says Fog-Horn.
“Aye!” yelps everybody.
“Contrary ‘no,’” says Fog-Horn.
“No!” everybody yelps.
“Well,” says Fog-Horn, “under them conditions, Parson, you better go
ahead and keep your mouth shut.”
Just then a squeaky voice says—
“What gosh-danged fool started that team?”
And Scenery staggers into our midst.
“You done it yourself,” states Fog-Horn.
“Did I?” he squeaks. “I ought to be shot! Lit on a rock and knocked all
my front teeth out. Make a fine-looking sheriff.”
“Was you aiming to bite your prisoners?” I asks, and just then Bill
McFee, the marshal of Paradise, enters our midst.
“What seems to be the trouble?” asks Bill.
“Thish is a campaign meeting,” states Scenery with sort of a lisp.
“We’ve come down here to show you pelicans of Paradise what’s what and
which. Is everybody dead around here?”
“Huh, you ought to have a hall,” says Bill pleasant-like. “Out here
ain’t no place for campaigning. Lacks dignity and disturbs the peace.”
“That’s wise advice,” nods Fog-Horn. “Let’s have some more ginger ale
and then hire a hall.”
“Whoo-e-e-e!” says I and empties both guns in the air.
“Come on,” says Bill. “I’ve got the best place in town.”
I don’t know where he led us, but I know we went inside a house. I heard
Froggy groaning a waltz on his jew’s-harp, and then I hears a strange
voice yelp:
“Shut up, you cross between a dying calf and a tight wire in the wind
and let an honest horse-thief sleep! What did they put you in
for—thinking you could play that grunt-organ?”
“Well,” says I to me, “I sure am busting up the local option machinery.
In one day I got the prohibitionists drunk, got ’em throwed in jail and
also knocked all the prospective sheriff’s front teeth out.”
Then I went to sleep.
They let us out the next morning. It wasn’t a private affair, if you
asks me. Paradise stood around in bunches and gazed upon our shame.
“Giving them old jails a looking over, Scenery?” yells Ricky Henderson,
and just then Old Testament breaks out of the main herd and lopes up to
Algernon.
“Brother martyr,” he sobs, putting his arm around Algy’s shoulders, “did
they jail you for your attitude?”
The reverend spits sort of difficult-like, makes up a face and says—
“You might say it was.”
“You didn’t weaken, brother?” asks Old Testament pleading-like. “You
will still fight tooth and nail? Fight the good fight for us against
rum?”
“Yup,” nods Algy, “and I’ll say a few things against ginger ale.”
“Ginger ale?” asks Testament. “We often have it in our home.”
“Then don’t ask me up. Strong drink may be a mocker, but ginger ale is a
trail blazer to tremens.”
“You folks can go home,” says Bill McFee. “I done you a kindness, ’cause
somebody might ’a’ shot at you.”
“Kindness!” snaps Old Testament, bowing his neck at Bill. “I’d admire to
let you know that it was no kindness, sir! The Rev. Algernon Pettingill
Parsley has donated his services to fight the booze of the county.”
“Yeah, I know,” says Bill weary-like. “I had to drag him the last fifty
yards, Testament.”
It wasn’t no merry company that went back to Piperock. Scenery showed me
the rock he fell upon; so I stopped the team, got out and picked it up.
A rock like that deserves something better than just laying beside a
road. Magpie is home when I got there. He sizes me up and then grins.
“Lot of women been looking for you, Ike. Good thing they didn’t see you,
’cause you sure look like ——!”
“I’ve done a lot for you, Magpie,” says I, “and I don’t need chiding.
Them women are going to help me play ‘Ten Nights in a Barroom.’ _Sabe?_”
“Have you been to rehearsal, Ike?”
“Less than that,” says I. “I’ve been to jail.”
Then I flopped down to get a little sleep.
There’s a paper published in Paradise. It comes out every time the
editor can get paper enough to print it on. He must ’a’ had a streak of
luck, because Magpie wakes me up and hands me an edition. I looks her
over and then looks at Magpie.
“You done real well, Ike,” says he meanlike.
Across the top of the sheet in big letters is the following:
AIN’T EVEN SAFE FOR PREACHERS
Piperock saloon puts up job on sick minister. Spikes ginger ale for
prohibitionists. Harrowing Details as follows.
And then it goes on to tell about how the tough element took advantage
of the innocent and got ’em throwed into jail. I ain’t mentioned in the
first part, but later it remarks about the play in Piperock and says:
Ike Harper, a reformed drunkard, will play the part of the
Horrible Example. As Mr. Harper has lived the life he will
depict, the audience will be moved to tears. Mr. Harper, before
his conversion, was intimately connected with Magpie Simpkins,
the liquor interests’ candidate for sheriff.
I read the last part out loud, and then I looks up at Magpie, who is
taking off his vest and rolling up his sleeves.
“They’ll be moved to tears if they see you pretty soon,” says he. “They
may use you as a horrible example, Mr. Harper, but I get first chance.”
What could I do? I tried to explain, but you can’t explain nothing to a
man who hits you on the jaw every time you open your mouth; so I decides
to lick him first and talk later.
Me and him sure kept house. We took pardners for a waltz and wasn’t
careful what we stepped on. I got him down once. He bumped my head on
the floor and then got off to get a stick of wood to hit me with, and I
got up. Then we took pardners for a square dance.
“Salute your pardners!” says I and swung at his jaw.
I reckon I must ’a’ missed. The next thing I know I skidded across the
room, hits my head on our dry-goods-box cupboard, and the whole thing
came down upon me. I don’t know how long I played _Old Mother Hubbard_,
but I do know that, when I gets back to the point where things annoy me,
I finds that I’ve got a mixed taste of sody, baking-powder, vinegar and
molasses syrup in my mouth, and later on I finds my face and hair
veneered with the mixture. I dumps the big box to one side and crawls
out.
“My ——!” snorts a voice at the door. “You gobby critter!”
I pries one of my eyes open and squints at Dirty Shirt.
“How goeth the great fight, Ike?” he asks.
“Well,” says I, clawing some of the hot-cake ingredients out of my hair,
“you can see my attitude so far, Dirty.”
“Hey, Ike!” says a voice at the door. “Where is my key?”
There stands Buck in the doorway.
“You ain’t done right by closing me up ahead of things.”
I’m hunting in my pockets when another figure darkens the door, and a
voice squeaks—
“Ike, they want you down at the hall.”
Scenery Sims stumbles inside.
I hands Buck his key, and Scenery stares at him.
“You out again?” he squeaks. “You out on bail?”
“Not guilty,” grunts Buck. “Soaked me five for criminal negligence. Said
I ought to ’a’ used a rifle.”
And then he steps between Scenery and the door.
“Don’t you touch me, Buck!” squeaked Scenery. “I’m a pizen pelican when
I’m peeved, and you’re making me rile all over.”
“You said you’d herd sheep in my place,” says Buck. “You said that, dang
your hide!”
Scenery tries to run past Buck, but he didn’t make it. Buck got him by
the back of his neck and the slack of his pants and cast him out.
Scenery skids along on his hands and knees and then crawls to his feet.
“I said it!” he yelps, shaking his fist at Buck. “You’re going to find
out that you’ve done assaulted one of our prominent citizens, dang you!
What I said about them sheep goes double now, and you’ll likely be
herding them yourself.”
The last me and Dirty seen of that pair, Scenery was still in the lead
but Buck was running a close second, and in Buck’s hands is the remains
of that can of molasses syrup.
* * * * *
Then comes “Polecat” Perkins. Polecat is our most odoriferous citizen.
He only comes to town to vote or get his keg filled. He hives up in a
dugout in the hills and raises skunks for their fur. He stumbles into
the door and peers at me and Dirty.
“Haw!” says he, working his jaws. “Everybody gone loco around here, Ike?
I comes down to see about election and finds that our liberty is in
jeopardy. I feels that us strong citizens has got to do something.”
“Strong is the right word,” says Dirty, opening the window.
“They asks me to the show this evening,” continues Polecat. “Testament
Tilton asks me to come and join in their song of thanksgiving over what
is going to happen to hooch. I’m here on business, but I don’t miss any
singing. What are they trying to cause this country to do, gents?”
“Polecat,” says Dirty, “this country is almost in the hands of a
receiver. Us old-timers will have to make moonshine or drink milk.
_Sabe?_ While there is yet time, I will buy a drink.”
“I’ll sing my song of thanksgiving right now,” grins Polecat, and the
two of them walks down-town.
I scrubs for about an hour to get some of the larder out of my hair, and
then I pilgrims down-town, where I meets Wick Smith, waving his arms and
talking to himself like a shepherd.
“Better hire out as a windmill, Wick,” I advises.
“Hire, ——!” he roars. “Listen to this, Ike. The law, as interpreted by
Magpie Simpkins, has grabbed half the chairs from the Mint Hall and has
moved ’em over to Buck’s place, where the disciples of the demon rum
opine to have a rally this night. We’ve got a regular show and only half
enough chairs to set upon.
“Things is in an awful state. Buck Masterson has gummed Scenery all up
with molasses. When I comes down, Polecat Perkins is down behind a
wagon-box, exchanging lead with Pete Gonyer, who has sided in with us.
Magpie got sympathetic with Scenery and tells Scenery that lye will take
the syrup out of his hair, but he didn’t tell Scenery what else it would
take, and now Scenery is making medicine against Magpie for scalping
him. Your sympathy is still with us, ain’t it, Ike?”
“I ain’t got none to waste, Wick, ’cause I need it all for Ike Harper,”
says I, and then I went back to the cabin.
As soon as it gets dark, I girds my hips with a pair of guns and walks
down the middle of the road. I’ve got a feeling that I ought to stay at
home, but I never did have sense enough to foller a good hunch.
Buck’s place is all lighted up, and so is the Mint Hall. I stops and
tries to figure out which side to support, when all at once a pane of
glass right beside my head gets shattered, and I sees the flash of a gun
over by the saloon.
I want you to understand that I didn’t go into the Mint Hall because my
sympathies was with the local optionists but because it was the first
place I could duck into. Old Testament meets me at the door and shakes
me by the hand.
“Brother,” says he, “I felt that you’d show up. Where is your ticket?”
“Ticket to where?” I asks. “Are you the conductor?”
“Ticket to the show, Ike. Ticket or a dollar.”
“Ike comes in free, Testament,” states Fog-Horn over Testament’s
shoulder. “Ike’s a actor in the play.”
I’d let a man call me most anything to save me a dollar; so I follers
Fog-Horn. All the remaining seats are taken, and some folks are standing
along the walls. I sees “Yuma” Yates and “Big Foot” Forrest setting down
in front. I don’t like them _hombres_. I hates to be a actor in front of
two unnecessary evils like them, but I figure I’ve got an even break,
being as I know where they are.
Fog-Horn leads me up behind the curtain, where there’s a lot of females
milling around. They’ve got a home-made bar up there and a lot of empty
bottles and kegs, which makes it look like a real saloon to anybody who
ain’t never seen one.
Setting on a box on one side of the platform is Polecat Perkins, and he
appears too drunk to move. Polecat ain’t what you’d call fastidious as
to fashions, and he sure is a sight for to see.
“How comes Polecat to be a actor?” I asks.
“He offered his services to us, and we can’t refuse,” says the Widder
Sanders. “We are going to use him as an example of what liquor can do to
a human being.”
“What am I supposed to be in this here theater?” I asks.
“You are to be,” says Miss Mudgett embarrassed-like, “you—Uncle Ike, I
hope you won’t feel offended, but we had to have somebody play the part
of the bartender, and we thought you—you might be willing to do it.”
“You won’t have to handle any real liquor,” states Mrs. Tilton. “All you
will have to do is to stand over there behind the bar and just serve the
drinks as they are asked for. You won’t have no talking to do.”
“Brought m’ own box ’long,” mumbles Polecat foolish-like. “Hear there
ain’t seats ’nough, and I brings m’ own. Yessir. When do we drink
again?”
Just then the orchestra starts out in front, and I loosens up both of my
guns. Some female starts wailing about Scenery not being there to play
his part, but that didn’t bother me. When I went over to stand behind
that bar, I’m praying that the light will be good enough so I can kill
Froggy Deschamps. A jew’s-harp is bad enough as a musical instrument,
but when a fellow like Froggy gets one between his teeth, it gets plumb
out of the realm of music and enters the category of such things as
ulcerated teeth or earache.
* * * * *
Them females gets real busy placing the actors to suit the play, and,
when the curtain goes up, we’re ready for anything. On each side, out of
sight, is females with books, who are supposed to tell us actors what to
say in case we slip off the trail. I’m behind the bar, wiping a glass.
Old Judge Steele is standing at the bar with his tall hat on his head
and is facing Pete Gonyer and the Rev. Algernon Pettingill Parsley.
Setting on his box on the other side of the room is Polecat, snoring
plentiful.
I hear somebody snicker out in front as the judge lays his tall hat on
the bar.
“Ten years ago,” orates the judge, “I had two manly sons. Where are they
now?”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” whoops Yuma. “Ten year ago, eh? And you never got
married?”
I takes out both guns and lays ’em on the bar.
“Where are they now?” says the judge sad-like. “Where are they now?”
“Did you search the sheep camps, Judge?” yells Big Foot, and the pair of
them hugs each other.
“Just a minute, folks,” says Testament, climbing up on the stage.
“Bretheren, this here is a moral play and ain’t produced to be laughed
at. _Sabe?_ We’re here to hammer home a moral, and we’re going to do it
if we has to use powder. The next person who yells out loud is going to
need help. Lead us not into temptation.”
Old Testament sets down on a corner of the stage, facing the audience.
“Who is safe in this place?” continues the judge. “Not mine nor yours.”
“Not ours,” says Yuma soft-like, peering up at Testament.
“Shall I go on?” questions the judge. “Shall I call up and pass in
review before you, one after another, all the—the—the——”
“Wretched victims, Judge,” says the widder, reading in the book.
“All the vetched wrictims—er—vretched wictims—uh—who have fallen in
review during the last ten years in Piperock? Do I need to?”
“Not on our account, Judge,” says Big Foot. “We remember ’em. Some fell,
but the most of ’em had to be cut down. Go ahead.”
“But what is the root of all this evil?” yelps the judge. “Is there no
remedy?”
“Keeley!” yelped Yuma, and just then old Sam Holt comes on to the stage.
He’s got on his Sunday clothes.
“Howdy, Mr. Slade,” says the judge. “How’s every little thing?”
“Tol’able, Judge.”
Then he turns to Pete.
“Howdy, son Frank. Dog-gone your hide, you’ve been drinking again!”
“Uh-huh,” admits Pete. “Sure have, pa, and I’m going to drink some more,
too. Hand me a scoop of brandy, bartender.”
I handed him a bottle, and just then old Sam grabs him by the wrist.
“Let go that bottle!” yelps Pete.
“Put up that hooch, my son,” says the old man. “You’re drunk.”
“Let go that bottle!” yelps Pete. “Let go, or I’ll ride you around the
place and slap you with my hat. Let go, you darn old pelican!”
He gave old Sam a shove, and the old man lit setting down.
“Get up and rush him!” hisses Mrs. Tilton. “He’s supposed to kill you.”
“Look out,” warns Pete. “I’ll bust you one!”
Pete’s left-handed, and he waves that bottle around his head, but old
Sam kept right on coming.
_Ker-bam!_
It might ’a’ killed old Sam if it had hit him, but it didn’t—it hit
Polecat Perkins right in the head.
Polecat shudders all over, sets up as straight as a string and folds his
hands.
“Frank Slade, you have murdered your father,” states the judge
solemn-like.
Everything is still for a moment, and then I hears Yuma:
“Moral, ——! One man ain’t never been married and has two boys, and
another boy has two fathers. Let’s go home, Big Foot. This is awful.”
“Shoot yourself, Pete!” whistles the widder. “You’re supposed to commit
suicide.”
“Into the floor,” whispers old Sam.
Pete pulls his gun quick-like, and I reckon it went off accidental,
’cause it tore a corner out of Polecat’s box. Pete lets out a dying
yelp, slips when he tries to fall easy and knocks that home-made bar
right over on top of me. Pete weighs close to two hundred.
Then I rises up above the wreck and looks around. Polecat gets up like a
man in a dream, picks up that box, holds it above his head for a moment
and then crashes it down in the middle of the stage, where it busts wide
open.
“Kitty, kitty, kitty,” I hears somebody in the audience call, and then
our show begins to fade out.
I seen the suicide hop off the floor and sail right out over the
orchestra. Then I seen the Widder Sanders and Mrs. Tilton foller him
out. I didn’t want to cross the stage; so I ducks the other way, throws
a chair through a window and follers the chair. I lit on top of Wick
Smith’s store porch and slid off into the street. Folks are running out
of the hall. I pilgrims across to Buck’s place.
Seems to be quite a meeting there. Magpie is standing on a card-table.
All them chairs from the Mint Hall are occupied, and the place is foggy
with smoke. Standing on another table is Hassayampa Harris, and on the
bar sets Buck with a shotgun across his lap.
Old Testament and the Rev. Parsley seem to have arrived ahead of me, and
there appears to be a lull in the meeting.
“Just about what are you fellers doing here?” asks Buck, patting his
gun.
“You—you jobbed our show!” whoops Testament, waving his arms. “You hired
Polecat Perkins to skunk up our play!”
“That’s a lie,” states a tired voice behind me, and there stands
Polecat, shaking at the knees. “That’s a lie,” he repeats. “Goin’ to
ship ’em to Helena. Perfec’ly harmless. Who hit me in the—the——”
And Polecat sprawls out full length on the floor.
“Must ’a’ been a pleasant place across the street,” observes Magpie. “If
they can’t win by majority, they opines to win by mortality, I reckon.”
I felt sorry for Polecat. I leans over and turns him on his back.
“Ba-a-a-a!”
_Rip-p-p, rip-p-p-p!_
Something seems to hit me in the rear, and I come back to earth on my
shoulders, I seen the Rev. Parsley do a flip-flop, and I seen Old
Testament plumb off the floor, reaching back like he was searching for
something.
I hears the crash of Buck’s shotgun, and many feet seem to go over me
and on me. It all seems like sort of a dream to me. I seemed to sort of
get up on my hands and knees, and then I gets invigorated in the hip
pockets. I skidded under the pool-table on my hands and knees, went out
the other side and got hammered right back again. I can’t see very well,
on account of having hit the bridge of my nose on a chair.
Then there seems to come a lull in the confusion, and I peers out. Buck
is setting there in the middle of the floor with his shotgun in his
hands and a fool look on his face, and standing there facing him is
Lindhardt Cadwallader Sims. They glares at each other for a moment, and
then:
“I told you I’d do it,” proclaims Scenery at the top of his voice.
“Didn’t I tell you I would? I couldn’t find any sheep; so I borrowed
half of Mighty’s goats. Same thing, ain’t they? Any old time you insults
one of our prominent citizens——”
While I listens to Scenery’s oration of hate, I sees an animated bock
beer sign tiptoe into the front door, and, as Scenery leans forward to
hammer home his war talk, the goat accepts the invite.
Scenery turned over in the air and landed between the rail and the bar,
where he stands on his head for a few seconds before he slips down. The
goat shakes his head at Buck, but Buck don’t show fight; so it wanders
out of the door just as the Rev. Algernon starts to come in.
Algy don’t know goats. He makes a dive at this one and gets his knees
knocked higher than his head. He crashes down in a heap and sings off
key—
“I held four aces, which is quite a lot, But his Colt had me topped and
took the pot, With a hiyi and a hiyi and a hiyi yippi-i-a!”
“You ain’t always been a preacher,” says I, and just then Scenery slides
loose and turns his feet around so he can face Buck.
“You’re going to get the worst of it,” says he, starting in right where
he left off.
Buck raises his shotgun to cover Scenery. They glares at each other for
a minute, and then—_click-click_ goes both hammers of the shotgun.
“I—I told you I’d kill you,” mutters Buck.
Scenery nods and seems to sink lower.
“Man of your word, Buck,” says he slow-like. “Good-by.”
“Take care of yourself,” says Buck foolish-like.
I got up and walked out of the door. I’m sick of the whole campaign. I’m
so sprained in my hips that I walk in circles, and out in the moonlight
I finds Dirty Shirt.
* * * * *
He’s on his hands and knees in the dirt and has got both arms around the
neck of a goat.
“Dirty Shirt,” says I, “you’re either drunk or loco.”
“Nothing like it, Ike,” he replied. “I’m playing safe. _Sabe?_ Can’t
fool me no more. I let loose twice, and now I’m numb from my belt on
down. Hold the danged thing while I get up, will you?”
I took the goat by the neck while Dirty gets up painful-like, and then
he limps away down the street, leaving me there holding the goat. I
takes a good grip on its neck, gives its head a twist and kicks its legs
out from under it at the same time.
That’s the way to humble a goat. It gets all befuzzled over such
procedure. Of course, you want to go away from there as fast as you
can—which I didn’t do. I stumbled and fell on my hands and knees when I
started to run.
That goat wasn’t particular. Every time I tried to get up it moved me on
down the street, and, when I sat up, it butted me in the neck. After a
while I laid down flat, and the goat pulled out.
Then I sure cut some circles down that street. I reckon that goat busted
my rudder, ’cause I sure made a curved trail.
“Oh, Uncle Ike, I’m so sorry!” exclaims a voice beside me, and here is
the Widder Sanders and Miss Mudgett. “You were doing wonderfully, and we
want to thank you.”
“Yes’m,” says I, “I done wonderfully.”
“I—I only wish we had the chance to show what we could have done,” says
the widder sad-like. “It was over so suddenly.”
“Maybe it looked that way to you,” says I, rubbing myself. “You’re
welcome to show what you can do, ladies, but don’t ask me to look on.
That goat is still alive, but, if you takes my advice, you’ll go right
home. _Sabe?_”
Then I weaved on. I found Dirty Shirt out in the corral putting a pack
on his burro. I didn’t ask no questions. I packed mine and got my rifle,
and we piked away in the night. Me and Dirty seemed to limp a heap. We
came to them proclamations on the trees, and we stopped to spell ’em out
again without comment. We made camp about morning and slept all day.
We’re too sore to go on; so we lays there until the kinks go out of our
muscles. Then we packs up, looks at each other and then off at the blue
haze of the hills.
“Might take a peek at Powder River,” suggests Dirty.
“Might,” I agrees, and we swings our jassacks north.
Later on we pilgrims down the one street of Powder River, ties our
burros in front of Fog-Horn’s saloon and went inside.
“Brothers, will you have plain spirits or ginger ale?” asks a familiar
voice behind the bar.
Me and Dirty looks at him and at each other. It is Algernon Pettingill
Parsley. He’s got a black eye, and, when he moves, he sort of squeaks in
the joints.
“You?” asks Dirty foolish-like.
“Uh-huh—me,” says Algy. “Never again do I help prohibition. If that’s
what happens to clergymen in Piperock, what would happen to an
honest-to-gosh sinner?
“I’ve been an actor,” says he, leaning on the bar and grinning at us,
“and Fog-Horn hankered for prohibition in Yaller Rock. You see, gents,
if it’s dry over there, it makes big business over here. _Sabe?_ All
they needed over there was some one to lead ’em. I’m all through,
though. Any time they brings goats, I’m all through.”
“Uh-huh,” says I. “Me, too.”
Just then Fog-Horn drifts into the place and dumps his saddle on the
table. He looks like he’d had a hard year.
“How did the e-lection go?” asks Dirty, wondering-like.
“She’s an issue, gents,” says Fog-Horn. “Won by one single vote.”
“What is a issue?” I asks.
“Local option, Ike. They’ll decide it at the regular election in
November.”
“Uh—who was elected sheriff?” asks Dirty.
“Nobody was elected,” says Fog-Horn. “Magpie and Scenery both got
nominated, ’cause nobody ran against ’em. It wasn’t no fight.”
“It—it wasn’t n-no fight?” stutters Dirty. “Say it wasn’t?”
“Nope. The real fight will be in November. Don’t you snake-hunters know
anything about elections?”
Me and Dirty looks at each other and then shakes our heads.
“Well,” says Fog-Horn, “this is the first year they uses the direct
primaries, which is a heap like the regular election, and——”
But me and Dirty Shirt didn’t wait to hear the rest. We untied our
animals and poked ’em off up the street.
“The Rev. Algernon Pettingill Parsley wasn’t no regular preacher,”
states Dirty Shirt like he was telling me something.
“Won by one vote, Dirty Shirt, and we had two,” says I, “but it wasn’t
no regular election. It’s a issue.”
“The real fight will be in November, Ike. We can go quite a ways before
November.”
“Yes,” says I, slapping a burro so it will show more speed. “Yes, and it
won’t be in no circle, either, Dirty Shirt.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
July 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 LOCAL OPTION IN LOCO-LAND ***
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.
