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Title: Nerves of iron
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: May 11, 2026 [eBook #78653]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1917
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78653
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NERVES OF IRON ***
NERVES OF IRON
W. C. Tuttle
Author of “A Bull Movement in Yellow Horse,” “Cows is Cows,” etc.
“Well,” says Magpie Simpkins, sliding off the rock, and hitching up his
belt. “Now that there seems to be uh lull in the firing we might as well
pilgrim down and see if we can patch up the injured.”
He kicks the lead burro in the north end, and we points off down the
trail.
Nobody knows where we’re going--me and Magpie. Sometimes we just follers
other men’s trails and then again we follers our yaller burro. We calls
that burro, Lodestone. We always let him pilgrim on ahead, and when he
opines to leave the beaten trail and wander afield, we agrees that he’s
just as apt to stumble on uh good prospect as we are, so we follers his
hunch.
This time his hunch don’t look good, ’cause he’s leading us back into
civilization. Right now we’re on uh well-beaten trail, and unless all
signs fail we’re pretty close to uh village.
All to once we hears pistol-shots around uh bend in the trail and, not
wishing to interrupt such pastimes, we takes uh little rest until the
smoke clears away.
We ambles around the first turn into an open spot and stops. There we
observe uh little feller, about knee-high to uh tall Injun. He’s got
his back to us, standing alongside uh stump, the same of which he’s
examining some industrious. I opines that he’s uh shepherd, ’cause
he’s talking to himself.
“Too danged high!” he complains. “This one’s too high, too! Dang the
ornery luck, anyway!”
“Hold lower, old-timer,” advises Magpie.
The little feller don’t even look our way. He just dives head first into
the brush and disappears.
“Now wouldn’t that rasp yuh!” wonders Magpie out loud. “That looked like
uh he human and acts like uh hell-diver. I’d orate that he ain’t noways
looking for company.”
We stands there and looks at the spot where he went in, and then looks
foolish at each other.
“I begs your pardon, gents,” states uh little apologetic voice behind
us, and there we see the little feller again. “You sort uh took me by
surprise. Sabe?”
That person never growed none after he was ten years old. Except for the
hair, and lines uh care on his face he’d pass for uh kid. He’s got uh
scared look in his eyes, and uh man-sized six-gun in his hand. He shoves
the gun inside the waistband of his pants and the sight interferes with
his knee-movement. He licks his lips and sticks his hand out to Magpie.
“I’m Stonewall Jackson,” says he.
“What’s in uh name, anyway,” grins Magpie, shaking the runt’s hand
hearty like. “My name is Grant--Ulysses Grant. The party with me is
Robert Lee. The other two jackasses are named Lodestone and Cæsar,
and we’re pleased to meet yuh.”
“I’ve heard of yuh,” states Stonewall. “I’ve heard yuh all well spoken
of except the mules. Mules is just mules. How’s all your folks?”
“Dead, thank you,” says Magpie. “How’s yours?”
“Don’t mention it. Maw’s in Denver and paw ain’t much better off unless
he went where he wasn’t expecting to. He died last year.”
“Live around here?” I asks, just to make conversation. When Magpie
gets to letting his imagination run rings around his judgment his
conversation favors uh shepherd’s convention.
“Down to Spotted Dawg,” replies Stonewall. “When I first hears yuh speak
I thought yuh was one of the inhabitants.”
“Spotted Dog?” wonders Magpie. “That name ain’t noways familiar to me.
Spotted Dog!”
Stonewall sets down on uh rock and manufactures uh cigaret, and me and
Magpie follers suit.
“Good town?” I asks.
Stonewall inhales deep like and nods.
“Uh-huh. Town’s all right, I reckon. Spotted Dawg is like hell in that
respect. Hell ain’t so danged bad by its own self--it’s the people in
it. Sabe?”
“Particular?” asks Magpie, and Stonewall nods again.
“Very much thataway. They elected me city marshal uh few days ago.”
Me and Magpie loses faith in Spotted Dog right away.
“Ike,” says Magpie, “Lodestone’s done played us uh scurvy trick when he
points this way. The rest of the day I’ll lead the caravan.”
We gits up, points the jacks the other way, and prepares to leave.
Stonewall looks up at us, rubs the stubble on his chin, an’ swallers
so hard that his Adam’s apple almost hit his knees.
“That ain’t what I’d call uh friendly deal uh tall,” he wails.
“Deserting uh feller when he’s in trouble! Gosh A’mighty, I wouldn’t
do that to uh pack-rat.”
“Neither would I,” replies Magpie. “But you got to figger, old-timer,
that you ain’t no pack-rat.”
“Well, go on then,” says Stonewall, weary like. “If I ever get another
friend I’m going to shoot him before he has uh chance to change his
opinion. Go on--nobody gives uh dang, anyway.”
“If yuh don’t like Spotted Dog why don’t yuh move away?” I asks.
“Well,” he replies, digging his toe in the dirt, “yuh see there’s
several reasons. In the first place I’m engaged to marry an angel. In
the second place, I’m an officer of the law, and the third and fourth
places is ‘High-Card’ Hammond and ‘Whisperin’’ Wilson. The first reason
makes me sort uh want to stay; the second is my duty and the third and
fourth won’t let me.”
“Why won’t they let yuh go?” asks Magpie.
“It’s thisaway,” wails Stonewall. “Spotted Dawg has always been uh
law-abiding community. The law and order bunch has decorated our one
lone shade-tree numerous and sundry times with outlaws, gunmen and
such like folks. In the course uh human events, High-Card Hammond
and Whisperin’ Wilson drifts into Spotted Dawg. They gets popular
and previous on short acquaintance and picks trouble with ‘Slickear’
Saunders, our city marshal.
“The town has been so danged peaceful fer so long that Slickear is rusty
on the draw. We raises enough to send his widder back to Missouri to her
maw. High-Card and Whisperin’ immediate and soon gits control of the
administration, and by doing uh little political work has me elected
marshal by uh five-vote lead over ‘Limpy’ Myers.
* * * * *
“Honest to goodness, I couldn’t help it, gents! I never wanted the job.
According to all humanity I ought to be down there right now, filling
their carcasses with lead, but I ain’t got the nerve. My Gawd! I can’t
shoot! I been out here ’most all day practising with that pistol but I
can’t even hit uh tree. No nerve and no ability. High-Card told me that
if I run out on him he’d foller me and cut my ears off. What am I going
to do, eh?”
“What does the rest of the inhabitants think?” I asks.
“Them what ain’t laughin’ is gittin’ ready to move. I was going to get
married to-morrow afternoon, too. Dang the ornery luck!”
“Time ain’t nothing to an angel,” consoles Magpie. “What does she think
of your election?”
“That’s the ---- of it!” wails Stonewall. “She likes it. She opines
that I’m the little Jasper what is going to make Spotted Dawg uh
place uh beauty and uh joy forever. All the time she’s thinking that
I’m going gunning fer them bad men. Me! Holy henhawks! I ain’t never
killed nobody! I’m fer peace. Now she’ll think I’m uh coward, and
ditch me! I reckon I might as well point away from Spotted Dawg and
forget my love, and take uh chance on my ears.”
“Ears ain’t everything,” consoles Magpie, again. “I knowed uh feller
once who had both ears chawed off close to his head and he didn’t look
so danged bad at that. You could wear uh cap with ear-flaps.”
“Aw--I don’t know,” sighs Stonewall. “One thing I do know--I ain’t no
hero, and I can’t shoot fer sour beans. If I was shooting fer eagle
feathers I wouldn’t harvest the down off uh humming-bird.”
“Is this here High-Card and Whisperin’ dead shots?” asks Magpie.
“Too dead to skin!” pronounces Stonewall. “They brags that they always
git their man through the heart.”
“I’d admire to meet them,” states Magpie, rolling uh smoke and looking
about as fierce as uh jack-rabbit at uh grizzly funeral. “I used to
brag thataway myself but one day I gets sort uh hurried like and hits
my man uh inch too high. Uh course he passed out, but it wasn’t what
you’d designate as uh clean hit.”
“How’s your aim?” asks Stonewall, looking at me, and Magpie replies--
“Ike ain’t never missed his man yet.”
Uh course Magpie didn’t state that I ain’t never hit one yet. Me and
him is about as belligerent as uh pair uh fool hens. Uh course we wears
all the ornaments of uh gunman, and are able to make uh loud noise and
plenty uh smoke, but that about lets us out.
“----!” snorts Stonewall, when Magpie’s statement percolates through his
head. “I’m glad I met yuh before Spotted Dawg did, ’cause otherwise I’d
have to grow some extra ears so’s everybody’d have uh chance. Are yuh
for me or against me? I ain’t complaining. Sabe?”
“This here angel,” says Magpie, “do yuh like her uh heap?”
“Like uh starving bronc loves bunchgrass.”
“That’s the attitude, old-timer,” states Magpie. “Ike, you and me is
going to Spotted Dog.”
Spotted Dog was what you’d designate as uh pedigreed place. She was
sired by uh prospector named “Doughbelly” Smith, and dammed by everybody
west of the Missouri River.
Typographically she was uh mess and morally she was uh crime. One side
of the street harbors three saloons and uh post-office, and the other
side balances the place with three more saloons and uh general store.
There’s dance-halls over some of the saloons, and over one of them is
the City Hall. She’s shy on sidewalks and visible means uh support.
There is also uh few dwelling-places.
We pilgrims almost into it when we hears sounds uh life. Out into the
street gallops uh person, coat-tails flying, and uh gun in each hand.
Said person loses his hat from uh pistol-shot, and dives behind uh
barrel in front of uh saloon, where he squats and proceeds to spin
lead across the street from whence he came.
Stonewall gits behind Lodestone and shrinks until the smoke clears away.
“Looks interesting, anyway,” says Magpie. “Is that uh usual happening?”
“Every time the council meets,” states Stonewall. “That person who is
behind the barrel is Luke Paulsen. I’d opine that he’s shooting at Tug
Tilton. Yuh see, them two is councilmen of our fair city, and they
disagrees on things. Luke wants to put up some hay-scales on the main
street and Tug wants to spend the treasury for uh boat. They can’t seem
to get together.”
“Do they grow hay around here?” I asks.
“Nearest hay ranch is thirty miles away,” grins Stonewall. “But that
ain’t no argument in favor uh Tilton’s scheme. Yuh can’t find water
enough to take uh bath in within twenty-five miles of here.”
“Who’s the mayor?” asks Magpie.
“High-Card Hammond. Whisperin’ Wilson’s the treasurer.”
“Well,” opines Magpie, “it looks to me as though the only straight thing
in this here place is the road out uh town.”
“You ain’t met the angel yet,” reproves Stonewall.
“Excuse me, old-timer,” apologizes Magpie. “I didn’t include women in my
statement.”
“You’re welcome,” says Stonewall. “I reckon we better not go right down
the main street. We’ll take your burros right down to my cabin. Yuh see,
I’m supposed to collect five dollars for each mule what comes into town,
and--well, I ain’t going to do it this time.”
“Five dollars for uh burro!” snorts Magpie. “What do yuh mean?”
“City ordinance,” explains Stonewall, apologetic like. “When the new
city officials went into office they passes uh rule to the effect that
prospectors is uh nuisance, and they opines to assess every prospector
five dollars per head to bring his beasts uh burden into the place.
Sabe?”
“By cripes! I never heard uh such uh thing!” howls Magpie.
“You never heard uh Spotted Dawg until yuh met me, either,” states
Stonewall chiding like.
We throws the packs off at his cabin and turns the burros loose.
“What’ll they do if they sees strange burros,” I asks.
“Likely pick ’em up and sell ’em to somebody. They can’t divide two
burros, but that bunch shore can split money like uh bunch uh bankers.
Mebby they won’t notice ’em. As soon as they finds out that you’re uh
couple uh gunmen they’ll feel different toward your rolling-stock.”
“Where will they get the information?” I asks.
“I’ll tell ’em,” states Stonewall. “Doggone, I’d sure like to flustrate
that bunch.”
“Well, I sure hope it does,” I replies.
After a while Stonewall informs us that he’s going to sneak up-town and
see what’s going on, so me and Magpie pats him on the back and wishes
him many happy returns of the day.
We sets down in the shady side of the shack and enjoys uh smoke.
“Scary little devil, that Stonewall Jackson person,” opines Magpie.
“Ike, I reckon that Spotted Dog is more of uh coyote than dog. I figgers
that uh pair uh mean hombres has done took control of the place, and
they elects that poor little Jasper to the marshal’s office so that them
and their friends can do as they danged well please in Spotted Dog. I
feel for him, Ike.”
“I could feel uh heap sadder if I was uh long ways from here,” I
replies. “This here business uh trying to adjust the workings of uh
place like this don’t appeal to me uh tall. Supposing that we meets
up with this bad bunch, Magpie, and they takes exceptions to the way
we wears our hats? Suppose the marshal person informs them that we’re
uh pair uh gun-fighting Jaspers, and they opines to make us prove it.
What are we going to do then, Mister Magpie Simpkins?”
“Go bareheaded and prove an alibi, Ike,” laughs Magpie. “I ain’t no
speed demon with uh six-gun, Ike, but by the horns on the moon, I
ain’t afraid uh no man that hankers for uh boat on uh desert. Also,
I’m again’ any man who pines for hay-scales.”
“Me neither, Magpie,” I agrees. “I ain’t afraid to meet no man on
earth--whether he’s uh hay-scale nut or uh mariner of the desert--but
just because I’m brave thataway ain’t no reason for me to get cocky
about it and poke fun at uh hornet’s nest.”
“Discretion is the foundation of uh fighter’s trade, Ike,” opines
Magpie. “Yuh don’t have to go poking--my cripes!”
* * * * *
“Has anybody seen Stonewall Jackson?” asks a female voice.
“The angel!” hisses Magpie in my ear.
I remember that my maw used to dilate on angels when I was young.
She used to tell me all about how beautiful and sweet they are, and
how they wears floating garments and carries long golden trumpets
and wears wings. I reckon it’s all in your point uh view. Now, this
one that Stonewall designates as an angel ain’t noways my maw’s idea
uh tall. If Stonewall’s right, my maw must uh shut her eyes when she
pulled the trigger, ’cause she never even nicked the bull’s-eye.
This here angel would scale about two hundred dressed, and from what
I can see of her feet she wasn’t built to fly--she was built to swim.
Instead of uh trumpet she’s packing uh six-gun. It’s one uh them
muzzle-loading Colts, with uh barrel as long as uh shepherd’s sleep.
“Ah ha!” sez I to myself. “If that thing goes off there won’t be no use
for uh census-taker in this country for years and years.”
“I asked uh question,” she states.
“Ma’am,” sez Magpie, “nobody ain’t seen him. Are you looking for the
gentleman?”
She sizes us up some careful like, and peeks around the corner.
“Are you keeping something from me?” she asks, sort of belligerent like.
“Ma’am,” replies Magpie, sudden like, “when an angel packs uh gun my
innermost thoughts is like the large letters on uh patent-medicine
advertisement. Would yuh mind pointing that mortar the other way?”
“I want to find Stonewall,” says she, complying with Magpie’s request.
“You can’t--not with uh gun,” I states. “I don’t know him very well, but
I know yuh can’t entice him with uh gun.”
“Huh!” says she, scornful like, or as scornful like as uh fat face
like hers can look. “You think so, do yuh? You don’t know Stony. Just
because he’s small in stature you think he ain’t brave. Huh! He’s got
the heart of uh lion, let me tell yuh! Didn’t they elect him marshal
of Spotted Dog? Ain’t that proof enough? I want to find him and give
him this gun. You’re strangers here, ain’t yuh?”
“Yes’m, we’re strangers here,” I replies.
“That goes to show that you don’t know what you’re talking about. Know
where he is now?”
“Ma’am,” replies Magpie, “I reckon you ought to know. He’s gone up to
tell the mayor and treasurer that this evening he’s going to walk down
the main street with uh gun on his hip, and he dares any danged man to
show his head.”
She absorbs the information by degrees, and scratches her head with the
gun-barrel, while uh sad look comes over her face.
“There’s uh difference between cold nerve and danged foolishness,” she
opines, after a while. “I’d say that Stony’s covering uh little too much
territory. Did he say, ‘Any danged man’?”
Me and Magpie nods, grave like.
“Me and him was going to get married tomorrow, too,” says she, sad like.
“Got my troosoo all ready to slip on. Maybe I can dye it black--I don’t
know.”
“I wouldn’t grieve, ma’am,” consoles Magpie, wiping uh sympathetic tear
off his long nose. “There’s just as good fish in the sea as--as there is
in the desert. If I was you I’d----”
Magpie’s advice is cut short, when uh rattle uh shots sounds up-town,
and we stirs uneasy like.
“There!” exclaims the angel. “That’s Stonewall! I’ll bet!”
“You lose, ma’am,” says Magpie. “Here’s Stonewall!”
“Here” was the right word! When it comes to speed I’ll play the small
man plumb across the board, but there wasn’t no show or place money in
this race. Not any!
That Stonewall Jackson person could give uh jack-rabbit twenty yards’
handicap and throw dirt in its face inside of uh hundred yards. He was
hitting such uh pace that he danged near goes past the cabin. He sticks
his heels in the ground and skids the last fifteen feet and enters the
cabin without brushing either side of the door. We all stands there for
uh moment, sort uh dazed like, and then Magpie yawns and opines:
“Anybody’s liable to run out of ammunition and have to come home after
more. Yuh got to consider that he challenged the whole town, and his gun
only holds six shells.”
“Uh yard uh discretion is worth uh whole bolt uh valor,” says I.
“Uh-huh,” she agrees, hearty like. “Self-preservation is better than uh
fancy funeral, too, but----”
Just then Stonewall sticks his head out of the door and wipes his clammy
brows with his handkerchief. He sees the angel, and grins, foolish like.
“Some day, Stonewall,” says she, “your bravery is going to be the cause
of me wearing widder’s weeds. How many did yuh kill?”
“I--I--I came away without my--huh--gun!” stutters Stonewall.
“Did you come back to get it?” she asks.
“N--n--n--no. But I’ll have to go back to get it. My ----!”
He sets down on uh box and pants like an overheated pup. The angel looks
at us and then at Stonewall, and hitches up her skirts.
“Do you mean to tell me, Stonewall Jackson, that you didn’t kill
nobody?”
“Ma’am,” interrupts Magpie, “you got to figure that he done just what
he promised he’d do. I makes him agree not to kill nobody until later
on in the day. All he was supposed to do this trip was to give ’em
fair warning. Sabe? It must uh been mighty hard for him to stay his
natural inclinations to smoke up somebody, so yuh got to give him
credit for keeping his word and for having great self-control. Mister
Jackson is uh man of his word, and I’m proud to shake his hand.”
Magpie steps over and shakes the unresisting hand of Stonewall Jackson,
and Stonewall looks like uh man what has just filled uh royal flush on
uh four-card draw.
“Thanks, Mister Grant,” says Stonewall. “How’s your folks?”
“Dead as usual. How’s yours?”
“I brought you this, Stony,” says the female, before the runt has uh
chance to reply.
She holds out that antiquated smoke-box for Stonewall’s approval.
“I wouldn’t let nobody but you have this. I sure think uh lot of this
pistol, Stony, dear. It is believed that uh bullet from this pistol
killed my poor old paw.”
She wipes away uh tear, while Stonewall holds the relic at uh safe
distance.
“Somebody shoot him with it?” I asks.
“Nobody knows,” she sniffs. “When we found him he was dead, and the gun
was empty. He was hit five times, and the bullets were the same as the
gun used.”
“Uh-huh,” agrees Magpie, examining the muzzle of the thing. “Your paw
was uh brave man. This weapon will be uh great help to our courageous
marshal, if yuh asks me. It’s loaded, too.”
“Yes, I loaded it myself,” replies the angel, and then she pats the runt
on the shoulder.
“You won’t take foolish chances will you, dear?”
“No, ma’am,” says Stonewall. “I’ll be just as careful as I can,
Eveline.”
Eveline, the angel, paddles back the way she come, and we watches her
out uh sight.
* * * * *
“Lovely thing,” sighs Magpie. “She’ll make uh man out uh you.”
“Maybe,” says Stonewall, sad like. “Maybe uh corpse, too. I got to
display nerve to win her, and that same display may hang uh black rag
on my cabin door. I’m sure obliged for your assistance in the time uh
need. You sure must uh had lots of experience to fix up uh lie that
quick.”
“Speed is as essential with uh lie as it is with uh gun,” states Magpie.
“Especially when you’re lying to uh woman. Was somebody shooting at yuh
up-town?”
“I don’t know.”
The runt shakes his head sad like, and rolls uh smoke with shaky
fingers.
“I meets Limpy Myers on my way up-town, and I tells him that down to
my cabin is two of the hell-firedest gun-fighters what ever fanned uh
hammer. Limpy seems uh heap interested and orates that he’ll pass the
news. I plumb forgot the hay-scale-versus-boat controversy and walks
right into the line uh fire.
“Limpy told me that it was settled, and that part of the gang is over at
the Tammany saloon, christening the boat and the other faction is giving
first aid to Luke. I reckon that some uh Luke’s friends was trying to
shoot holes in them sailors.”
“Where’s your gun?” I asks.
“Too heavy, so I throws it away. Yuh see uh feller can’t run when his
gun keeps hitting him on the knee that way.”
The little feller hunches over on the box and resumes his complaint.
“I don’t reckon it’s much use noways. Ever since I was small I has uh
fear uh getting shot. I reckon that sooner or later Eveline will find
it out and ditch me. She orates that she can’t stand for no man what
ain’t brave, and like uh danged fool I lies to her about my past.
According to what I’ve told her she’d expect me to walk right up and
bite uh grizzly. It ain’t lying when yuh brags to uh woman about
yourself--it’s unjustifiable suicide.”
“Never lie to uh lady,” advises Magpie, and Stonewall grins.
“That’s hy-iu advice, but you don’t foller it. You lied uh plenty to
Eveline.”
“Maybe,” half agrees Magpie. “Maybe yes and maybe no.”
“Well,” says Stonewall, chiding like, “you told her that I went up
there to dare anybody to stick their heads outside, and that was uh
lie. I never said uh thing about----”
“Listen,” snaps Magpie. “Do yuh actually want to marry that Eveline
party?”
“In holy wedlock tomorrow afternoon,” admits Stonewall. “Yes sir.”
“Then you let me be your manager for today, and I’ll bet you’ll have uh
lot of admirers to your wedding tomorrow,” states Magpie. “You do just
what I tell you to and we’ll put them bad men on the run. Sabe?”
“I ain’t got no nerve!” protests Stonewall.
“You admires to marry Eveline, don’t yuh?” asks Magpie, and the runt
nods, hearty like.
“Well,” says Magpie, “that’s evidence that you have. Ain’t that right,
Ike?”
“He’s got Jessie James looking like uh nervous wreck,” says I.
The runt seems to cheer up uh heap at them words, and gits ambition
enough to borrow my tobacco and papers.
“Oh, yes!” says he, after his smoke is going. “They got your mules.”
“The ---- they did?” says I. “How do you know?”
“They was tied in front of the Nickle Plate saloon. I didn’t stop to
examine ’em close but I think I recognized that yaller one.”
This information makes me mad. This here town of Spotted Dog don’t
appeal to me noways, and I sure do love them burros. Who ever heard of
uh place like this anyway? Who is ever going to believe that there ever
was uh place like Spotted Dog. After thinking it all over I opines that
I’m dreaming, and I drops uh rock on my foot. Uh course I has to drop
it on my favorite corn.
Some folks preys on their imagination and others takes to strong liquor
to brace up their nerves, but whenever I wants to git into uh fighting
mood, all I has to do is to annoy that corn. I immediate and soon gets
fighting mad, and the madder I get the more I admires to get them jacks
out uh durance vile.
“I’m going up and get them burros back!” I states, and Magpie nods.
“Yes, Ike, I reckon that would be uh good resolution to carry out. We
sure can’t get along without them animiles.”
My corn sends uh shot uh agony up my shin-bone, again, and I gets
belligerent.
“I’m going right now!” says I.
“Yes,” agrees Magpie. “Right now, Ike.”
“And I’m going to shoot ---- out of anybody what crosses my path, too!”
“Happy New Year,” says Magpie. “I gives you power of attorney to shoot
some for me, Ike. Want to borrow another gun? Here’s mine, and may your
days be many in the land of the living, pardner.”
* * * * *
I limps into the main street of Spotted Dog, with uh gun on each hip and
agony in my feet. Uh feller is setting in front of the first saloon, on
uh whisky-keg. He just gives me one look, and stumbles over the doorway
in his hurry.
I pilgrims straight to the Nickle Plate, and finds Lodestone and Cæsar
tied to the rack out in front. Somebody starts out of the door, sees me
and goes right back inside again. I walks over and pats Lodestone on the
shoulder, keeping my eye on the saloon door all the time, and jist like
it always happens, that blamed jackass plants one forefoot on that corn
and leans lovingly against me.
I kicks him so blamed hard that I hears his ribs rattle against his
jaw-bone, and then I ambles right up to that saloon door and kicks it
open.
From the looks uh things I’m expected. There’s uh reception committee
lined up against the bar and I can see at uh glance that there’s an
extra glass on the bar. I balances on one foot in the doorway, and
chaws the end of my mustache. I sure am suffering uh heap.
“Mister,” says uh long-faced hombre, with one cross-eye, “we welcomes
yuh to Spotted Dog. Step right up and take uh drink on the city. She’s
yours.”
“I don’t want it,” I replies. “It don’t appeal to my artistic sense uh
tall. I’m looking for the Jasper what appropriates my burros.”
“I took ’em,” wheezes uh square-headed cross between uh Greaser and uh
whisky-runner. “I jist took ’em to----”
“Thanks,” says I, “I’m obliged to yuh for tying ’em up for me. They’re
sure liable to stray in uh strange country.”
All this time my corn is easing up uh little.
I pours out uh glass uh hooch and says “how,” to the crowd.
“My name’s Hammond,” states the tall one, who invited me to take the
city. “Usually called High-Card. This party”--indicating the
square-headed wheezer--“is Whisperin’ Wilson. We’re mayor and
treasurer, respectably, uh Spotted Dog, and we greets yuh happily.
Where’s your pardner?”
“He’s down at the city marshal’s residence cleaning his guns,” says I,
refilling my glass on the city.
They all grins uh heap, and I appears to wonder what the joke is.
High-Card explains, but he don’t tell me much that I don’t already know.
“Our city marshal has got less nerve than anything on earth. He opines
to git married to-morrow, and we’re planning to scare him so danged bad
at that time that he’ll run all the way through Wyoming and so far into
Utah that the Mormons will marry him to six different women before he
can get back to the line.”
We has another drink or two and gets right friendly.
“So you and your pardner was the pair what cleaned up the Dolan bunch,
eh?” observes Whisperin’. “That sure was some chore. I knowed Jim Dolan
when he was up in Custer County, and he sure was one fast person on the
draw. I heard tell that you held your hand above your head and let him
git hold of his gun before yuh yelled for him to git uh-going.”
“Plumb correct,” says I. “How’d he ever lose that left eye? Did yuh ever
hear?”
“Horse uh mine throwed him once when he was drunk. He was one good
rider, too.”
“Did he ever tell yuh about the time that him and ‘Windy’ Bowers held
on to the corner of uh handkerchief and emptied their guns into each
other?” I asks.
“Huh!” snorts Whisperin’. “Did he? Well, I reckon he did. Showed me the
scars, too.”
“Well,” says I to myself, “honesty sure ain’t no drug on the market in
Spotted Dog, and that’s uh cinch. If there ever was uh Jim Dolan or uh
Windy Bowers I never heard tell of ’em.”
We has uh little more wet weather together, and then I’m invited to
mingle the pasteboards uh little, and see if two deuces can beat three
of uh kind.
Mine did. Not wishing to carry all that extra weight on my hips, I
slips them guns out of their holsters and lays ’em on my lap. Immediate
and soon I wins forty dollars on uh bobtail flush, and I know that
Whisperin’ held uh queen full on sevens. I accidentally turns his hand
over as I rakes in the pot. High-Card held three eights.
“I hears that your pardner is the fastest man in Montana with uh
six-shooter,” remarks High-Card, after we settles the supremacy in uh
pot, which I wins with two deuces and three hearts.
“We’re about uh standoff,” I replies.
That’s about the first truth that’s been spoken since I came in. We sure
are. Magpie orates to me one day that he’s getting fast with uh gun, and
essays to prove it. He argues that the first shot must be fired as the
gun comes out of the holster, no matter whether it hits or not, and then
uh crook of the wrist gets the rest away on schedule time.
His first shot hit. He was so blamed fast that he didn’t wait for
the gun to come out of the holster, and the bullet nicks his kneecap
and amputates his little toe. He gets her out for the next shot but
he crooks his wrist too much, and shoots uh brace uh ca’tridges out
uh my belt. I admits that he’s uh heap previous, and runs errands
for him for uh week.
When he gets well I tells him that I been practising the draw, and
wishes him to observe my dexterity. He beats it around behind the cabin
and yells:
“Take your time, Ike! There ain’t no hurry!”
The bartender seems to admire me uh heap, keeping up uh running
conversation and uh goodly supply uh hooch.
I ain’t never been treated thataway before and the longer I stays the
longer I’m convinced that uh feller don’t gain nothing by being meek
and mild among men.
I’ve always wondered what anybody could find in being bad that was so
alluring, but I’m beginning to find out. I picks off uh fat pot on uh
four-card draw against three pat hands, and I mentally pats Lodestone
on the rump and feels contrite in my soul for kicking him thataway.
Every time I shifts them guns there’s an immediate rush to the discard.
Seems like nobody can hold good hands but me. We plays along serene like
for uh couple uh hours, and High-Card shoves back his chair, sort uh
weary like.
“You sure do sabe this here national pastime,” sez he, sizing up the
few cords uh chips in front of me. “Yes, sir, I’d say that you plays
uh mighty clever game.”
“I remember the time I played ‘Five-Fingered’ Fulton single-handed
freeze-out to see which one committed suicide,” sez I, sort uh
reminiscent like. “That was uh good game.”
“Ain’t it funny how folks git things wrong in the tellin’?” complains
High-Card, surprised like. “I heard that you and him cut cards for it.”
I took another drink on the city, and wondered who in blazes
Five-Fingered Fulton was. Spotted Dog must uh been Ananias’s old home
town.
I cashes in two hundred and eighty-seven dollars and accepts another
slice on the fair city.
“If you needs any help with them mules I’m uh heap familiar with the
tribe,” says Tug Tilton.
I leans over and inspects Tug’s ears for uh moment and shakes my head.
“You sure ought to be,” says I. “No, I don’t need yuh, old-timer. I
knows my own stock.”
I unties Lodestone and Cæsar, and pilgrims down to Stonewall’s abode.
Magpie is out by the packs, and he seems uh heap relieved to see me.
Stonewall ain’t no place in sight.
“Welcome,” says Magpie. “Are yuh here in the flesh or the spirit, Ike? I
was afraid that--cripes!”
He gets around on the windward side and sniffs uh couple uh times and
removes his hat.
“Spirit is right!” he snorts. “Did yuh fall out of the boat?”
“Airy persiflage is uncalled for,” I reproves him. “Outside uh you,
Magpie, I’m the worst specimen uh blood-curdling bad man what ever
entered the portals uh this here hamlet, and I runs you uh dead heat.
Sabe? We’re uh God-awful pair, Magpie. Where’s Stonewall?”
“Stonewall’s--never mind where Stonewall is, Ike. Help me put the packs
on them burros and I’ll tell yuh what to do.”
“Now,” says he, after the hitches are tied off, “you take ’em up-town
where we can get at ’em handy, and then just hang around. Give me back
that gun, ’cause nobody knows what’s going to happen.” I obeys him to
the letter, and in uh few minutes I’m back in the saloon again, but
this time I picks the Tammany, ’cause the bunch seems to all be there.
From the reception I gets I figures that they been telling all about me.
“Was the city marshal to home?” asks High-Card, with uh broad grin.
When he grins it looks like uh skyline uh broken brown rocks. “We’re
all going down pretty soon and tell him that Whisperin’ Wilson has
done busted the law, and that he’s got to arrest him. Haw! Haw! Haw!”
* * * * *
“Haw! haw! haw!” mimics uh squeaky voice at the door, and we all turns
quick.
There stands Stonewall Jackson. He’s got uh coat buttoned up tight
around his neck and around his waist is uh wide strip of Injun blanket,
tied in the back. In one hand he’s holding uh .45 Colt and inside his
blanket surcingle is that antiquated muzzle-loader six-gun.
Uh mixture of corn-juice, alkali water and copperas, and the loving
influence of the angel would put nerve into anything with ambition
enough to pull on uh boot, and I reckon Stonewall just barely
qualifies.
He weaves in the doorway for uh minute or two, with the muzzle uh that
six-gun elevated just about enough to hit uh man in the stummick, and
then he sort uh shakes his head and yelps:
“The ---- yuh are! Goin’ to cut my ears off, eh? Bad men--hic--c-c-come
to town--wh-e-e-e! Tryin’ to ’timidate marshal uh Spotted Dawg, eh?
Nawsir, High-Card, you better keep your hands still! What’s the matter
with everybody? Who’s goin’ to start the ball to rolling this evenin’?
Take your hats off to Stonewall Jackson--hats off!”
If we’d been trained for weeks we couldn’t have acted quicker.
I knowed danged well that Stonewall couldn’t hit that tree, but also I
was sober enough to know that I ain’t no tree. High-Card and Whisperin’
and Tug just stands there like three shepherds at uh funeral, and gawps
at the runt. If I hadn’t been right in the line uh fire I’d uh had to
laugh. She’s some situation.
“I just come up to--hic--shay to you alleged bad men that I’m
resheptive to trouble,” orates Stonewall. “I’m uh bad man from Bitter
Crick--me--Stonewall Jackson! Sabe? That’s good! Now you can put on
your hats.”
The blame fool lowers his gun and that bunch comes back to life.
High-Card’s hat drifts to the floor and his gun comes out smoking. He
ain’t more than ten feet from the runt, and he empties his gun square
at the poor little devil.
She fogs things up considerable, but when the breeze thins the smoke
away, there stands Stonewall as good as new.
“My ----! He’s uh ghost!” howls High-Card, and then Whisperin’s gun
begins to spread disaster over the carcass of Stonewall Jackson.
About this time the runt discovers that he’s holding uh gun, so he
grasps it in both hands and starts walking toward us and hell is out
fer recess. She’s some convention. In order to git out of the line uh
lead I starts to vault the bar. My hands slip off as my feet goes
over, and I lands so deep into uh spittoon that I can’t get loose,
and the wild waves trickle into my eyes, nose and ears. I tries to
swim but I immediate and soon drifts on to the rocks, with the result
that I turns over, fills and sinks all at the same time.
I can hear the breakers gurgling over the reefs, and when I tries to
come to the surface for uh little air, I soon finds that I’m chased
by uh man-eating shark, which bites me on the wrist and steps on that
sore toe.
By natural instinct I’m of uh peaceful disposition. The Harper tribe is
noted for being home-loving, simple tillers uh soil, but, by the muddy
Milk River, even uh jack-rabbit will fight when it’s hurt so it can’t
seem to reason.
I takes uh blind but hearty swipe at that shark and my fist bounces off
that bar so hard that she almost unhooks from my wrist. We goes down in
uh whirlpool, and then I discovered that I’m fighting two sharks.
I’m just about to resign myself to fate when I discovers that said
sharks are fighting over their prey, so I paddles to the surface and
has uh look.
It’s Tug Tilton and the bartender, and they’re sure going some. They
gits to their feet, weaves for uh second and then Tug kicks the
hooch-handler under the chin, the same uh which would have lifted the
roof off uh house.
Tug weaves over and leans again’ the table. He looks like the slim end
uh nothing whittled to uh point and his eyes are blank like uh mud-bank.
He looks me over sad like and shakes his head.
“I-I-I-I always said I’d die for uh principle,” he mumbles. “And I guess
I have, I must uh died with that boat on my mind, ’cause it’s uh cinch
they don’t have divers in cow-land.”
He reaches over to see if I’m alive, and uh course he has to bring his
big feet along and step on my corn.
I leaned down and felt of his pulse and found it all right. Just uh
little slow but safe. Then I swung with all my might. I danged near
busted my knuckles. I lays him down beside the bartender, and repeats
uh few words which can be found in the Bible, but what I said wasn’t
uh direct quotation. Then I starts out to find things.
There seems to be plenty of confusion outside. Being of uh peaceful
disposition, I listens until I finds that it’s mostly out in front,
and then I goes out the back door. At least I tried to go out. As I
unhooks the latch uh piledriver hits me in the wishbone and I goes
right back to the center of the saloon once more.
When I awakes I finds that High-Card is setting beside me. He looks like
he’d lost everything in his system except the scare part.
We stares into each other’s eyes for uh couple uh weeks, and then he
shoves his six-shooter into my face and snaps it twice. Life to me
ain’t worth uh tinker’s damn noways, so I don’t even blink. He stares
at me and then at the gun.
“Funny thing,” sez he, offhand like, and tosses the gun away.
Uh course he couldn’t possibly have throwed it at anything except that
sore foot uh mine.
I goes out uh my way to walk the full length uh his lean carcass, and
this time I goes out of the door without mishap.
The magpies is still singing and the sun is setting, but there ain’t uh
whole lot uh Springtime in my soul. I limps out into the main street and
finds her deserted.
Over by the rack stands Lodestone and Cæsar, slapping flies with their
ears, but Spotted Dog seems to be taking uh siesta.
“Maybe she’s dead instead uh sleeping,” says I to myself. There’s one
thing yuh can always give the Harper tribe credit for--they looks on
the bright side uh things.
“I’m going to get them jacks and go far, far away from here,” says I,
still talking to me. “Never again do I mix up in things. If I ever sees
uh yacht in uh desert I’m just going to pray for the souls uh men who go
down to the desert in ships, and let her go as she lies. From now on I’m
meek and mild and uh little child can lead me.”
* * * * *
I’m almost over to them jacks when uh bullet cuts right past my ear
and plunks into uh barrel beside me. I don’t even turn my head. What’s
one bullet more or less, anyway. I just turns, sort uh careless like,
to see what it hit, and I finds myself looking down the muzzle of that
five-cylindered relic. Stonewall’s eyes are as big as saucers, and
he’s holding that smoke-box in both hands. There’s just about five
feet between me and sudden death.
He ain’t the meek-looking Stonewall I used to know. This one has got
the wisdom and fright of ages in his face, and also the eyes of uh
killer who kills ’cause he’s too danged scared to quit.
“You--you--you--huh----” he whispers, like the croak of uh frog, and
then I sees his trigger finger turn white.
_Bing! Bang! Fiz-z-z--, Bang! Boom!_
I stands there, foolish like, and tries to count the shots. I opines
that I’m too dead to skin so what’s the use of getting scared, but
it seems funny that I can’t feel the shock uh them bullets. Uh gun
that size ought at least make uh feller flinch. Stonewall and me is
surrounded with smoke for uh while, and when it drifts away on the
breeze we’re both on our feet.
Stonewall has got streaks uh powder grease across his face, and over
one eye is uh furrow where something has plowed. He looks at me in uh
dazed sort of uh way, and then at the gun on the ground. He picks it
up, inspects it minute like, tosses it down and rubs his sore head.
“Cylinder didn’t set right,” he states, tired like. “Blocked the slugs
and they all come out the breech.”
“Uh-huh,” I admits. “One good turn deserves another.”
And I kicks that locoed runt right in the wishbone.
Did I say uh while ago that from now on I’m full uh peace and quietude?
Good resolutions with me is like my money--I can’t keep ’em. Never
before did I kick an animal that didn’t spring uh little and give my
foot uh chance, but Stonewall’s wishbone is like the rock of Gibraltar.
My right foot is the sore one, and I never thought to kick with my
left.
Stonewall looks at me, reproving like, and sets down on uh barrel. I
leans against the building and chaws both ends off my mustache while
I holds my foot in my hands.
“Hee-e-e-e haw-w-w-w-w!” sings Lodestone, over at the rack, and I sort
uh come back to life.
I puts my left heel against Stonewall’s nose and pushes hard, and the
last I ever saw of him was his two boots sticking over the top of that
barrel. They didn’t even wave. I reckon he’s so near all in that he
can’t even wiggle his toes.
I unties the burros and pints ’em out the way we came. Here we goes
out of Spotted Dog; Lodestone in the lead, then comes Cæsar and then
Ike Harper, limping along with uh gun in one hand and his hat in the
other. Some caravan!
About half uh mile them jacks stops sudden like and I looks up. There
stands Magpie Simpkins. I’d plumb forgot that such uh person existed.
He takes one long look at me and rolls in the dust. He sets there and
whoops until the tears runs down his long nose and mingles with the
desert sands.
“Haw! Haw! Haw-w-w-w!” he howls.
“Ike, you--haw, haw, haw--danged old pelican, you! Take that--haw, haw,
haw--spittoon off your head! Haw! Haw! Haw!”
“Haw!” says I, sort uh mimicking like, and pries the blamed thing loose
to the certain loss of half my hair.
Now I know what Tug meant by “diver.”
“Going to shoot something with that gun?” asks Magpie, after the
operation is over.
I slings that muzzle-loader off into the greasewood, sets down and
rolls uh smoke. I hauls out that two hundred and eighty-seven dollars
and splits it fifty-fifty with Magpie.
“Lodestone ain’t such uh bad prospector after all, Ike,” orates Magpie,
counting his half, with uh grin.
I rubs my head and removes some of the stains uh conflict off my face
with my sleeve.
“Stonewall Jackson,” sez I. “He didn’t kill nobody did he, Magpie?” and
Magpie grins and inhales deep on his cigaret.
“Nope. I loaded his shells with dough. I knowed that his old
muzzle-loader wouldn’t hit nobody but the person what fired it. I gave
him uh pint uh diluted alcohol and uh talk on the glories of married
life and he done the rest. Let’s git uh-going, Ike. It’s almost dark
and I feels the gnawing pains uh hunger.”
We pilgrims along down the trail for uh while, and then I turns and
remarks:
“Magpie, it’s funny that some uh them dead shots didn’t kill that little
runt. They sure had plenty uh chances to fill his carcass with lead. I
don’t sabe it uh tall--me.”
“Preparedness covers uh lot of deliberate intentions, Ike. Yuh see, them
bad, bad men are dead shots--heart shots, so I anticipated their ability
and put four cast-iron stove lids inside of Stonewall’s shirt. That’s
why he was wearing that blanket girdle--to hold them up. Sabe?”
“That’s what I’d call iron nerve,” says I, and we swings off the trail
to uh water-hole.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the December 18, 1917 issue
of Adventure magazine.]
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