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.

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.

“Now,” says Dirty, “I wonder if that means Scenery Sims.”

The next one reads:

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:

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.”