HONEST TO DOUGHGOD

By W. C. Tuttle

Author of “A Bull Movement in Yellow Horse,”
“The Henpunchers of Piperock,” etc.

I was christened Henry Clay Peck, but as soon as I gits big enough to answer to the yell uh “grub pile” I has my cognomen depleted to the extent that I answers to “Hen.” Maw insisted that I be called Gilliland Van Dyke, but paw said it was too much like brandin’ uh calf with the map uh Texas.

The next one to my left on the top pole of the corral is uh misfit uh nature, or whatever is to blame fer creatin’ fat cowpunchers. His carcass requires the biggest tree ever put into uh stock saddle. His parents saddled him with the signature uh Lemuel Allender Bowles and uh forgivin’ nature. He responds when yuh yells “Muley.”

On my right, danglin’ over the top pole is “Telescope” Tolliver. Telescope was originally, so he sez, John Quincy Tolliver, by gad suh! He allus adds the “By gad suh!” to give folks the impression that he’s from the South, but I’ve got inside information that the nearest he ever came to bein’ from the South was the time uh Montana sheriff chases him over the line into Wyoming and uh Wyoming sheriff chases him back.

We admires each other uh heap. Muley writes poetry; Telescope sings, and I plays the banjo. We’re jist three cowpunchers—but talented. Uh puncher can have talents the same as bartenders, harness drummers and insurance agents.

Telescope sez that as far as morals goes we’re loaded—never havin’ used up what Nature originally gave us. Muley sez—

“There’s two things they can’t never lay at our door: we never stole another man’s wife nor threw rocks at his kids.”

But that about lets us out, I reckon. Muley’s too danged covetous of other people’s property. If he didn’t combine pleasure with business we’d be uh lot better off. He can’t seem to keep from poetin’. One night he rustled fifteen head uh Five-Dot cows out of uh corral, and leaves uh piece uh poetry stickin’ on the gate, the same uh which reads:

I thanks yuh fer this chance to take,
Some Five-Dot cows, which I will sell,
And git myself uh poker stake.
And as fer you—go plumb to ——!

Muley, bein’ the Poet Lariet uh the county, fer the reason that he’s the only one what can write uh rhyme, is immediately and soon apprehended down at Paradise, and called to answer fer his sins. He tells me and Telescope with tears in his eyes that we got to figger out uh scheme to git him loose or he’ll git sent to the pen, thereby breakin’ the set. Telescope chides him gently.

“Yuh ain’t got the sense that God give geese in Chiny!” sez Telescope. “What did yuh have to write poetry fer, yuh cross between uh loco weed and uh pail uh lard?”

Muley don’t hang his head with shame like he should have done under the circumstances, cause his neck is too danged short. He jist winks real hard and makes funny noises with his throat.

“Well,” sez I, “we can’t let uh guilty man suffer, Telescope. Let’s go home. I’ll play somethin’ sad-like, and you sing Muley’s ol’ favorite, ‘Jist Break the News to Mother,’ and mebby we can figger out uh scheme.”

We did. That night we rides over to the Lazy-Y corral and appropriates all uh ol’ man Wiscomb’s ridin’ hosses, and hazes ’em plumb over into the Frog Pond basin. We shore has uh chore writin’ what we pins to the corral gate. It reads like this:

Though sad but true we must relate
Poets is thick in this here State.
We writes this rhyme so honest men
Won’t have to languish in the pen.

Poetry not bein’ evidence no more, they has to turn Muley loose. Muley promises that he’ll do better next time, but it sort uh peeves him to find out that me and Telescope can write poetry, so he starts tryin’ to pick the banjo, and drives us off the ranch tryin’ to sing, “Love Me and the World Is Mine.”

Uh course me and Telescope steals them broncs to prove uh alibi fer Muley, but all we does with ’em is to haze ’em over to the basin and let ’em drift. We tells Muley about the stunt, and after they turns him loose he disappears fer uh few days. When he shows up ag’in he hands us each uh hundred and fifty dollars.

“Took them broncs down to Silver Springs and sold ’em,” sez he, sort uh offhand like. “Them Lazy-Y fellers has beefed and beefed about losin’ ’em, and I jist couldn’t stand it to see ’em disappointed. Another day and them fool broncs would have been home. They was trailin’ this way when I finds ’em, and prompt action saves us reg’lar money.”

Uh course we chides Muley uh heap, while we saddles up to go down to Paradise, but we chides him without malice in our hearts. One-fifty covers uh multitude uh morals. Also, we can all three set into uh poker game to oncet, which makes it bad fer any one else at the table. We drifts across the hills with joy in our hearts. We jist can’t seem to hate nobody. Even Telescope speaks kindly uh ol’ Bill Metzger, the sheriff what chased him over the line that time. Uh coyote drifts out of uh draw ahead of us, the same uh which usually calls fer at least eighteen chunks uh hot lead, but this time he ain’t molested.

“Look at the ol’ loafer,” sez Telescope, standin’ up in his stirrups to ease his new saddle. “Slant-eyed ol’ pelican! He’ll probably go home and tell his ol’ woman that the Three Disgraces is paralyzed in the hands.”

We fogs along until we’re about five miles from Paradise, when we sees uh hoss wanderin’ along the skyline of uh hill. Seems to be saddled so we goes over and investigates.

“Side-saddle!” snorts Muley. “Who in —— rides uh saddle like that on this range?”

“I would if I had uh chance,” states uh voice, and then we sees her.

She’s standin’ there beside uh mesquite, and I reckon she’s the maddest pretty fe-male I ever laid eyes upon. I ain’t goin’ to tell yuh what she looked like. It’s too danged much like tryin’ to tell somebody about the stamped design on uh new saddle. They knows what yore talkin’ about but they don’t know what yuh mean.

“I begs your pardon, ma’am,” sez Muley. “Yuh see I didn’t look fer——”

“Don’t apologize,” sez she, with uh grin. “What you jist said ain’t one, two, three with what I been thinkin’ fer the last hour. I got off to pick uh flower and that pony broke loose. I’ve trailed him fer three miles, but he wouldn’t stop. Are you goin’ to Paradise?”

“Ma’am,” orates Telescope, “I’m there now. Ma used to tell me about the land what is fairer than this, but I doubted her.”

With his eyes rolled up like uh sick sheep, Muley recites:

Her eyes outshine the desert stars
Her mouth is sweet as cake,
And the freckles on her features
Shone like lilies on uh lake.

The fe-male starts to grin, but when she sees that we’re serious she irons out her face.

“Ma’am,” sez I, “I’m sorry I ain’t got my banjo. I plays well.”

“That’s nice,” sez she. “I love good music. I am Miss Adamson, the new teacher at Paradise, and I’m lost.”

“Miss Adamson,” states Telescope, “you can calm yore fears, cause you shore ain’t lost no more. My name’s Tolliver—John Quincy Tolliver, by gad—huh. The party on the pinto is Hen Peck, and that emaciated lookin’ party on the Roman-nosed bay is Muley Bowles. We’re all from the Cross-J; free, white and twenty-one and we’re glad to meet yuh.”

“Lemuel is my first name, ma’am,” sez Muley. “Lemuel Allender Bowles.”

“My folks was particular thataway, too,” sez I. “When I enters this here vale uh tears I gits Henry Clay added to the name uh Peck, which I natcherally inherits. My dad’s name was Henry, and bein’ as he had uh ranch in Clay county, Missouri, I——”

“Unique,” sez the lady.

“No, ma’am—corn,” sez I.

Telescope tightens up her cinch and helps her on the bronc, and we all fogs on toward Paradise. She don’t sabe much about ridin’ but who ever cared how uh angel handled uh hoss. She’s livin’ up at ol’ man Irvin’s place, so we rides plumb to the gate with her. She thanks us uh heap and makes uh fuss about how much she owes us.

“Won’t yuh all come down to see me once in uh while?” she asks. “It really does git lonesome evenin’s. Come down, all of you. I’d love to hear Mister Tolliver sing, and Mister Peck accompany him on the banjo. Come down any time, please.”

The way she sez “please” would make uh feller go out and kiss uh sidewinder if she asked him to. We replies that nothin’ would please us more, and then we wanders back to the bright lights uh Dug Chaffin’s saloon.

“Like to hear Mister Tolliver sing, and hear Mister Peck accompany him on the banjo, eh?” orates Muley, sarcastic like. “Them’s hy-iu accomplishments but too boisterous. Now, if I had uh chance to pour uh li’l poetry into her ear—mama, mine!”

“Poetry,” pronounces Telescope, “is all right so long as yuh don’t abuse yore ability. It’s good stuff in its place, like hooch or uh cold deck, but when uh feller uses it to notify the sheriff or uses it to designate that uh lady has freckles on her nose—I’m ag’in it. Sabe?”

“Freckles is but uh beauty spot to call attention to the spot on which they lingers,” states Muley. “Don’t think fer uh minute, Telescope, that I aims to slander the lady. I shore admires her uh heap, and nothin’ would please me more than to introduce her to you as Misses Lemuel Allender Bowles. That’s uh fair soundin’ name, eh? Uh heap more noticeable than Misses Peck or Telescope’s wife.”

“Henry Clay Peck ain’t no name to sneeze at,” I states. “It’s honest, by grab! My ol’ dad——”

I’m jist goin’ to tell how the first grain measure was named after one uh my ancestors, but Telescope interrupts.

“When yuh argues the value uh names, Muley, yuh shore got to let mine set on the first pew. John Quincy Tolliver, by gad suh! The Kentucky Tollivers is one uh the bluegrassedest famblys in America. Any woman would be honored to bear that name.”

“Don’t let’s quarrel,” I advises. “Names is nothin’ but inheritance, like hook-noses, cross-eyes and uh taste fer hooch. We never made ’em. Uh fortune-teller tol’ me once that some uh my ancestors was bushwhackers in the time uh Henry th’ Awful, and that some was beheaded and the rest lynched. She said I was born to romance.”

“Swashbucklers,” corrects Telescope. “Nowadays we designates ’em as ‘blow hards.’ Also, she was wrong about the period. Henry the Awful was——”

“Let sleepin’ dogs gather no moss,” interrupts Muley, squeezin’ the last drop of his sixth glass uh third-rail. “Pore ol’ Henry’s dead years ago, and li’l Lemuel Allender Bowles don’t feel so awful good today, either. Here’s to the fairest flower that in uh garden grew. Her face is like uh—uh—uh—shay, Telescope, wha’s her face like, anyway. Huh?”

But Telescope is already pourin’ out his soul in song, and Muley weeps on the pool-table ’cause he can’t seem to remember what her face looked like.

Now I’m commencin’ to git back to where I starts from, with me and Muley and Telescope draped over the top pole of the corral. It’s the next mawnin’ after we meets the school-ma’am.

Not havin’ much appetite fer breakfast we adjourns early. We’re settin’ there mournin’ over our past lives and wishin’ we didn’t have such pintoed characters, when Telescope opines——

“Uh gal with uh face like that must grade about twenty per ounce. I hope she don’t throw her young life away on some ordinary cowpuncher, that’s all I hope.” Telescope sighs deep-like, and me and Muley follers suit.

“Noble sentiments,” sez I. “It would be like feedin’ vanilly ice cream to uh coyote.”

We sighs in chorus ag’in.

Muley sighs uh couple uh extra times and chews the stub of uh lead-pencil, which he has been usin’ on uh piece uh wrappin’-paper.

“Read her out loud, Muley,” urges Telescope, but Muley sighs and shakes his head:

“I jist can’t seem to find uh word that’s right. What in —— rhymes with pain? She reads like this:

“My love is livin’ in the town,
It fills my heart with pain,
To know that I ain’t with her now,”

“She’s uh dinger as far as she goes, Muley,” sez Telescope. “Can’t yuh think uh nothin’ that rhymes with pain?”

“I got it,” sez I. “Yuh might say, ‘Tomorrow it may rain.’ How’s that, eh?”

Muley puts his foot into my equator, and I sprawls into the corral, right under the feet of uh outlaw bronc called Pirate. I jist about gits kicked into the middle uh next week before I escapes.

“That’s the last time I ever helps uh poet in distress,” I states, as soon as I gits back on the rail. “They’re uh thankless tribe. In love or in jail it’s all the same. I’m goin’ over and tune up my ol’ banjo. There’s uh lady what loves good music, and she’s plumb crazy to hear me play.”

“She shore is if she wants to the second time,” states Muley.

I goes over to the bunk-house, and pretty soon Telescope and Muley comes in and sets down. They rolls cigarets and Telescope clears his throat.

“Well,” sez I, “spit her out, Telescope.”

“Hen, we’ve done come to the conclusion that we can’t all come to see her to oncet. What do yuh think about it?”

“Two ag’in one is uh majority. What’s the verdict?”

“It’s thisaway, Hen,” explains Telescope. “All things bein’ free and equal, we’re goin’ to leave the decision to the lady. We’ll write the names of the days uh the week on pieces uh paper, put ’em in uh hat and draw. The feller gits to call on her the night he draws. Sabe? That won’t give nobody the advantage.”

“And,” sez I, “the other two stays right here on the ranch. Don’t go cuttin’ into the other feller’s night a-tall, eh? We shore got to play this here love game on the square.”

They both agrees, and we draws from the hat. I gits Monday, Telescope draws Friday, and Muley’s affections shows on Wednesday. Bein’ as to-day is Monday, I shaves some careful-like and oils my saddle.

“Don’t git mushy and tell yore past life, Hen,” warns Telescope. “Uh feller’s apt to fergit himself in uh case like this. Yore past won’t interest her none to speak of, and me and Muley figgers too danged prominent like. She might turn us all down fer uh sheriff or uh United States marshal and tell all she knows. Sabe?”

“One thing I never does,” sez I, “and that is to commit social suicide.”

I reads that in uh female’s magazine, what comes to the Cross-J by mistake oncet.

I gits on my calico bronc, hangs the banjo on the saddle horn and proceeds to show the Cross-J that Hen Peck can ride ’em straight up. I knows that there’s uh stick under that pinto’s tail, but I don’t wish to spoil Muley’s idea of uh good joke. When I gits that pinto lined out toward Paradise I finds that three strings is busted on that banjo, the same uh which fills me with sad thoughts.

“This shore is one —— of uh situation,” sez I. “Not another banjo string this side uh Helena, and uh li’l gal simply pinin’ away fer to hear me play.”

The nearer I gits to town the worse I’m feelin’. I feels so bad that I enters Dug Chaffin’s rum palace and renews my vitality, and also gits vivacious. That’s another word I reads in that magazine. I meets “Doughgod” Smith and he also gits vivacious.

Doughgod’s got lots uh money and the disposition of uh bulldog.

“I’d admire to hear yuh play uh tune, Hen,” sez he, noticin’ that I’m packin’ uh banjo. “After listenin’ to Tony, the Hunk, play the squeeze organ over at the Cross-in-uh-Box, I’m game to listen to anythin’.”

“She’s uh good ol’ rig but she’s done busted down, Doughgod,” sez I. “Yuh can’t expect to fan uh machine like that over uh bronc’s head fer any length uh time and expect it to run smooth right away. If yuh hunger fer music I’ll sing fer yuh.”

“Hen,” sez he, pattin’ me on the back, “don’t put yourself out to try and entertain me. The way I feels right now I don’t miss singin’ uh bit. Much obliged jist the same.”

Doughgod horns into uh poker game, and I absorbs uh few more scoops. When I’m organized sufficient-like I opines to go over and serenade the school-ma’am.

I has uh hard time gettin’ my bearin’s, but pretty soon I gits to goin’ good. Sudden-like I remembers that I’m shy on strings.

“Now,” sez I, “you cross between uh distillery and uh bale uh loco weed, where do yuh think yore goin’, eh? Goin’ to serenade uh lady fair, eh? Goin’ down there with uh souse on. Hen Peck, you ain’t fit to carry hawg meat to uh bear. No-good, common ol’ puncher, with loads uh sin on yore conscience.

“You ain’t fit to see her or listen to her voice. Yore jist uh drunk ol’ cow rustler, and if yuh got what was comin’ to yuh you’d be over in Deer Lodge, wearin’ uh number like uh box-car. Yore hyas cultus.”

That kind uh talk from me makes me feel uh heap bad, but I has to agree that it’s Gospel truth even if it does yank on my heart-strings.

“Nothin’ like knowin’ yoreself,” I informs uh fence post. “Hen Peck is uh wise ol’ coot—yessir. I ain’t no good, but by cripes, I got two of the best friends on earth. Telescope and Muley. Good enough fer any gal on earth. All I got is two friends and uh lovin’ disposition. No use in three tryin’ to win—nossir. Two’s company—three’s uh crowd. I’m goin’ back to Dug’s place, where there’s life and cheer. Love is but uh fleetin’ flower, and mine has fleeted.”

I cries uh heap, and my heart lies in my bosom like half-done flapjacks on yore stummick, and the scaldin’ tears obstructs my vision to the extent that when somebody throws uh clump uh mesquite bushes at me I can’t dodge.

The moon is wanin’ when I manages to git out from under the brush, so I forks my pinto and comes home. I ain’t what you’d designate as uh gay lookin’ Lothario to look at, but I feels that I’m to be commended uh heap. I don’t aim to tell the boys what I done cause they’d say I got col’ feet on the job. Also, they’d use up all the nights between ’em, and Hen Peck would have to play to the bunk-house walls. Telescope and Muley is settin’ on the fence when I rides in, and they looks me over some careful. I turns my bronc into the corral, and starts fer the cook-house.

“Is her paw in Paradise, Hen?” asks Telescope.

“No,” sez I. “Why do yuh ask that?”

“What happened to yuh, Hen? Did the lady smear yuh with uh rollin’-pin or has the Crees gone on the war path? Yore uh sight, Hennery.”

“Jist general wear and tear,” sez I. “I’m hungry.”

Muley grins all over his fat face, and recites:

He went to see his lady fair.
He loved her passin’ well.
He played some banjo music,
And came home all shot to ——.

“Ain’t that uh humdinger, Hen?” laughs Telescope. “Muley’s shore wastin’ his talents in uh place like this. Did yuh tell her that me and Muley’d be down this week?”

“I did not,” sez I. “Why take the joy out of her life thataway? I believes in lettin’ somebody else be the bearer uh sad news. I’m not advertisin’ you fellers, believe me. Why should I mention you, eh?”

“That’s fair enough,” admits Muley, and when we’re together he gits confidential like.

“Hen, what in —— does uh feller talk about to uh fe-male? I loses my nerve when it comes to that. Tell me somethin’ to say, won’t yuh, Hen?”

“Aw, anythin’. Recite her that poem yuh wrote about Snow-shoe Mary. Jist keep yore face out uh personalities, Muley.”

“What’s personalities, Hen?”

“Aw, corsets and stockin’s and——”

“——!” he snorts. “What do yuh think I am, Hen? Uh dressmaker? Also I don’t intend to recite Snow-shoe Mary. Why, dog-gone yore hide, that poem wasn’t wrote fer female ears. Yore kind advice leads me to believe that you wishes me to not only be put out of the runnin’ but yuh also desires that I fills uh early grave. Did she enjoy yore playin’? Yore banjo looks to me like yuh sort uh overdid yoreself, Hennery. Now, if you was uh poet——”

“I’d admire to git lynched,” sez I, and then I goes up to the cook-house, and gits cussed by the cook, fer comin’ in so late.

The next mornin’ Muley can’t seem to git his mind on his work a-tall. He can’t think about nothin’ but his chance to see the lady. He aims to put his rope on the li’l sorrel he’s been ridin’, but he don’t notice when he misses and the loop snags ol’ Pirate.

So long as he don’t notice his mistake, me and Telescope is too gentlemanly to call his attention to it. He jist shortens his rope, turns his back on that outlaw and starts leadin’ it over where his saddle is layin’.

I reckon that hoss never had been ignored thataway before, and it cuts him deep. He sticks back his ears on his rattlesnake head and grabs Muley between the shoulders. Comes uh squeal and uh cloud uh dust and Muley’s layin’ over in the corner with nothin’ left of his shirt except the collar, and the bronc breaks straight fer the Wyoming line.

We moseys over and gazes at Muley’s recumbent form. He’s got uh beautiful expression on his face, and all he needs is uh bow and arrer and uh couple uh wings to pose fer uh statoo uh Cupid in the Corral. He’s starin’ at the sky, and all to oncet his lips opens and he recites:

Her eyes is like the evenin’ star,
She’s graceful like uh deer.
Her mouth is like uh rosebud.
I wish—I wish—I—huh——

“I wish I had uh glass uh beer,” finishes Telescope. “Now, Hen, you can see what love does to uh feller. That Muley person is so danged deep in love that he don’t notice that he’s leadin’ Pirate. No sir, he don’t know nothin’ a-tall. When uh poet gits in love he’s liable to kiss uh mewl. Harmless and happy but lots uh bother.”

Muley rolls over and sets up. He claws some corral dust out of his eyes, and looks around.

“What in —— is goin’ on around here?” he asks, foolish like. “I can’t seem to remember nothin’ except beautiful winged critters, with floatin’ garments, and music playin’ and——”

“Never mind the human insects, Muley,” sez I. “Go and git uh shirt on. Uh sylph-like figger is uh thing uh beauty and uh joy forever, but yore packin’ too much lard on yore carcass to qualify. Git inside uh piece uh flannel before some pork packer comes along and mavericks yuh.”

“Aw, you ain’t got nothin’ to say, Hen,” he opines, fumblin’ with the collar of that departed shirt. “You ain’t no beautiful statoo in the nood. I ain’t goin’ to put on no danged shirt until——”

“Good mornin’, gentlemen.”

We turns some sudden, and there is the school-ma’am lookin’ over the top uh the corral from the back of her hoss.

“Howdy,” sez I, and Telescope almost prostrates hisself in the dust, when his foot slips in uh soft spot. “Won’t yuh come in?”

“Come in and make yourself to home,” invites Telescope, but she grins and shakes her head.

“No, thank you,” sez she. “I’m not familiar enough with the interior of corrals to feel at home in one. Didn’t I hear Mister Bowles’s voice as I rode up?”

I looks around quick and there is Muley, humped up in the corner of the fence, with uh saddle blanket over his head, and about twelve inches uh bare skin shinin’ in the sun.

“No, ma’am,” sez I. “Muley’s been gone some time. He heard that his wife has run away with uh half-breed Piegan, and he’s gone down to the reservation to investigate.”

“Isn’t that some one over in the corner?” she asks, cranin’ her neck over the rail.

“Yes’m,” sez Telescope. “That’s uh sick Injun takin’ uh saddle-blanket treatment fer ticks. We handles most of the local cases up here. This one is particularly stubborn. He’s been under that blanket fer nearly an hour, and only one tick has left him.”

“How strange,” she exclaims. “I’ve heard of all kinds of diseases and treatments, but this is decidedly novel. I studied nursing for some time, and I natcherally am interested. May I come in and watch the proceedin’s?”

“Deelighted!” sez Telescope. “Git off yore hoss and come inside.”

“No, I’ll jist set on top of the fence with you, and we can watch it much better.”

I hears Muley groan as we climbs the fence, and I sort uh feels fer him. It’s about ninety-nine in the shade right now, and that blanket shore is odoriferous. We perches on the rail like three buzzards watchin’ fer uh sick calf to quit this vale uh tears, and makes remarks about the sufferin’ bunch uh humanity under the blanket.

“How long will it be before he is cured?” she asks.

“Well,” opines Telescope, “he’s been under there fer an hour now, and only one tick has drifted away. As uh usual thing they has six ticks, so, unless the other five decides to stampede in uh flock, we’re due to sit here fer several hours yet.”

“I don’t mind,” sez she, sweet-like. “I haven’t uh thing else to do. Isn’t his skin awful light for an Indian? I’ll bet he’ll be badly sunburned where the sun is strikin’ that large bare spot, and if I was in yore place I’d——”

“Snap! Smash!”

That’s all that ever saved Muley. That top rail wa’n’t any too strong anyway, and with three of us in the center it couldn’t stand the pressure when Telescope begins to bounce up and down with glee. I lights inside the corral in the dust, and I sees uh whirl uh skirts and boots, where Telescope and the school-ma’am tangles up on the other side.

I glances the other way and I sees somethin’ that Nature claims to be impossible. Muley weighs about two hundred and forty, and the fence is eight feet high, but by the horns on the moon, he never scratched it goin’ over. He jist sailed like uh bird, and the saddle-blanket which had draped his shoulders was still in the air over the spot where he had sat when he hit the ground on the other side. There was jist uh rippin’ sound in the atmosphere, two grunts, uh slam, and Muley’s inside the bunk-house with the door locked.

That fe-male shore is game. She wipes the dust out of her eyes, and laughs hearty-like, and me and Telescope joins her with great cheer. She climbs the fence ag’in and gazes at the spot where Muley had been.

“Well!” sez she, sort uh surprised-like. “Our patient has gone!”

“Yes’m,” I agree. “They don’t stay long after the ticks leave ’em, and ticks can’t stand excitement. When that rail broke I saw them five ticks lope off across the corral, and I reckon by this time they’re half-way to the reservation lookin’ fer another healthy buck to inhabit.”

“I’m sorry it happened,” she states, as she crawls on to her bronc ag’in. “I would like to have seen that Indian. Was he an Albino?”

“No, ma’am,” sez Telescope. “He was uh Piegan. The Albinos all live in Arizona.”

After she’s gone, me and Telescope sets there fer quite uh spell and don’t have much to say. Pretty soon Telescope sighs deep and rolls uh cigaret. I sighs some, too, and borrows the makin’s.

“Where do we sleep tonight, Hen?” he asks. “Bein’ as our guns is both in the bunk-house we’re helpless-like.”

“Sleep in the barn, I reckon. I ain’t goin’ into that bunk-house until Muley leaves, that’s uh cinch. I’ll bet that hombre would admire to waller in our gore.

“Wife run away with uh Piegan! Haw! Haw! Haw! I’ll bet that Muley won’t git that saddle-blanket smell out of his hair fer uh week. He may still make rhymes, Hennery, but he shore won’t smell like uh reg’lar poet. Here comes Doughgod Smith. Wonder what the ol’ pelican wants up here.”

Doughgod rides up, and we exchanges salutations.

“Where’s Muley?” asks Doughgod.

“Over in th’ bunk-house,” sez Telescope.

“Reckon I’ll go over and see him,” he opines, slidin’ off his bronc. “I got somethin’ fer him, and I rides all the way up here to give it to him.”

“Go right on over, Doughgod,” sez Telescope, pleasant-like. “I feels that Muley is in uh receptive mood right now.”

Doughgod grins, and ambles right over to the bunk-house door. He don’t rap. He opens the door, gits half-way in and then comes right out on his neck. The door slams behind him, and he sets there on the ground and paws away at his face like uh cub-bear at uh bee-tree. Pretty soon he gits up, walks into the corner of the cabin and falls down ag’in. We hears him cussin’ some fluently as he gits up, and this time he heads our way. He has his hands over his eyes but he hits the corral gate dead center, butts right into the snubbin’ post, and falls down ag’in.

“That’s good so far as she goes, Doughgod,” applauds Telescope. “But it ain’t nothin’ out of the ordinary. Now, if yuh had blindfolded yoreself, hit the gate dead center and then jumped the post, that would have been some stunt.”

“My Gawd!” wails Doughgod. “What fer kind of uh way is this to treat uh guest? Bust uh hoss-liniment bottle on his head! My Gawd!”

He sets up and wipes the tears out of his eyes with both hands.

“What did yuh say to him?” asks Telescope. “Muley don’t do things like that as uh general thing.”

“I didn’t say nothin’ to make him act thataway,” wails Doughgod. “He was lookin’ at his watch, and I said, ‘Don’t she tick!’ That’s all I said to him, honest.”

“If uh man done that to me I’d shore smoke him up,” orates Telescope.

“I ain’t got no gun, though,” complains Doughgod. “Never have uh gun when I needs one. Loan me yores, will yuh, Telescope, and I’ll immediately and soon find out why I’m assaulted.”

“You can have mine,” sez I. “I never throws uh friend down when he’s in need. Yore welcome to it, Doughgod. She’s hangin’ over my bunk, beside Telescope’s.”

Doughgod gits the tears dried up long enough to git on his bronc. He shore looked funny, puffin’ away at his pipe, with the tears runnin’ down his cheeks, and the purple place over his right eye, where the bottle had lingered.

“Gentlemen,” sez he, solemn-like, “there is times when the American language ain’t noways sufficient nor competent to elucidate the extent of uh feller’s feelin’s. Jist to attempt to say what I think of the Cross-J and its hired help would be like offerin’ salt to uh thirsty man. I thought I knowed uh lot uh flossy cuss words, but they pales into insignificance when I consults my immortal soul. Adios.”

He swings his bronc around, and the last we sees uh him he’s still reachin’ up reg’lar like to wipe away the tears.

We don’t invade the bunk-house, so we don’t see Muley until supper-time. He looks us over some close but don’t say uh word. In fact there is uh great lack uh conversation at the table, the same uh which is noticed by ol’ man Miller, our boss. We’re used to uh bright flow uh personalities durin’ our mastication time, and this here stillness gits on th’ ol’ man’s nerves.

“Well,” sez he, shovin’ his chair back, and reachin’ fer his hat, “I don’t know jist what’s the matter with you Jaspers, but as uh general treatment I’d suggest sheep dip.”

Th’ ol’ man leaves the shack, and Muley sets there and stares at the floor. He’s uh heap like Doughgod was—too mad to express it in words.

“I resents that implication!” orates Telescope. “No danged man—not even the boss—can imply that I’ve got ticks. How about you, Hen?”

“Not uh tick!” sez I, emphatic like.

Muley rolls uh cigaret, sort uh absent-minded like, takes out uh match, lights his smoke and throws it away. He puts the match in his mouth, and because it won’t puff he tries to scratch his tobacco sack on his pants.

“Never try to scratch tobacco, Muley,” sez Telescope. “Allus use uh cigaret paper to light yore match with.”

Muley spits the match out and beats it fer the bunk-house. Me and Telescope joins him in uh few minutes.

“My gosh!” sniffs Telescope. “Who spilled the liniment?”

Muley looks us over fer uh minute and then busts out laughin’.

“Which one uh you Jaspers did I hit?” he asks.

“You did not,” sez I. “You hit Doughgod Smith.”

“I—I hit who?” gasps Muley.

“Doughgod Smith,” I repeats. “Hit him right square in the face, and he wept tears all the way to Paradise.”

“Well!” sez Muley, “after thinkin’ it over. He’s uh honest man.”

“Meanin’ which?” I asks.

“He came up to pay me the forty dollars I loaned him in uh poker game the other night.”

“No use weepin’ over spilled liniment,” sez I. “Mebby he’ll pay yuh the next time he sees yuh, Muley.”

“Not if I see him first. I shore don’t want to look like uh porous plaster when I goes to see the lady. I don’t reckon she knowed it was me under that blanket; do yuh?”

“No,” sez Telescope. “You jist keep yore shirt on, Muley, and she won’t never know it was you.”

I don’t reckon he ever heard me tell her that Muley’s wife had run away with uh Piegan. Anyway, he saddles up and fogs off toward Paradise.

The next mornin’ Muley comes back to us with uh sad look in his eye. He don’t eat much breakfast, and jist moons around.

“Didn’t yuh enjoy the evenin’?” I asks.

“Uh-huh,” sez Muley, queer-like. “Shore I did. Jist because I don’t throw my hat in the air and yell yuh don’t think I had uh good time. Uh natcheral poet ain’t boisterous-like, Hen. His abilities sort uh calm him down. Sabe?”

Uh li’l later on I finds Muley alone on the shady side of the cabin. He’s settin’ there on uh box, gazin’ off into space.

“Hen,” sez he, “I ain’t so danged awful bad, but I’m too bad at that.”

“What yuh figgerin’ on doin’, Muley—gittin’ bit by uh snake?”

He don’t answer fer uh while. I reckon my reply went right over his head, cause he jist sighs and opines thusly:

“Hen, uh feller like me ain’t noways fit fer uh gal like that. I’ve examined all my past life and I finds that it don’t assay uh trace uh good. She’s too danged good fer me.”

“Well,” sez I, consolin’-like, “you don’t need to worry about it. You ain’t got her, have yuh?”

He shakes his head and digs holes in the dirt with his heels.

“No, Hen, and I don’t expect to. She’s out uh my class. Now, take you and Telescope for instance. He’s from uh good ol’ fambly, and he’s got uh lot of ability. Outside of his face and feet he ain’t uh hard person to look at. And, Hen, that hombre shore can entertain uh person with his voice. Why, when he sings ‘Jist Break the News to Mother,’ I can feel myself layin’ out there on uh battle-field all shot to ——. That’s art, Hennery.

“Now, take yoreself, Hen. You must be from uh good fambly, too. Yore ol’ mother must uh been uh mighty gentle woman to take the trouble to raise uh boy like you. You can play the banjo some plentiful, and uh woman likes uh musical man.

“I leave it to you, Hen, if it ain’t the right thing fer me to do. I’m goin’ to step aside and let you and Telescope fight it out, and may the best man win. I’m sort of uh black sheep, and while I loves her like uh bear loves honey, I know I ain’t fit to play the rôle. I got uh quart uh hooch inside the bunk-house, Hen. Let’s go in and drink uh toast to you and Telescope.”

We did just that li’l thing. We has enough toasts to make uh square meal, and pretty soon Muley gits tearful ag’in.

“Don’t tell ol’ Telescope what I aims to do, Hen,” he pleads. “To have some one applaud my actions makes it hard to bear. We’ll jist let on that I’m still in the race.”

“Muley,” sez I, “I’m uh heap proud to know uh man like you what knows all about himself and tells it without reservation. Outside of poetin’ you shore don’t amount to much. No gal would be happy with you. I agrees that it’s the reasonable thing fer you to do.”

“Hen,” sez he, “don’t git too danged personal in yore remarks. How do you know that no gal would be happy with me? Outside uh poetin’—why, you gol dinged, hoss-faced maverick, what did you ever do beside bein’ seventeen kinds of uh fool simultaneously, and playin’ uh banjo uh li’l?”

“Nothin’, Muley,” I agrees. “Not uh danged thing. You and me is two misfits. We’ve both busted all the Commandments from the middle both ways. Neither of us is fit to cinch her saddle. Telescope is the only virtuous man in the set. There’s uh hy-iu man, Muley. Dog-gone, there shore is one he-man. Good fambly, wise as uh barn-owl, and he shore does save his money.”

“That last is too true,” wails Muley. “He shore can save. He borrowed uh ten spot from me six months ago, and he thinks so much of it that he won’t give it back.”

“I got uh good idea,” sez I, depletin’ that bottle about the full of uh mewl’s ear. “Me and you’ll job ol’ Telescope. We has hereby agreed that we ain’t fit, so we’ll smooth the trail for Telescope. We’ll take our reg’lar turns goin’ down to see her, but we won’t see her. Sabe? Natcherally, without no opposition he wins out. Our ol’ pal is happy, and the fe-male gits uh prize. We’ll go down and play poker all night instead of courtin’ her, and everybody’ll be happy.”

“That’s uh good hunch, Henry, but it takes money to play poker. That bunch down there has simply got my goat. If Telescope’d pay me that ten, and I could git Doughgod to leave that forty where I could pick it up, I’d have uh stake.”

“Aw, make Telescope uh present uh that ten,” I advises. “Yuh got to figger that courtin’ costs money, Muley. You know danged well that if he paid yuh back that money he’d have to borrow it ag’in. Why don’t yuh go right down and ask Doughgod fer that money?”

“Not me, Hen! Not li’l Lemuel Allender Bowles. He was buyin’ some .45 ca’tridges the other day, and he informed Nick Parsons that he was jist honin’ to meet me. Said he wanted to hand me somethin’.”

On Friday night Telescope dolls up like uh plush hoss. He wears one uh my blue silk shirts and Muley’s new hat. The next day he’s uh heap vivacious. He gits me off to one side and informs me that he’s had uh hy-iu time.

“It’s shore goin’ to be uh hard row fer me to hoe,” he states. “Miss Adamson shore does cotton to you and Muley uh heap. Muley’s poetry made uh hit with her, and she sez that banjo music hits her right where she lives, when it’s played by uh master hand. I’m afraid that you fellers have got the jump on li’l Telescope Tolliver, by gad suh!”

“Be uh good cheer,” I advises. “Faint heart never won on two small pair.”

“Takes money,” he complains. “Uh feller what is short on money like I am ain’t got no chance with uh fe-male’s heart. If I had twenty I’d feel uh heap safer.”

I don’t offer it to him, but I talks with Muley later on.

“My cripes!” sez Muley. “What do yuh think I’m goin’ to do—finance uh weddin’?”

“Friendship is uh great asset,” I orates. “Telescope is our pal, and I reckon he’d do as much fer us. You must remember he’s the Jasper what wrote most uh that poetry what kept you out of the pen.”

“I got ten what ain’t workin’,” sez he. “I ain’t no piker, Hen.”

I hands Telescope twenty and he’s thankful.

On Monday night I goes down, plays poker all night, and comes home and lies to Telescope. On Wednesday night Muley does the same thing. He tells Telescope that the fe-male spoke well uh him, and he’s pleased. On Saturday Telescope asks me fer enough to buy some tobacco. Th’ ol’ man is goin’ down-town after supplies.

“Where’s the twenty?” I asks him. “Spend it all last night?”

“Gals shore come high, Hen,” he sighs.

I loans him two-bits this time. The next day, bein’ Sunday, me and Muley takes the wagon and goes to town after uh stove the ol’ man bought, and natcherally we horns into uh game uh draw in Dug’s place. Muley has jist stood pat in uh good pot when Doughgod Smith comes in the door. Him and Muley sees each other at the same time.

“I’ve shore had uh hard time gittin’ to see you, Muley,” sez Doughgod, and reaches fer his hip.

Muley shore is some speedy on the draw, and jist as Doughgod’s hand moves forward, he fans two .45 slugs across the table at Doughgod, and busts the hinges off the back door gittin’ away.

As soon as the smoke clears away I sees that Doughgod is still on his feet. He’s starin’ at his right hand some industrious-like. He opens his mouth several times before he sez uh word, and when he does it’s some profane.

“——!” sez he. “Wouldn’t that break yore heart?”

He holds up his right hand and lets some scraps uh paper drift to the floor.

“I asks you all to take notice,” he orates. “I hereby states that I’m goin’ to pay him that forty dollars or die. First time I tries to pay him he assaults me with uh bottle uh hoss liniment, and this time he shoots three tens and two fives into ribbons. My Gawd! There ain’t no sense in destroyin’ good coin of the realm thataway when there’s lots uh better targets to practise on.”

“Don’t be stingy, Doughgod,” sez I. “If I ever had as much money as you got I’d shore rather have folks shoot at my roll than at me.”

Muley ain’t no place in sight when I goes over to the wagon, so I fans that team out of town and ambles back toward the Cross-J. About two miles out uh town Muley steps out from behind uh mesquite. He’s got uh gun in his hand and sorrow in his eyes.

“Did he die?” he asks, sort uh careless-like, as though uh killin’ was uh daily occurrence with him.

“Muley,” sez I, “you can’t expect nothin’ else when yuh shoots uh man at close range with uh .45. All pore Doughgod was tryin’ to do was to git that forty out of his hip pocket and pay his debts.”

“My Gawd!” wails Muley, leanin’ ag’in the wheel, and moppin’ the perspiration from his brow. “The Jasper what said that honesty is the best policy was loco. Hereafter I don’t loan money to no blamed man unless he’s dishonest. It’s dangerous! Where’s the posse, Hen?”

“Organizin’. I figgered that they’d overtake me before I got this far. You better hop right into the wagon here with me, Muley.”

“That’ll do uh lot uh good!” he wails. “Do yuh think fer uh minute that you can outrun uh posse with uh dead-ex wagon?”

“Muley,” sez I, pityin’ like, “no wonder yore uh fugitive from justice. You ain’t got no ideas a-tall. See them ol’ sacks in the bottom of the wagon? There’s yore getaway. I’ll pull one over yore head and one over yore feet and pile the rest on top. Then I’ll roll yuh under the seat. If they asks me I’ll say it’s some spuds I’m takin’ home.”

Muley’s willin’ to take uh chance on anythin’, so I fixes him up. As I rolls him under the seat I hears uh muffled voice opine:

“Hen, yore awful good to me. Do the same fer you some time.”

“Don’t mention it, Muley,” sez I. “I know yuh would.”

I drives along fer uh spell, and Muley rides comfortable. Then I gits uh happy thought.

“Muley!” I yells. “The posse’s in sight, and I got to leave the road. Hang on!”

“Ooof glubb mmff!” I hears emanatin’ from the roll, so I opines that he’s thankin’ me some more.

I swings the team off the road and over some of the worst goin’ yuh ever saw. Part of the time I’m on the seat and part of the time in the air. You can imagine what it was like to the man on the bottom of the wagon—uh wagon without no springs. When I unrolls Muley down back of the barn he’s shore uh sight. Take uh man what tilts the scales at two hundred and forty, wrap him up in uh lot uh dirty gunnysacks, bounce him in the bottom of uh lumber wagon fer eight miles and then unroll him, and you’ve got uh pitcher uh Muley Bowles.

“Did we—huh—dodge ’em?” he wheezes, tryin’ to rub the kinks out of his legs, and peek around the corner at the same time.

“So far,” I replies. “You shore got to give me uh lot uh credit, Muley. I shore have done uh lot fer you on this day uh the month.”

“I know it, Hen. I appreciates it uh heap. Where do I go now?”

“Under the bunk-house fer you, Muley,” I replies.

When the ranch-house was built fer the Cross-J, the ol’ man opines to build uh root-house. He gits it dug about three feet deep and he runs into solid rock. Not havin’ any blastin’ powder he abandons that place and digs in another. In order to cover up the hole with the least labor he builds the bunk-house over it.

“Close quarters,” complains Muley. “Dog-gone, uh feller ain’t got room to breathe in there, Hen.”

“Easier’n breathin’ with uh rope around yore neck,” I orates, and Muley agrees. “You got to crawl all the way on yore stummick, though,” sez I. “Yuh shore got to keep low, cause fer all we knows the posse may be up talkin’ to the ol’ man.”

He did jist that li’l thing—crawl. I hauls him in the back window, pushes him under the floor and nails him down. I manages to smuggle some grub and uh canteen full uh water from the cook-shack, and eases it under to him.

“The posse’s hot on yore trail, ol’-timer,” sez I, consolin’-like. “You better lay plumb still fer uh spell.”

“Cripes!” sez he. “How soon do yuh reckon I can git away, Hen?”

“I don’t know much about law, Muley, but I do know that some debts is outlawed in seven years. Mebby it takes longer to cover uh killin’.”

That evenin’ me and Telescope plays seven-up in the bunk-house. Telescope feels uh heap bad, out loud, about Muley.

“Pore ol’ Muley,” he mourns in uh high key. “Play yore jack on that ace, Hen Peck. Do yuh reckon they’ll hang him? They say that Sheriff McFee allus gits his man, so there ain’t much use uh Muley tryin’ to git away. I got high, low and the game. That puts me out. Wonder where pore ol’ Muley is tonight, Hen. This will shore break the set. Did yuh ever see uh man hung?”

“Uh-huh,” sez I. “They shore kicks hard. What are we goin’ to do about the courtin’ agreement? This kind uh busts it up, don’t it?”

“Shore does,” agrees Telescope. “If I had some money I’d go down to see her tonight.”

“I ain’t got none,” I states. “But I got uh good idea, Telescope. Muley thought uh heap uh you, and he allus said that you could have anything he had. I seen Muley put some money in his war-sack yesterday, and I know if he was here he’d let yuh have it in uh minute. Money ain’t goin’ to do him no good no more, so yuh might as well take it. Here it is, Telescope—thirty-five simoleons.” I talks in uh loud tone all the time, and oncet I hears the floor squeak.

“I hates to take it,” sez Telescope, puttin’ it in his pocket. “But it’s jist as you say, Hen—where Muley’s goin’ they don’t use gold, except to pave the streets. I wonder if I hadn’t better sell Muley’s saddle? I hears Pete Pickett offer Muley fifty dollars fer it uh few days ago. Pete can’t git uh tree big enough, and that one jist fits.”

“Sell it,” I advises. “It would jist dry up and spoil hangin’ up here, cause it’s too blamed big fer uh ordinary man.”

Telescope saddles up and pulls out, and Muley tries to bust through the floor.

“Lay still, yuh animated lard can!” I yells. “Ain’t yuh got no sense a-tall, Muley? The sheriff’s up at the house.”

“Don’t let Telescope sell that saddle!” comes in muffled tones through uh knothole. “I can’t never make my getaway in uh small saddle.”

“You shut up, Muley!” I advises. “I’m goin’ up and see how much the sheriff knows.”

I goes up and plays pitch with the ol’ man until midnight.

“Where’s the rest uh the Three Disgraces?” he asks.

“Gone to town.”

“Well, you might as well stay with me, Hen. No use uh both of us bein’ lonesome.”

The next mornin’ I slips Muley uh li’l breakfast, and he shore is one peevish person.

“Yore uh —— of uh friend!” sez he. “I been keepin’ awake all night to hear what the sheriff has to say. Dog-gone yuh, Hen, did yuh ever stop to think that I’m layin’ here on my back in the dust? Every time I moves I chokes to death to keep from sneezin’.”

“Muley,” sez I, “If yore goin’ to be uh outlaw yuh shore got to put up with uh li’l discomfort. I’m lookin’ fer the posse to show up any ol’ time. The sheriff was here all night and I shore had uh hard time to keep him away from here.”

“This is the last day, Hen,” he pronounces. “I’d jist as soon hang as to be buried alive thisaway. Also you got uh lot uh nerve to tell ol’ Telescope that he could sell that saddle. Some sweet day I’m——”

“Duck!” I yips in his fat face, as I hears voices outside.

Muley ducks into the dirt and I shoves the nails down with my heels, sets uh chair careless-like over the board, and then occupies the bunk.

Some horses ambles up to the door and in comes two people. In the lead is Sheriff McFee and behind him comes Doughgod Smith.

“Howdy, Hen,” sez McFee, settin’ down on the other bunk.

Doughgod nods and sets down on the chair.

“How’s every li’l thing at the Cross-J?” asks the sheriff, and I informs him that everything is fine as frog-hair.

“I’m lookin’ fer Muley Bowles,” sez McFee.

I hears the bunk-house settle about six inches, and jist then Telescope comes in.

“Hello, Sheriff,” greets Telescope, with uh wide grin. “What’s the good word?”

“So, so, Telescope. Where’s Muley?”

“What do yuh want Muley fer?” I asks.

McFee looks at Doughgod, and busts out laughin’.

“Haw! Haw! Haw! By cripes! This is the dangdest affair I ever went out on. I feel shore that this is the first time that uh man had to take uh sheriff along when he went to pay his debts. Doughgod opines that he’s as honest as the day is long, and that he’s goin’ to pay his honest debts if he has to hire uh posse to back him. Am I right in my statements, Doughgod?”

“To uh gnat’s eyelash, Sheriff,” agrees Doughgod. “Bein’ as I aims to take unto myself uh mate in wedlock next Wednesday night I wants to start even with all men. I owe Muley this forty bucks and I want to pay it to him. Sabe? I shore wants uh receipt, too.”

“Who in —— are you goin’ to marry?” I asks, surprised-like.

“The new school-ma’am,” sez Doughgod, “and yuh could fry aigs on his ears. Now about that forty dollars——”

Right under Doughgod the floor seems to rise right up with uh splinterin’ crash, and Doughgod sprawls on his face on the floor. Comes uh rippin’, tearin’ noise, and from the splintered floor emerges Muley. His shirt is tore off, and he’s got uh scratch down his face, the same uh which is paintin’ him like uh buck Piegan at uh ceremonial wau-wau.

He wabbles there fer uh moment, lookin’ us over in uh dazed sort of uh way. Then he reaches over, picks up the astonished Doughgod and kisses him tenderly on the forehead.

“There’s yore receipt, Doughgod,” sez he. “Keep the forty fer uh weddin’ present. It’s worth it to see yuh win over Telescope Tolliver.”

“Win over—me!” whoops Telescope. “Over you, yuh mean—you or Hen.”

“Yore crazy!” yelps Muley. “Me and Hen never went near her! We played poker every night jist to give you uh free field.”

“Did yuh win?” asks Telescope.

“We did not,” I replies, sadly.

“Neither did I,” sez Telescope.

We all sets there and looks foolish at each other fer uh spell, and then Telescope snorts—

“Honest to——”

“Doughgod!” sez Muley.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the First October Issue, 1917 of Adventure magazine.

About This Book

This work is believed to be in the public domain in the United States. Copyright status in other countries may vary; readers outside the US should verify the status in their own jurisdiction.

Originally published by The Ridgway Company in Adventure Magazine, First October Issue, 1917

Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net).