# MAGPIE—DIPLOMAT

By W. C. Tuttle
Author of “A Bull Movement in Yellow Horse,” “Fifty-Fifty with Bonnie,” etc.

Th’ two jackasses which were in front stopped, and then me and Magpie Simpkins, which were behind, stopped also and there we sees ’em settin’ along th’ road on uh pile uh boulders.

There’s three of ’em. Th’ near one will stand about six feet six in his boots, and has uh face that any Roman-nosed hoss might envy. Th’ next one is sorta built like uh bureau, and wears uh tobacco-stained mattress on th’ lower level of his face.

Th’ far one is uh runt. I’d opine that he’d occupy about five feet of th’ atmosphere straight up; and yuh could split rails with his features. Th’ redeemin’ part of th’ runt is his feet. If he ain’t wearin’ eight pairs uh wool socks inside them boots, he’s got uh foundation like uh church.

“Holy mackerel!” sez Magpie. “If I was in Alaska I’d remark that some amatoor had tried to make three totem poles, but in this neck of th’ timber I’d say—gosh, Ike, them’s uh sad trio.”

“Whither?” asks th’ human chalk-line, without changin’ uh feature.

“Yon,” sez Magpie, pointin’ east. “We’re on uh pilgrimage to uh new settlement called Pinto. Know ye of it?”

“Do we?” asks th’ slender one of th’ other two.

Th’ two of ’em spits in th’ dust and nods—

“We does.”

“Anythin’ doin’ over there?” I asks.

They looks at each other agin and announces in chorus—

“There is.”

“Don’t tell us about it, cause th’ surprise will do us good,” sez Magpie.

Th’ tall one uncoils hisself from th’ boulder and hauls out uh knife and uh plug of tobacco. He slices off uh quarter section of township eight, pokes it into his mouth, wipes th’ knife on his lips and sighs deep-like.

“Strangers,” sez he, “th’ keys of Pinto are yours. As th’ mayor of said city I’m overjoyed to welcome yuh in, but I ain’t aimin’ to conduct no sight-seein’ tour, sabe? Yuh got to see things all by yore lonesome.

“I’m Jefferson J. Jenkins, called ‘Tex’ by my friends, mayor of Pinto. This here party on my right, with th’ Rip Van Winkle stubble on his chops, is Cold Deck Briggs, my chief of police, and this here miniature of uh sardine, which grows to man’s estate only in th’ feet, is Peevee Jack Skinner, treasurer.”

“I’m Magpie Simpkins and this is Ike Harper,” sez Magpie, bowin’ low. “Th’ names of them other two jackasses is Arabella and Phebe, and we’re glad to meet yuh. You talks as though th’ city had become boresome.”

“Has it?” asks Jefferson J., known as ‘Tex.’

“It has,” agrees th’ other two, and Tex backs their play.

“I hopes that you’ll kindly ignore any and all inquiries as to our whereabouts, in case yore asked,” sez Tex. “You fellers don’t look like what I’d call harbingers uh joy yoreselves, and if it would cheer yuh up any I can elucidate uh tale uh woe what’s uh humdinger.”

“We’re receptive to confidences,” sez Magpie. “Shoot!”

We eases ourselves onto th’ pile uh boulders, and rolls uh smoke. Tex cuts uh school section out of that plug, rolls it around in his face, and narrates thus:

“I’m married; Cold Deck’s married and Peevee’s married. That’s th’ —— of it! Gents, yuh can hardly believe that our wives are jealous of us, can yuh?”

Magpie looks ’em over careful-like and shakes his head.

“I oncet knowed uh white woman which fell in love with uh sheep-herder. Bein’ uh great lover and disciple of th’ truth, I’d shore appreciate it if you’d keep out uh fiction. Go ahead.”

“It’s uh fact, ain’t it boys?” asks Tex.

Th’ other two nods sadlike, and Tex continues:

“Th’ three of us, beside bein’ th’ reignin’ officers uh said town, are elected trustees of th’ school. Eddication was our finish. I suppose that kids have to have schoolin’ if they expects to be anybody—I didn’t have none, and I’m uh mayor. Well, so long as we don’t have no school everythin’ is fine.

“When th’ schoolhouse is built, we finds that we has to have uh teacher. Th’ three of us confers, and disagrees, as usual. In fact th’ disagreement gits so disagreeable that somebody has to bust th’ lock on th’ door and come in and pry us apart. Bein’ uh wise ol’ coot, I figgers that I’m th’ one to go ahead and bust this deadlock. I don’t seem to have no luck at all. Pinto don’t seem to appeal to teachers none. I racks my ol’ brain fer uh while, and then Jimmy McFee, our shaver, hair-cutter and tonsorial artist give me uh tip. It looks good.

“Jimmy shows me uh paper in which females states their desires to bust into matrimony. There’s all kinds. Jimmy and me peruses said paper until we locates one which brands herself Miss Ivy Clemons. She alleges herself to be uncommon bright, havin’ uh college eddication.

“That,” sez Jimmy, “is whom yuh wants. All she wants is yore pitcher and uh few lyin’ words to match hers. Sabe? She comes uh whoopin’, and when she finds out that yore married she’ll be pleased to teach school.”

“Uh-huh,” I agrees. “But I’ve got uh idea what beats that four ways from th’ jack. Why send my pitcher, eh? Why not send uh pitcher of somebody else, Jimmy?”

Tex stopped and reached fer his plug, and Cold Deck opines:

“That shore was one hy-iu idea. Yuh see, gents, me and Tex and Peevee gits our pitchers took down to Great Falls this Spring, and we exchanges.”

“Anyway,” sez Peevee, “Tex oughta give me credit fer pickin’ uh good looker fer him. Me and Jimmy ponders uh heap before we decides on her.”

“Well,” sez Cold Deck, “th’ one what Tex sends my pitcher to wasn’t much fer looks, but as uh hellwinder of uh talker I re-spects Tex’s selection uh heap.”

“I’d take it,” sez Magpie wisely, “that you fellers, with th’ able assistance of th’ village whisker eradicator, double-crosses each other and gits in bad at home.”

“Mister Simpkins, I wishes to shake yore hand,” states Tex. “When I’m ol’ and feeble I can tell my gran’children that oncet upon uh time I held th’ paw of uh wise man. Shake.”

“Clearest perception I ever seen,” opines Cold Deck. “Don’t he ketch on to things quick, Peevee?”

Peevee nods slowly, and goes on starin’ at th’ ground.

“Ain’t yore wives got no use fer yuh at all?” I asks.

Th’ three of ’em shakes their heads slowly, and Tex drawls:

“No-o-o, I can’t say that they has. Cold Deck’s wife has uh hoss-pistol, Peevee’s has got his .45, and mine’s got my ol’ sawed-off shotgun. That’s all they got for us—that we knows of.”

“And she’s got that ol’ pistol loaded with chiny marbles, too!” wails Cold Deck. “I sees her put in four when I went home to explain. My goshafry! Four eight-gage chiny marbles inside yore hide would make yuh scratch some.”

“Uh .45 raises somethin’ beside uh rash,” opines Peevee.

“And twelve buckshot to uh shell don’t resemble uh mosquito bite,” opines Tex. “That ol’ riot gun is awful easy on th’ trigger, too. Sometimes when yuh shoots one bar’el th’ other goes off in sympathy with it. Sabe?”

“How’d yore wives git wise to them females?” asks Magpie.

“Git wise!” wails Cold Deck. “My gosh! Them three he-hunters happens to land in Pinto on th’ same day. Th’ one what is wished on me inquires as to my whereabouts, and ambles to my happy home. My wife comes to th’ door, and this female asks if this is th’ domicile of one, Mister Briggs. My wife opines that it is, and, bein’ uh woman, she asks this person what she wants of Mister Briggs. This she-person hauls out that letter and my pitcher and opines that she’s come all th’ way from some danged place in th’ East to make Mister Briggs uh good wife. My Gawd!”

“I suppose th’ same thing happens at th’ other homes,” sez Magpie.

Tex nods, and Peevee inhales deep on his cigaret.

“Only at my bungaloo it was uh li’l different,” states Peevee. “I was to home.” He looks sadlike at his big feet, and hitches up his belt. “I ain’t what you’d call uh fast person on th’ hoof, and my wife overhauls me easy. She shore is one deadly person, and I distinctly remembers oncet that I promises to love, honor and obey her. Them first two promises was superfluous in my case.”

“Mebby yuh could fix things up if yuh went about it in th’ right way,” I suggests; but Cold Deck looks at me sadlike and states:

“Mister, yore heart is in th’ right place, but when it comes to wimmen yore heart don’t count. It takes brains and muscle. Yore not married, I takes it.”

“Yore welcome,” I replies. “Life is too full uh worries fer me to locate uh mate.”

“That’s what I figgered, too,” sez Tex. “Before I meets Anastasia I feels that I’m packin’ uh load uh worries and woe, but I immediately and soon finds that I was jist packin’ an empty saddle. Uh pack hoss, when he opines that he’s packin’ more than his share, can balk or amble between two trees and pull th’ danged load off, but by th’ whisperin’ wolves, there ain’t no two trees growin’ close enough together to ever scrape th’ load off my back. Also, if you’ve never been married, jist take it from me and don’t balk after yuh do.”

“Where do you fellers hail from?” asks Cold Deck.

“Piperock,” sez Magpie.

“Know three hombres named Slim Hawkins, Andy Johnson and Weinie Lopp?”

“Shore we do—know ’em up, down and sideways. Why?”

“They’re down there,” states Cold Deck mournful-like, pointin’ down th’ road. “Th’ one what calls hisself Andy Johnson assaults me yesterday and pins my star on uh tame coyote pup. Also he ties uh can to th’ animile. I’m agin’ that hombre—me.”

“Also I ain’t makin’ no love-medicine to th’ one named Slim,” orates Peevee Jack. “He sets into my li’l game uh draw yesterday. Bein’ lit up to uh certain extent he has more luck than observation—I thought. Figgerin’ that it’s about time fer him to hit th’ earth, I signals th’ bartender and he slips me uh cold deck. I don’t know how it’s done, but when th’ showdown comes I’m trailin’ his four aces with four kings, and th’ treasury of Pinto is gone.”

“And Weinie,” sez Magpie. “What’s he done?”

“Nothin’,” sez Tex. “He’s plumb tame compared with th’ other two. All he’s done in th’ last few days is to sell th’ Palace saloon to three different persons.

“So Weinie owned uh saloon at last,” sez I. “Well, well!”

“He never owned nothin’ in th’ saloon line except uh thirst!” snorts Tex. “I said he sold one. Sabe?”

Magpie scratches his head and pulls out uh li’l red note-book and uh pencil.

“I begins to see uh light,” he states. “Give me th’ names uh them three female man-hunters.”

“Miss Ivy Clemons, Miss Estelle Waterbury and—Peevee, what was th’ name of th’ queen you discards?”

“Clementine Margareet Elvington.”

Magpie writes th’ names down, puts th’ book in his pocket, and stands up.

“Well, Ike,” sez he, yawnin’, “I reckon we better be moseyin’ on. What do you fellers aim to do—set here all yore lives?”

“I gotta do my assessment work on th’ Merry Ellen before New Year’s,” states Peevee, spittin’ at uh rock lizard and hittin’ his boot.

“Well,” sez I, “this is th’ last of August, so yuh better git uh move on yoreself, old-timer. Any he-person who ain’t man enough to boss his own house will shore need about four months to do uh hundred dollars’ worth uh work on uh prospect.”

“Them’s my ideas to uh gnat’s eyebrow,” he states. “Uh man oughta be uh man among men. Am I right, Tex?”

“When his wife’s got uh gun?”

“Gosh!” sez Peevee. “I done forgot that li’l detail. Anyway, Tex, we can’t stand out here and starve. Let’s go in and trust to luck.”

Tex gits up, takes uh fresh bite off th’ plug, and hitches up his belt.

“All right,” sez he. “Uh riot gun makes uh messy-lookin’ corpse, but I’d jist as soon be dead as lonesome. Come on, Cold Deck.”

“Four li’l chiny marbles,” mumbles Cold Deck, countin’ on his fingers. “My gosh-afry! Uh feller wouldn’t have stren’th enough left to pull off his boots. Them marbles are about ten-gage, and they won’t all hit together.”

We strings off up th’ road towards Pinto, and Ike Harper is behind th’ procession. It’s uh trait of th’ Harper tribe to allus guard th’ rear.

Pinto was uh city which sprung from nothin’ and she showed it in every line. By actual count there was twelve houses on th’ main street, which they calls Sycamore Avenue after uh lone, impoverished mesquite which they leaves in th’ public square. Of th’ twelve aforementioned houses on Sycamore Avenue, two are business houses and th’ rest are saloons and dance-halls.

Pinto was uh necessity—like arsenic, strychnine and sawed-off shotguns. One day uh pore ol’ whisker-packin’ prospector knocks uh piece uh rock off uh ledge and opines that he’s got th’ world by th’ tail and uh downhill drag.

Like all of his kind he swears to hisself that he won’t tell uh single soul of his find. He don’t. He gits to town, fills his skin with laughin’ water and opines that he’s got uh message for th’ world. He climbs on th’ bar and tells about uh hundred willin’ listeners where there’s uh ledge uh free millin’ that will run about five hundred to th’ ton. Therefore Pinto. Th’ original discovery, Th’ Weddin’ Ring, is th’ only rich property, and after th’ first rush th’ town gits back to th’ level of uh one-mine town and drifts on.

We pilgrims to th’ outskirts and stops fer uh conference.

“Gents,” sez Magpie, “I got a idea. Do yuh sabe deplomacy?”

“Metal, disease or uh human bein’?” asks Tex.

“Neither,” sez Magpie. “It’s uh state of affairs. Suppose you fellers hive up some place while me and Ike converses with yore wives. Sympathy is shore uh strike buster fer jealousy, and we’ll work on their feelin’s. Sabe?”

“That’s friendly talk, mister,” opines Peevee. “You never seen my wife—yet—so be glad. We’ll await yore comin’ in th’ back room of th’ Palace saloon. Adios.”

Tex diagrams th’ village so we can find their homes, and then we pilgrims out to seek fer sympathy.

We selects Cold Deck’s bungaloo first. There’s uh meek-lookin’ woman on th’ porch, and we sees her slip what looks uh heap like uh pistol under her apron when she comes out to meet us.

“Howdy, ma’am,” sez Magpie. “Is this th’ widow of Cold Deck Briggs?”

“Widow?” sez she. “Has Cold Deck been——”

“Yes’m, he has. I hates to break th’ bad news to you, ma’am, but somebody has to do it, and me bein’ uh stranger, they asks me to do it. Yuh see Cold Deck was sorta despondent about somethin’, ma’am, and he tries to relieve his sufferin’ with uh rope.”

“Tries to?” she snorts.

“Shore,” sez Magpie. “Th’ rope broke. Mebby he’ll recover, ma’am, but it’s best to be prepared.”

“Well,” sez she, half hitchin’ her back hair with uh pin, “I thought at first that you was a-lyin’ to me, but that last part sounds jist like him. Miles uh good rope, and he picks uh pore piece. Good afternoon.”

“That,” sez Magpie, as we pokes th’ burros down towards Tex’s place, “shore prejudices me agin’ wimmin, Ike. They ain’t got no hearts.”

“After knowin’ Cold Deck fer uh while I’m of th’ opinion that she’s plumb normal and of uh sympathetic disposition,” sez I.

“Ma’am,” sez Magpie to th’ fattest specimen of fe-male humanity I ever seen, which comes to th’ door of th’ shack, “I’m uh bearer of bad news.”

“S-s-s-shoot!” she wheezes.

“Yore husband, ma’am, is—yuh see, Mrs. Jenkins, an Injun follers yore husband out uh town and, as I was sayin’——”

“Th’-th’-th’ Injun k-k-k-killed him?” she stutters.

“Uh-huh,” nods Magpie. “Leastwise he may be dead. Yuh see, ma’am, yuh can’t always tell from appearances. Me and Ike arrives on th’ scene jist as th’ Injun was goin’ to scalp him and——”

“G-g-g-g-goin’ to s-s-s-scalp Tex! G-g-g-gosh! He-he ain’t got no ha-ha-hair!”

“Yuh see, ma’am,” explains Magpie, “he still has his hat on and th’ Injun didn’t know that he was bald.”

“Did yuh-yuh-yuh search his po-po-pockets?” she splutters.

I informs her that me and Magpie are uh pair of honest prospectors, and it seems to touch her uh heap. She wipes her eyes on her apron and backs into th’ house. Jist when she’s about half in and half out she remarks in what ain’t exactly uh sad voice, but still it’s sorta melancholy—“He had eighty-eighty-eighty dollars in his po-po-pockets when he left and I sup-sup-suppose I’ll never s-s-s-see it agin.”

We shoves th’ burros around so they’re headed fer Peevee’s domicile, and pilgrims on.

“After seein’ her,” opines Magpie, “I can partly understand Tex’s statement that their wives is jealous of ’em. Tex has my sympathy, Ike.”

“As crape-hangers, Magpie, we resembles Santa Claus uh heap,” I replies.

I’ll state right here that Peevee runs true to form. It allus seems to me that uh li’l runt that can look uh jackrabbit in th’ face without bendin’ his back—th’ man’s of course—seems to allus pick uh truck hoss of uh woman fer uh mate, and Peevee wasn’t no exception. She shore was full grown.

I looks her over in th’ doorway, and then whispers to Magpie, as we nears th’ gate—“She shore must have uh meek disposition to have to use uh .45 on Peevee.”

“Ma’am,” sez Magpie, takin’ off his hat and bendin’ low, “we’re th’ sorrowful bringers of bad news to you and yours.”

“You’re doin’ th’ talkin’!” she snaps.

“Yore late husband, ma’am——”

“As usual,” sez she. “Go on.”

“As I was sayin’, ma’am, yore late husband, Peevee Jack Skinner, was bit by uh rattlesnake, and by this time is probably an ‘also ran’ in th’ human race. I’m sorry, ma’am, but——”

“Where is th’ snake?” she asks.

“I killed it,” sez Magpie, “and throwed its mangled remains into the rocks.”

“Where?” she snaps.

“Well—uh—why th’ interest in th’ snake? It’s dead.”

“I jist wanted to know,” sez she, steppin’ inside, and half closin’ th’ door, “so I can find it and give it uh decent burial. I admires anythin’ with nerve, and any snake that would take uh chance on bitin’ Peevee Skinner is shore entitled to uh heeroe’s grave.”

“Ike, we found sympathy,” sez Magpie as we pilgrims back to town.

“With th’ reverse English,” sez I. “If all th’ sympathy between them three wives and three husbands was collected in one heap it wouldn’t throw an assayer’s scale out of balance—and them scales weighs uh pencil mark.”

“Well, you ol’ pelicans,” whoops uh voice in our ear, and here comes Weinie Lopp down Sycamore Avenue. “Where in thunder did you people come from? Welcome to——”

Weinie’s sombrero snaps off his head, and from down th’ avenue comes th’ whang of uh six-gun. Weinie picks up th’ hat and steps into th’ protection of th’ corner of uh house. He peeks around th’ corner fer uh minute, and then holds out th’ hat fer our inspection.

“That’s th’ third time today,” sez he sorta solemn-like.

“If this keeps up I’ll have to git uh new lid.”

“Why th’ target practice?” I asks.

“Non-appreciation of humor, Ike. Yesterday I sells th’ Weddin Ring mine to three different parties, each time it was uh bargain—fer cash—and now they’re showin’ their appreciation by tryin’ to lead me up.”

“I hears that yore specialty was sellin’ saloons,” laughs Magpie.

“Uh-huh,” grins Weinie. “I’m uh reg’lar real-estater. I’ll sell anything!”

“Got anythin’ on hand right now?” I asks.

“Nope,” states Weinie, peekin’ around th’ corner and exposin’ his hat without gettin’ uh slug. “If this keeps up though, Ike, I’m goin’ to git uh option on uh piece uh ground out north uh town and start uh cemetery. These Pinto hombres can’t shoot, but I’m gittin’ tired of dodgin’—and uh hat like that costs money. Have yuh seen Slim and Andy yet?”

“Jist got in,” sez Magpie.

“Let’s go and see ’em,” suggests Weinie.

“Slim won th’ poker game in th’ Pioneer saloon yesterday, and he’s runnin’ it at uh profit. I reckon that Andy is helpin’. Andy got in bad with th’ authorities, but that don’t mean nothin’. What you fellers doin’ way over here?”

“Weinie, can you keep yore mouth shut?” asks Magpie.

“Like uh clam, Magpie. Shoot!”

“Now listen, Weinie, this ain’t to be mentioned to uh soul. Somebody’ll shore git in bad if yuh spreads it. Sabe?”

“I hopes I marries uh ornery, hombly specimen of female, and that all th’ deevorce judges loses their voice if I ever breathes uh word, Magpie. Cross my heart.”

Magpie hauls out that li’l red book and fumbles th’ pages.

“Weinie, did yuh ever hear of folks by th’ names of Miss Ivy Clemons, Miss Estelle Waterbury and Miss Clementine Margareet Elvington?”

“Shore. And th’ Duke of Buckin’ham. I’ve read most all them kinda novels, Magpie. I remembers in th’ last one——”

“This ain’t no novel,” states Magpie. “Th’ people I mentions are right here in Pinto. Leastwise they ought to be.”

“Go ahead—I’ll bite,” laughs Weinie, takin’ another cautious peek around th’ corner.

“Lissen closely,” sez Magpie. “These three females are from th’ Far East, and they’re reekin’ with money. They don’t wish people to know who they are so they ain’t makin’ no blow about their wealth. Sabe? Since that last strike on th’ Weddin’ Ring, Weinie, this country is advertised uh heap through th’ East.

“Bein’ business people these three she persons opine that they can come here and corral uh bunch uh property, and do it uh heap cheaper than uh man could. It stands to reason that nobody is goin’ to hand uh gold brick to uh trustin’ woman.”

“You spoke uh heap, Magpie,” agrees Weinie. “Air these she persons good to look upon?”

“Beauty is only skin deep, Weinie, and money makes uh pore complexion bloom like uh rose. I ain’t seen ’em yet.”

“Uh course I don’t want this to become general knowledge,” continues Magpie, “’cause me and Ike figgers that we has th’ first show. Mebby we can peddle some prospects and——”

“Dog-gone ol’ pelicans,” snickers Weinie, punchin’ Magpie in th’ ribs. “Fortune hunters, eh? What’s th’ matter with lettin’ li’l Weinie into th’ game, eh?”

“Mebby, later on. Yuh see, me and Ike ain’t matrimonial inclined, and when some uh these Pinto snake-hunters gits wise to their money we’ll have too danged many to buck. Just give me and Ike uh chance to make uh stake, and then th’ hull population of Pinto can fight to see who marries ’em. Havin’ money, they can shore pick and choose. Sabe?”

“I suppose there ain’t nothin’ again me tryin’ to sell ’em uh saloon is there?” laughs Weinie.

“Go to it!” sez Magpie. “Me and Ike are goin’ to find somethin’ to eat, and then we’ll probably come over to see Slim and Andy.”

“I’ll tell ’em yore in town,” sez Weinie. “Now, if I can git across th’ street without gittin’ another hole in my hat, I’ll be lucky.”

We stands there and watches him. He ducks low and races across. When he’s almost across we sees him grab his hat off and tuck it under his arm, and then we hears th’ pop of uh six-gun down th’ street. Weinie stops in th’ saloon door long enough to put his thumb to his nose and wiggle his fingers at somebody down th’ street.

“Magpie,” sez I, “you shore got Ananias out on uh limb. What’s th’ idea of all these pervarications?”

“Deeplomacy, Ike. I feels deeply fer th’ officials of this fair city and I aims to bring peace and comfort to their homes.”

“Mebby,” sez I. “I don’t sabe that word yuh jist used but I shore do recognize uh danged lie when I sees it. As fer unitin’ them lovin’ famblys agin—I’m uh disciple of brotherly love—me.”

“Jist remember, Ike, be it ever so humble there’s no place like home.”

“Humbleness, forty-fives, riot-guns and hoss-pistols make uh real cheerful combination,” I opines.

“Anyway, I’ve started th’ campaign, Ike.”

“Meanin’ which?”

“Tellin’ Weinie. He dodged bullets to git across there and put Andy and Slim wise to th’ game. I’ll bet right now that them hombres are figgerin’ in millions. Let’s go find them three sorrowin’ sons.”

We pilgrims around behind th’ Palace saloon and dumps th’ packs off our livestock.

“How’d yuh find things?” asks uh voice, and we turns to see Tex Jenkins’ long face stickin’ out of uh window, and right behind him appears Cold Deck and Peevee. They’re anxious lookin’.

“Yore uh fine crew,” laughs Magpie. “Lettin’ uh pore inoffensive fe-male run blazers on yuh thataway. From what I can gather they’re shore feelin’ bad about it.”

“What’d yuh tell my wife?” asks Cold Deck.

“I showed her th’ error of her ways, and she almost weeps.”

“Did my wife weep?” inquires Peevee. “She didn’t, did she?”

“No,” sez Magpie, “she didn’t weep, but she felt bad. She remarks somethin’ about uh heero, and then goes into th’ house. Uh woman hates to have uh man see her cry—especially uh strong woman.”

“She’s strong enough,” agrees Peevee, “but that heero stuff don’t sound edzactly like her. Much obliged though.”

“Yore welcome,” states Magpie. “Where can I find them three home-hunters?”

“They’re over to th’ St. Charles hotel,” sez Tex. “At least they was this mawnin’.”

“We’ll go over there, Ike, and see what we can do fer their comforts. I was born with uh sympathetic disposition and I can’t bear sufferin’. Tex, I’m goin’ to ask uh favor of you three fellers. No matter what happens, don’t tell anybody what yuh knows about these three fe-males. Sabe? Yuh can tell yore wives, of course, but they won’t believe yuh anyway. I’m doin’ all this fer yore good, so don’t peddle no information.”

While we’re crossin’ Sycamore Avenue to th’ hotel, I takes off my hat to Magpie three times. As uh liar I admires him. I allus admires uh good liar. They say George Washington couldn’t tell uh lie, but I’ve got it on him four ways from th’ Jack. I can lie but I don’t dare to. Everybody knows when I strays from th’ straight and narrer and sometimes they thinks so when I don’t stray. I can’t grow whiskers thick enough on my face to tell uh lie and play safe.

We finds them fe-males right away. They’re infestin’ th’ parlor, and Magpie butts in and starts conversin’ like he’d knowed ’em all his life. He introduces me and himself, and one of th’ ladies makes us used to th’ other two. I didn’t look at their teeth, but I’d opine that they’d range from thirty-five to forty-five. Miss Waterbury is about thirty-five, yaller-haired, and sorta built fer speed up to about four hundred yards.

Miss Clemons has black hair, brown eyes and will weigh about one-eighty on th’ hoof. She’s got uh kind eye. Miss Elvington favors uh lodge-pole uh heap and is wearin’ enough brown hair to make uh swing rope. From what I can see of th’ paint on her face, she’s on th’ war path or gittin’ ready to start.

“Ladies,” sez Magpie, “we understands how yuh happens to come out here and we’re here as uh committee uh two to try and find means uh settlin’ th’ tangle. You can all be glad that yuh didn’t git th’ husbands you expected. Myself, I don’t believe in annexin’ uh husband by mail, but it takes all kinds uh marriages to make uh community.”

“What would you suggest,” asks Miss Clementine. “We came out here in good faith, and now we haven’t enough money to get home.”

“Yore prime object was matrimony, wasn’t it, ma’am?”

They all nods.

“Ladies, I’ve got a idea,” sez Magpie. “In this town is three men who would make three good wimmen, husbands. Sabe? They’re from th’ same town as we are and we’re plumb anxious to see ’em married and settled down. If they knowed that you wanted to marry ’em they’d shy like uh bronc at uh paper sack, but if yuh works it right you’ll land ’em. It has been rumored that you three ladies are wealthy persons from th’ East who are out here to look over some minin’ propositions. Don’t dispute it. Have yuh got enough money to last uh week?”

“Possibly we could exist for two weeks,” laughs Miss Clemons.

“Do it,” advises Magpie, and then we pilgrims out of th’ hotel.

“Now,” sez Magpie, “let’s go over and git them burros and be on our way.”

“On our way?” I asks. “Where we goin’ now?”

“Prospectin’, Ike. We came down here to hunt gold—not to enjoy th’ flesh pots. Anyway, I don’t think we could do any more good here at present.”

“If yuh calls it ‘good,’ I reckon not,” I agrees. “Me—I’m plenty willin’ to leave here.”

We throws th’ packs on th’ burros and starts amblin’ out of town when here comes uh feller down th’ street, limpin’ and cussin’ uh blue streak. It’s Cold Deck.

“Four chiny marbles!” he wails, pointin’ at his legs. “What in —— did you tell her? I gits in sight of th’ front door, and out she lopes with that hoss-pistol in her hand. She yells somethin’ at me about tryin’ uh new rope, and then she cuts down on me with that danged pistol!”

Jist as Magpie clears his throat to answer, here comes Peevee around th’ corner. He’s sorta runnin’ regardless and lookin’ over his shoulder like uh rabbit when uh coyote presses him close. He races right up to us, digs th’ heels of his big boots in th’ dirt and skids to uh dead stop.

“My Gawd!” sez he. “My ol’ woman’s gone plumb loco! She meets me at th’ door with that ol’ forty-five, and sez: ‘I didn’t think it could be true, Peevee. No snake would take uh big chance like that’.”

“Did she shoot at yuh?” asks Cold Deck.

“Danged if I know. I was too busy to even listen. That woman ain’t jealous—she’s crazy!”

“So’s mine,” agrees Cold Deck. “I reckon she couldn’t stand all that sorrow. She’s gone hemp crazy, but blast it, she ain’t too crazy to shoot!”

“Lissen!” sez Magpie. “If you fellers wants me to save yore happy homes from bein’ wrecked, keep yore mouths shut. Sabe? No matter what comes off here in Pinto, you fellers keep still about them three wimmin. In this here game uh deeplomacy yuh got to ——”

From far off across th’ city comes th’ dull boom of uh gun and we looks foolish like at each other.

“Both bar’els of uh riot-gun,” states Magpie. “Ike, let’s git a-goin’.”

We did. When we’re almost out of sight we looks back and we sees uh lanky figger come limpin’ down th’ street and join th’ two we jist left.

“It wasn’t serious,” opines Magpie. “She must ’a’ shut both eyes.”

We pilgrims out into th’ hills away from Pinto. There’s several outfits gopherin’ around th’ hills, and we digs uh few holes ourselves. Whoever or whatever pours th’ gold into th’ Weddin’ Ring mine shore didn’t spill any of it while they was packin’ it over, cause that country shore is one barren spot.

After pilgrimin’ around fer uh couple uh weeks, we decides that there ain’t enough gold in them hills to fill uh tooth, and so we starts back.

We’re amblin’ down uh dry wash that mornin’ when we meets uh caravan.

Out in front walks that human chalk-line, Tex Jenkins, then comes three burros, and in th’ rear plods Cold Deck and Peevee Jack.

“Klahowya!” sez Tex. “Havin’ any luck?”

“No,” sez Magpie. “There ain’t nothin’ in these hills. We’ve combed ’em from rimrock to peaks without findin’ uh color. You fellers might as well turn around and come back.”

“Shall we?” asks Tex to his pardners.

“No!” snaps th’ other two.

“Yore wastin’ yore time tryin’ to find anythin’,” I argues.

“Aw, we’ll find it all right,” argues Cold Deck. “We ain’t lookin’ fer th’ same thing you fellers are.”

“Ain’t yuh lookin’ fer gold?” asks Magpie.

“Not any,” states Peevee, takin’ off one of his man-sized boots and shakin’ th’ dust out. “Yore gazin’ upon uh new kind of uh prospectin’ outfit, Mister Simpkins. Rest yore eyes on this layout, ’cause yuh won’t never see another on th’ same quest. We don’t want gold nor precious metals, and we ain’t huntin’ fer oil. Mebby she ain’t here, but we’re lookin’.”

“Meanin’?” I asks.

“Peace,” sez Peevee.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Magpie. “Bunch uh dove-hunters, eh? I’d opine from that that yore all in bad at home agin.”

“Agin!” snorts Tex. “Did you fellers notice that he said ‘agin’? Mister Simpkins, I wishes to inform yuh that it is ‘yet’!”

“Did I tell yuh about them marbles?” asks Cold Deck, pullin’ out four round pieces uh chiny and rollin’ ’em around in his hand. “These four ranges from my wishbone to my corns, and they shore did sting yours truly, Cold Deck Briggs, Esq.”

“So you fellers left yore official jobs and wives, eh?” grins Magpie. “Well, well!”

“We pleads guilty to th’ wives,” sez Tex, sad like. “We thinks too much of our wives to give ’em any more chances to appear as defendants in uh murder trial. As to our official jobs ——”

“We sold ’em,” grins Cold Deck. “Yes, sir, we peddles our titles and good will.”

“But yuh can’t sell an official job,” argues Magpie.

“Can’t we?” asks Cold Deck, turnin’ to Tex and Peevee.

They both nods and Tex states:

“There ain’t nothin’ yuh can’t sell in Pinto. Weinie’s sellin’ shares in th’ Panama Canal. Mayorin’ is an under-paid chore, so I sells cheap.”

“How could yuh sell yore jobs and who to?” I asks.

Tex bites th’ size of uh placer claim out of his plug and sets down on uh rock.

“Well, yuh see when we’re approached in th’ matter we deliberates and accepts, contingent on it bein’ satisfactory to th’ city. We calls uh meetin’ of me and Cold Deck and Peevee, and, bein’ unanimous that we has th’ right, we adjourns and accepts th’ office.”

“I’m pleased,” states Cold Deck. “Ever since that coyote pup runs away with my star, and since Peevee tries to make four kings beat four aces, there ain’t been no joy in our jobs.”

“Who buys yuh out?” I asks.

“Mister Hawkins is th’ mayor, Mister Lopp is treasurer, and Andy Johnson is chief of police,” replies Cold Deck.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Tex, slappin’ his hat on his leg. “I almost forgot to tell yuh. They starts right in makin’ out a new ordinance. They—haw! haw!—they draws up one to th’ effect that no man can peddle uh minin’ claim in Pinto unless said peddler has been uh citizen of Pinto for three weeks.”

“What’s so danged funny about that?” I asks.

“Haw! Haw!” yelps Tex, fannin’ uh burro away with his hat.

“That’s fer you two fellers. I hears Hawkins tell Johnson that this ordinance will keep some ladies from bein’ taken in on uh wild-cat proposition by them danged ol’ packrats. I hears yore names mentioned soon afterwards, so I reckon they shore means you.”

“Is them three male-hunters there yet?” asks Magpie.

“Are they!” snorts Cold Deck. “They jist about are! Uh course me and Tex and Peevee has too much troubles of our own to pay much attention, and accordin’ to yore instructions we keeps our mouths shut, but I feels that them ladies is responsible fer them three fellers desirin’ to occupy our positions. These three new officials shore grades high with them wimmen, and they rides herd on that St. Charles hotel some rigorous.”

“Well,” sez Magpie, haulin’ our burros around so they points down hill, “I wish you luck. Peace is like gold—where yuh finds it. Klahowya.”

They pokes on up th’ dry wash, and me and Magpie and th’ other two jackasses pilgrims on towards sea level. About ten miles below where we intercepts th’ peace party, we cuts into th’ Pinto road and stops.

“I’d shore like to go over there,” sez Magpie. “But then, yuh never can tell. Mebby them three hombres has drafted another ordinance or two in our favor. We’ll let well enough alone, Ike.”

We ambles on down th’ road, and jist as we’re approachin’ th’ spot where we first meets them sons uh sorrow I bumps into th’ rear burro, and finds that our caravan is stopped.

“Cripes!” sez Magpie. “Look what’s here, Ike.”

Right on that pile uh boulders, where we first spots them sons uh sorrow, we sees three more.

As before, th’ near one favors uh lodge-pole uh heap, and he’s doubled up like uh jack-knife, with his chin in his hands. Th’ next one is sprawled on th’ ground with his shoulder-blades propped up agin’ uh rock, and all yuh can see in th’ shade of his hat is th’ tips of his mustache. Th’ third one is short and kinda fat-like and is doubled up like he had th’ cramps in his stummick. His face bears out this statement.

“Whither?” asks th’ slender one, removin’ uh limp cigaret from his mouth.

“Yon,” sez Magpie, pointin’ off down th’ road. “We pilgrim to Piperock.”

“Me, too,” states th’ slim one, uncoilin’ himself from th’ rock.

“You and me both,” opines th’ one with th’ mustache, gittin’ up and dustin’ off th’ seat of his pants.

Th’ four of us ambles off down th’ road in th’ dust of them burros, while th’ fat one with th’ cramp expression still sets there and contemplates th’ sins of mankind.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 1917 issue of Adventure magazine.