# NERVES OF IRON

By W. C. Tuttle
Author of “A Bull Movement in Yellow Horse,” “Cows is Cows,” etc.

“Well,” says Magpie Simpkins, sliding off the rock, and hitching up his belt. “Now that there seems to be uh lull in the firing we might as well pilgrim down and see if we can patch up the injured.”

He kicks the lead burro in the north end, and we points off down the trail.

Nobody knows where we’re going—me and Magpie. Sometimes we just follers other men’s trails and then again we follers our yaller burro. We calls that burro, Lodestone. We always let him pilgrim on ahead, and when he opines to leave the beaten trail and wander afield, we agrees that he’s just as apt to stumble on uh good prospect as we are, so we follers his hunch.

This time his hunch don’t look good, ’cause he’s leading us back into civilization. Right now we’re on uh well-beaten trail, and unless all signs fail we’re pretty close to uh village.

All to once we hears pistol-shots around uh bend in the trail and, not wishing to interrupt such pastimes, we takes uh little rest until the smoke clears away.

We ambles around the first turn into an open spot and stops. There we observe uh little feller, about knee-high to uh tall Injun. He’s got his back to us, standing alongside uh stump, the same of which he’s examining some industrious. I opines that he’s uh shepherd, ’cause he’s talking to himself.

“Too danged high!” he complains. “This one’s too high, too! Dang the ornery luck, anyway!”

“Hold lower, old-timer,” advises Magpie.

The little feller don’t even look our way. He just dives head first into the brush and disappears.

“Now wouldn’t that rasp yuh!” wonders Magpie out loud. “That looked like uh he human and acts like uh hell-diver. I’d orate that he ain’t noways looking for company.”

We stands there and looks at the spot where he went in, and then looks foolish at each other.

“I begs your pardon, gents,” states uh little apologetic voice behind us, and there we see the little feller again. “You sort uh took me by surprise. Sabe?”

That person never growed none after he was ten years old. Except for the hair, and lines uh care on his face he’d pass for uh kid. He’s got uh scared look in his eyes, and uh man-sized six-gun in his hand. He shoves the gun inside the waistband of his pants and the sight interferes with his knee-movement. He licks his lips and sticks his hand out to Magpie.

“I’m Stonewall Jackson,” says he.

“What’s in uh name, anyway,” grins Magpie, shaking the runt’s hand hearty like. “My name is Grant—Ulysses Grant. The party with me is Robert Lee. The other two jackasses are named Lodestone and Cæsar, and we’re pleased to meet yuh.”

“I’ve heard of yuh,” states Stonewall. “I’ve heard yuh all well spoken of except the mules. Mules is just mules. How’s all your folks?”

“Dead, thank you,” says Magpie. “How’s yours?”

“Don’t mention it. Maw’s in Denver and paw ain’t much better off unless he went where he wasn’t expecting to. He died last year.”

“Live around here?” I asks, just to make conversation. When Magpie gets to letting his imagination run rings around his judgment his conversation favors uh shepherd’s convention.

“Down to Spotted Dawg,” replies Stonewall. “When I first hears yuh speak I thought yuh was one of the inhabitants.”

“Spotted Dog?” wonders Magpie. “That name ain’t noways familiar to me. Spotted Dog!”

Stonewall sets down on uh rock and manufactures uh cigaret, and me and Magpie follers suit.

“Good town?” I asks.

Stonewall inhales deep like and nods.

“Uh-huh. Town’s all right, I reckon. Spotted Dawg is like hell in that respect. Hell ain’t so danged bad by its own self—it’s the people in it. Sabe?”

“Particular?” asks Magpie, and Stonewall nods again.

“Very much thataway. They elected me city marshal uh few days ago.”

Me and Magpie loses faith in Spotted Dog right away.

“Ike,” says Magpie, “Lodestone’s done played us uh scurvy trick when he points this way. The rest of the day I’ll lead the caravan.”

We gits up, points the jacks the other way, and prepares to leave. Stonewall looks up at us, rubs the stubble on his chin, an’ swallers so hard that his Adam’s apple almost hit his knees.

“That ain’t what I’d call uh friendly deal uh tall,” he wails. “Deserting uh feller when he’s in trouble! Gosh A’mighty, I wouldn’t do that to uh pack-rat.”

“Neither would I,” replies Magpie. “But you got to figger, old-timer, that you ain’t no pack-rat.”

“Well, go on then,” says Stonewall, weary like. “If I ever get another friend I’m going to shoot him before he has uh chance to change his opinion. Go on—nobody gives uh dang, anyway.”

“If yuh don’t like Spotted Dog why don’t yuh move away?” I asks.

“Well,” he replies, digging his toe in the dirt, “yuh see there’s several reasons. In the first place I’m engaged to marry an angel. In the second place, I’m an officer of the law, and the third and fourth places is ‘High-Card’ Hammond and ‘Whisperin’’ Wilson. The first reason makes me sort uh want to stay; the second is my duty and the third and fourth won’t let me.”

“Why won’t they let yuh go?” asks Magpie.

“It’s thisaway,” wails Stonewall. “Spotted Dawg has always been uh law-abiding community. The law and order bunch has decorated our one lone shade-tree numerous and sundry times with outlaws, gunmen and such like folks. In the course uh human events, High-Card Hammond and Whisperin’ Wilson drifts into Spotted Dawg. They gets popular and previous on short acquaintance and picks trouble with ‘Slickear’ Saunders, our city marshal.

“The town has been so danged peaceful fer so long that Slickear is rusty on the draw. We raises enough to send his widder back to Missouri to her maw. High-Card and Whisperin’ immediate and soon gits control of the administration, and by doing uh little political work has me elected marshal by uh five-vote lead over ‘Limpy’ Myers.

“Honest to goodness, I couldn’t help it, gents! I never wanted the job. According to all humanity I ought to be down there right now, filling their carcasses with lead, but I ain’t got the nerve. My Gawd! I can’t shoot! I been out here ’most all day practising with that pistol but I can’t even hit uh tree. No nerve and no ability. High-Card told me that if I run out on him he’d foller me and cut my ears off. What am I going to do, eh?”

“What does the rest of the inhabitants think?” I asks.

“Them what ain’t laughin’ is gittin’ ready to move. I was going to get married to-morrow afternoon, too. Dang the ornery luck!”

“Time ain’t nothing to an angel,” consoles Magpie. “What does she think of your election?”

“That’s the —— of it!” wails Stonewall. “She likes it. She opines that I’m the little Jasper what is going to make Spotted Dawg uh place uh beauty and uh joy forever. All the time she’s thinking that I’m going gunning fer them bad men. Me! Holy henhawks! I ain’t never killed nobody! I’m fer peace. Now she’ll think I’m uh coward, and ditch me! I reckon I might as well point away from Spotted Dawg and forget my love, and take uh chance on my ears.”

“Ears ain’t everything,” consoles Magpie, again. “I knowed uh feller once who had both ears chawed off close to his head and he didn’t look so danged bad at that. You could wear uh cap with ear-flaps.”

“Aw—I don’t know,” sighs Stonewall. “One thing I do know—I ain’t no hero, and I can’t shoot fer sour beans. If I was shooting fer eagle feathers I wouldn’t harvest the down off uh humming-bird.”

“Is this here High-Card and Whisperin’ dead shots?” asks Magpie.

“Too dead to skin!” pronounces Stonewall. “They brags that they always git their man through the heart.”

“I’d admire to meet them,” states Magpie, rolling uh smoke and looking about as fierce as uh jack-rabbit at uh grizzly funeral. “I used to brag thataway myself but one day I gets sort uh hurried like and hits my man uh inch too high. Uh course he passed out, but it wasn’t what you’d designate as uh clean hit.”

“How’s your aim?” asks Stonewall, looking at me, and Magpie replies—

“Ike ain’t never missed his man yet.”

Uh course Magpie didn’t state that I ain’t never hit one yet. Me and him is about as belligerent as uh pair uh fool hens. Uh course we wears all the ornaments of uh gunman, and are able to make uh loud noise and plenty uh smoke, but that about lets us out.

“——!” snorts Stonewall, when Magpie’s statement percolates through his head. “I’m glad I met yuh before Spotted Dawg did, ’cause otherwise I’d have to grow some extra ears so’s everybody’d have uh chance. Are yuh for me or against me? I ain’t complaining. Sabe?”

“This here angel,” says Magpie, “do yuh like her uh heap?”

“Like uh starving bronc loves bunchgrass.”

“That’s the attitude, old-timer,” states Magpie. “Ike, you and me is going to Spotted Dog.”

Spotted Dog was what you’d designate as uh pedigreed place. She was sired by uh prospector named “Doughbelly” Smith, and dammed by everybody west of the Missouri River.

Typographically she was uh mess and morally she was uh crime. One side of the street harbors three saloons and uh post-office, and the other side balances the place with three more saloons and uh general store.

There’s dance-halls over some of the saloons, and over one of them is the City Hall. She’s shy on sidewalks and visible means uh support. There is also uh few dwelling-places.

We pilgrims almost into it when we hears sounds uh life. Out into the street gallops uh person, coat-tails flying, and uh gun in each hand. Said person loses his hat from uh pistol-shot, and dives behind uh barrel in front of uh saloon, where he squats and proceeds to spin lead across the street from whence he came.

Stonewall gits behind Lodestone and shrinks until the smoke clears away.

“Looks interesting, anyway,” says Magpie. “Is that uh usual happening?”

“Every time the council meets,” states Stonewall. “That person who is behind the barrel is Luke Paulsen. I’d opine that he’s shooting at Tug Tilton. Yuh see, them two is councilmen of our fair city, and they disagrees on things. Luke wants to put up some hay-scales on the main street and Tug wants to spend the treasury for uh boat. They can’t seem to get together.”

“Do they grow hay around here?” I asks.

“Nearest hay ranch is thirty miles away,” grins Stonewall. “But that ain’t no argument in favor uh Tilton’s scheme. Yuh can’t find water enough to take uh bath in within twenty-five miles of here.”

“Who’s the mayor?” asks Magpie.

“High-Card Hammond. Whisperin’ Wilson’s the treasurer.”

“Well,” opines Magpie, “it looks to me as though the only straight thing in this here place is the road out uh town.”

“You ain’t met the angel yet,” reproves Stonewall.

“Excuse me, old-timer,” apologizes Magpie. “I didn’t include women in my statement.”

“You’re welcome,” says Stonewall. “I reckon we better not go right down the main street. We’ll take your burros right down to my cabin. Yuh see, I’m supposed to collect five dollars for each mule what comes into town, and—well, I ain’t going to do it this time.”

“Five dollars for uh burro!” snorts Magpie. “What do yuh mean?”

“City ordinance,” explains Stonewall, apologetic like. “When the new city officials went into office they passes uh rule to the effect that prospectors is uh nuisance, and they opines to assess every prospector five dollars per head to bring his beasts uh burden into the place. Sabe?”

“By cripes! I never heard uh such uh thing!” howls Magpie.

“You never heard uh Spotted Dawg until yuh met me, either,” states Stonewall chiding like.

We throws the packs off at his cabin and turns the burros loose.

“What’ll they do if they sees strange burros,” I asks.

“Likely pick ’em up and sell ’em to somebody. They can’t divide two burros, but that bunch shore can split money like uh bunch uh bankers. Mebby they won’t notice ’em. As soon as they finds out that you’re uh couple uh gunmen they’ll feel different toward your rolling-stock.”

“Where will they get the information?” I asks.

“I’ll tell ’em,” states Stonewall. “Doggone, I’d sure like to flustrate that bunch.”

“Well, I sure hope it does,” I replies.

After a while Stonewall informs us that he’s going to sneak up-town and see what’s going on, so me and Magpie pats him on the back and wishes him many happy returns of the day.

We sets down in the shady side of the shack and enjoys uh smoke.

“Scary little devil, that Stonewall Jackson person,” opines Magpie. “Ike, I reckon that Spotted Dog is more of uh coyote than dog. I figgers that uh pair uh mean hombres has done took control of the place, and they elects that poor little Jasper to the marshal’s office so that them and their friends can do as they danged well please in Spotted Dog. I feel for him, Ike.”

“I could feel uh heap sadder if I was uh long ways from here,” I replies. “This here business uh trying to adjust the workings of uh place like this don’t appeal to me uh tall. Supposing that we meets up with this bad bunch, Magpie, and they takes exceptions to the way we wears our hats? Suppose the marshal person informs them that we’re uh pair uh gun-fighting Jaspers, and they opines to make us prove it. What are we going to do then, Mister Magpie Simpkins?”

“Go bareheaded and prove an alibi, Ike,” laughs Magpie. “I ain’t no speed demon with uh six-gun, Ike, but by the horns on the moon, I ain’t afraid uh no man that hankers for uh boat on uh desert. Also, I’m again’ any man who pines for hay-scales.”

“Me neither, Magpie,” I agrees. “I ain’t afraid to meet no man on earth—whether he’s uh hay-scale nut or uh mariner of the desert—but just because I’m brave thataway ain’t no reason for me to get cocky about it and poke fun at uh hornet’s nest.”

“Discretion is the foundation of uh fighter’s trade, Ike,” opines Magpie. “Yuh don’t have to go poking—my cripes!”

“Has anybody seen Stonewall Jackson?” asks a female voice.

“The angel!” hisses Magpie in my ear.

I remember that my maw used to dilate on angels when I was young. She used to tell me all about how beautiful and sweet they are, and how they wears floating garments and carries long golden trumpets and wears wings. I reckon it’s all in your point uh view. Now, this one that Stonewall designates as an angel ain’t noways my maw’s idea uh tall. If Stonewall’s right, my maw must uh shut her eyes when she pulled the trigger, ’cause she never even nicked the bull’s-eye.

This here angel would scale about two hundred dressed, and from what I can see of her feet she wasn’t built to fly—she was built to swim. Instead of uh trumpet she’s packing uh six-gun. It’s one uh them muzzle-loading Colts, with uh barrel as long as uh shepherd’s sleep.

“Ah ha!” sez I to myself. “If that thing goes off there won’t be no use for uh census-taker in this country for years and years.”

“I asked uh question,” she states.

“Ma’am,” sez Magpie, “nobody ain’t seen him. Are you looking for the gentleman?”

She sizes us up some careful like, and peeks around the corner.

“Are you keeping something from me?” she asks, sort of belligerent like.

“Ma’am,” replies Magpie, sudden like, “when an angel packs uh gun my innermost thoughts is like the large letters on uh patent-medicine advertisement. Would yuh mind pointing that mortar the other way?”

“I want to find Stonewall,” says she, complying with Magpie’s request.

“You can’t—not with uh gun,” I states. “I don’t know him very well, but I know yuh can’t entice him with uh gun.”

“Huh!” says she, scornful like, or as scornful like as uh fat face like hers can look. “You think so, do yuh? You don’t know Stony. Just because he’s small in stature you think he ain’t brave. Huh! He’s got the heart of uh lion, let me tell yuh! Didn’t they elect him marshal of Spotted Dog? Ain’t that proof enough? I want to find him and give him this gun. You’re strangers here, ain’t yuh?”

“Yes’m, we’re strangers here,” I replies.

“That goes to show that you don’t know what you’re talking about. Know where he is now?”

“Ma’am,” replies Magpie, “I reckon you ought to know. He’s gone up to tell the mayor and treasurer that this evening he’s going to walk down the main street with uh gun on his hip, and he dares any danged man to show his head.”

She absorbs the information by degrees, and scratches her head with the gun-barrel, while uh sad look comes over her face.

“There’s uh difference between cold nerve and danged foolishness,” she opines, after a while. “I’d say that Stony’s covering uh little too much territory. Did he say, ‘Any danged man’?”

Me and Magpie nods, grave like.

“Me and him was going to get married tomorrow, too,” says she, sad like. “Got my troosoo all ready to slip on. Maybe I can dye it black—I don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t grieve, ma’am,” consoles Magpie, wiping uh sympathetic tear off his long nose. “There’s just as good fish in the sea as—as there is in the desert. If I was you I’d——”

Magpie’s advice is cut short, when uh rattle uh shots sounds up-town, and we stirs uneasy like.

“There!” exclaims the angel. “That’s Stonewall! I’ll bet!”

“You lose, ma’am,” says Magpie. “Here’s Stonewall!”

“Here” was the right word! When it comes to speed I’ll play the small man plumb across the board, but there wasn’t no show or place money in this race. Not any!

That Stonewall Jackson person could give uh jack-rabbit twenty yards’ handicap and throw dirt in its face inside of uh hundred yards. He was hitting such uh pace that he danged near goes past the cabin. He sticks his heels in the ground and skids the last fifteen feet and enters the cabin without brushing either side of the door. We all stands there for uh moment, sort uh dazed like, and then Magpie yawns and opines:

“Anybody’s liable to run out of ammunition and have to come home after more. Yuh got to consider that he challenged the whole town, and his gun only holds six shells.”

“Uh yard uh discretion is worth uh whole bolt uh valor,” says I.

“Uh-huh,” she agrees, hearty like. “Self-preservation is better than uh fancy funeral, too, but——”

Just then Stonewall sticks his head out of the door and wipes his clammy brows with his handkerchief. He sees the angel, and grins, foolish like.

“Some day, Stonewall,” says she, “your bravery is going to be the cause of me wearing widder’s weeds. How many did yuh kill?”

“I—I—I came away without my—huh—gun!” stutters Stonewall.

“Did you come back to get it?” she asks.

“N—n—n—no. But I’ll have to go back to get it. My ——!”

He sets down on uh box and pants like an overheated pup. The angel looks at us and then at Stonewall, and hitches up her skirts.

“Do you mean to tell me, Stonewall Jackson, that you didn’t kill nobody?”

“Ma’am,” interrupts Magpie, “you got to figure that he done just what he promised he’d do. I makes him agree not to kill nobody until later on in the day. All he was supposed to do this trip was to give ’em fair warning. Sabe? It must uh been mighty hard for him to stay his natural inclinations to smoke up somebody, so yuh got to give him credit for keeping his word and for having great self-control. Mister Jackson is uh man of his word, and I’m proud to shake his hand.”

Magpie steps over and shakes the unresisting hand of Stonewall Jackson, and Stonewall looks like uh man what has just filled uh royal flush on uh four-card draw.

“Thanks, Mister Grant,” says Stonewall. “How’s your folks?”

“Dead as usual. How’s yours?”

“I brought you this, Stony,” says the female, before the runt has uh chance to reply.

She holds out that antiquated smoke-box for Stonewall’s approval.

“I wouldn’t let nobody but you have this. I sure think uh lot of this pistol, Stony, dear. It is believed that uh bullet from this pistol killed my poor old paw.”

She wipes away uh tear, while Stonewall holds the relic at uh safe distance.

“Somebody shoot him with it?” I asks.

“Nobody knows,” she sniffs. “When we found him he was dead, and the gun was empty. He was hit five times, and the bullets were the same as the gun used.”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Magpie, examining the muzzle of the thing. “Your paw was uh brave man. This weapon will be uh great help to our courageous marshal, if yuh asks me. It’s loaded, too.”

“Yes, I loaded it myself,” replies the angel, and then she pats the runt on the shoulder.

“You won’t take foolish chances will you, dear?”

“No, ma’am,” says Stonewall. “I’ll be just as careful as I can, Eveline.”

Eveline, the angel, paddles back the way she come, and we watches her out uh sight.

“Lovely thing,” sighs Magpie. “She’ll make uh man out uh you.”

“Maybe,” says Stonewall, sad like. “Maybe uh corpse, too. I got to display nerve to win her, and that same display may hang uh black rag on my cabin door. I’m sure obliged for your assistance in the time uh need. You sure must uh had lots of experience to fix up uh lie that quick.”

“Speed is as essential with uh lie as it is with uh gun,” states Magpie. “Especially when you’re lying to uh woman. Was somebody shooting at yuh up-town?”

“I don’t know.”

The runt shakes his head sad like, and rolls uh smoke with shaky fingers.

“I meets Limpy Myers on my way up-town, and I tells him that down to my cabin is two of the hell-firedest gun-fighters what ever fanned uh hammer. Limpy seems uh heap interested and orates that he’ll pass the news. I plumb forgot the hay-scale-versus-boat controversy and walks right into the line uh fire.

“Limpy told me that it was settled, and that part of the gang is over at the Tammany saloon, christening the boat and the other faction is giving first aid to Luke. I reckon that some uh Luke’s friends was trying to shoot holes in them sailors.”

“Where’s your gun?” I asks.

“Too heavy, so I throws it away. Yuh see uh feller can’t run when his gun keeps hitting him on the knee that way.”

The little feller hunches over on the box and resumes his complaint.

“I don’t reckon it’s much use noways. Ever since I was small I has uh fear uh getting shot. I reckon that sooner or later Eveline will find it out and ditch me. She orates that she can’t stand for no man what ain’t brave, and like uh danged fool I lies to her about my past. According to what I’ve told her she’d expect me to walk right up and bite uh grizzly. It ain’t lying when yuh brags to uh woman about yourself—it’s unjustifiable suicide.”

“Never lie to uh lady,” advises Magpie, and Stonewall grins.

“That’s hy-iu advice, but you don’t foller it. You lied uh plenty to Eveline.”

“Maybe,” half agrees Magpie. “Maybe yes and maybe no.”

“Well,” says Stonewall, chiding like, “you told her that I went up there to dare anybody to stick their heads outside, and that was uh lie. I never said uh thing about——”

“Listen,” snaps Magpie. “Do yuh actually want to marry that Eveline party?”

“In holy wedlock tomorrow afternoon,” admits Stonewall. “Yes sir.”

“Then you let me be your manager for today, and I’ll bet you’ll have uh lot of admirers to your wedding tomorrow,” states Magpie. “You do just what I tell you to and we’ll put them bad men on the run. Sabe?”

“I ain’t got no nerve!” protests Stonewall.

“You admires to marry Eveline, don’t yuh?” asks Magpie, and the runt nods, hearty like.

“Well,” says Magpie, “that’s evidence that you have. Ain’t that right, Ike?”

“He’s got Jessie James looking like uh nervous wreck,” says I.

The runt seems to cheer up uh heap at them words, and gits ambition enough to borrow my tobacco and papers.

“Oh, yes!” says he, after his smoke is going. “They got your mules.”

“The —— they did?” says I. “How do you know?”

“They was tied in front of the Nickle Plate saloon. I didn’t stop to examine ’em close but I think I recognized that yaller one.”

This information makes me mad. This here town of Spotted Dog don’t appeal to me noways, and I sure do love them burros. Who ever heard of uh place like this anyway? Who is ever going to believe that there ever was uh place like Spotted Dog. After thinking it all over I opines that I’m dreaming, and I drops uh rock on my foot. Uh course I has to drop it on my favorite corn.

Some folks preys on their imagination and others takes to strong liquor to brace up their nerves, but whenever I wants to git into uh fighting mood, all I has to do is to annoy that corn. I immediate and soon gets fighting mad, and the madder I get the more I admires to get them jacks out uh durance vile.

“I’m going up and get them burros back!” I states, and Magpie nods.

“Yes, Ike, I reckon that would be uh good resolution to carry out. We sure can’t get along without them animiles.”

My corn sends uh shot uh agony up my shin-bone, again, and I gets belligerent.

“I’m going right now!” says I.

“Yes,” agrees Magpie. “Right now, Ike.”

“And I’m going to shoot —— out of anybody what crosses my path, too!”

“Happy New Year,” says Magpie. “I gives you power of attorney to shoot some for me, Ike. Want to borrow another gun? Here’s mine, and may your days be many in the land of the living, pardner.”

I limps into the main street of Spotted Dog, with uh gun on each hip and agony in my feet. Uh feller is setting in front of the first saloon, on uh whisky-keg. He just gives me one look, and stumbles over the doorway in his hurry.

I pilgrims straight to the Nickle Plate, and finds Lodestone and Cæsar tied to the rack out in front. Somebody starts out of the door, sees me and goes right back inside again. I walks over and pats Lodestone on the shoulder, keeping my eye on the saloon door all the time, and jist like it always happens, that blamed jackass plants one forefoot on that corn and leans lovingly against me.

I kicks him so blamed hard that I hears his ribs rattle against his jaw-bone, and then I ambles right up to that saloon door and kicks it open.

From the looks uh things I’m expected. There’s uh reception committee lined up against the bar and I can see at uh glance that there’s an extra glass on the bar. I balances on one foot in the doorway, and chaws the end of my mustache. I sure am suffering uh heap.

“Mister,” says uh long-faced hombre, with one cross-eye, “we welcomes yuh to Spotted Dog. Step right up and take uh drink on the city. She’s yours.”

“I don’t want it,” I replies. “It don’t appeal to my artistic sense uh tall. I’m looking for the Jasper what appropriates my burros.”

“I took ’em,” wheezes uh square-headed cross between uh Greaser and uh whisky-runner. “I jist took ’em to——”

“Thanks,” says I, “I’m obliged to yuh for tying ’em up for me. They’re sure liable to stray in uh strange country.”

All this time my corn is easing up uh little.

I pours out uh glass uh hooch and says “how,” to the crowd.

“My name’s Hammond,” states the tall one, who invited me to take the city. “Usually called High-Card. This party”—indicating the square-headed wheezer—“is Whisperin’ Wilson. We’re mayor and treasurer, respectably, uh Spotted Dog, and we greets yuh happily. Where’s your pardner?”

“He’s down at the city marshal’s residence cleaning his guns,” says I, refilling my glass on the city.

They all grins uh heap, and I appears to wonder what the joke is. High-Card explains, but he don’t tell me much that I don’t already know.

“Our city marshal has got less nerve than anything on earth. He opines to git married to-morrow, and we’re planning to scare him so danged bad at that time that he’ll run all the way through Wyoming and so far into Utah that the Mormons will marry him to six different women before he can get back to the line.”

We has another drink or two and gets right friendly.

“So you and your pardner was the pair what cleaned up the Dolan bunch, eh?” observes Whisperin’. “That sure was some chore. I knowed Jim Dolan when he was up in Custer County, and he sure was one fast person on the draw. I heard tell that you held your hand above your head and let him git hold of his gun before yuh yelled for him to git uh-going.”

“Plumb correct,” says I. “How’d he ever lose that left eye? Did yuh ever hear?”

“Horse uh mine throwed him once when he was drunk. He was one good rider, too.”

“Did he ever tell yuh about the time that him and ‘Windy’ Bowers held on to the corner of uh handkerchief and emptied their guns into each other?” I asks.

“Huh!” snorts Whisperin’. “Did he? Well, I reckon he did. Showed me the scars, too.”

“Well,” says I to myself, “honesty sure ain’t no drug on the market in Spotted Dog, and that’s uh cinch. If there ever was uh Jim Dolan or uh Windy Bowers I never heard tell of ’em.”

We has uh little more wet weather together, and then I’m invited to mingle the pasteboards uh little, and see if two deuces can beat three of uh kind.

Mine did. Not wishing to carry all that extra weight on my hips, I slips them guns out of their holsters and lays ’em on my lap. Immediate and soon I wins forty dollars on uh bobtail flush, and I know that Whisperin’ held uh queen full on sevens. I accidentally turns his hand over as I rakes in the pot. High-Card held three eights.

“I hears that your pardner is the fastest man in Montana with uh six-shooter,” remarks High-Card, after we settles the supremacy in uh pot, which I wins with two deuces and three hearts.

“We’re about uh standoff,” I replies.

That’s about the first truth that’s been spoken since I came in. We sure are. Magpie orates to me one day that he’s getting fast with uh gun, and essays to prove it. He argues that the first shot must be fired as the gun comes out of the holster, no matter whether it hits or not, and then uh crook of the wrist gets the rest away on schedule time.

His first shot hit. He was so blamed fast that he didn’t wait for the gun to come out of the holster, and the bullet nicks his kneecap and amputates his little toe. He gets her out for the next shot but he crooks his wrist too much, and shoots uh brace uh ca’tridges out uh my belt. I admits that he’s uh heap previous, and runs errands for him for uh week.

When he gets well I tells him that I been practising the draw, and wishes him to observe my dexterity. He beats it around behind the cabin and yells:

“Take your time, Ike! There ain’t no hurry!”

The bartender seems to admire me uh heap, keeping up uh running conversation and uh goodly supply uh hooch.

I ain’t never been treated thataway before and the longer I stays the longer I’m convinced that uh feller don’t gain nothing by being meek and mild among men.

I’ve always wondered what anybody could find in being bad that was so alluring, but I’m beginning to find out. I picks off uh fat pot on uh four-card draw against three pat hands, and I mentally pats Lodestone on the rump and feels contrite in my soul for kicking him thataway.

Every time I shifts them guns there’s an immediate rush to the discard. Seems like nobody can hold good hands but me. We plays along serene like for uh couple uh hours, and High-Card shoves back his chair, sort uh weary like.

“You sure do sabe this here national pastime,” sez he, sizing up the few cords uh chips in front of me. “Yes, sir, I’d say that you plays uh mighty clever game.”

“I remember the time I played ‘Five-Fingered’ Fulton single-handed freeze-out to see which one committed suicide,” sez I, sort uh reminiscent like. “That was uh good game.”

“Ain’t it funny how folks git things wrong in the tellin’?” complains High-Card, surprised like. “I heard that you and him cut cards for it.”

I took another drink on the city, and wondered who in blazes Five-Fingered Fulton was. Spotted Dog must uh been Ananias’s old home town.

I cashes in two hundred and eighty-seven dollars and accepts another slice on the fair city.

“If you needs any help with them mules I’m uh heap familiar with the tribe,” says Tug Tilton.

I leans over and inspects Tug’s ears for uh moment and shakes my head.

“You sure ought to be,” says I. “No, I don’t need yuh, old-timer. I knows my own stock.”

I unties Lodestone and Cæsar, and pilgrims down to Stonewall’s abode. Magpie is out by the packs, and he seems uh heap relieved to see me. Stonewall ain’t no place in sight.

“Welcome,” says Magpie. “Are yuh here in the flesh or the spirit, Ike? I was afraid that—cripes!”

He gets around on the windward side and sniffs uh couple uh times and removes his hat.

“Spirit is right!” he snorts. “Did yuh fall out of the boat?”

“Airy persiflage is uncalled for,” I reproves him. “Outside uh you, Magpie, I’m the worst specimen uh blood-curdling bad man what ever entered the portals uh this here hamlet, and I runs you uh dead heat. Sabe? We’re uh God-awful pair, Magpie. Where’s Stonewall?”

“Stonewall’s—never mind where Stonewall is, Ike. Help me put the packs on them burros and I’ll tell yuh what to do.”

“Now,” says he, after the hitches are tied off, “you take ’em up-town where we can get at ’em handy, and then just hang around. Give me back that gun, ’cause nobody knows what’s going to happen.” I obeys him to the letter, and in uh few minutes I’m back in the saloon again, but this time I picks the Tammany, ’cause the bunch seems to all be there.

From the reception I gets I figures that they been telling all about me.

“Was the city marshal to home?” asks High-Card, with uh broad grin. When he grins it looks like uh skyline uh broken brown rocks. “We’re all going down pretty soon and tell him that Whisperin’ Wilson has done busted the law, and that he’s got to arrest him. Haw! Haw! Haw!”

“Haw! haw! haw!” mimics uh squeaky voice at the door, and we all turns quick.

There stands Stonewall Jackson. He’s got uh coat buttoned up tight around his neck and around his waist is uh wide strip of Injun blanket, tied in the back. In one hand he’s holding uh .45 Colt and inside his blanket surcingle is that antiquated muzzle-loader six-gun.

Uh mixture of corn-juice, alkali water and copperas, and the loving influence of the angel would put nerve into anything with ambition enough to pull on uh boot, and I reckon Stonewall just barely qualifies.

He weaves in the doorway for uh minute or two, with the muzzle uh that six-gun elevated just about enough to hit uh man in the stummick, and then he sort uh shakes his head and yelps:

“The —— yuh are! Goin’ to cut my ears off, eh? Bad men—hic—c-c-come to town—wh-e-e-e! Tryin’ to ’timidate marshal uh Spotted Dawg, eh? Nawsir, High-Card, you better keep your hands still! What’s the matter with everybody? Who’s goin’ to start the ball to rolling this evenin’? Take your hats off to Stonewall Jackson—hats off!”

If we’d been trained for weeks we couldn’t have acted quicker.

I knowed danged well that Stonewall couldn’t hit that tree, but also I was sober enough to know that I ain’t no tree. High-Card and Whisperin’ and Tug just stands there like three shepherds at uh funeral, and gawps at the runt. If I hadn’t been right in the line uh fire I’d uh had to laugh. She’s some situation.

“I just come up to—hic—shay to you alleged bad men that I’m resheptive to trouble,” orates Stonewall. “I’m uh bad man from Bitter Crick—me—Stonewall Jackson! Sabe? That’s good! Now you can put on your hats.”

The blame fool lowers his gun and that bunch comes back to life. High-Card’s hat drifts to the floor and his gun comes out smoking. He ain’t more than ten feet from the runt, and he empties his gun square at the poor little devil.

She fogs things up considerable, but when the breeze thins the smoke away, there stands Stonewall as good as new.

“My ——! He’s uh ghost!” howls High-Card, and then Whisperin’s gun begins to spread disaster over the carcass of Stonewall Jackson.

About this time the runt discovers that he’s holding uh gun, so he grasps it in both hands and starts walking toward us and hell is out fer recess. She’s some convention. In order to git out of the line uh lead I starts to vault the bar. My hands slip off as my feet goes over, and I lands so deep into uh spittoon that I can’t get loose, and the wild waves trickle into my eyes, nose and ears. I tries to swim but I immediate and soon drifts on to the rocks, with the result that I turns over, fills and sinks all at the same time.

I can hear the breakers gurgling over the reefs, and when I tries to come to the surface for uh little air, I soon finds that I’m chased by uh man-eating shark, which bites me on the wrist and steps on that sore toe.

By natural instinct I’m of uh peaceful disposition. The Harper tribe is noted for being home-loving, simple tillers uh soil, but, by the muddy Milk River, even uh jack-rabbit will fight when it’s hurt so it can’t seem to reason.

I takes uh blind but hearty swipe at that shark and my fist bounces off that bar so hard that she almost unhooks from my wrist. We goes down in uh whirlpool, and then I discovered that I’m fighting two sharks.

I’m just about to resign myself to fate when I discovers that said sharks are fighting over their prey, so I paddles to the surface and has uh look.

It’s Tug Tilton and the bartender, and they’re sure going some. They gits to their feet, weaves for uh second and then Tug kicks the hooch-handler under the chin, the same uh which would have lifted the roof off uh house.

Tug weaves over and leans again’ the table. He looks like the slim end uh nothing whittled to uh point and his eyes are blank like uh mud-bank. He looks me over sad like and shakes his head.

“I-I-I-I always said I’d die for uh principle,” he mumbles. “And I guess I have, I must uh died with that boat on my mind, ’cause it’s uh cinch they don’t have divers in cow-land.”

He reaches over to see if I’m alive, and uh course he has to bring his big feet along and step on my corn.

I leaned down and felt of his pulse and found it all right. Just uh little slow but safe. Then I swung with all my might. I danged near busted my knuckles. I lays him down beside the bartender, and repeats uh few words which can be found in the Bible, but what I said wasn’t uh direct quotation. Then I starts out to find things.

There seems to be plenty of confusion outside. Being of uh peaceful disposition, I listens until I finds that it’s mostly out in front, and then I goes out the back door. At least I tried to go out. As I unhooks the latch uh piledriver hits me in the wishbone and I goes right back to the center of the saloon once more.

When I awakes I finds that High-Card is setting beside me. He looks like he’d lost everything in his system except the scare part.

We stares into each other’s eyes for uh couple uh weeks, and then he shoves his six-shooter into my face and snaps it twice. Life to me ain’t worth uh tinker’s damn noways, so I don’t even blink. He stares at me and then at the gun.

“Funny thing,” sez he, offhand like, and tosses the gun away.

Uh course he couldn’t possibly have throwed it at anything except that sore foot uh mine.

I goes out uh my way to walk the full length uh his lean carcass, and this time I goes out of the door without mishap.

The magpies is still singing and the sun is setting, but there ain’t uh whole lot uh Springtime in my soul. I limps out into the main street and finds her deserted.

Over by the rack stands Lodestone and Cæsar, slapping flies with their ears, but Spotted Dog seems to be taking uh siesta.

“Maybe she’s dead instead uh sleeping,” says I to myself. There’s one thing yuh can always give the Harper tribe credit for—they looks on the bright side uh things.

“I’m going to get them jacks and go far, far away from here,” says I, still talking to me. “Never again do I mix up in things. If I ever sees uh yacht in uh desert I’m just going to pray for the souls uh men who go down to the desert in ships, and let her go as she lies. From now on I’m meek and mild and uh little child can lead me.”

I’m almost over to them jacks when uh bullet cuts right past my ear and plunks into uh barrel beside me. I don’t even turn my head. What’s one bullet more or less, anyway. I just turns, sort uh careless like, to see what it hit, and I finds myself looking down the muzzle of that five-cylindered relic. Stonewall’s eyes are as big as saucers, and he’s holding that smoke-box in both hands. There’s just about five feet between me and sudden death.

He ain’t the meek-looking Stonewall I used to know. This one has got the wisdom and fright of ages in his face, and also the eyes of uh killer who kills ’cause he’s too danged scared to quit.

“You—you—you—huh——” he whispers, like the croak of uh frog, and then I sees his trigger finger turn white.

Bing! Bang! Fiz-z-z—, Bang! Boom!

I stands there, foolish like, and tries to count the shots. I opines that I’m too dead to skin so what’s the use of getting scared, but it seems funny that I can’t feel the shock uh them bullets. Uh gun that size ought at least make uh feller flinch. Stonewall and me is surrounded with smoke for uh while, and when it drifts away on the breeze we’re both on our feet.

Stonewall has got streaks uh powder grease across his face, and over one eye is uh furrow where something has plowed. He looks at me in uh dazed sort of uh way, and then at the gun on the ground. He picks it up, inspects it minute like, tosses it down and rubs his sore head.

“Cylinder didn’t set right,” he states, tired like. “Blocked the slugs and they all come out the breech.”

“Uh-huh,” I admits. “One good turn deserves another.”

And I kicks that locoed runt right in the wishbone.

Did I say uh while ago that from now on I’m full uh peace and quietude? Good resolutions with me is like my money—I can’t keep ’em. Never before did I kick an animal that didn’t spring uh little and give my foot uh chance, but Stonewall’s wishbone is like the rock of Gibraltar. My right foot is the sore one, and I never thought to kick with my left.

Stonewall looks at me, reproving like, and sets down on uh barrel. I leans against the building and chaws both ends off my mustache while I holds my foot in my hands.

“Hee-e-e-e haw-w-w-w-w!” sings Lodestone, over at the rack, and I sort uh come back to life.

I puts my left heel against Stonewall’s nose and pushes hard, and the last I ever saw of him was his two boots sticking over the top of that barrel. They didn’t even wave. I reckon he’s so near all in that he can’t even wiggle his toes.

I unties the burros and pints ’em out the way we came. Here we goes out of Spotted Dog; Lodestone in the lead, then comes Cæsar and then Ike Harper, limping along with uh gun in one hand and his hat in the other. Some caravan!

About half uh mile them jacks stops sudden like and I looks up. There stands Magpie Simpkins. I’d plumb forgot that such uh person existed. He takes one long look at me and rolls in the dust. He sets there and whoops until the tears runs down his long nose and mingles with the desert sands.

“Haw! Haw! Haw-w-w-w!” he howls.

“Ike, you—haw, haw, haw—danged old pelican, you! Take that—haw, haw, haw—spittoon off your head! Haw! Haw! Haw!”

“Haw!” says I, sort uh mimicking like, and pries the blamed thing loose to the certain loss of half my hair.

Now I know what Tug meant by “diver.”

“Going to shoot something with that gun?” asks Magpie, after the operation is over.

I slings that muzzle-loader off into the greasewood, sets down and rolls uh smoke. I hauls out that two hundred and eighty-seven dollars and splits it fifty-fifty with Magpie.

“Lodestone ain’t such uh bad prospector after all, Ike,” orates Magpie, counting his half, with uh grin.

I rubs my head and removes some of the stains uh conflict off my face with my sleeve.

“Stonewall Jackson,” sez I. “He didn’t kill nobody did he, Magpie?” and Magpie grins and inhales deep on his cigaret.

“Nope. I loaded his shells with dough. I knowed that his old muzzle-loader wouldn’t hit nobody but the person what fired it. I gave him uh pint uh diluted alcohol and uh talk on the glories of married life and he done the rest. Let’s git uh-going, Ike. It’s almost dark and I feels the gnawing pains uh hunger.”

We pilgrims along down the trail for uh while, and then I turns and remarks:

“Magpie, it’s funny that some uh them dead shots didn’t kill that little runt. They sure had plenty uh chances to fill his carcass with lead. I don’t sabe it uh tall—me.”

“Preparedness covers uh lot of deliberate intentions, Ike. Yuh see, them bad, bad men are dead shots—heart shots, so I anticipated their ability and put four cast-iron stove lids inside of Stonewall’s shirt. That’s why he was wearing that blanket girdle—to hold them up. Sabe?”

“That’s what I’d call iron nerve,” says I, and we swings off the trail to uh water-hole.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the December 18, 1917 issue of Adventure magazine.