SIXTEEN TO ONE ON FRIDAY

By W. C. Tuttle

Author of “A Bull Movement in Yellow Horse,”
“Fifty-fifty With Bonnie”, etc.

Back in the dim and distant past, when a certain silvery-voiced orator, later known as the “Grape-juice Spellbinder,” aspired to the highest rung of the political ladder, one of the certain advertising mediums to invade the peaceful atmosphere of Montana was a gloom-dispelling brand of whisky, labeled, “Sixteen to One.”

Its platform was purity and its punch was prodigious. Having more exhilarating qualities than the ordinary mixture of alcohol, copperas, alkali water and chewing tobacco, it gained a certain renown, and was in great demand among the gentry of the range.

A certain saloonkeeper of Paradise, christened Charles Emmett Brady, and known socially as “Hip Shot,” made a specialty of this brand. Hip Shot was not so named for his ability to shoot from the hip. A greaser with too much whisky under his burnt-umber-tinted skin decided to hold pistol-practice in front of Hip Shot’s mirror. The shooting was good, only the greaser didn’t happen to be facing the mirror, and Hip Shot got the bullet in his hip—hence the name.

Hip Shot peddled politics with his hooch. He would put a bottle of the above-named beverage on the bar, square back from it with his left hand shoved in above the fifth button of his greasy vest, wave his free hand in a sweeping gesture, and proclaim:

“Thar she is, boys! Th’ nectar of th’ gods and Willyum Jennin’s. Long may she wave. Hurrah fer Free Silver! Drink hearty, ’cause th’ cellar’s full.”

But it wasn’t always full. One morning Hip Shot wended his wabbling way to his place of business, only to find his cellar empty. Someone had broken in the back door, looted his cellar, and all that was left was an empty whisky-barrel, and nailed to this barrel was a large piece of cardboard, with this inscription written thereon in six-inch letters:

HURRAW FOR McKINLEY

Out back of the saloon were the tracks of a mule team and a wagon, but these were lost where they turned into the traveled road. Hip Shot mourned his loss all the rest of his life. Not so much the loss of the whisky, but the unlimited gall of the person who printed that card got under Hip Shot’s tough skin.

The rest of this tale must be told by Shiner Seymour, as he sat tilted back in the shade of Frenchy Burgoyne’s stage-station and carved out a new bridge for his mandolin.

No, yuh see, me and Friday McGovern wasn’t what you’d exactly call desperate characters. Uh course his name wasn’t Friday no more than mine’s Shiner. He jist happened to come to work fer th’ Bar B on that day of th’ week, and we was plumb out uh nicknames. We had somebody named fer every day of th’ week except Sunday, and, rememberin’ th’ teachin’s of our youth, we aims to keep that day holy by leavin’ it off our list. They used to call them six th’ “Week Bunch,” but there wasn’t nothin’ weak about th’ Bar B in th’ year 1904.

Friday McGovern was about six feet tall, red hair, mustache like uh greaser and uh chin like th’ King of Spain. He only had one vanity—small feet. He allus tried to git his number tens into number nine boots.

Friday’s been makin’ reg’lar trips to Paradise, and I has my suspicions that there’s uh girl in th’ case. Them suspicions git stronger when I finds Friday soakin’ his new boots in th’ hoss-trough to make ’em soft-like.

I never could find out why they calls this town Paradise. If it resembles in any way th’ place what th’ sky pilots tells us about, I can do th’ rest of my sinnin’ with uh satisfied conscience.

One noon Friday comes to me and orates that he’d like to speak privately to me.

“Shiner,” sez he, “I wants yuh to do me uh favor. Will yuh?”

I tells him that I’m willin’ to do anythin’ in th’ favor line from lendin’ him money to takin’ uh shot at th’ sheriff.

“Th’ first I’ve got uh plenty,” he states; plenty meanin’ about forty dollars. “But I may desire th’ last.”

“Meanin’ that yuh wants me to go gunnin’ fer Sheriff Wilmot?”

“Not right at first, Shiner,” sez he. “Yuh see, it’s thisaway. I’m in—uh—I’m aimin’ to marry his daughter, Matilda.”

“Uh-huh,” sez I. “Yuh desires that I remove th’ barrier to yore future happiness. Does th’ ol’ man object that hard, Friday?”

“Danged if I know. I writes him uh letter day afore yesterday, in which I states my desires and I proclaims to appear this evenin’ and fix up th’ details with him. Will yuh go with me, Shiner?”

“Why don’t yuh go right up to him and say, ‘Mister Wilmot, I desires yore daughter in wedlock.’ Jist like that?”

“Because I knowed that—well, dog-gone it, Shiner, uh letter is th’ best I figgers. It sorta gives uh feller time to cool off. Sabe?”

“How does Matilda feel toward yuh, Friday?” I asks.

“Oh, her! She ain’t got nothin’ agin’ me that I knows of. Will yuh go with me?”

I been sorta gittin’ in uh rut, layin’ around th’ ranch and I kinda hankers fer action, so I tells him I’m happy to be of any use on earth. We saddles up uh li’l later on and pilgrims down toward his heart’s desire.

We’re about three miles from Paradise, ridin’ along slow-like, when we sees ol’ Sheriff Wilmot and three other men ridin’ toward us, and every one of them are packin’ uh rifle loose in their hands.

Friday don’t ask no foolish questions. He swings his bronc around and throws in th’ spurs, and li’l Shiner is right with him. As we dips into uh dry gully, I feels th’ wind from uh bullet fan my cheek, but we’re goin’ so fast that th’ report never irritates our ear-drums.

We burns up th’ earth fer about three miles to th’ south fork of th’ Li’l Muddy, where we loses our friends in th’ willers in th’ bottom. We swims our broncs across and cuts into th’ breaks of th’ west side. I don’t remember of uh word bein’ spoken since th’ first shot is fired, but as we slides off our smokin’ broncs, Friday inhales deep-like on his cigaret and wipes th’ sweat off his manly brow.

“My Gawd!” sez he, sad-like. “I don’t believe that ol’ man Wilmot likes me.”

“Well,” sez I, “mebby he don’t, but if he don’t he’s shore tryin’ almighty hard to git somethin’ he don’t like.”

“It ain’t right,” wails Friday, “jist because he don’t cotton to my love proposition ain’t no reason fer him to git up uh posse to hunt me down. Hanged ol’ fossilized, sheep-faced——”

“Don’t! Remember, Friday, he’s her father. No matter how full uh holes he shoots yuh, he’s still her father.”

“It’s real nice of yuh, Shiner,” sez he, “to tell me to remember. I ain’t that danged absent-minded.”

“Now that we understand each other,” sez I, “and while th’ fond parent is still lookin’ in th’ willers for his future son-in-law like Pharaoh’s daughter, suppose yuh tell me what you figger on doin’.”

“Me? I’m goin’ right back to see my Matilda.”

“Yore Matilda! Dog-gone it all, Friday, don’t yuh know when you ain’t wanted? Yore Matilda! Cripes!”

Friday picks up his reins and climbs back into his saddle.

“Shiner,” sez he, “I’ve got to see her before I know whether I’m wanted or not, ain’t I? Mebby th’ ol’ man don’t want me, but yuh got to figger I ain’t goin’ to marry him.”

“Did yuh ever ask Matilda?” I asks, as I forks my bronc.

“Well, not exactly, but I’ve come so danged near it, Shiner, that if she’s got any sabe a-tall she’s plumb wise that I’m matrimonial inclined toward her.”

We pilgrims down th’ west side, and by th’ time we swims our broncs across th’ river it’s plumb dark. I’m glad it is ’cause I don’t hanker none to be seen in Friday’s company—not by th’ sheriff.

We circles th’ town and rides slow up to Wilmot’s gate.

“You stay out here, Shiner,” sez he. “Yell if yuh need help. I’m goin’ in to see where I stands.”

There’s uh lamp burnin’ in th’ front room, and I can hear Matilda playin’ “Lead, Kindly Light” on th’ organ. Friday has gone around to th’ back door, and pretty soon th’ “Kindly Light” flickers out, and I hears voices sorta dronin’ like behind th’ house.

Friday comes sneakin’ back in about five minutes and gits back on his bronc. He looks over toward th’ town and then “Come on,” sez he, and he leads me out into th’ dark, away from Paradise and further from our downy beds at th’ Bar B. Th’ lights of th’ town die out before he pulls up his hoss and looks back.

“Shiner,” sez he sorta sad-like, “what color is yore bronc?”

“My bronc? Th’ one I’m ridin’?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Pinto, yuh color-blind maverick!”

“What’s mine?”

“Light sorrel.”

“And you packs uh .38 six-gun?”

“Uh-huh.”

“My Gawd! Lissen, Shiner. Early this afternoon th’ Wind River stage was held up by two fellers who rode uh pinto and uh light sorrel. One uh them shoots Mike Evans, th’ driver, three times with uh .38. Nobody at th’ Bar B knows when we left there. They answers our descriptions. Wore masks of course.”

“Why worry?” sez I. “We didn’t do it, Friday.”

“Thanks,” sez Friday. “That’s cheerin’ news, Shiner, but it won’t put no ray of light into my soul if I has to stand on nothin’ and look up uh rope. When mornin’ comes we shore got to be uh long ways away from here, and I knows jist th’ place to go. Remember that li’l cabin we found hid away in th’ brush at th’ head of Blue Joint Cañon? I’ll bet that ol’ man Wilmot never heard of it, and we won’t starve either.”

“How do yuh know we won’t? There ain’t nothin’ to eat there.”

Friday laughs and tells me to come on.

It’s daylight when we angles around th’ head of th’ cañon and rides up to th’ cabin. This li’l cabin shore is cached away. Yuh has to almost stumble on it before yuh finds it, and if yuh stand on th’ roof yuh can see th’ railroad what connects Paradise with th’ civilized world. Th’ track is about two miles away.

We unsaddles and puts our broncs in th’ corral behind th’ cabin and goes inside. I’m hungry enough to eat th’ bark off uh tree.

“I reckon th’ stuff is still here,” grins Friday.

He walks to th’ back of th’ cabin and begins to take up uh section of th’ puncheon floor. It’s dark in th’ place but we can see that there is sort of uh cellar.

Friday gits down on his knees and pokes under th’ floor. He gits hold of uh box which falls apart some easy, but he gits it out on th’ floor where it busts up complete, disclosin’ twelve quarts of whisky! “Bottled in Bond, Spring of 1896. SIXTEEN TO ONE.”

Friday stares at th’ bottles fer uh minute and then digs deeper into th’ cellar. More hooch. Box after box he unearths until our cabin looks like th’ storeroom of uh booze factory. Th’ last thing he brings up is uh keg uh brandy, th’ same of which he uses fer uh chair, and rolls uh smoke.

“Well,” sez I, “while I appreciates yore hospitality, Friday, you shore misunderstood me if yuh thought I said I was dry. I said I was hungry enough to——”

“Huh!” he grunts. “Don’t try to be sarcastic when yore surrounded by spirits, Shiner. Any outlaw what packs uh .38 gun ain’t noways fit to despise real likker.”

“’Pears to me it’s open season on sarcasm,” I replies. “When did you steal all this hooch?”

Friday rolls another cigaret and knocks th’ top off uh bottle. He does uh li’l stargazin’ and wipes his lips.

“That ain’t so awful bad, Shiner—help yoreself. I never stole anythin’. I’ll tell yuh how I knows about this cache. When I was over to Helena this Spring I runs across an ol’ jasper who used to sabe this range uh heap. Strongest Republican I ever heard talk politics. One evenin’ after he recites th’ tariff and th’ Congressional Record into my willin’ ear, we gits to talkin’ about this country, and I tells him about this cabin. I remarks that it would make uh dandy hangout fer rustlers. He listens deeply, and after I gits through he says: ‘If yuh ever are in real need, go to that cabin and take up th’ floor at th’ rear. There’s uh fine cache uh canned goods and yore welcome to it.’ Dog-gone it, I thought he meant grub, Shiner.”

“Oh, well,” sez I satisfied-like, pryin’ th’ cork out of uh fresh bottle, “he meant well and I forgives him for makin’ uh misleadin’ statement. I don’t seem to hanker fer eats now.”

Right that evenin’ I forms uh strong friendship fer Friday McGovern. I loves him like uh brother. In fact I’m so attached to him that I sleeps with my head on his bosom.

It was th’ grayest mornin’ I ever saw. There’s uh strong smell of hooch in th’ cabin, and I seems to have accumulated uh headache and uh feelin’ of extreme lassitude. Friday wakes up and announces that his feelin’s runs mine uh dead heat.

“Shiner,” sez he sorta sad-like, “I know now jist how my ol’ daddy used to feel. I used to laugh when he gits up in th’ mornin’ and can’t seem to locate his mouth.”

“You tells me oncet that yore daddy was uh preacher,” sez I.

“Ke-rect. I’m speakin’ now of when he was on his vacation. Father was what you’d call uh human bein’. Will yuh have uh li’l snifter uh booze fer an appetizer, Mister Seymour?”

Not havin’ anythin’ to eat, we decides to drown our hunger. My appetite goes down fer th’ third time inside one quart, and in uh short time we’re recountin’ our trials and tribulations with great cheer.

“I wonder if Daddy Wilmot is still pokin’ around in th’ willers fer his prospective son-in-law?” laughs Friday. “Also I wonder if Matilda——”

“Lissen, Friday. If I was you I’d go light on that booze. Bein’ in love that-away uh feller is liable to overestimate his capacity. Thinkin’ of Matilda sorta makes yore heart come up in yore throat, and gives that much more room fer yore stummick. When yore insides git back to normal yuh finds yoreself fuller than uh wood-tick.”

“Tha’s so,” he agrees, solemnly. “I—uh—cripes, Shiner, I jist remembers that them broncs been out there in that ol’ corral all night without uh bite to eat. I reckon I better see about ’em, eh? Goo’ ol’ light sorrel.”

Friday weaves out of th’ door and around th’ corner, but he don’t no more than git out uh sight before I hears him grunt “My Gawd!” and he’s right back in like uh prairie-dog dodgin’ uh bullet. He leans agin’ th’ door fer uh minute and then reaches over and gits uh full bottle uh hooch.

Smash! That perfectly good likker splashes over th’ floor and he reaches fer another bottle. I beats him to it and grabs him by th’ vest.

“What’s th’ matter?” I asks.

“Gosh A’mighty!” he mumbles, tryin’ to git loose, and reachin’ fer another bottle. “Smash all of it, Shiner! Don’t drink ’nother drop! Jis’ saw uh-uh geewhinkus!”

“You recognizes it to be such?” I asks.

“Absolutely. Thish is fiersh. Geewhinkus is comin’ ’round th’ head of th’ cañon, and when he sees me he shoves out his ears and——”

“Does it usually carry ’em outa sight?” I asks. “Set down and let th’ pain-killer alone while Uncle Fuller classifies said ani-mile. I’d admire to see uh geewhinkus—me.”

I walks outside and goes half-way around th’ corner and—then I ambles right back again. I wasn’t gone long.

Sufferin’ caterpillars! What I seen was uh plenty. Right on th’ bank of that cañon stands uh critter that nothin’ but uh disordered mind could conceive. There’s about seventeen feet uh spotted neck stickin’ out of uh mesquite, and when it sees me it leans forward like th’ crane of uh steam-shovel. Did I stop to classify it? I did not!

“Yuh—yuh sees it too, eh?” whoops Friday, puttin’ his arms around my neck and rubbin’ his long nose in my ear.

“Too!” I snorts, breakin’ th’ clinch. “Why dog-gone it, Friday, you didn’t see nothin’! Put that bottle down! What yuh tryin’ to do—start uh mee-nagerie?”

“Well,” sez Friday, grinnin’ like uh halfbreed, “I’m glad yuh saw it. Now yuh can’t say I was lyin’.”

“Friday, you ain’t got enough imaginations to do uh good job uh lyin’. Geewhinkus! Dad-bust it, Friday McGovern, don’t you know uh speckled whangdoodle when yuh sees one?”

“That whisky must be mixed. I states without reservations that what I sees wasn’t uh whangdoodle, and moreover and otherwise, Shiner, it wasn’t speckled—it was striped.”

Jist then we hears uh rattle of busted poles at th’ back of th’ cabin, uh bronc squeals sorta hysterical-like, and we rushes to th’ door. Right past th’ cabin comes uh pinto hoss and uh light sorrel, and they seems to consider th’ case some urgent. We watches ’em out uh sight and looks foolishly at each other.

“Oh, lovely!” sez Friday, cryin’ on my bosom. “All th’ world seems brighter and th’ flowers are singin’ and—don’t yuh git it, Shiner? There goes th’ evidence.”

“Yes,” sez I, “I git it. I also gits th’ first-hand information that it’s about two days’ walk back to th’ dinin’-room of th’ Bar B. Th’ birds shore are in bloom, Friday. Go and do yore cryin’ in th’ waterbucket.”

“Walkin’,” pronounces Friday, “don’t appeal to my finer sensibilities, but I’d rather have blisters than hemp pizen.”

We goes back in th’ cabin and sets down. Friday aims to set down on his private brandy-keg, but his sights are uh li’l off and he misses it by uh foot. He rolls uh cigaret and ponders deeply before he thinks out loud—

“I wonder if my Matilda is thinkin’ of me now.”

“I hope so,” sez I. “Not wishin’ her any bad luck, but it wouldn’t seem right fer uh nice-lookin’ feller like you to not have somebody thinkin’ of him.”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Friday. “I feels that in th’ great game of love I’m—my Gawd!” When Friday starts that sentence I sees his eyes git bigger and bigger and his voice trails off to uh li’l squeak, and his concludin’ exclamation was like uh whisper in church.

I turns and looks to see what he’s starin’ at. There’s uh li’l window at th’ rear of th’ cabin, th’ glass of which is long departed, and somebody has made uh li’l door with strap hinges which opens from th’ inside.

That door is open, and th’ dangdest-lookin’ face in th’ whole world is lookin’ into our bood-wah. I can’t describe jist what it looks like to me. Th’ under lip of th’ thing appeals to me more than any other feature, and I reckon it did to Friday, too, ’cause after uh good long look he turns to me and foolishly remarks—

“Anything with uh droop like that ought to wear suspenders.” And then he comes to himself and starts to git scared.

Th’ longer he looks at th’ animule th’ wider his eyes git, and his long chin dangles to th’ top button of his vest. Finally he can’t stand it no longer. He lets out uh whoop that would win him a head-dress in th’ Piegan tribe, and goes through the front door like uh shot.

I quits makin’ faces at th’ monstrosity in th’ window long enough to observe Friday’s movements. He lights on his knees, slides along fer uh spell, and then lights back on his feet at th’ side of his geewhinkus. Honest to grandma! Talk about uh wolf in sheep’s clothing. This looks to me like uh burro in tiger’s clothing.

I reckon if uh man gits scared enough he’ll tackle anythin’, ’cause when Friday lands on his feet and sees that convict jackass beside him, he jist lets out another of them yelps and forks th’ blamed thing.

Mebby it was th’ critter of uh delerious brain, but jist th’ same Friday locks his long legs around that striped belly and away they goes, buckin’ and bawlin’ down th’ side of th’ cañon.

I rolls uh cigaret and ponders deep on th’ failin’s uh mankind. Not too deep, ’cause nobody can git their thoughts connected with uh face like that lookin’ on, so I hits it dead center with uh quart uh Sixteen to One and shuts th’ window.

Mebby I’d have been better off if I’d have shut th’ door first, ’cause when I turns around, there stands th’ same animile or its mate lookin’ in th’ door.

Mebby I was as scared as Friday was or mebby I jist lost my head, ’cause th’ next thing I knowed I was outside and runnin’ long side of th’ thing. Not carin’ much for th’ manly art of foot-racin’, I manages to git uh holt on th’ critter’s neck and climbs aboard.

It’s like tryin’ to stick on uh steer with uh pack on his back. Some of th’ time I’m up on its long neck, and then I takes uh trip to th’ rear, behind th’ hump, but no matter where I rode we went some. Th’ shifts didn’t seem to bother it none. I never rode anythin’ with uh gait like that. Feels to me like uh pacin’ hoss with th’ blind staggers.

I reckon we’re gone about uh mile down th’ cañon when I unloads. Yuh see, I was on th’ observation end when this hanglipped animile decides to hit uh curve, and I don’t curve a-tall.

“Aw-revoah!” sez I, as I hits th’ edge of uh clay-bank and sprawls gracefully to th’ bottom.

“And — Satan came also,” quotes uh voice, and I looks up to see Friday on th’ other side of th’ pit, diggin’ clay out of his ears. He’s uh sight.

“Seems to be uh popular stoppin’-place,” sez I. “Where’s yore geewhinkus?”

Friday quits diggin’ long enough to grin and state:

“That blasted penitenchery mewl has went. Fer high and handsome buckin’ I takes off my hat to that thing, Shiner. Either I’m drunk as uh hoot-owl or I’ve rode th’ buckinest thing ever foaled. I sticks like uh man until it starts pinwheelin’. It hops into th’ air and turns over four times, and I’m there unto th’ third revolution. This clay-pit was handy but nasty.”

“I reckon yore drunk, Friday,” I states. “Th’ thing I rides didn’t have to buck. Th’ gait of th’ thing was worse than any bucker on earth. Nothin’ on th’ earth could have stuck on if it wants to buck.”

“Uh-huh,” sez Friday, rollin’ uh smoke. “I reckon we’re both drunk. There was too blasted much politics distilled in that stuff. I’m goin’ to climb right out uh this place and see if I can find—git down! Here comes th’ posse.”

We climbs up and peeks over th’ edge of th’ pit and sees some riders comin’ up through th’ mesquite. We can’t see how many. We slides down to th’ bottom and hugs th’ bank. We hears ’em comin’ along and they swings into th’ thick brush above our hidin’-place.

All to oncet we hears ’em stop suddenlike, and then one uh them yells “Holy smoke!” And then th’ convention is called to order.

Bim! Blang! I hears two six-guns pop, uh bronc whistles like somebody was brandin’ th’ map of Texas on its hide, and then th’ privacy of our li’l mud-pit is invaded.

I don’t reckon that them broncs know about this clay-bank, but from th’ way they piles over th’ edge I don’t reckon they cares uh lot either.

Me and Friday rolls as far as possible from th’ strife, and after th’ mud quits failin’ we gazes upon th’ disaster. Over by th’ far bank stands uh light sorrel hoss, with th’ saddle under its belly, th’ reins looped around its hind feet and uh wild look in its eyes.

Th’ other bronc, which we decipher to be uh pinto, is on its side, half-way down th’ bank, and is makin’ good use of its wind and legs tryin’ to slide th’ rest of th’ way.

One of th’ riders is jack-knifed in th’ bottom of th’ pit and th’ other is layin’ flat on his back with his boots stickin’ up th’ bank. Sort of uh careless attitude.

Neither uh them riders is showin’ signs uh life, so me and Friday rolls fresh smokes and deliberates. After a while Friday walks over and picks uh gun out of th’ mud. He looks it over and shoves it in his pocket.

“Thirty-eight,” sez he. “I reckon we’ve captured th’ bandits.”

“Yes,” I agrees, “we shore have. I reckon we ought to git medals fer our good work. It took uh lot uh schemin’, Friday.”

“Never look uh gift hoss in th’ mouth, Shiner. That’s what my ol’ daddy said when th’ bunch down to Maverick gives him twenty minutes to get out of th’ place.”

“Was he holdin’ services there, Friday?”

“No, he—he was takin’ his vacation. Yuh see, he—gosh, here comes some more folks!”

Somebody is comin’ up th’ gulch on hosses, and from th’ noise they’re makin’ they shore are in uh hurry. We tries to git up th’ bank to flag ’em, but it’s too slick and we jist skees back to th’ bottom. Jist when I fills my lungs to yell out that we’re down in th’ washout, we hears some cussin’ in about six different voices, and Zowie! uh bronc busts through th’ mesquite, and before we has time to clear th’ track we has another mess of man and hoss in th’ bottom of our li’l clay-pit.

“Our popularity increases!” whoops Friday. “If this keeps up I’m goin’ to have this pit platted and sell town lots.” We hauls th’ rider from under th’ hoss, leans him up agin’ th’ bank and gloms th’ clay out of his features. His eyes open and he stares at Friday.

“How’s Matilda?” asks Friday.

“Tolable, Friday, tolable,” sez ol’ man Wilmot, th’ sheriff. “What have I got into? I—er—huh”—He spits out uh chew of perfectly good moist clay and looks at th’ other two on th’ ground and at th’ broncs. “Well, by th’ ha’r on uh fool-hen, if there ain’t th’ pair of them! How’d yuh do it?”

“We’d rather not tell, eh, Shiner?” sez Friday. “Yuh see, Mister Wilmot, me and Shiner—well, there’s th’ men yuh want. We figgers that you’ll be along pretty soon so we don’t even tie ’em up.”

Th’ sheriff goes over and inspects th’ pair. They’re still in th’ land of th’ livin’ but they ain’t fussin’ about it. We helps all th’ live-stock on their feet and then sets down and enjoys uh smoke.

“Where’s yore posse?” asks Friday.

“My posse! By th’ ha’r on th’—huh, I plumb forgot ’em. We was all ridin’ up th’ cañon, and we figgers that we’re on uh red-hot trail. All to oncet our hosses goes plumb loco at somethin’. I reckon it was uh bear. ’Pears to me that I was th’ only one what was pointed this way. Yes sir, it must ’a’ been uh bear.”

“Shore,” I agrees. “Must ’a’ been, ’cause that’s th’ only thing in th’ hills that would scare uh bronc thataway.”

“Sheriff,” sez Friday, “did yuh ever hear of whisky called ‘Sixteen to One’?”

Th’ ol’ man scratches his head fer uh minute and then grins all over his face.

“Gosh!” sez he. “I shore have. Reminds me of Hip Shot Brady and his political orations. Boys, somewheres in these hills is uh hooch cache, and if anybody ever finds it they’ll have one hy-iu time. I’ll bet by this time that stuff would give uh man th’ finest collection of animiles on earth. Where did you hear of Sixteen to One, Friday?”

“Yes, it shore would,” agrees Friday, turnin’ his face away and gazin’ up th’ cañon, “it would—oh, my daddy brought some. That is, he tol’ me about it.”

“His father was uh preacher,” I explains.

“Name of McGovern?” asks Wilmot.

“No,” sez Friday. “Yuh see, his folks didn’t want him to be uh preacher so he traveled under another name. Different one in each town.”

“Well,” sez th’ sheriff, “some people are queer thataway. I reckon we better tie these stick-up artists on their broncs and be on our way. You fellers can ride behind ’em—that is if th’ broncs don’t object.”

“I never questions uh bronc’s desires,” states Friday.

“Me and Shiner can ride anything yuh can put uh rope on, can’t we, Shiner?”

“Why qualify yore statement by sayin’ ‘ropes’?” sez I.

We ropes them fellers on their broncs, and climbs up with ’em. Uh course no self-respectin’ bronc likes to carry two grown men, but there’s too much weight to make buckin’ uh pleasure so they gits plumb docile in uh few minutes. We tops th’ far side of th’ cañon and stops to look around, but there ain’t nobody in sight.

“My posse is vanished,” sez th’ sheriff. “I reckon they all know th’ way home, so we won’t worry. I forgot to tell you boys that there’s uh thousand dollars reward fer these two clay-spotted hombres. I reckon yuh won’t have no trouble in collectin’ it.”

“Thanks,” sez Friday. “How’s Ma—til——”

“Tolable,” grins Wilmot. “I comes near gittin’ these two fellers last night. I surrounds ’em in th’ willers up on th’ south fork, but they gits away. I’m up there in th’ cold all night. Dog-gone, I reckon if I’d have got sight of ’em I’d shore have punctured somebody. They has th’ gall to ride right out in th’ open, and not over three miles from Paradise. What do yuh know about that?”

“Hardened characters,” I agrees, and Friday burns most all th’ ha’r off one side of his dinky li’l mustache tryin’ to smoke uh lighted match after he throws away his cigaret.

“Say, where’s yore own hosses?” asks th’ sheriff. “I never thought about them.”

“I don’t know,” replies Friday, truthfully. “They wasn’t camp broke and leaves us last night.”

We cuts into th’ wagon road about five miles from Paradise, and meets Barney Metcalf and Hugh Mercer, of th’ Flying M outfit. They’re dustin’ along in uh buckboard, and stops to talk. We explains what we got with us and they congratulates us uh heap.

“We been over to Silver Bend,” states Barney. “Left our rig in Paradise and pilgrims down there on th’ train. We aimed to see th’ circus, but th’ danged thing got wrecked some place and ain’t showed up yet. We had to come home. Anyway, it wasn’t nothin’ but a animile show.”

“That’s all,” agrees Hugh. “But dad blast th’ luck! I did want to see that one-humped camule, th’ zeebray and that sixteen-foot ji-raff.”

“Aw, them folks allus says they got somethin’ they ain’t,” grumbles th’ sheriff. “I never seen half th’ things that they advertise in circuses.”

“These people are re-liable,” states Friday. “I know.”

“Well, mebby,” agrees Barney, gatherin’ up his lines. “So-long, boys.”

“Say,” yells Friday, “where did yuh say that wreck was?”

“I didn’t say,” replies Barney, “but I hears that it’s some place between Paradise and Silver Bend.”

“Exactly,” sez Friday.

We ambles along fer uh spell and then ol’ man Wilmot sez:

“That makes me remember that Matilda tells me that you two fellers had gone down to see th’ circus day before yesterday. She speaks of it late last night—or rather this mornin’ early after I gits back from th’ south fork.”

“God bless—shore we did intend to,” sez I, “but when we finds out that it’s nothin’ but a animile show we decides not to. Yuh see, sheriff, me and Friday ain’t noways partial to animiles.”

“Did yuh ever see uh geewhinkus or uh whangdoodle, sheriff?” asks Friday.

“Not to my certain knowledge, Friday. I’ve seen most everythin’, drunk or sober, but I never seen th’ things yuh mention,” laughs th’ sheriff.

“Was yuh ever almighty drunk?” asks Friday.

“Not so very,” grins th’ sheriff.

“Well,” sez I, “you never seen ’em then.”

We was dog-gone glad when we ambles into Paradise and down to th’ li’l jail on th’ outskirts of town. It ain’t no cinch to ride behind uh saddle and hang on to uh half-dead outlaw, especially when yore so danged hungry yuh could eat th’ horn off uh cow.

Th’ prisoners don’t seem to take no interest in th’ trip a-tall, but jist as we gits in sight of th’ jail th’ one which I’m chaperonin’ sorta comes to and looks me in th’ face. He reaches up and picks out uh gob uh clay which is still stickin’ in between his eye and his nose, rolls it in his fingers slow-like and then sez to me in uh sort of uh mumble—

“It had uh-uh-uh neck—twenty—feet long.”

“Uh-huh,” sez I. “Go back to sleep and don’t worry. It can’t bother yuh where yore goin’.”

“I was sober, too,” he whispers.

“Don’t feel bad about it,” I whispers right back at him. “I wasn’t.”

We puts them outlaws into th’ jail and sends fer ol’ Doc Milliken. Th’ sheriff gives us th’ broncs to ride home on and we starts out fer th’ restaurant to make up fer lost time.

“Come down tomorrow, boys, and we’ll fix up about that reward!” yells th’ sheriff. “And also, Friday, yuh might come down and see how Matilda is yoreself. Haw! Haw! Haw!”

“Ain’t he th’ ol’ cuss?” chuckles Friday, searchin’ fer his sack uh smokin’. “Ain’t he, Shiner? Dog-gone his ol’ hide, I love him. Funny ol’ cuss in his way, but I reckon we’re all queer some ways. Foxy ol’ feller, Shiner. Did yuh notice that he never mentioned gittin’ that let—my Gawd!”

Friday has been friskin’ all of his pockets fer that sack uh tobacco, and he happens to reach into th’ inside pocket of his vest. He pulls out an envelope, looks foolish-like at it fer uh minute or two and then tears it up and scatters it along th’ trail. When they’re all gone I hands him his pack of tobacco. He rolls uh smoke sorta thoughtful-like and lights up.

“Shiner,” sez he, “I got uh danged rotten memory, but I’m glad of it. That communication I jist tears up nets us jist five hundred apiece, and probably saves my life.

“If th’ sheriff got that letter about th’ time that hold-up is pulled off—well, I’m glad fer my sake that he never got it. Mebby he won’t let me marry her anyway.”

“Not wishin’ to pose as uh sure thing gambler, Friday,” sez I, “but from th’ present indications, yore chances look to me like about Sixteen to One. Want to bet?”

“Not on your whangdoodle!” sez Friday.

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, May 1917

Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net).