                         TIED UP FOR TOMBSTONE
                            by W. C. Tuttle
        Author of “Loco or Love,” “Making Good for Muley,” etc.

“Lodestone, you flea-bitten, long-eared ancestor of a jack-rabbit, take
a look at the best place the Lord ever made, and rejoice with me.”

Lodestone wiggles his ears, kicks at a hoss-fly, narrowly missing my
head, and looks with sad eyes down at the city of Piperock. Then he goes
to sleep. Which shows that a burro ain’t got no finer feelings.

We been away for quite a while—me and Lodestone. We pilgrims up the
Bitter Root range to where old Blue Nose sticks into the clouds, crosses
over and pilgrims back the other side, all of which takes up several
months, and don’t net me nothing but blisters and blasphemy.

I misses “Magpie” Simpkins a heap, and I welcomes the day when I can
shake the hand of that long, loose-jointed hombre. Magpie is one of the
leading citizens of Piperock, and until a few months ago, my pardner.

When I left to make my fortune he was setting there in his office—Magpie
is the sheriff—and wondering how he can square things with the populace
to get reelected.

He’s of the lodge-pole type, and wears a goodly length of hair on his
upper lip. He pleads with me not to leave him but for once in my life I
turns a deaf ear to his siren voice, and herds my burro out of hearing.

Piperock ain’t what a stranger would call a paradise on earth, and she
don’t qualify for the milk and honey, but she’s a man’s town—all up and
down the street.

Me and Lodestone pilgrims through the dust up to “Buck” Masterson’s
saloon, and I goes inside. Buck and “Tellurium” are there, and they
welcomes me like a lost brother. Buck salutes me with the proper
ingredients, and we exchanges pleasantries.

After we sort of gets used to each other again Buck hauls out a sheet of
paper, and smooths it out on the bar.

“Take a look at that, Ike,” says he. “There’s something new.”

I sizes her up. It’s what resembles a newspaper—in some respects—but I
can’t seem to read it none to speak of. The label across the top
resembles this—

                           TOLIP KCOREPIP EHT

The rest of the page is smears and blots.

“Looks like a Russian proclamation, Buck,” says I. “Where did it come
from?”

“Right here, Ike; that ex-pardner of yours published it.”

“Magpie?” I asks, and they both nods. “That’s his first edition,”
replies Buck. “He took over the office when a few of the local boys ran
the editor across the border for slandering the community. That paper
invades this here country about a month after you leaves, and she runs
high along until the editor gets a call to uplift the community.
Yesterday he beat the posse across the line, and Magpie gets out his
maiden sheet. This here feller speaks feelingly of lawlessness, and even
goes so far as to make personal remarks about our morals. What he said
about the town of Paradise was awful.”

“Is Magpie still sheriff?” I asks.

“Uh-huh,” admits Tellurium, who ain’t friendly with Magpie. “Abe
Anderson was running against him, and had a grand chance to win, but
Abe’s old weakness crops up and spoils things.”

“Abe seen a chance to run off some Circle Star cows,” explains Buck. “He
runs foul of Magpie and three of the Circle Star punchers, and when they
gets through convincing him that, ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ he ain’t in
shape to use votes. Magpie races alone and is elected by five votes.”

“Well, well,” says I, “a few months sure does change the map. I’ll go
down and see if that benighted son of a lodge-pole don’t need some
help.”

I prods Lodestone down the street to where I sees a sign, which
proclaims there’s a newspaper office. I hitches my rolling stock and
goes inside. Magpie is there. All I can see is the bottom of his boots,
the seat of his pants and his elbows—the rest of him is behind a
newspaper, as he leans back in a chair, with his feet on the table.

I leans against the table and rolls a smoke. He glances at me, switches
his cigaret over to the other side of his mouth, and goes on trying to
read. I say “trying to read” for the reason that he’s got a paper he
printed himself.

Pretty soon he yawns and lays the paper across his knees.

“Ike,” says he, “that’s some paper.”

“Some ink, too, if that’s anything to brag about,” I replies. “When did
you learn to write Russian? Maybe it’s Chinook with the blind staggers,
Magpie, but anyway she’s a terrible language. What does them big letters
at the top proclaim?”

“That? Huh! _The Piperock Pilot_!”

“Won’t the letters run the other way, Magpie?”

“I reckon they would, Ike, but how in —— am I going to know what she
reads? It’s a danged sight easier for the public to read the print
backwards than it is for me to read the type thataway. I’m glad to see
yuh, Ike.”

“Still follering the line of least resistance, eh, Magpie? I’m glad to
see you, too.”

“Accumulate anything on your trip, Ike?”

“Wood-ticks, fool-hens and a growing conviction that rich rock is
scarce. How’s things at the sheriff’s office?”

“Tolable, Ike. Won by a narrow majority. I reckon if Abe had ’a’ lived
we’d needed a recount. Lot of folks voted for him after he was dead.”

“They would,” I agrees. “Lot of folks around here ain’t got no more
ambition than to vote for a corpse. How comes it you’re a editor? Has
all the bad-men died off or has a moral wave hit Piperock?”

“I always been a critter of circumstance, Ike,” he states, unfolding his
long legs, and easing his gun handy-like. “I always been a disciple of
advance, and I’ve worn all the skin off my shoulder trying to give the
wheels of progress a lift. At times them wheels have slipped and
sprained my immediate future, but I never peeped.

“When this here misguided editor fades across the horizon, me, being
sheriff, appropriates this here plant and opines to run it as a public
institution. There’s twenty-five sheets of paper left and one can of
ink. My first edition takes twelve sheets, and I hereby claims that a
man, without no experience, what can rise to the occasion and put out a
paper like that is a credit to the community.”

“Didn’t you have trouble finding all them letters, Magpie?”

“Trouble? Say, the ends of my fingers are so tender I can hold out my
hands and feel the sun slide behind the hills. The next publication is
problematical, Ike. I’m short of material, but I only figures on one
more issue. I got a article set up, and I can’t publish until the time
is ripe.”

“Something special?”

“Uh-huh. ‘Tombstone’ Todd’s obituary.”

“From Wilier Crick?” I asks, and Magpie nods.

“Uh-huh. Him and ‘Cactus’ Collins comes over here to help elect Abe
Anderson, being as Abe was a relative. When Abe departs this here vale
of tears they up and proclaims they’re a pair of howling wolves, and
that they’re a permanent fixture around here until such a time as they
lays me on my back and gestures over me with a spade. Awful pair of
gobblers, Ike.”

“Why not an obituary for Cactus, too, Magpie?”

“He’s hiding out until such a time as his stummick is normal, Ike. He
horns in on me yesterday, and gets pessimistic to my face. I’m busy on
that obituary and don’t like to be interrupted, so I beats him on the
draw, accepts his gun as a subscription and induces him to eat a bucket
of paste. Awful smelling mess, Ike. I’d opine that as far as my future
horoscope is concerned his lips are sealed.”

“Thirteen sheets and one obituary will be something to print,” says I.
“Has Tombstone made any advances?”

“Once. I was standing over there by the window, holding up one of them
dinguses what contains type, when a bullet comes along and hits her
plumb center. She collapses right there and ruins things. Some of that
lead type enters my bosom, and for the space of a foot square on my
manly chest I looks like a smallpox patient. This idea of being a man of
letters ain’t no prosaic pastime, Ike.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Just then “Scenery” Sims darkens our doorway. Scenery is knee-high to a
short Injun, and his voice hankers for oil. He looks mean-like at me and
Magpie, and chaws some industrious. Pretty soon he expectorates
copiously on the floor, and orates—

“Want to quit taking the paper.”

Magpie snaps out his gun and covers Scenery.

“Get down on your knees and wipe out that —— spot!” snorts Magpie. “What
do yuh think this is—a corral?”

“I—uh—” begins Scenery, but the gun don’t waver, so he takes the
handkerchief off his neck, and scrubs our floor.

“This is a newspaper office, Scenery,” states Magpie. “You can’t start
your oration with a cloud-burst in here. Sabe? What you got against the
paper, and why for don’t yuh wish it no more?”

“I can’t read her,” he squeaks. “She’s too backward to suit me. Of
course I—uh—well, send her along, and I’ll—uh—do the best I can. I got
to go now.”

He slips out with his hat in his hand, and lopes off up the street.

“That’s business, Ike,” laughs Magpie. “I’m going to make ’em like it.”

“When yuh had the drop on him yuh ought to ’a ’collected in advance for
another year,” says I. “You sure need a manager, Magpie, for _The
Piperock Pilot, Limited_—to thirteen sheets and a death notice.”

“Howdy, gents,” states a voice at the door. “Is this the only newspaper
in town?”

That person is a novelty in cowland. He stands there, exuding perfume
and prosperity from his Sunday clothes. We looks him over, from his
shiny shoes to his hard hat, wonders at his pink cheeks, which match his
necktie, and both nods.

“You answers your own question, stranger,” states Magpie. “We sure got a
monopoly on all news hereabouts. Want to subscribe?”

He ambles over and sets down on a stool and looks the place over. He
takes off his hat, balances it on his knee, and produces some sheets of
paper.

“What’s your amusement rates?” he asks. “Half-page—maybe full.”

Magpie rolls a fresh smoke and studies the feller.

“Well,” he drawls, “the person who operates here ahead of me makes a
fixed price of three dollars for six months, but I don’t sabe no case in
which he split the size. I don’t guarantee to amuse nobody. I’ll be
honest with yuh, though. This here paper is on its last legs, but I’ll
danged near guarantee one more issue, and if yuh hankers for it I’ll put
yuh down for one copy at four-bits.”

“You misunderstood me,” he grins, “I mean advertising rates. I’m ahead
of ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’”

He puts his hat back on his head, and shuffles them sheets of paper:

“We are bringing to your town the greatest aggregation of stars that
ever glowed over one set of footlights. Two _Evas_, two _Topsies_, three
fee-rocious bloodhounds and eight—”

_Splang!_

The side window spills its panes over the place, and this person’s hat
flips off his head, and lands in my lap, while a chunk of lead bores a
neat hole in the wall behind the stranger. He freezes right there.

Magpie slips his gun across his lap, settles down a little lower in his
chair, and lights his cigaret. I hands the hat back to its owner, and
slides my chair a few inches further back.

“Eight what?” asks Magpie.

“Ca-ca-cakes of ice,” he quavers, examining his hat. “My ——! Was that
a—a—bullet?”

Magpie nods and scratches his chin.

“Bullet?” he wonders again. “Did—did somebody shoot at me?”

“Nope,” says Magpie. “At me. What yuh going to do with the ice?”

He looks at Magpie for a minute, and then gasps—

“At a—a time like this?”

He tucks his hat under his arm, sneaks to the door, and goes around the
corner so fast his coat simply cracks.

Magpie slips his gun loose and spins the cylinder, hitches up his belt
and yawns:

“Ike, I ain’t got nothing to prove who it was but I has the feeling that
Tombstone is going too danged far. There’s such a thing as personal
animosity, but when yuh bust into a man’s business and cause him
financial loss it’s time to start a probe. That show person was about to
help us pay our overhead expenses, but now he’s gone gun-shy.

“I hereby deputizes you to operate this here plant, while I fulfils the
obligations of my oath concerning public nuisances. You got plenty of
ammunition, Ike?”

“I ain’t no editor, Magpie,” I objects. “I can’t even sign my own name
so folks can read it.”

“Sign mine,” says he. “You’re editor _pro tempore_. Sabe?” And then he
slips out of the door.

I looks around, casual-like, places my .41 beside me on a chair, and
sets down out of line with any window or door. It’s warm in there, and
there’s a funny smell about the place. I had several scoops of gall and
wormwood in Buck’s place, and the combination woos sleep in copious
gobs. My sombrero slips over my face, and I sleep.

Sudden-like I wakes, and believe me she’s a rude awakening. Somebody
kicks the chair out from under me, and proceeds to knead my abdomen with
their knees, toes, fingers, thumbs and head. When that part is over they
turns me on my face and rakes me fore and aft with a pair of
long-roweled spurs, while they links their hands in my hair and hammers
my forehead on the floor. When I ain’t got more than a glimmer of light
left in my system they seems to draw aside and rest.

“There!” I hears a voice state. “Next time yuh prints your danged
newspaper you’ll please leave my name out. Sabe? I ain’t no shepherd,
and my shirt is as clean as yours!”

“‘Dirty Shirt’ Jones, you’re an assassin,” says I, weak-like.

He pulls my hat off the bridge of my nose and takes a look at me.

“Ike, I’m glad to see yuh back,” says he. “When did yuh get back?”

“Today. Are you the reception committee?”

“Me? Nope. I’m an enraged citizen, Ike. I mistook yuh for the editor.”

“No mistake, Dirty, I’m him.”

Of course I got that .41 in my hands when I makes that statement, and
Dirty don’t make no demonstration.

“Take it easy,” I advises. “I ain’t the one you’re sore at. Magpie is
the regular editor but he’s down at the jail.”

Dirty chaws for a few seconds, and hitches up his pants:

“Much obliged, Ike. Sorry I licked yuh thataway. Yuh see that paper
orates that the population ought to get sanitary—whatever that is. He
states that a dirty shirt designates a shepherd—dang his hide! Well,
Ike, I gives yuh good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon ain’t much to give a man after you’ve give him ——,” I
opines. “But I’ll take it, Dirty, old-timer. I reckon I’ll need
everything I can get before I goes to press.”

I sets there and complains bitterly to myself about folks who don’t keep
up to date on news, wipes the worst of the ink off my face, and goes
back to sleep.

“Slim” Hawkins woke me up. Slim would make a good running-mate for
Magpie. He’s built in the same proportions. He’s had a few drinks, and
is as serious as a owl.

“Ike,” says he, “take a look at my eyes and see if they’re all right.”

“Little off color but pointing straight, Slim. What’s wrong?”

“Somebody drops a paper at the ranch today, and when I tries to peruse
same I finds that I’m left-handed and cross-eyed. I’ve suffered a heap,
Ike, and while I hopes for the best I fears the worst. I’d hate to go
around looking at things backwards thataway. Might as well learn to read
Chinese. Where’s the educated party what operates this here newspaper?”

“He’s—” I begins, but an apparition which I deciphers to be Dirty Shirt,
comes in the door.

He seems to have met disaster. His hair has been pawed down over a pair
of black eyes, and over his head and under one arm hangs what is left of
a framed map of Montana, which adorned Magpie’s office.

                   *       *       *       *       *

He feels painfully in his pockets, takes out three silver dollars, and
lays ’em on the table.

“Dirty Shirt Jones—three months,” he states, slow and sad-like.

“Your subscription expired?” I asks, and he nods.

“Uh-huh. I reckon. Everything else has.”

“Better take back some of it,” I advises. “This here paper is about to
cease. One more effort cleans the rack.”

“I know,” nods Dirty Shirt. “Keep the money and send me a copy. If
Magpie can edit like he can fight I’ll covet that copy.”

“Keep that frame to put it in,” says I. “You met the editor, did yuh?”

Dirty squints at me, adjusts that frame to a easier position, and rubs
his sore eyes.

“Met him!” he snorts. “Met ——! We mingled!”

Dirty weaves out of the door and points up the street. Slim looks at
them three dollars and then lays three more beside ’em.

“I don’t sabe the game, Ike, but I’m matching Dirty’s ante. I don’t know
what Magpie’s argument is, but anybody what can make Dirty Shirt pay
three dollars for a left-handed newspaper must have something besides
conversation.”

“But Dirty Shirt was sore,” says I. “He came down to lick the editor.”

“Me, too, Ike. I came with malice in my heart but I goes away plumb
meek. Dirty Shirt licked thunder out of me once, so I’m three dollars
thankful that he met Magpie first. Have a little drink?”

“That’s the first United States I’ve heard spoken since I got home,”
says I. “But I can’t leave the office alone. You go up and have one, and
then play editor while I goes up. Sabe?”

Slim comes back in a few minutes, and holds down the place while I
pilgrims up to Buck’s place. Me and Buck and “Half-Mile” Smith leans on
the door and discusses local conditions.

“Show troupe in town,” states Half-Mile. “Came in on the stage. Seven or
eight people, two colored persons and some dogs. They got a drum and a
lot of horns, etcetery. I’d opine we’ll have some music.”

“I love a good show,” says Buck. “The last good one I seen was at Silver
Bend. They played Shakespeare. Had a ghost and I was just drunk enough
to enjoy it.”

“Give me a drink, quick!” pants a voice at the door, and into the place
comes “Ricky” Henderson. He takes a long drink out of the bottle, and
leans against the bar.

“Suffering surcingles!” he pants. “I’ve sure had one job! That or’nary
hombre, Tombstone Todd, comes into my place a while ago, and climbs into
a chair.

“‘Young feller,’ says he, ‘my hair and whiskers are too noticeable, so I
admires to see ’em on the floor.’ He hauls out a six-gun, lays it across
his lap, and leans back in the chair. ‘Young feller,’ says he again, ‘a
razor what pulls is an abomination and a barber what uses one is
flirting with the undertaker. Let your judgment be your guide.’”

“Was he satisfied?” asks Buck.

“I’m here, ain’t I?” grins Ricky. “But I wouldn’t do it again for a
million dollars.”

“And you with a razor in your hand all this time, and his head tilted
back?” wonders Half-Mile, aloud.

Ricky stares at Half-Mile and considers the remark.

“I seen a colored brother with a razor once—” began Half-Mile, but he
happens to glance towards the door.

We all takes a look.

“Speak of the devil and—” murmurs Buck, but the colored person at the
door bursts into profanity that would shame a professor from a mule
college.

“Why didn’t yuh come back, Ike?” he wails. “Sus-somebody sneaked in, hit
me over the head, dud-dragged me into the back room and poured a can of
ink all over me! My ——! It won’t never come off! He said he wanted to
make me eat some paste, but he couldn’t find it. Look at me! All inked
to ——!”

“Gosh!” exclaims Magpie from the doorway. “Ain’t that too danged bad!
That’s the only can of ink there was left.”

“Too bad, eh?” howls Slim. “I wish I knowed the name of that hombre.”

“Did he speak feelingly of paste?” asks Magpie.

“Uh-huh,” agrees Slim, drawing figures on the bar with his inky finger.
“He sort of choked over the word. He ——”

“Hey! Sam!” yells a voice at the door, and we observes a stranger in our
midst.

It’s sort of dark inside, but he seems to know what he wants. He ambles
straight up to Slim, and grabs him by the arm.

“You slew-footed, wobble-jointed son of a cannibal!” he yelps. “Where’s
them pink silk underclothes of mine, eh?”

Slim Hawkins is slow to anger, but when he does get to going he’s hard
to stop. He climbs under and over and through this stranger like he was
searching for something, and when he gets through this feller ain’t got
nothing on but a look of wonderment and one sleeve of his undershirt.
Slim looks over the pile of clothes on the floor, and shakes his head.

“I can’t find ’em,” he states, serious-like. “Furthermore I don’t admire
to be called a son of a cannibal, Mister Man!”

The feller braces his hands behind him on the floor, and shakes his head
like he was trying to collect his thoughts. He squints at Slim, and then
explodes:

“My ——! You ain’t Sam!”

“A slight inquiry would have saved us all this search,” says Slim. “Who
is Sam?”

“One of my company—my _Uncle Tom_.”

“So?” drawled Slim. “You with this here ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ outfit?”

“Yes,” says he. “I’m _Simon Legree_.”

“So?”

Slim picks the gent up by one leg and an arm, carries him out and dumps
him right into the street without no clothes on.

“There!” yells Slim, as the stranger hits the dirt. “I’ve read all about
yuh, Mister Legree, and this is one colored person yuh can’t run no
sandy on. Sabe?”

This Legree person don’t linger. It’s about two hundred yards to Holt’s
hotel door, and he negotiates the distance in the time it takes Slim to
shoot six shots into the dirt behind him. On his way he meets “Cobalt”
Williams. Cobalt steps to one side to let him past, catches his spur in
the dirt, and sets down. It spoils his aim, he tears the knob off the
door after it shuts behind Legree. Cobalt gets up and comes on down to
the saloon, shaking his head.

“What yuh trying to do—kill him? Yuh danged fool!” snorts Slim.

Cobalt had reached for the bottle, but he turns to look at Slim and his
hand drops. He pushes his hat back and stares at Slim and seems to
swaller with difficulty.

“Ex-cuse me,” he says, sort of to himself. “No more Paradise hooch for
mine! Mike Pelly said it was a hundred and twenty proof, and this proves
it. First I see a naked man running around the main street, and then I
meets a colored brother what looks like Slim Hawkins. I’m through! Sabe?
I’m going home—me!”

He ducks out, gets his bronc at the rack and points out of town.

“That’s what I’d call a temperance lecture in ink,” opines Magpie. “As
editor and a man of letters I congratulates yuh. We can hereby reverse
that old saying, ‘He who runs may read’ and make it, ‘He who reads may
run.’”

                   *       *       *       *       *

We inaugurates a poker game and plays until almost dark, when
sudden-like we hears the sound of music, and stampedes to the door. Here
comes that show bunch down the street, and stops in front of the old
Mint Hall. They got a banner what proclaims there will be a show
tonight, and “Mighty” Jones is packing the banner, with his chest stuck
out like a fool-hen after a feed.

We cashes in and goes over to the band.

“When did you start to be a actor, Mighty?” asks Magpie, but the feller
what Slim took apart steps between Magpie and Mighty and peers at
Magpie’s star.

“Pardon me,” says he, “I see you’re the sheriff.”

“You’re pardoned, and I congratulates yuh on your eyesight,” replies
Magpie.

“I’ve lost my dogs,” says he. “Somebody must ’a’ stole ’em.”

By this time most everybody in Piperock has congregated around. Music
sure is a magnet for folks and dogs.

“Pick out what yuh want,” says Magpie, indicating any amount of canines,
circling around through people’s legs. “Losing a few dogs ain’t no
disaster around here.”

“Mine are valuable dogs,” states Legree, in a loud tone. “Trained dogs.
Our show can’t proceed without them dogs.”

“Name, age and description,” says Magpie, hauling out a little
note-book. “Also any distinguishing marks and brands.”

“One bloodhound, crossed with St. Bernard and collie; color, yaller;
named Violet.”

“_War-hoo-o-o-o!_” howls a dog up the street.

“_Yeo-o-o-o-ow!_” yells somebody. “Look out!”

There’s a sudden movement at the far end of the congregation. I sees a
bronc turn a handspring, a pair of cream-colored broncs leaves their
halters at the hitch-rack, while they comes over to visit us, and Violet
is no longer a lost dog.

Violet is about the size of a he-wolf, and she seems to think she can
outrun the string of tomato cans which are tied to her tail. She goes
through, under and over that crowd, and what she don’t do to us is left
for that pair of broncs and the buckboard. A million dog-fights start
right there.

Me and Legree are close together and the confusion seems to bring us
close to each other. We hits the sidewalk together and I’m underneath. A
couple of rotten boards break, and yours truly disappears.

When I recovers sufficient-like to peek out it’s about all over. Every
bronc that was tied to the rack is gone, and part of one rack is
missing. Most of the crowd is on the far side of the street, but our
side is still well represented. Two local dogs are still hauling at each
other.

Dirty Shirt Jones’ head protrudes from the side of that big drum, and
his right arm is wedged straight up, making him look like a drowning man
what is going down for the last time.

Mighty Jones has got one boot through the mechanical end of a big brass
horn, while from inside the other boot protrudes that banner, with the
proclamation missing.

Magpie is lying near me, with both feet through Wick Smith’s picket
fence, and he’s still studying that little note-book.

“Was that last one Lucy or Hannibal?” he asks, slow and deliberate.

“It—it don’t make no matter,” says a weak voice, “they’re all gone past
anyway,” and the man who got his hat punctured in the newspaper office
rises up from behind the fence, and tugs at the brim of his hat, which
is hanging around his neck.

I goes out and helps to cut Dirty Shirt loose from the drum, when up
comes one of Holt’s kids.

“Mister,” says he to the show feller, “I seen a man tie them cans on
your dogs.”

“Give the sheriff a description of him,” says he, excited-like. “I
offers ten dollars reward for the conviction of the persons connected
with the dastardly outrage.”

“Cheap enough,” agrees Magpie. “Did he have a long mustache and long
hair?”

“Naw. He didn’t have no hair on his face a-tall,” replies the kid.

“Must a been an outside job,” proclaims Magpie. “All the men in Piperock
wear hair on their faces, except Slim Hawkins, and he wears ink.”

Me and Magpie pilgrims home and uses up a bottle of hoss liniment.

“When yuh going to get that Tombstone person?” I asks, after we finishes
our supper. “There ain’t no sense in leaving a critter like him loose,
Magpie.”

“He’s a ornery hombre all right, all right,” agrees Magpie. “He ain’t so
dangerous as he is plumb mean, Ike. He’s shot at me several times, but
as he ain’t hit me yet I reckon he’s trying to scare me. Must ’a’ been
Cactus what painted Slim with the ink. Me and Slim are the same build.

“I sure wish that Tombstone could live long enough to read his obituary,
Ike. She’s a bird. I sure dug deep into my soul for that stuff, and I
surprises myself with what I writes. Them two is sore over the election.
They opined to be deputies under Anderson.”

“That paper must ’a’ printed some truths about folks,” I opines, and
Magpie grins:

“You said something, Ike. He sure did ride folks. Yuh ought to see what
he said about Paradise folks. I reckon they’re just about starting to
boil over down there.”

“Didn’t you print yours right soon, Magpie?” I asks. “Seems to me that
it’s a weekly.”

“Uh-huh—comes out on Friday. Yuh see I had to change that day right off
the reel, ’cause if I had any hangings to attend to it would interfere
with the paper. I looks into the future, Ike.”

“Well,” says I, “it don’t make much difference now, being as the ink is
all gone.”

“That’s so. I wish you’d ’a’ stayed there and ’tended to business, Ike.”

“And got all inked up, eh? I never did have any luck, and if it had ’a’
been me somebody would ’a’ come in and helped Cactus find that paste
jar. Too bad the show got busted up thataway.”

“Uh-huh,” yawns Magpie. “We ain’t had a good show for a long time, but I
don’t admire a show what depends on three dogs and eight cakes of ice.
Let’s hit the hay.”

That night somebody comes down and paints a skull and cross bones on our
door, and it makes Magpie sore.

“I’m commencing to get riled internally, Ike,” he states, when he views
said works of art. “You go back and hold down the newspaper, and in a
little while I’ll show yuh the scalp of this artist. Rustle around and
see if there’s any ink left.

“I got that obituary all fixed up left-handed, and she’s cached under a
soap-box behind the printing machine. Don’t jiggle it ’cause she’s
fragile as ——! I left that page just like she was for the other paper,
but I got a place in it what fits this here masterpiece of mine. If
Tombstone should make a mistake and hit me yuh won’t need the obituary.
Sabe?”

“Uh-huh, I’ll just run the rest, Magpie. It looks like a bundle o’ crape
anyway.”

“And Ike,” he reminds me, as I buckles on my gun, “yuh take that type
stuff and put it inside the press. Sabe? Then yuh take that roller thing
and pour on some ink, roll her over the letters, slap on a sheet of
paper and twist that handle down hard.”

“You furnish the news, Magpie,” says I. “I’ll hold the wheels of
progress for Tombstone Todd.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

I goes up to Buck’s place, and settles some elixir under my belt, while
me and Buck talks over the humdrum existence we’re leading.

“Dirty Shirt is still going around with his right hand up in the air,”
laughs Buck. “Reckon he’s flagged every one in sight.”

“How’s the show outfit?” I asks.

“Right miserable, I reckon. All of ’em except one left on the stage this
morning. That exception—a colored person—mistakes Slim for a
blood-brother, and being as Slim ain’t back yet, I’d say they went quite
a ways. I never seen fast black fade the way that person did.

“That other colored member didn’t have much to say this morning. He was
packing one of them slide horns in the band last night, and when the
buckboard hit him he sails right into Pete Gonyer. Him and Pete holds
about even until Pete gets his hands loose, and then he winds that horn
around the feller’s neck so many times that we has to lay that colored
gent across an anvil and cut it loose with a cold-chisel.”

“Seen anything of Tombstone Todd or Cactus Collins?” I asks, but Buck
says:

“Nope. Somebody ought to puncture that pair of Jaspers, Ike. I figure
there’s only one critter what is meaner than Tombstone Todd, and there’s
a bounty on his hide. I ain’t been drunk for six years, Ike, but when
Tombstone Todd stops enough lead to make him a spirit I’m going to
celebrate. When does Magpie aim to exterminate said human coyote?”

“Magpie suffers from softening of the heart,” says I “but him or
Tombstone is due to hunt the hereafter right soon.”

I leaves there, and pilgrims down to the newspaper office, but I don’t
walk right inside. Not me. The Harper tribe ain’t skittish of trouble,
and my nose ain’t a stranger to powder smoke, but I’m cautious.

I Injuns up to the back window, flattens my carcass against the wall and
peers inside. I ain’t taking no chances. Sabe? It’s a little too early
to open up, and the sunshine is nice and warm. Everything is
peaceful-looking around Piperock, so I sets down there on a box against
the wall, and communes thusly:

“Ike Harper, you sure do live in the best little town on earth. Peaceful
and quiet—no hurry or worry. Plenty of time to live and no questions
asked. What if I am a editor? It sure is worth while to live simply and
quietly in a community where brotherly love is the motto and where peace
doves nest and suckle their young.”

Sudden-like I hears the dull rattle of many hoofs, and down the street
comes a lot of men on hosses. They completes a picture of a peaceful
Western village. There ain’t no boisterous or unseemly language as they
ambles along through the dust—just the jingle of bit-chains and the
squeak of saddles.

They don’t look like they was going far, ’cause they don’t seem to have
no baggage. One of ’em is carrying a big bucket, and another seems to
have a bundle in his arms.

They swings down towards me, but I merely yawns. They stops in front of
my office, and dismounts. I reckon it’s my chore to go out and get ’em
to subscribe, but I don’t do it. I got enough subscriptions. They must
’a’ thought the only way to get into a newspaper office was by main
force, so they picks up a piece of lodge-pole, and knocks the door down.

Comes one shot—no more. Out of curiosity, more than anything else, I
sort of leans forward on my box and takes note of what I can see. Out in
front the crowd sort of surrounds somebody, what ain’t got no clothes
on. I don’t hear much conversation what ain’t profane, and pretty soon I
sees some feathers drift away on the breeze. Two broncs are linked
together with that pole, a bundle what looks like a mighty buzzard is
straddled the pole, and they all moves away as quietly as they came.

I watches ’em go away, and then I yawns some more and enters the sacred
precincts of _The Piperock Pilot_. I hunts all over the place until I
finds a can with a little ink left in it. I looks under the soap-box and
finds that obituary. After considerable trouble I deciphers same, and
this is it:

                   EPITAPH ON TOMBSTONE

    He was a bad man from Willer Crick.
    His bluff was good but it didn’t stick.
    He shot at the sheriff till the sheriff got sore,
    Now his boots leave tracks on that beautiful shore.

I wipes the tears off my cheeks when I reads it. Magpie said he had put
his soul into it, but I never knowed before how deep Magpie’s soul
really was. It’s a hy-iu composition, but I got a better idea. I takes
it over to where them lead letters repose, and reconstructs the thing a
bit.

I ain’t no poet, but in a time like this a man’s spirit guides his
fingers. I works for an hour, trying to make the blamed things stand up
long enough to be read backwards, and I’m sore enough to kick a baby
when Magpie shows up. He looks at me and grins, when he sees what I’m
doing, and rolls a smoke.

“One of ’em has left, Ike,” he states. “Hank Padden rode in a while ago,
and said he met Cactus Collins on his way to Willer Crick. I’ll get
Tombstone before night. Sabe?”

“Them is noble resolutions, Magpie. You know how to make this stuff
stand up while she leaves her message on paper?”

“Sure. What yuh want to print it for, Ike? We ain’t got no paper to
waste.”

“Magpie,” says I, “an editor likes to see his stuff printed. I got a old
piece of paper what will do for this.”

Magpie sets the stuff in a little oblong affair, rolls on some ink, lays
on the piece of paper, and twists down the handle. This is how she
looks:

                TAR ON TOMBSTONE

    He was a bad man from Willer Crick.
    On his birthday suit grows feathers thick.
    Feathers and tar instead of a grave,
    Mistook for an editor ’cause of a shave.

Magpie reads it all through. He sets down on a box, rolls a smoke, and
reads it some more. He walks out to the door, looks around, and comes
back.

“Who?” he asks.

“Paradise folks, Magpie.”

“Did you see him in here?”

“Uh-huh. He was laying for us.”

“Pshaw!”

Magpie takes his gun out and looks it over, sad-like. He stares at the
door for a minute, and then—

“What’s the notice on the door?”

He walks over and looks. Somebody has printed a notice and pinned it on
that busted door, and she reads like this—

                     THIS PAPER HAS QUIT FOR KEEPS

I went back and got that can of ink, and a stick, and I signs it—

                             TOMBSTONE TODD

“What for, Ike?” asks Magpie. “What did he have to do with it?”

“Come back here, and I’ll show yuh.”

I takes him back to the table, and shows him a line of lead letters
setting there on the table. It’s the biggest in sight, and they reads:

                    EPITAF FOR MAGPY SIMPKIN. BRAVE
                    MEN AND DARN FULES DON’T SKARE.
                       HE WAS A DARN FULE MAY HE
                             REST IN PIECE

We walks almost to the door, when Magpie goes back and gets that stick
and the can of ink.

“I’ll give him all the credit coming to him, Ike,” says he, and
underneath Tombstone’s name he prints—

                           EDITOR PRO TEMPORE


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
September 18, 1918. It is believed to be in the public domain
in the United States; copyright status may differ in other
countries.]
