The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Color of His Boots, by W. C. Tuttle

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Title: The Color of His Boots

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release Date: July 28, 2021 [EBook #65947]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

THE COLOR OF HIS BOOTS

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Jay Bird’s Judgement,” “Dirty Work for Doughgod,” etc.

I still contend that Magpie Simpkins is too finicky. It’s all right for a feller to desire to appear to a good advantage, especially on Sunday, but a finicky person hadn’t ought to pack a gun at a time when he’s just acquired something out of the ordinary in haberdashery.

New boots don’t mean nothing but misery to me. They could set diamonds all the way around the sole, but just the same she don’t spell nothing but blisters and cramps to Ike Harper. Anyway, I’m so bow-legged that my heels have got to be run over on the outside edges before I can be comfortable around the knees.

Magpie paid twenty dollars for them yaller boots. They was glowing with youth, vitality and shiny polish when Magpie leaned ’em against the side of that Pullman berth. They was a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

A pair of boots ain’t nothing but footwear, except when they’re the color of a sunset in Injun Summer and fit like the skin on a sausage—and cost twenty dollars.

Some folks will likely argue that Magpie hadn’t owned said boots long enough to become attached to ’em, but to those critics I will say: you don’t have to have a twenty-dollar bill around the house very long before you becomes sentimental about it.

Me and Magpie are on our way back from the Stampede at Totem, where we went to clean up some money, figuring that we knowed a little more than the fellers did who run the games. We found out that honesty is a poor poker policy in Totem.

Magpie sheds bitter tears over them boots. Their pristine yaller has went. A porter, suffering from color-blindness, lack of illumination, or gin, has rubbed ’em plentiful with black polish until there ain’t nothing identifying left except the shape and size.

Magpie also bought a new blanket from an Injun robe vender. It contains all the colors of the rainbow, and the design is supposed to invoke a special blessing from some high-cheeked god of some kind.

Magpie looks at said boots, folds ’em reverently in the blanket and then pushes the bell in the berth. Them boots has been under that seat ever since we got up in the morning. Magpie, being a heap vain, desires to pack ’em openly and places same in the aisle at night, along with his regular ones. Now that he wishes to show off a little, he opines to put ’em on. He sets there in his socks and pushes that little button.

As I said before, Magpie is too finicky and sudden. No matter if he did know the certain porter connected with our car and didn’t wait for an apology—he might ’a’ sounded a warning.

He didn’t hit the porter, but he would as soon as he got used to the sway of that car, ’cause his third shot busted the glass right by the porter’s head.

Maybe the conductor was right, and maybe he wasn’t. Anyway, it’s danged bad form to hop on to a man’s back when he’s trying to settle a personal matter. Him and Magpie went down in the aisle, and everybody begins to exercise their lungs.

Being part and parcel of Magpie’s crew, I immediate and soon bends my gun over the conductor’s head. Folks will likely say that I was wrong, that I had no interest in them yaller boots; but there’s bound to be some Sundays when Magpie won’t wear ’em, and there ain’t no law against me dressing up a little.

What is politely known as consternation seems to prevail. Some folks even go so far as to try and hand us their valuables, while others seem to have the instinct of prairie-dogs and hunt a hole.

Then the train jerks to a stop, which almost upsets me, and Magpie backs into me, poking shells into his gun.

“Grab my bundle and get a-going,” he yelps, and I obeyed him to the letter.

Then we backs off that train. A brakeman heaves a hunk of coal at us and ducks under the train, and from up by the express car comes the roar of a shotgun, and a handful of buckshot seeps around us. We gets our bearings, and the way we went away from that train would make an antelope weep with envy. Then we sees the train pull out.

“My ——!” grunts Magpie. “We sure got some action, Ike!”

“Wa-a-a-a! Wa-a-a-a!”

“What in —— was that?” whispers Magpie.

“I’d say,” says I, feeling a drop of cold sweat run right down my back-bone, “I’d say that your boots squeaked, Magpie.”

“Boots? I ain’t got none on, Ike. Did you get that bundle?”

I sure did. It sort of wiggled in my hands; so I laid it down on the ground.

“Wa-a-a-a! Yah-a-a-a-a!” she goes again.

Magpie rolled the bundle over with the muzzle of his gun, and then we stares at each other. Magpie pulls his long mustache and clears his throat.

“Ike,” says he solemn-like, “you picked the wrong bundle. Beyond the shadder of a doubt you’ve traded my boots for a baby.”

The sinful thing I had done weighed upon my soul, and I felt bad. I pictured the agonized mother setting there in that car, squeaking like a Red River cart when feeding time comes and she tries to nurse a pair of stained boots. Maybe she’d recognize good leather and workmanship, but at a time like that you can’t expect a mother to pay much attention to tanning and stitching on a pair of high-heeled boots—even if they did cost twenty dollars.

“Great gosh!” says I after due consideration. “This is awful!”

“It sure is,” agrees Magpie. “I’ll get my feet full of cactus.”

“Dang your feet! Think of what we’ve done!”

“Yeah? What you’ve done, Ike. Don’t embroil me in it. Them boots cost me regular money.”

“Well,” says I after a while, “we’re a pair of —— fools!”

“Don’t talk shop, Ike,” he advises me weary-like, peering off into the gloom. “If you’ve got any sympathy, use a little on me. I might step on a rattlesnake.”

“If I knowed where one lived, I’d lead you to it,” I replies. “Shooting up a train is enough scandal for a pair of peace lovers from Piperock—without also getting arrested for kidnaping. If anybody ever says yaller boots to me again, they’d better pick a soft spot to land on, ’cause they’re sure going deep.”

“Pshaw! I hate it as much as you do, Ike. Figuring from a property standpoint, I’m a lot worse off than you are. In fact, you’re two boots and a baby better off than I am.”

We set there and peers off into the gloom. Here we are, dumped off in the middle of the Bad Lands, night time, with no friendly beacon to guide us: one sockless, one brainless, and a baby—and all because Magpie prefers his boots yaller instead of black.

“Well,” says Magpie, “I reckon we might as well mosey along, Ike. Come on, family man.”

I picks up that squawking bundle of humanity, hitches up my belt and follers Magpie over to the track, where we points north. I reckon we got dumped off in a country where there never was no cause to build a town.

Then that offspring begins to raise its voice in protest. Sounded to me like Andy Johnson trying to play sentimental music on a squeeze organ when he’s full to the neck with hooch. I pikes along behind Magpie, trying to keep my mind off that suffering bunch of misery. But it ain’t no use.

“What do you reckon has got into the critter?” I asks, and Magpie stops.

“A feller what don’t know any more about babies than you do, Ike, sure is liable to mistake one for a pair of boots,” says he sarcastic-like. “The thing is hungry. My gosh! What are you doing—carrying it upside down? Give it to me! Feller like you hadn’t ought to never pack a kid. Poor little jasper is hungry as ——!”

“Likely starved to death,” I agrees. “But that ain’t no reason for you to use that kind of language before you finds out the sex. It’s as much my baby as yours, Magpie, and I ain’t going to raise no female child to swear like a mule-skinner. Sabe? What’s it hungry for?”

“Hungry for?”

Magpie stubs his toe and almost drops the baby.

“Gosh dang the blasted luck!” he yelps, “Tore a toe plumb off!”

“Hungry for what?” I asks again.

“Ike.” Magpie stops limping and turns to me. “Ike, you ignorant imbecile, what do you reckon it’s hungry for? Figure it’s yelping for ham and eggs?”

“Sensible yelp if it is,” says I. “What do babies hunger for, Magpie?”

“M’yah!” grunts Magpie, which goes to show that he’s an expert on baby fodder.

We pilgrims along for a while, and all to once I remembers something I read on a label once. Said it was fine for babies.

“Condensed milk!” I snorts out loud.

Magpie stops.

“Just struck you, did it?” he says wise-like. “Took you a long time. Yessir, you guessed it, Ike. We’ll give it a can of condensed milk.”

“All right,” says I. “Give it a can, Magpie. If canned milk will stop that racket, give it one for me. The twelve o’clock whistle has blowed for that kid an hour ago.”

“Ike, you’re a —— fool!”

“Now who’s talking shop?” I asks sweet-like.

On we goes, Magpie limping and swearing every time he kicks a tie, and the world getting darker and darker every step we take.

Babies ain’t got much sense, I reckon. Mostly any person or animal that creeps, crawls or walks will pine for a thing for a certain length of time, and, when it don’t show in a reasonable period of pining, they forgets it; but a baby gets one idea in its bosom and cherishes said idea forever and ever, amen.

This one is too young for us to explain things to, and the night is too dark for us to hand it anything in sign-language; so we pilgrims along, listening to it wail continuous for something to ease its stummick. Pretty soon Magpie stops.

“Ike,” says he severe-like, “you’ve got to find something to feed to this infant. The blamed thing must be plumb empty, to wail thataway, and I won’t poke along and let it die in my arms.”

“I’ve got forty-three dollars, Magpie,” says I, “and I hereby gives you power of attorney to take my property to dinner. I’m neither a wet-nurse nor a restaurant.”

We pikes along for a while, baby wailing copiously. Then Magpie says—

“Wonder if singing would help it any?”

“Might as well wish for condensed milk,” says I.

“I might sing a little,” says he apologetic-like.

“Yes,” says I. “You might. You never have—not in my hearing, Magpie. Even if your vocal efforts would please the child, it would be a heap nerve racking to me; so I votes in favor of the infant solo.”

The baby keeps on playing three notes plumb across the board:

“Wa-a-a-a! Ma-a-a-a-a! Yah-a-a-a-a!”

Pretty soon Magpie stops and sets down on the rail.

“Ike, I can’t stand this,” he wails. “We’ve got to get condensed milk for this human phonygraft, or it will ruin its lungs.”

We sets there in the dark and contemplates deep-like. Off in the distance a coyote raises its voice in protest against the bounty law, and then a cow bawls soft-like.

“My ——!” grunts Magpie prayerful-like. “Cow! Don’t they make condensed milk out of cow milk, Ike?”

“Did you think they made it out of cans?” I asks.

“Cow!” he grunted joyful-like, getting to his feet. “We’ll milk that critter, Ike.”

He picks up our painful inheritance, pilgrims down the railroad fill, and we goes in the direction of that cow’s voice. We finds said bawlers standing in the corner of a fence, and they acts inquisitive toward us.

“We ain’t got no rope, Magpie,” I objects. But he’s enthusiastic over the proposition and says:

“Milk cows ain’t wild, Ike. All you’ve got to do is to corner ’em. Sabe? You hold this starving infant while Uncle Dudley plays milkmaid.”

He crawls over the fence and approaches the herd. I’ll admit that Magpie has a soothing voice, and his “So-o-o, boss,” would assure most anything of his good intentions. But them cows ain’t used to having strangers come out of the night to steal their juice. They sort of mills around and acts foreign to his designs.

“Make that kid shut up!” he yelps. “It’s scaring the critters, Ike.”

“I ain’t no murderer,” says I. “There is things that nothing short of sudden death will stop. Hurry up with the nourishment.”

I hears a cow bawl, and then comes a rattle, a bump and a curse.

“What are you trying to do?” I asks.

Pretty soon I hears Magpie spit audible-like, and then:

“Dang the luck! Tried to bulldog a muley cow!”

Bulldogging is the gentle pastime of getting in front of a cow, getting one arm under a horn and the other arm over a horn and then twisting the critter’s neck until said critter decides to lay down. Muley cows are exempt on account of not having any horns.

The baby seems to sympathize openly with the cows. In fact, that kid has the only perpetual voice I ever heard.

“Hurry up with that milk!” I yelps.

I hears somebody swearing sweet and low; a cow grunts deep-like, and then comes a dull thud.

“Wa-a-a-a! Ma-a-a-a!” wails the kid.

“Woof!” I hears Magpie grunt and then, “Come huh-here! Got ’um!”

I lays the baby down on the ground and crawls through the fence. A cow sticks its cold nose in my face in the dark and uses my necktie for a handkerchief.

“Where you got ’um?” I asks, peering around.

“Huh-here, Ike.”

I peers closer and finds Magpie down on his shoulders, with a cow’s head in his arms. The rest of the animal is making useless jerks, trying to get loose.

“Mum-milk it,” he stutters.

“Yes’m,” says I. “What in?”

“What in?” he grunts. “In your huh-hat.”

“Like ——! In my new Stetson? Not any milk, thanks. Give me your hat, Magpie.”

“Lost it. You danged— Sh-h-h-h!”

Then we heard footsteps approaching on horseback. Up that line fence comes some indistinct shapes. We hears the creak of saddles, and then somebody curses a loose cinch. They stops right near to us, and we holds the cow and our breaths.

“Can’t do much until daylight,” opines a voice. “Never catch anything busting around in the dark.”

“Ain’t you got that cinch fixed yet, Mort?” asks another voice.

“Wa-a-a-a-a!”

We hears a couple of broncs move quick. Somebody swears.

“What in made that noise?” grunts somebody.

“Rabbit, I reckon,” chuckles the feller who is fixing his cinch. “You’re a fine posse. Like a nervous bunch of old women. Well, let’s go.”

They drifts away in the dark, and me and Magpie wipes the perspiration off our brows.

“Thank the Lord for the little rabbits!” grunts Magpie. “Now get busy on the dairy proposition, Ike. I’ll buy you a new hat.”

I ain’t no milkmaid. All my life I’ve punched cows, prospected, gambled a little and played deputy to Magpie while he was sheriff. I’ve always put milk in the same class with water—meek and mild. I’m not qualified to pail a cow—not even gentle cows, but under the existing circumstances I tries to do my duty.

The baby raises its voice in discords; so I hurries to get it a grub stake.

Magpie is holding firm; so I takes off my new hat and kneels down on the ground. Then I got up on my feet, walked around to the other end of the critter and told Magpie what I thought of him as a cow-man. We had a hard time letting that critter loose without it doing us bodily harm, and then we crawled back through the fence, and Magpie picked up our audible off-spring.

“Well,” says he, “there’s one steer that will have something to think about for a while, even if I did lose a sock and some skin. Wonder who the posse was after?”

“Not us,” says I, holding my hands over my ears to shut out the wails of misery coming from that bundle. “Where in thunder do we find something to appease that kid’s appetite?”

“Gawd only knows,” says he solemn-like, limping along in the dark. “If it dies, you’re a murderer, Ike. I’m doing all I can to save both of your lives.”

Then we saw a light. Over to the left of us comes a flicker from a cabin window. Magpie turns like the needle of a compass and points straight for the flicker.

“Where there’s light, there’s succor,” says Magpie.

“And, where it’s dark, there’s two,” I replies, and we pilgrims along, listening to our accidental inheritance howl itself hoarse.

We seen some folks ride away from the open door before we got there; so we waited until they are gone.

“Shall we go right in and demand a can of milk?” I asks.

“I’ve got a scheme, Ike,” says he wise-like. “I’ll go in alone with the baby. Sabe? I needs boots as bad as this kid needs food, and maybe I can get both. I’ll tell ’em my wife died way back in the timber and that I’m trying to get back to civilization with my child. I’ll harp on their heartstrings until they feeds the baby and shoes Magpie. You hang around, Ike. If we both went in, there’d be too much to explain.”

“Your scheme sounds good,” says I. “Play her plumb across the board. Don’t refuse to take a sandwich along if they offers it, ’cause Ike Harper is about to wail for food, too.”

Magpie limps up to the door and knocks, while I sets down on the fence and rolls a smoke. The night seems peaceful since the wailing of the infant has ceased, and I feel sort of free-like. Being a father must take a lot of responsibility.

Pretty soon I gets a hankering to see what’s going on in there. I sneaks to a side window and peeks in. I can’t get much of a view, but I can see this much: Magpie has got his hands above his head and a resigned look in his lean face. In front of him is a mean-looking hombre with a shotgun in his hands, and behind him stands a capable-looking female with the meanest face I ever seen.

Then I hears the feller say to the woman:

“You take this gun and keep him setting right there, Violet, and I’ll go after the posse. They ain’t gone very far.”

I leans against the wall and wonders out loud what kind of a place Magpie has got into. Then the door opens, and the feller hops out and beats it for the stable. A minute later I hears him ride away. I hears the female say something to Magpie about him deserving something worse than hanging. I’ve wished the same thing on Magpie lots of times, but under the circumstances I can’t let out the job. It ain’t noways safe to bust into that door and get the insides of a shotgun in my mainspring; so I pokes around the cabin for a better way.

“Wa-a-a-a! Yah-a-a-a-a!” comes a voice from inside near where I’m fussing with a window.

It sure gives me an idea. Without the evidence—if the kid is evidence—they can’t do no more than let Magpie loose. So I slips the window open easy-like and slips over the sill.

It’s almighty dark in there, but I can see a thread of light shining through the crack in the door, and I hears the woman say:

“Set still, you villain! You deserve everything you’ve got coming.”

“I bow to superior wisdom, ma’am,” says Magpie.

Just then I finds what I seek. It gives a little squeak as I pick it up, but I hugs it to my bosom and starts for the window—and then I stepped on a dog!

Looking back on the episode, I’m of the opinion that the dog must ’a’ been deaf, dumb and blind—but not suffering from lockjaw. Maybe it was one of them family heirlooms you’ll find now and then laying around in a cabin, soaking up heat and odorizing the atmosphere with every smell that old dog age is heir to. Anyway, this dog still retained its youthful audibility and a certain degree of mastication, ’cause it grabbed me by the leg just above my boot and hung on.

Such a condition made it hard for Ike Harper to show much speed. Here I am with a baby in my arms, a dog half-way up my lap filling the air with choking barks, and me trying to tip myself over far enough to fall out of the window.

I’ve got my belt line over the sill when the door flies open and a voice yelps—

“Sic’ ’em, Nero!”

Nero didn’t need any urging. In fact, I don’t reckon that Nero ever heard her, ’cause he was doing his little best without any cheers from the weaker sex.

I manages to twist myself over on my back, swing my free leg up high—which gave me added weight on my outside end—and just as I sways toward the earth I feels the hot breath of a shotgun pass over me. Nero let loose. I reckon that Nero died with the taste of the best sourdough on earth on his palate.

The top of my boot got fringed plentiful, and some of the shot cut fancy designs on my knee-cap. But me and the kid landed in a heap, and I’d tell a man that we didn’t waste no time going away.

I shoved on some extra speed, which enabled me to clear the fence, and then I runs right into Magpie. We both grunts a greeting and lopes away together. We puts a mile or more between us and that shack and then stops to get our wind.

“Close call!” puffs Magpie. “By cripes! Posse hunting for a kidnaper. Half-witted sheepherder swiped a feller’s kid ’cause the woman wouldn’t feed him. Man back there knowed him by sight, and he identifies me as being the shepherd. Said he was the same length and had hair on his face.”

“Must ’a’ been mistaken, Magpie,” says I.

“Wish I’d a left the baby there,” says he, after a while. “Wish I had, Ike. Reckon they’d ’a’ found the owner.”

“You wish you had?” I asks. “Did you say ‘wish you had?’”

“Uh-huh. Could easy, Ike. When that female heard the noise in the other room, she ignored me; so I grabs the kid and ducked out.”

“My ——!” says I. “You got a baby with you, Magpie?”

“Wa-a-a-a! Ma-a-a-a!” comes from over by Magpie.

“Yah-a-a-a-a! Ma-a-a-a-a!” comes from my arms.

Neither one of us has anything to say. In fact there ain’t nothing to be said. The insides of me are wondering whether I’m going to cuss or cry. I feel like somebody had pushed me out of a balloon.

Pretty soon Magpie says soft-like:

“Twins! Wasn’t one enough, Ike?”

“Too many,” I agrees weak-like. “One was too many, Magpie. If Sherman had twins, he’d never knowed there was a war.”

Where we’d only had a solo, we’ve now got a duet. If anything, the last one had a higher voice than the first one and used several more notes. It also seemed to get its second wind long after the first one had stopped to pump air.

We sets there in the dark and listens. A couple of coyotes off on a little butte tries to sing their opening song, but their voices are drowned by the voices of children, and they sneaks away in disgust.

“We’ve got to take it back,” states Magpie sad-like. “It’s got to be done, Ike.”

“With due caution,” I agrees. “That female is a wing-shot, if you asks me, Magpie. Also, that posse might be there. Sabe?”

We sets there in the dark as long as we can stand the wailing, and, when our nerves give out, we gets up and looks around.

“Which way lieth the shack?” inquires Magpie. “We’ve got to take that last kid back home.”

I don’t know which way we came. It’s so dark that I can hardly see Magpie, who is right beside me. From the north comes a feel of storm, and a little rumble from above seems to ask us if we ain’t got sense enough to come in out of the rain.

“Standing here ain’t going to do nothing for us,” states Magpie. “We may point wrong and get nowhere, but our intentions are good.”

“Let us hope we strike a dairy,” says I, and we plods along again.

The Lord only knows where we went, and He likely didn’t pay much attention. We just traveled regardless, follering the lines of least resistance. Magpie has got so he ignores his bare feet. I reckon a feller’s feet can get just so full of cactus and stone-bruises that nothing can hurt ’em any more.

We drifted down a dry creek bed just as the rain began to come down on our unprotected heads. Then we went hunting for a tree to get under. All to once Magpie stops, and I bump into him. I hears horses smashing through the brush. Somebody whoops, and a shot is fired. Then the noise drifts off down the gulch.

“Posse,” informs Magpie.

“Did you think I’d mistake it for a duck hunt?” I asks.

Them kids act like we wasn’t paying enough attention to them; so they starts another kindergarten grand opery.

“Keep your kid still!” hisses Magpie. “Want the posse to find us?”

“Make your own shut up!” I snaps right back at him, and just then we walks right into a wall.

“Shack!” grunts Magpie.

“One wall, at least,” I agrees. “Let us foregather within and shun the rain.”

We sneaked around to the door, which is not locked, and went in. It’s so dark in there that we can’t see a thing, and I bumps into a bunk. I deposits my infant on the bunk and goes hunting for something to make a light.

“Matches all wet!” wailed Magpie. “Got any dry ones, Ike?”

“Two. But, before I find out if they’re dry, I’m going to find something to set on fire.”

Then I fell over a box and hit my head on the floor. That made me sore. I got up and kicked the box as hard as I could.

“Cut that out!” yelps Magpie. “Who hit me with that box? Who threw it?”

“Shut up!” I howls. “Nobody threw it— I kicked it! Reckon I tore a toe plumb off. Next time I——”

“Sh-h-h-h!” hisses Magpie. “Somebody coming! Let’s get out.”

He swung the door open and ducked out in the storm. That’s just like Magpie. In danger he forgets his responsibility, and Ike Harper, who is very cool, picks up the two babies off the bunk and follers in his wake. Man, it sure was pouring out there. Ever’ once in a while comes a flash of lightning, which is fine while she lasts but harder when she’s gone. I sure flounders around a lot.

“This way, Ike!” yelps Magpie, and I follers the best I can.

A flash of light shows me a couple of fellers on horseback milling around in the rain, and then we sure hit the high spots out of there.

After a mile or so we stops in the shelter of a washout and puffs plentiful.

“Suffering sidewinders!” groans Magpie. “I ain’t got no feet left! Honest to grandma, I’m a wreck from stem to stern, Ike.”

“Feller sufferer, I know how you feel,” says I. “But that ain’t no reason for you to forget what you owes to humanity. I don’t wish to chide no man for being absent-minded, Magpie, but I’m asking why you left me the responsibility of both offsprings in this direful e-mergency?”

“Meaning what?” he groans.

“Magpie Simpkins, do you mean to set there shivering and tell me that you got so scared that you forgot we had two suffering infants when we entered that cabin?”

“My ——!” he grunts. “You didn’t forget yours, did you?”

“No, but you did, Mister Simpkins.”

“Like ——! I’ve got mine.”

“Well,” says I after due consideration, “somebody did. I’ve got two.”

And then three voices blended in the night air. The last one seemed to be a little bit stronger than the others.

“Suffering sidewinders!” wails Magpie. “Where did the last one come from? I thought this was a cow country and I finds it’s kids. Hungry kids! Aw-w-w-w, shut up!”

They did. Magpie got up on his feet and fussed with a damp cigaret-paper.

“You’ve got to show ’em who’s boss, Ike,” he states. “They recognizes the voice of authority, and, believe me, I know how to quell ’em. Now we’ve got to take ’em home.”

“Be it ever so humble,” I agrees.

Then we pokes out into the damp night, Magpie ahead with the tenor and me behind, with the soprano and alto. It is becoming some perade, if you asks me.

They may be sweet little darlings—we ain’t never gazed upon their faces—but I know that what I’ve called ’em under my breath ain’t going to be of great cheer to ’em in the life to come.

About a mile farther on we sees the lights of a house and points our perade accordingly. We’re too miserable to think of anything except making a wholesale delivery. Maybe Magpie had a vision of a pair of boots; I don’t know.

“Do we lie to them about things, Magpie?” I asks as we nears the place.

“We do not, Ike. No more lies. A certain measure of precaution but not a prevarication. I won’t be the father of triplets—not barefooted.”

We stumbles right up to the door. Magpie hammers on the middle panel with the butt of his six-shooter.

A feller sticks his head out of the door and stares at us. He’s got a face like a full moon.

“Ahem!” says Magpie. “Have you got any babies?”

Bang! He slammed the door in our face, and we hears him drop a bar across it. Then from the window we hears:

“Mosey, you bums! Hop out or pick lead out of your hide the rest of your lives.”

We went. Also and moreover we went fast.

“What do you think you’re doing—taking the census?” I asks when we’re out of shotgun range and stops to gather our wind.

“What do you reckon I ought to have asked him—if he wanted any babies?”

“Why speak of them at all? We could ’a’ sneaked in and then came away without ’em, Magpie.”

“Yeah? You never have, Ike. You usually add instead of subtract; so I’m making a few inquiries before I take a chance. Sabe?”

We pilgrims along for a while sort of aimless-like.

“Where had we ought to go now?” wonders Magpie.

“——!” says I.

“Brilliant thought,” agrees Magpie. “They say that all babies are angels; so so you’d be safe—that’s a cinch.”

“They don’t wear yaller boots there; so that would help some,” says I.

Under ordinary circumstances I reckon we would have argued the point; but the triplets start a concert, and we decides to pilgrim on. The rain still visits the earth, and, if you think it’s any cinch trying to walk in the dark with rain in your eyes and a squalling baby on each arm, you’re all wrong.

Pretty soon Magpie stops.

“Ike, I see another light. It may mean disaster, and it may mean deliverance. Shall we try it?”

“Any port in a storm, Magpie. Lead us to the light. My arms are cramped, and my ear-drums are sore, but I’m game for anything from milk to murder.”

Magpie is some pilot, if you asks me. We drifted into a section of plowed ground which has got soaked with rain, and it hung to our feet like molasses. I sat down twice during the voyage, and we sure are a sticky-looking mess when we arrive at the door of that forlorn-looking shack.

Magpie knocks on the door. After a while we hears a commotion inside, and the door opens. The face that leans out to us looks like a busted mattress. The hair on it seems to grow straight ahead like the quills on a peevish porkypine.

“Milk?” pronounces Magpie.

The bushy-faced person seemed to take it under consideration.

“Milk?” says Magpie again.

“Vizoffvufforskilloff?” he asks deep-like.

The babies renew their concert, and the carbonated critter stretches his neck a little longer.

“Mffvuffzizzskoyiffsky?” he asks.

“Yes’m,” says Magpie. “All three of em are.”

The feller nods and spits out into the rain.

“Milk,” states Magpie. “Milk for the babies.”

“Beebus?” he asks. “Skilloffvizzmffovitch?”

Then he stepped back into the room.

“I didn’t know you could talk Russian, Magpie,” says I.

“Lot of things you don’t know, Ike. Now we’ll get the——”

Comes a lot of charged language and couple of squalls, and here comes Bushy-Face with a squalling infant on each arm. He stops in the doorway, and his haystack whiskers open in a wide grin.

“Zoffuffzizzovitckski,” says he proud-like.

“Don’t mention it,” says Magpie foolish-like. “You’re welcome as the flowers in May.”

Then he walks right away from there, leading me by the arm.

“What did he say?” I asks as we fall through a pole fence and skid out into another plowed field.

“——!” snorts Magpie, tearing the seat of his pants out of the mud, where he had sunk about a foot. “I don’t know for sure, but I think he wanted to bet that his two could yelp louder than all three of ours.”

“Let’s go back,” says I. “I’ve got forty-three dollars that says mine alone can out-yelp anything on earth.”

“You’d lose,” says Magpie sad-like. “I’ve got a high-class yelper myself Sweepstake entries, Ike.”

Then came the cows. Range cows are funny critters and have strange and awful ideas on men on foot. The first thing we knowed we’re plumb surrounded there in the dark and they’re closing in on all sides, rattling their horns, talking low and doing other things that don’t make us feel absolutely safe.

“Stand perfectly still, Ike,” whispers Magpie. “They’ll think we are part of the secenery.”

We groups together and looks as much like inanimate objects as possible. The cows sniffs and grunts all around, wondering in cow talk what kind of a growth we are. Then Magpie’s armful opens up—

“Wa-a-a-a! Wa-a-a-a!”

“Ma-a-a-a-a! Yah-a-a-a-a!” sings mine together.

Then I got kicked by a cow. Absolutely! The critter was so close to me when the chorus opens up that, when it whirls and starts to run, I got both hind feet in the calves of my legs.

They’re so close to me that I says my evening prayer. Magpie lets a whoop out of his system—

“Grab one by the tail, Ike, and play safe!”

And then I gets a glimpse of his fish-pole figure disappearing out of the main herd, swinging on to the tail of a scared cow.

I’ve got a fat chance, with both arms full. I backs into a mesquite bush, shifts both babies to one arm and pulls my gun.

Man, I sure smoked up them fool cows, and they stampeded. One went past me so fast that the wind blew me backward, and, when I got my whole family together again, there ain’t a cow in sight.

I yelps loud and long for Magpie, but he’s likely still hanging on to that critter and pointed for parts unknown.

Then I plods on alone—that is, there’s only three of us now. I’m sick in soul and body, and all I wants on this earth or the waters under the earth is a place to leave my bundles.

I got hung up on a barbed wire fence, losing a few inches of skin and my hopes for a reward in the hereafter, and all this time them two are keeping up a cross-fire of complaint. I tries to argue it out with ’em and then cautions myself out loud not to go too far, ’cause that’s what gets folks into the loco lodge.

Then I sees another light. Ike Harper ought to be getting skittish about lights, but he’s so near unto death that he loses his normal caution. Ike Harper is now a man unafraid.

I shifts the babies to one arm, grasps my empty gun in my right hand and hammers plentiful on that door.

My knock don’t seem to awaken no response; so I walks inside. There’s a lamp burning on the table, but nobody is in sight. I lays them offsprings on the bed and flops my aching bones into a chair.

My fingers are too stiff to even attempt to roll a smoke, and my arms are paralyzed. As soon as them kids hit the bed, they seems to ease off on the wailing, and my ears gets a needed rest. I sets there for a while, getting more normal all the time, and, when I hear noises outside, my nature asserts itself, and I crawls under the bed. Somebody is coming; my gun is empty, and I don’t feel like thinking up a lie.

Here they come, swearing and rattling. The door slams open, and they all clumps inside.

“Wife’s over at Jones’,” states a voice which comes in behind the bunch. “She slipped and sprained her ankle, Zeb.”

Several voices seems to all talk to once, but I seem to gather that somebody has been caught and deserves hanging. I sees a pair of big bare feet and a torn pants leg. When I peeks out a little more, I sees a rope hanging from above the feet.

“This is sure going hard with you, feller!” says a voice above the rest.

Then I hears Magpie’s voice, resigned-like:

“Why say ‘hard’? Human beings can’t hand me nothing more than I’ve already been through.”

“Here! Keep them dogs out of here!” yelps a voice. “Danged bloodhounds will track this carpet all up! Get under the bunk! Danged lop-earned trailers!”

They got under the bunk, all right. Four of ’em! All muddy and sloppy and full of affection, and they sure licked Ike Harper’s face around and around, upside down and crossways. They guzzled in my ears and rubbed noses with me, and I had to take it. After my bath they seems to sort of quiet down, and I hears what the men are saying.

“No; the kid’s all right,” states somebody. “Maybe it’s hungry.”

“Poor little Oscar!” squeaks some feller. “Lemme see him, Zeb. I ain’t never see him.”

“Sure thing, Otie. Never seen Oscar, eh?”

Comes a shuffling of feet, somebody clears their throat, and then silence. Even them danged hounds seem to feel the silence. Then I hears somebody clear their throat apologetic-like and say:

“Mister, I—I—we begs your pardon. Take that rope off him, Abe. Your story didn’t sound like much to us; so— Well, dang it all, we’re sorry, mister. Honest to gosh we are. Ain’t we, fellers?”

“Such is Gospel,” agrees somebody else. “From now on I believes what I hears. Take your baby, old trailer, and go free as air. There ain’t nobody doubting your honesty. Our mistake.”

I hears a shuffling noise; the door shuts soft-like, and then all is silence again.

“——!” says somebody. “Don’t seem possible that it wasn’t one or the other.”

“I’m plumb glad my wife wasn’t able to come home,” states a voice, which I reckon is the father of one of my bunch. “The shock might ’a’ killed her.”

“Wa-a-a-a! Ma-a-a-a-a!”

Even the bloodhounds got excited, and I got licked all over again. A feller can protect himself from one dog’s affections, but, when four get him down under a bed and set on his chest, he ain’t got much show.

“Gee mighty gosh, this is little Oscar!” yelps one of them fellers, dancing a jig.

“This one is Pete Patton’s Emmeline!” yelps another. “Pete, this is your Emmeline! Gee-lory!”

Everything gets sort of mulliganed again. The place is filled with so much joy that the hounds get infected, and they sure scrubbed my face plentiful again.

“Going to take Oscar right over to the wife!” whoops a voice.

“Foller me and Emmeline!” yelps the other. “Come on, boys! I know where there’s a keg of ten-year-old hooch. Come on!”

Nobody invited me and the dogs. As soon as everybody is gone, I crawls out of there. Them four man-trailers looks at me with such solemn expressions in their sad eyes that I ain’t got the heart to chide ’em.

“You pups want to go with me?” I asks, and they wags their tails.

“Come on,” says I. “I never did like to wash my own face.”

We pilgrims out into the rain, and after a while we hit the railroad track again. It ain’t good walking, but a railroad track will get you some place if you foller it long enough. And that’s what I did. I ain’t had nothing to eat for so long that I’m beginning to wish for something—even milk.

Then comes daylight. I’d say that Ike Harper ain’t much to look at. He ain’t got no hat, and the real estate lieth thick upon him. Some sheep are drifting along, and I finds the shepherd standing on the track. As I come up, he grins and says—

“Lookin’ fer a baby?”

My gun was empty, but rocks are plentiful. I chased that shepherd across country until one of my hounds runs between my legs and tripped me. Then I went back to the track and pilgrimed on.

Later on I comes to a town, which is what will happen to anybody if they follers a railroad long enough. I pilgrims up to the depot. In the shade of the building I sees a familiar figure setting on the edge of the platform. I sets down beside him.

There’s some crackers and cheese and sardines scattered around him, and I helps myself, while I watches him try to get his feet into a pair of new boots—yaller boots, too.

“Can I help you?” I asks.

But he yanks the boots away and sets on ’em.

“Not this pair!” he snorts, producing a pair of tweezers.

I watches him dig out a few more cactus spines and then try to get a number seventeen foot into a number twelve boot. He groans, puts the boots away and slips a pair of moccasins on his feet. Then he sighs and rolls a smoke.

“I delivered Oscar and Emmeline,” says I.

He squints at me and nods solemn-like. Then he says:

“I gave George Washington to his maw.”

We both nods. Then pretty soon he says—

“She got off the train to mail a letter, and the train pulled out and left her here. She wired to Cut Bank, which is the next stop, but the danged telegraph system got caught in the storm and lost its voice. She’s been whooping it up and down this here platform ever since. She hugged me seventeen times, Ike, when she finds it belongs to her, and I reckon I—I hugged her some, too.”

I finished up the rest of the lunch. Magpie got to his feet.

“Want to show you something, Ike.”

He limped around to the door of the depot, and I follered him. Near the door he stops and points at the floor. There’s a wet spot and a lot of busted glass. One piece of glass is still holding on to a rubber mouthpiece.

“Know what that is?” he asks.

I shakes my head.

“Bottle,” says he wise-like. “Bottle which contained milk for Georgie.”

“What’s the answer, Magpie?”

“When I gave Georgie to his maw, that bottle fell out of his blanket.”

“My ——!” says I. “Was it there all the time?”

“You didn’t see anybody put it there, did you?” he asks sarcastic-like.

We sat down on the edge of the platform and communed with our thoughts. After a while I says:

“Magpie, it’s easy to figure that the kidnaper got scared and left that baby in that shack, but what I don’t understand is this: All little babies being more or less alike in the face, how in —— did them men know at a glance that your baby wasn’t little Oscar?”

“Huh! I never seen Oscar myself, Ike, but I’d ’a’ known it wasn’t Oscar. Little Georgie’s father was the porter that blacked my yaller boots, Ike.”

THE END

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June, 1919 issue of Adventure magazine.

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Color of His Boots, by W. C. Tuttle

THE COLOR OF HIS BOOTS

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