Too much progress for Piperock
Date: 2024-02-28T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short stories; Western stories; Simpkins; Magpie (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Harper; Ike (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Piperock (Montana : Imaginary place) -- Fiction

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Title: Too much progress for Piperock

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: February 28, 2024 [eBook #73065]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Ridgway Company, 1922

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73065

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOO MUCH PROGRESS FOR PIPEROCK ***

Too Much Progress for Piperock

Too Much Progress for Piperock
by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Law Rustlers,” “The Spark of Skeeter Bill,” etc.

I never seen anything like her before—not alive. One time I found a piece of an old fashion magazine, and there was a picture of a female in that—a female that some feller drawed; but I just figured that it was all imagination with him. I take one look at this live female and then I takes off my hat to the artist.

She said she was an artist. What in ⸺ anybody could find to draw in Yaller Rock County—except guns—was more than I could see. Me and “Magpie” Simpkins was down at Paradise, setting in Art Wheeler’s stage, when she got on, headed for Piperock.

Art got one look at her and then jackknifed his four horses in trying to turn around and go the wrong direction. Magpie Simpkins never took his eyes off her. Magpie’s old enough to know better, but he didn’t seem to. Art’s eyes don’t foller the road much, with the result that he runs a front wheel off Calamity grade and danged near sends us all to our final destination.

She said her name was Henrietta Harrison. Art pulls up for a breathing spell at Cottonwood Crick, and we stops in the shade of a tree. She looks at the big tree and then she says—

“Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat⸺”

“Me,” says Magpie, kinda foolish-like.

“You!” snorts Art. “Tune your merry note! Haw! Haw! Haw! You could ‘lie⸺’”

“Mebbe you could!” says Magpie, mean-like. “But your wife wouldn’t let yuh.”

“Set down, you ancient he buzzards!” I yelps. “Ain’t yuh got no sense?”

“I don’t understand,” says Henrietta.

“Nobody does,” says I, consoling her. “If we did, we’d know whether to lynch ’em or send ’em to the loco lodge, ma’am.”

“Magpie makes me tired,” declares Art. “Any time he wants to tune his note⸺”

“It’s my note, Mister Wheeler. If I want to tune my own note⸺”

“I was merely quoting Shakespeare,” says the lady.

“Giddap, broncs!” says Art Wheeler, and we rocked on into Piperock.

I’ll tell you right here and now; beauty ain’t even skin deep in Piperock. We’ve got wimmin folks—that is, some has—but nobody ever kidnaped any of ’em.

If they belonged to me I’d trust ’em with any man.

There’s Mrs. “Wick” Smith, who jars the hay-scales to two hundred and seventy-five, and wheezes plentiful. Art Wheeler’s better half tasted of life and found it sour, and never got the acid out of her system. Mrs. “Testament” Tilton looks upward for guidance in all matters except when it comes to flattering Testament’s head with a skillet. When Mrs. Pete Gonyer is in sight, Pete’s voice sinks seventeen inches below a whisper. Somebody remarks one day that Pete’s kinda henpecked.

“Henpecked, ⸺!” says Pete. “Orstrich—if there ain’t nothin’ bigger what wears feathers.”

Mrs. Steele, the wife of our legal light, is six feet two inches tall, and she’s always oratin’ about the sanctity of the home, whatever that is. One cinch, the prize never hands down any decisions in his own home.

Mrs. Sam Holt goes through life worrying about somebody alienating the affections of old Sam, who can barely hear himself yell, and has to eat his spuds mashed or miss the taste of ’em.

There’s the Mudgett sisters, who must ’a’ been the originals of the first cartoon of “Miss Democracy.” Cupid would have to use a .30-30 if he went to work for them. Scattered around the range is a occasional female, but nothing that you’d bet your money on in a beauty contest. Annie Schmidt is cooking for the Triangle outfit, but the same don’t seem to cause any of the other ranches to go short of help.

Henrietta Harrison horns into Piperock. Piperock takes a deep breath. Bad news travels fast, and it ain’t long before there’s a need of another hitch-rack in Piperock. Sam Holt runs the hotel—or thought he did; but Ma Holt got one look at Henrietta and shut up the book.

“Every room is taken,” says she.

“Who by, Ma?” asks old Sam.

“Me!”

“Ma’am,” says Magpie, “I reckon mebbe Mrs. Smith will take a boarder.”

Wick said she would. Wick locked up his store and took the valise in one hand and Henrietta’s elbow in the other, kinda rubbing Magpie and me out. We sat down on the sidewalk intending to speak unkindly to Wick when he came back, but Henrietta came back with him. Wick sets the valise down on the sidewalk.

“Ma said she was goin’ to have company, and won’t have no room.”

“This Summer?” asks Magpie.

“I ain’t no hand to argue,” says Wick.

Pete Gonyer comes over, and Magpie asks Pete about taking a boarder.

“Y’betcha,” says Pete. “Pleasure’s all mine. Mrs. Gonyer’d be plumb tickled stiff. Live all your life with us, ma’am.”

Pete almost stands on his head, bowing and scraping like a ground-owl; but just then Mrs. Gonyer comes down the sidewalk, but Pete don’t see her.

“Pete!” she snaps.

“My ⸺!” gasps Pete. “The rope broke!”

Mrs. Gonyer looks at Henrietta and then at Pete.

“I run out of horseshoes,” says Pete. “I had to come to the store⸺”

Pete goes on into the store and Mrs. Gonyer follows him inside.

“I must find a place to board,” says Henrietta, kinda sad-like.

“Eatin’ part’s easy,” says I; “but it begins to kinda look like yuh might have to hive up under that greenwood tree.”

“I’ll take her in before I’ll let her sleep under a tree,” says Magpie.

“You’ll take her in?” says I. “You mean, we’ll take her in, don’t yuh? Half of that cabin is mine.”

“It was my idea, Ike.”

Just then Testament Tilton and his wife drives into town. Testament is a sanctimonious-looking old pelican. He looks at Henrietta, and his lips move, but I know they don’t move in prayer.

“Miss Harrison needs a place to stay,” explains Magpie. “Have you folks got any extra room?”

“Brother Magpie, we have,” says Testament. “We have.”

“Where?” asks Mrs. Tilton.

Testament turns and looks at her kinda queer-like for a moment and then back at us.

“That’s the question,” says Testament. “I thought we had room, but where is it?”

“Well, get out of the wagon,” says Mrs. Tilton, nudging Testament. “Me and you have got to do shoppin’.”

“I think it is an insult,” says Henrietta. “I’ve half a notion to leave.”

“I’ve got a ⸺ good notion to leave with yuh,” says Magpie.

“Let’s make it a trio,” says I.

“What are you insulted about?” asks Magpie.

“I ain’t so danged particular that I’d mention any one little thing.”

“I came here to recuperate,” sighs Henrietta. “I escaped from every one and went to one country where they would never expect to find me, and I am not welcome, it seems. I thought I might find a new theme in the wild dances of aboriginal tribes. That sort of thing is new and original, I think.”

“I think so too,” nods Magpie. “They sure do dance wild around here.”

“Often?”

“Every time we can find somebody what can call a quadrille. Round dances don’t go very good, ’cause there’s always some woman accusin’ her husband of huggin’ some other man’s wife⸺”

“I don’t mean civilized dances.”

“Neither do I,” agrees Magpie.

Then cometh “Muley” Bowles, “Chuck” Warner, “Telescope” Tolliver and Henry Peck, the four disgraces of the Cross J outfit. Muley, the poet, is too fat to work. Telescope, the tall thin tenor, is too proud to work. Chuck Warner wiggles his flexible ears, lies fluently to every one, and proves an alibi every time “Jay Bird” Whittaker, his boss, tries to make him work. Henry Peck has kind of a dumb way of going through life, and plays a banjo.

They sees us and don’t lose no time getting off their broncs and investigating. Muley takes a look at Henrietta and swallers real hard. Telescope stumbles over Chuck’s foot and almost falls into her.

“Will you introduce me?” asks Henrietta.

“Well’m,” says Magpie, “Miss Harrison, I makes yuh used to Muley, Telescope, Chuck ’n’ Hen. They’re jist common or ordinary cow-punchers. Cowboys, meet Miss Harrison, a artist.”

“T’ meetcha,” says Telescope. “Mr. Simpkins misinformed yuh, ma’am. My name is Tolliver—one of the Kentucky Tollivers, ma’am.”

“Oh!” says she.

“I’m named Bowles,” wheezes Muley. “One of the Oklahoma Bowles.”

“His paw was a famous man,” says Chuck. “He’d ’a’ been greater, but the posse roped him just short of the State line. I’m named Warner—a name made great by some doctor who built a patent medicine. Pleased to meetcha.”

“Speak up for yourself, Hen,” urges Magpie. “Tell the lady about yourself.”

“I’m named Peck,” says Hen. “I can’t think of any smart thing to say today.”

“I am Miss Harrison. For a reason,” says she, “I am incognito.”

“My ⸺!” gasps Telescope. “Is that so? I used to know a family of that name. They was Eyetalians—or Mexicans. Good family though.”

“I detest a nom de plume,” says she, smiling.

“Me, too,” agrees Muley. “I never had one, but the looks of one was a plenty for me.”

“The lady can’t find a place to live,” says Magpie. “Nobody is willin’ to sleep her.”

They lets this soak in, and then Telescope says—

“What’s the matter with her?”

“Nobody got any room.”

“My trunks will be here tomorrow,” says she.

“Female drummer?” asks Hen.

“I?” says the lady, kinda dignified-like. “I am an arteest.”

“Oh—yeah. Kinda like what, ma’am? Do yuh paint?”

“I dance.”

“By cripes!” grunts Muley. “We’ll give a dance.”

“I—I am an interpretive dancer,” she explains.

“Oh, yeah,” nods Telescope. “I see.”

“You’re a kindly liar,” says Chuck, “because you don’t see nothin’. Ma’am, I’m plumb ignorant of the word you used.”

“Why—I—er—do nature dances, don’t you know?”

“Nature? Oh, yeah.”

“Oh, yeah,” mimics Hen. “You see just like Telescope did, Chuck.”

“I—er—really, I do not believe I can explain it to you,” says she. “Unless you have seen one done, it is difficult for the lay mind to grasp⸺”

“That’s a word I’ve been tryin’ to get for years,” says Magpie. “Every time I’ve looked at this Cross J bunch I’ve tried to think of a word to describe their mentality. I thanks yuh for the word ‘lay mind,’ ma’am. Them four snake-hunters sure have that kinda minds.”

“It ain’t the hoochie—” begins Hen.

“It ain’t!” yelps Telescope. “The lady never said nothin’ about muscles. Henry, your horns are gettin’ too long.”

“Clip ’em, cowboy,” challenges Hen. “Start clippin’ and see which one of us gets dehorned first. You’ve got a pretty fair spread yourself. If the lady don’t do that kinda dances it’s her lookout, ain’t it? Yuh don’t need to whoop about it. I noticed yuh down at Silver Bend at the circus⸺”

“Now have a little sense,” advises Magpie. “You pelicans are too danged anxious to show off before the lady. You fellers spillin’ lead up and down the street ain’t gettin’ her a place to lay her head, is it?”

“If she only wants to lay her head—” begins Chuck; but Muley steps on Chuck’s ankle and shoves him aside.

“Ma’am, I apologizes for my friends. They mean well, but they ain’t got no sense. Now, it appears to me that you are lookin’ for a place to sleep.”

“It took that idea a long time to appear to you, Muley,” says Magpie. “Jist in what shape did you get this here bright vision? I don’t think that Piperock needs any assistance from the Cross J cow-outfit when it comes to housin’ our guests. I’ll take care of Miss Harrison, y’betcha.”

“Can’t she get a room at Sam Holt’s place?” asks Chuck, serious-like.

“Ma Holt,” says Magpie, winking at Chuck; “Ma Holt says that every room is full.”

Chuck wiggles his ears at Magpie and then looks over toward the hotel. Then he grins and says:

“You wait, will yuh? I sabe the cure for that.”

Chuck goes over to the hotel, and in a few minutes him and old Sam comes over to us. Old Sam says—

“Ma’am, we’ve got a vacancy and can sleep yuh fine.”

Chuck grabs her valise, and him and the lady and old Sam beats it for the hotel.

“Now, what in ⸺ did Chuck do to cause such a condition?” wonders Magpie.

“Chuck lied,” declares Muley. “The son-of-a-gun lied; but what did he lie about?”

Naturally none of us knowed, so we went over to Buck’s place and had a drink. We waited around for Chuck, but he didn’t show up; so me and Magpie went home. I said “home,” but it wasn’t home any more. Magpie got dissatisfied right away.

“Hawg-pen,” says he. “Anybody could tell that hawgs lived here. Lawd never intended for men to live alone this away.”

“You living alone?” I asks.

“You don’t count, Ike. A man like me kinda pines for the soft things of life.”

“Mush?”

“Mush! Naw-w-w! Always thinkin’ of your belly, Ike. A woman don’t mean nothin’ to you.”

“I don’t mean nothin’ to her, Magpie; so it’s fifty-fifty. Have you gone and fell into love again? Why, you danged old gray-backed pack-rat!”

“Age ain’t no barrier to happiness, Ike. It ain’t kind of you to point out a man’s failin’s thataway. Love knows no barriers.”

“Nor nothin’ else, Magpie.”

Magpie Simpkins is about six feet and a half in his socks, and he’s built on the principle of the thinnest line between two points. He’s just got hips enough to hold up his cartridge-belt—if he’s careful. His face is long and his mustaches look plumb exhausted from just hanging down past his mouth. His mind is full of odds and ends that never fit into anything.

A ordinary man in love can be handled, but Magpie ain’t ordinary. Love is quicksand and no help in sight to that hombre. I’ve herded him past several affairs of the heart, liver, and lungs, but each time the attack is harder. The D. T’s are a cinch beside what that pelican suffers when the little fat god of love stings him with a poisoned arrow.

Mostly always I hangs a extra gun to my belt and fills my pockets with rocks. Listen to reason? Say, that feller’s ears don’t hear nothin’ but “love, honor and obey”—that, and the church bells ringing.

I went to bed that night, leaving him setting on the steps, talking to himself about the gentle touch of a woman’s hand. I asked him if he remembered the one what “touched” him in Great Falls. There wasn’t anything gentle about that one, being as she took his watch and three hundred dollars. That was another case of love at first sight, and then he went blind.

As I said before, bad news travels fast. The next day is Sunday, but that ain’t no excuse for every puncher from Silver Bend to Yaller Horse to come to Piperock. I don’t think that the Cross J bunch went home Saturday night.

Sam Holt never sold so many breakfasts before in his life. Some of them hair-pant specimens ate two or three times. Muley Bowles comes back to Buck’s place with his belt in his hand, and groans when he tells me that he thinks he got ptomaine poisoning for breakfast.

“You done et three orders of ham and aigs,” says Hen.

“You say ‘ham and aigs’ to me again and I’ll massacree yuh, Hen.”

Magpie comes back from breakfast and acts kinda sad-like.

After everybody is back from breakfast, old Sam Holt shows up. The bunch kinda crowds around him.

“I has to come away,” informs Sam. “Ma’s goin’ t’ feed the strange lady, and she won’t allow nobody in the dinin’-room.”

“Won’t allow nobody in the dinin’-room?” parrots Telescope.

“She has her orders,” grins Sam. “Only one man is allowed to see her.”

“One man?” asks Magpie. “Sam, who is that there man?”

“Why, Chuck Warner, of course.”

“Chuck Warner, of course,” nods Magpie, like a man talking in his sleep.

“Chuck Warner,” wheezes Muley. “Of course.”

“Of course,” says Telescope. “Chuck Warner.”

Then we sets around and looks at each other.

“Chuck Warner?” says Hen, like he was trying to remember somebody by that name.

“Works for the Cross J outfit,” says I. “Kind of handsome hombre. You must remember him, men.”

“Oh-o-o-oh, yeah,” nods Telescope, fussing with his gun. “Chuck Warner.”

Magpie gets up, yawns and walks slow-like out of the door. Art Miller kinda saunters out, and then Telescope seems to desire fresh air. Muley kinda groans and starts to get up, but them three orders of ham and aigs has sort of depressed him, and he sinks back into his chair.

He takes out a piece of paper and a pencil and begins to write. You’ve got to hand it to Muley when it comes to poetry. In about fifteen minutes Magpie, Telescope and Art drifts back, and the three of ’em lines up at the bar.

“Here’s hopin’ he breaks a leg,” says Magpie.

“Or splits a hoof,” adds Art.

“Who yuh wishin’ all such luck to?” asks Hen.

“Chuck Warner,” says Telescope. “He’s—Ma Holt wouldn’t let us in, but we peeked in the winder and seen Chuck dancin’ a war-dance for the lady.”

“I’ll dance for her!” says Muley. “I’ll dance Chuck’s scalp for her. Why won’t Mrs. Holt let anybody in?”

“She’s got her orders,” says old Sam.

Just then “Scenery” Sims, the sheriff, comes in. Scenery is a squeaky little runt, and suspicious of everything and everybody. Magpie gets right up, takes Scenery by the arm and leads him outside.

“Now,” says Telescope, “what kind of a frame-up has Magpie got under his hair?”

We hears Scenery say—

“Aw-w-w, is that a fact, Magpie?”

Magpie nods and jerks his head toward Holt’s place. Scenery nods, and they starts for the hotel, with me and Telescope, Art, Muley, Hen, “Half-Mile” Smith, “Doughgod” Smith, “Tellurium” Woods, “Mighty” Jones and Pete Gonyer.

Magpie leads Scenery to a window of the dining-room, and they both peers in. Scenery looks at Magpie, kinda queer-like and nods his head. Then he tries to go in the door, but it’s locked. Mrs. Holt comes to the door and scowls at Scenery.

“You can’t come in,” says she, and starts to shut the door; but Scenery shoves a foot inside and blocks it.

“Mrs. Holt,” squeaks Scenery, “yo’re defyin’ the law. Actin’ thataway puts yuh liable for contempt of court.”

“Well,” says she, kinda dubious-like, “mebbe that’s so, Scenery. I’ll let you in, but the rest of you snake-hunters’ll have to stay outside.”

“We bows to superior intelligence, ma’am,” says Magpie.

In about a minute here comes Chuck Warner with his hands in the air, and behind him marches Scenery with a gun poked into Chuck’s back. Chuck looks at us and says—

“What’s the matter with this ⸺ fool?”

“Head for the jail!” squeaks Scenery. “Head for the jail!”

“You’re crazy!” wails Chuck.

“All right, all right,” squeaks Scenery. “We’ve both headed th’ same way.”

Henrietta Harrison comes to the door, but Mrs. Holt shoves her back inside and shuts the door.

“Poor Chuck,” says Magpie. “Poor Chuck.”

“Poor, ⸺!” howls Chuck. “I’m goin’ to kill somebody for this.”

“Gettin’ violent, Scenery,” says Magpie. “Don’t take a chance.”

“I’ll handle him, Magpie. Point for the jail, you scalp-dancin’ idjit.”

Chuck took one look at us, and then headed for the jail, with Scenery trottin’ along after him.

We all went back to the saloon. Pretty soon Scenery comes from the jail, and he’s got a beautiful black eye where Chuck walloped him. Scenery is peeved. Old Judge Steele shows up, kinda ponderous-like, and Scenery explains the whole thing as far as he knows.

“Loco parenthesis,” says the judge. “Reverted to sex. I always knowed there was aboriginal corpuscles in his arterial system. He is non compos mentis.”

“Lignum vitæ,” nods Magpie.

“Exactly,” says the judge. “You stated the case, Magpie. Who is the lady in the case?”

“Name’s Incognito,” says Telescope. “Incognity, alias Harrison.”

“Hah!” says the judge, serious-like. “This will need finesse. I shall go over to the hotel and have speech with the maid.”

I reckon he got in in the name of the law, too, but anyway he got in. Me and Muley went out and sat on the sidewalk, when here comes Mrs. Steele and Mrs. Wick Smith.

“Have you seen anything of the judge?” asks Mrs. Steele.

“Yeah,” nods Muley. “He went over to Holt’s to see a lady.”

“Oh!” says Mrs. Steele, looking at Mrs. Smith.

“Men,” says Mrs. Smith, “men are considerable alike, and a judge ain’t no different than the rest.”

“That old cormorant?” explodes Mrs. Steele. “The only difference is—he’s worse.”

“We’ve got to unite,” says Mrs. Smith. “A united front must be showed. Let’s go and talk to Mrs. Tilton before Testament falls from grace.”

They toddles up the street, headed for Tilton’s place. But Old Testament wasn’t home. I reckon he was kinda snooping around, ’cause he comes out from behind Pete Gonyer’s blacksmith shop and walks up to us.

“What was them womin talkin’ about, Brother Ike?” he asks.

“They’ve gone up to hold a war-talk with your wife, Testament. Appears that there’s a united conspiracy against the lady what come yesterday. They’ve gone to warn your wife, I reckon.”

“Love’s labor’s lost,” says Testament, sad-like. “She don’t need warnin’. Where is said lady?”

“Her and Judge Steele are holdin’ a conference over in Holt’s place. Yuh might go over and add your spiritual presence, Testament,” says Muley.

“I might,” nods Testament. “I’m sure ready and willin’ to pass spiritual advice. A man of spiritual knowledge is always needed.”

Testament’s last words were kinda faint, as he was hittin’ the trail to Holt’s front door.

“Paw,” says Muley, sad-like, “Paw wanted me to study for the ministry. Seems like a minister can git into places where a cowpuncher can’t.”

Mrs. Holt met him at the door and let him in. Pretty soon we sees Mrs. Steele, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Gonyer, Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Tilton. They comes down the sidewalk toward us. Me and Muley starts to go into the saloon, but Mrs. Tilton yelps at us—

“Henry Peck, do you know where my husband is?”

“He—he’s givin’ spiritual advice to a lady,” says Muley.

“I suppose Pete Gonyer is measurin’ her for a pair of horseshoes,” says Mrs. Gonyer, mean-like.

“And maybe Wick is tryin’ to sell her a bill of groceries,” says Mrs. Smith.

“I seen Art curryin’ his horses,” states Mrs. Wheeler. “He ain’t curried one of ’em since he owned them four horses—and he greased his boots this mornin’.”

“Here comes Mrs. Holt,” says Mrs. Steele. “Mebbe she brings news.”

Mrs. Holt was all out of breath, and them women didn’t seem inclined to let her get any of it back. Magpie and Telescope comes out of the saloon and moves in close.

“I hopes to die!” gasps Mrs. Holt. “I hopes to die!”

“You’re got a cinch,” says Telescope. “We all have to.”

Them females gives Telescope one gosh-awful look, and then surrounds Mrs. Holt, who gasps out her story.

“She—she’s dancin’ for Testament and the judge—barefooted!”

“No!” declares five female voices at once.

“Yes! Her and the judge has a long talk and I heard ’em. She tells him that Piperock don’t appreciate art.”

“My Art?” asks Mrs. Wheeler.

“I don’t know. Lemme talk, will you? The judge said he longed for the day when Piperock would become the greatest place on earth, and he said she had a good start right now. This here female opines that we’re fifty years behind the times. She asks him why folks don’t wake up around here. The judge says they’re just waitin’ for the right person to come along and set the alarm. She says she’s the greatest dancer in the world.

“She wants to show off, but the judge says that all Piperock ain’t as intelligent as he is and mebbe they’d not see things in the right light.

“Then Testament Tilton comes in. The judge introduces them two, and explains about her bein’ the greatest dancer on earth. Testament Tilton says he’s originally from Missouri. Then he laughed like a danged hy-e-ner. I don’t like to say that about a preacher, but⸺”

“Speak your mind, sister,” says Mrs. Tilton. “I like your description.”

“Well,” continues Mrs. Holt, “I had to go away for a few minutes, but when I got my eye to the crack of that door again I hears the judge sayin’—

“‘Testament, I reckon the rest of the country will kinda set up when we lets ’em know that Piperock is going to exhibit the greatest dancer in the whole danged world, eh?’

“Then Testament says:

“‘Brother Steele, you’ve said a lot in them few lines. Your idea of givin’ this under the auspices of my church is goin’ to make a hit with the womin folks. That takes the curse off.’

“Just then this here female shows up—barefooted.”

Mrs. Holt stops for breath.

“Can she dance? asks Mrs. Smith, wheezin’ quite a lot.

“Well—” Mrs. Holt looks around at us, and swallers real hard—“well—Mrs. Smith, I reckon we better go over to your house to tell the rest of it.”

They went across the street like they was afraid they’d get wet.

“I’ll never eat another meal in Sam Holt’s place again,” declares Muley. “I’ll get even with her by boycottin’ her husband.”

“I’m goin’ home,” says I. “The peace and quiet of Piperock is about null and void, and I need solitary communion with my pet hunch. Somethin’ tells me that all is not well. In fact somethin’ tells me that all is not only not well, but in danged delicate health.”

Nobody can read Piperock’s mind, but I’ve seen disaster come and go, and my personal prognostications are about on a par with a weather man prophesyin’ fair and warm in Death Valley.

I’m cookin’ supper when Magpie shows up, and the blasted idiot is grinning from ear to ear. He pours coffee over his potatoes and puts sugar on his bacon and then begins to talk.

“The rhythm,” says he, “the rhythm of nature is a wonderful thing, Ike.”

“Yes,” says I. “It must be.”

“The breeze of Spring; the waving of the branches of a tree. True poetry, Ike. The human form divine is the only thing capable of expressin’ these here e-motions.”

I takes out my gun and puts it beside my plate.

“Magpie, there’s a curse on you, and you might as well spill it all now. I’m not interested a danged bit, but any old time you starts out bobbin’ from flower to flower I knows what’s comin’. Spread your hand.”

Magpie smiles at me and then shoves back from the table.

“Ike, here’s where we jump fifty years ahead of Paradise and Curlew. We has hung to the old order of things too long. We has become moth-eaten and stale. Don’t yuh know we have?”

“Anything would—hung up for fifty years, Magpie.”

“We still dance quadrilles and waltzes, the same of which went out of style with flint-lock muskets. Now, we sheds the scales off our eyes and comes out of our shells into the dawn of a brighter day. Piperock entereth a reign of classical dancing, Ike.

“Miss Harrison is goin’ to elevate us, but we have to give her our able assistance. There seems to be a female sentiment against her here; but that’s plumb natural, bein’ as we’re in a rut and don’t know no better. Judge Steele and Testament Tilton has seen her dance. Them two are real progressive, Ike, and they sees the possibilities.

“Testament Tilton says it’s got anythin’ beat he ever seen, and he’s had his eyes open for sixty-six years. Miss Harrison says she’ll teach Piperock the rhythm of motion and then give a show for the benefit of the church. She’s gotta have a class of five to start with, and after them five has learned all about it they can each take a class of five. See how it’s done?”

“Has she picked her class?”

“I picked ’em for her, Ike. She kinda leans on me.”

“Might better ’a’ picked a fish-pole. Who’d you pick?”

“Me and Pete and Wick Smith and Art Wheeler and you.”

“I ain’t ripe,” says I. “You better put me back on the tree.”

“She wanted you, Ike. Mentioned you right off the reel. Said she wanted a representative group. Well, I got ’em, didn’t I? Everybody wanted to help, but five was all we could use.”

“Is Chuck still in jail?”

“Nope, Chuck’s mad. Yuh see, he told Mrs. Holt that him and Miss Harrison was goin’ to get married, and he wanted Mrs. Holt to take care of her and see that none of the men came near her. Chuck was showin’ her some Injun dances, and it was a good chance to get even with him for lyin’ all the time. Mrs. Holt was willin’ to take her in, bein’ as she was to marry Chuck.

“Testament has talked Mrs. Holt into keepin’ her until this here church benefit is over. It’s goin’ to be a e-leet affair, I’ll tell a man. Nothin’ like it has ever been thought about before, Ike. This is one time when Piperock shines as a social center and abolishes her rough career.”

When it comes to dancing I sure have always shook a wicked hoof, but this kinda stuff had me hoppled. You take two or three little running steps ahead, stop and wave your arms in the air, and kick out behind like a mule. Then you duck to one side, whirl around, lift up your arms again and go hippety-hopping around the place, kinda singing—

“Tra-la-la—, tra-la-la, la, la.”

That represents a little zephyr of Spring, you understand. There was five little zephyrs in our Spring. We zephyred around and around. Miss Harrison said we was getting the idea. Then she had us zephyr alone, while the other four little breezes set down and made smart remarks. There was considerable feeling aroused during this lesson.

Five little zephyrs took her back to the hotel, and then one little zephyr went home and packed up his burro. That one little zephyr had a vision of a big blow coming and wanted to get out of the road.

Magpie tried to plead with us, but me and the mule remained firm. Magpie’s voice was full of tears, but I shook my head, packed my jassack and went to live a while with “Dirty Shirt” Jones, who lives several miles away from the center of disturbance.

Dirty Shirt ain’t neither sane nor sanitary, but he appreciates me a heap. Dirty is cockeyed, but he believes in handing you bokays while you are yet in the land of the living and not waiting until you are ready for your weight of sand.

Dirty squints at me and says:

“I know you’d show up, Ike. It’s about time for Piperock to make a fool of itself again. What’s itchin’ the old town this time?”

“Interpretive dancing.”

“Oh yeah. I don’t know what in ⸺ that is, Ike; but it sounds like Piperock might adopt it. Magpie’s the ring-leader, ain’t he? Sure.”

Dirty knows Piperock as well as I do. For a week I helped him on a copper prospect, and not a word of Piperock’s doings percolated into our happy home.

Then Dirty got dry. When Dirty Shirt gets dry there ain’t nothing short of sudden death will stop him this side of Buck Masterson’s place.

Therefore we packs our burros and pilgrims to the city of Baal, as Testament calls it every Sunday. Testament has just got two sermons. One is on temperance and the other is on the evils of strong drink.

We has to pass Mighty Jones’ place on our way in, and we finds Mighty settin’ on his wood-pile, playing with a coyote pup. He squints at us.

“Goin’ to Piperock?”

I admits our ultimate destination.

“Better go home. Testament Tilton says that Piperock is goin’ to run a dead heat with Sodom and Gomorrah, whatever pair of horses them two is.”

“What’s the matter with Piperock?” asks Dirty.

Mighty hitches up his pants and spits very expressive-like.

“High-toned. Yessir, Piperock is gettin’ uppity—part of ’em, and the rest are packin’ two guns per each. Tonight means trouble in that town, y’betcha.”

“Tonight? Why tonight, Mighty?”

“Social affair tonight, that’s why. Two dollars per ticket, and not a gun allowed into the hall. I’ve got a ticket, which I’ll sell yuh.”

“Goin’ to save my money for ca’tridges,” grunts Dirty, and we pilgrims on.

We went right down the street of Piperock, looking neither to the right nor left, and heads straight for Magpie’s cabin. Looking into the open door we sees Magpie bending over the cook-stove, frying meat.

“Klahowya,” says Dirty.

Magpie drops the pan on the floor and whirls with a gun in each hand.

“Dancing makes you jumpy?” I asks.

Magpie shoves his guns back inside the waistband of his pants, kicks the hunk of meat into the skillet and turns back to the stove.

“How’s Miss Harrison?” I asks.

Magpie turns and squints at me.

“She’s gone, Ike.”

“De-mised?”

“De-parted.”

“Kinda busts up the show, don’t it, Magpie?”

“Like ⸺ it does!”

“How comes she to de-part thataway?” asks Dirty.

Magpie flops the meat and sets it on the back of the stove. Then he sets down on a bunk and combs his mustache.

“You ain’t heard, have yuh, Ike? No. Well, here’s the how of it all. You left hereabout the time that all the married womin are faunchin’ around, organizin’ a vigilance committee to hang their own husbands, didn’t yuh? Well, Wick and Pete and Old Testament and Art Wheeler and Judge Steele decides that Piperock and posterity needs ’em more than jealous wives do, so they up and orates that for th’ interests of the furtherance of Piperock they’re goin’ to stick to their original idea of learning the latest thing in dances.

“Them womin combines against such proceedings, and locks their doors against said husbands, with the result that we puts up bunks in the Mint Hall for all them errant husbands. Miss Harrison hangs on to her room at the hotel and Mrs. Holt enlists with the belligerent wives and hives up at Judge Steele’s.

“Inside of three days them husbands are plumb anxious to go to their wives, but wifie has nailed the front door shut. Them there dancin’ lessons has improved us wonderful, Ike. I gets old Sam Holt to dance in your place.

“Then we finds out somethin’.

“Judge Steele goes sneakin’ around home late at night after our lessons, and he peeks under the curtains in his house, and he sees Miss Harrison teachin’ them womin to dance, and the judge swears that they ain’t got enough clothes on to flag a hand-car.

“The judge so forgets himself that he raps on the window, and he gets a lot of bird-shot sprayed into the seat of his pants.

“Miss Harrison has double-crossed us, and the next night we chides her about it. She gets kinda woolly and informs us that the ladies invited her to teach them so they could do their part in the performance. She was teachin’ ’em the ‘Dance of the Raindrops.’

“‘My ⸺!’ grunts Wick. ‘My wife ain’t no raindrop.’

“‘I ain’t goin’ to permit Mrs. Tilton to appear in no mosquito nettin’ and bare feet—not in public,’ declares Testament.

“Things got kinda deadlocked, Ike. The tickets are all sold for the performance, and the church realizes over two hundred dollars. Me and the judge goes as a committee to confer with Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Tilton, and they refuses to arbitrate. They opines that what’s good enough for their husbands is good enough for them. Mrs. Tilton says:

“If Testament can wear a gee-string and imitate a willer-tree, why can’t I wear a porous-knit undershirt and imitate a drop of rain?’

“What could we do? We went back and held a council of war. Pete said he’d be ⸺ if his wife was goin’ to be a spectacle. They all declared that they wasn’t goin’ to let the world at large gaze upon their property in the rough. Miss Harrison declares that it must go through. There yuh are, Ike.

“Miss Harrison was taken to Paradise this morning and was put aboard the train. Art Wheeler drove the stage, and Pete Gonyer, Judge Steele and Testament Tilton acted as shotgun guards. Our premier dancer has went.”

“Which busts up the show, eh?” says Dirty.

“Not while Magpie Simpkins roams the plains, it don’t. Piperock is goin’ to get a look at interpretive dancin’, y’betcha. How much civic pride has you two snake-hunters got?”

Me and Dirty don’t say a word, being as we don’t sabe his wau-wau. Then he hauls out a jug of pain-killer and we sets down to do homage.

After all danger from drought is a long time past, Magpie points out the duty of a real honest-to-grandma citizen. He orates openly that the future of a city is only as broad as the inhabitants will allow. He asks Dirty Shirt if his views are narrow.

“Wide as the ocean, and beggin’ to expand,” says Dirty.

“I’m the widest human bein’ yuh ever seen, Magpie. Dog-gone me if I ain’t wider than anythin’ anybody ever seen. How about you, Ike?”

“I’ve got you skinned about four ways from the jack,” says I, and somehow I believed it.

Magpie got in between us and took Dirty’s gun away from him.

“Killin’ ain’t expansion,” explains Magpie. “Piperock has entertained too many times in the interests of the undertaker. Piperock is so far behind the times that the seventeenth generation of Montana’s human race has started and finished and we’re still runnin’ the wrong way of the track.”

“Are we that far behind the rest of the world?” asks Dirty, tearful-like.

“Further,” assures Magpie.

“Then let’s be up and doin’,” urges Dirty. “My ⸺, I never realized that we was runnin’ in the dust. How does we start in to speed up the old buggy?”

“I,” says Magpie, “I am the little jigger who is goin’ to lead Piperock to th’ promised land. I am the pelican which is goin’ to make Piperock a place of honor and glory and a social center. I has been throwed down by the best citizens, you know it? Puttin’ their personal feelin’s ahead of the best interests of the city, they has laid down upon their labors, willin’ to let poor old Piperock slumber and waller in the dust of decay; but the womin can see what it means to the city, and they’re firm as rocks. I have got one of the best dances yuh ever seen, gents.

“The ordinary poetry of motion is the weavin’s of a drunken Siwash with a sprained ankle beside this here dance of mine. Miss Harrison said it had anythin’ beat she ever seen.”

“Do yuh have music for this kind of dancin’?” asks Dirty.

“Well, kinda,” assures Magpie. “Frenchy Deschamps’ jew’s-harp and Bill Thatcher on his wind-pipe. Bill bought it a short time ago. Said that ever time he got a bull-fiddle busted it cost him ten dollars for a new one; so he buys him a wind-pipe. If anybody shoots holes in that thing he can patch it up.”

“That’s a new instrument on me,” says Dirty.

“That’s it,” says Magpie. “We’re so far behind the times, Dirty, that we don’t recognize things that the rest of the world has been usin’ for years.”

“My ⸺!” wails Dirty. “This is awful, Magpie. I’m grateful to yuh for callin’ my attention to same. Ain’t you grateful, Ike?”

“Remains to be seen, as the feller said when he dug into a Injun grave.”

“Ike’s grateful,” says Magpie. “Ike’s the gratefulest human bein’ on earth.”

“That ain’t no ways true,” objects Dirty. “I’m the most gratefulest.”

I gets between Magpie and Dirty and makes ’em put up their guns. Then we all took a last look at the inside bottom of the jug of pain-killer.

Piperock appreciates art, there ain’t no question about that. There’s fellers in town for this social event that ain’t been outside their dug-outs since the big blow. Plain and fancy horse-thieves, unsuccessful rustlers, hairy old shepherds that says “Ya-a-a-ss” and “No-o-o-o,” just like a sheep, and others too numerous and or’nary to mention.

Scenery Sims is setting in front of the Mint Hall with a sawed-off shotgun on his lap, but he lets us in.

“How does she look, Scenery?” asks Magpie.

“Well,” squeaks Scenery, “everythin’ is all right so far, but them ex-dancers is all back from Paradise. The women is all up there in the hall now. Bill Thatcher is drunker’n seven hundred dollars, and somebody has hit Frenchy in the mouth and kinda crippled his part of the orchestra. Shouldn’t be s’prized if there’d be buzzards circlin’ Piperock in the mornin’.”

We went up into the hall, which is all fixed up for the social doings. They’ve got the stage all curtained off and the room is full of chairs. Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Tilton, Mrs. Gonyer, Mrs. Holt, Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Steele are there. Magpie leads me and Dirty up to the stage and in behind the curtain.

“My ⸺!” gasps Dirty. Sheep!”

“There’s four sheep tied up back there—all rams.”

“Sheep—yes,” agrees Magpie. “Them is what Miss Harrison calls ‘atmosphere.’”

“At⸺ Oh, my!” gasps Dirty. “What’s she mean, Magpie?”

“Accessories to my dance,” explains Magpie. “I’m the star performer in ‘The Shepherd’s Awakening.’”

“What do we do?” asks Dirty.

“You fellers are fauns.”

“I’m the old buck deer—me,” declares Dirty. “You’re more cockeyed than me, Magpie, if you can see me with four spindle legs and a spotted hide.”

“A faun,” says Magpie, “a faun is a thing that looks like a human bein’, but ain’t. It wears skin pants, but from there on up it’s plumb nude. On its head is little horns, and it’s got a tail like a goat. It plays a tune on a wooden whistle.”

Me and Dirty looks at each other, kinda foolish-like.

“I think it’s lovely of you two gentlemen to step in the breach,” says Mrs. Tilton.

“Step in the—oh—!” croaks Dirty, wild-eyed. “This is terrible!”

“It will be a big thing for Piperock,” says Mrs. Gonyer, “and it will teach the male sex that the women are the real progressives. Don’t you think so, Mr. Harper?”

“There’s goin’ to be a lesson taught,” says I. “Experience is a great teacher, but I ain’t never learned much. I thought I was wise, but I finds that— Well, I ain’t never wore a tail like a goat and blowed on a wooden whistle yet.”

“I hope that Testament’s skin pants will fit Mr. Harper,” says Mrs. Tilton. “Mr. Harper is a little wider across than the Reverend.”

“Mr. Jones will be a little snug in Sam’s,” opines Mrs. Holt, “but he don’t have to do only one little dance.”

Dirty’s bad eye rolls a complete circle and then stops with a dead center on the tip of his nose. He grabs me by the arm and flops down in a chair.

“Ike,” he gasps, “Ike, shoot me while there is yet time.”

“Shoot yourself—you’ve got a gun,” says I.

“I know it, bub—but I’m so nervous I’d miss.”

Dirty just sits there and sweats.

“Them sheep—has they been trained?” I asks.

“They’ve been here two days,” says Magpie. “They ought to be used to the stage.”

Sudden-like we hears a crash down-stairs, the sound of loud voices raised in anger, and then up the stairs comes Judge Steele, Wick Smith, Pete Gonyer, Art Wheeler and Sam Holt. They’ve got Scenery Sims in their clutches, and he’s squeaking like a rusty gate. They files into the door, and Magpie greets ’em with a gun in each hand.

“Come ye in anger?” asks Magpie.

“Kinda,” admits Pete. “This whangdoodle tried to stop us.”

“Put your hands up!” snaps Magpie, and the whole gang reach upward. “Take their guns away, Scenery.”

“Now,” says Magpie, “what’s eatin’ you backsliders?”

“Ma-a-a,” wails Testament. “You ain’t aimin’ to carry out your threat, are ye?”

“I’m goin’ to dance—if that’s what you mean,” says Mrs. Tilton, mean-like.

“Arabellie, does you mean that you womin—” begins Wick.

“Wick Smith, you started this,” says Mrs. Smith. “You told me I was narrer. You said I was fifty years behind the times, didn’t you?”

“That ⸺ Magpie Simpkins put them words in my mouth, Arabellie.”

“I won’t stand for it!” yelps Pete. “No woman of mine can⸺”

“Pete, you shut your face!” whoops Mrs. Gonyer. “If you don’t want to see me imitate a raindrop—vamoose. I sure am goin’ to rattle on the roof.”

“I’ll git out a injunction,” says Judge Steele. “By mighty, I’ll declare it a public nuisance! I’ll stop this here⸺”

“You’ll set down and keep your face shut,” says Magpie. “You five pelicans are goin’ to set right down and look and listen. Has you all got tickets?”

None of ’em has bought a ticket, and they opines they won’t.

“Scenery,” says Magpie, “take two dollars from each of ’em.”

Them five arose up an yelped like a pack of wolves, but Scenery got ten dollars out of the bunch, and then we made ’em take front seats.

We hears some gosh-awful sounds coming up the stairs, and into the door comes Bill Thatcher. He’s got one of them Scotch wind-pipe instruments and it’s wailing like a lost soul. Behind him comes Frenchy Deschamps. Neither of ’em are in any shape to make music for anything except a dog-fight, but they flops down in their chairs at the front of the stage and acts like they meant business.

Scenery recovers his sawed-off shotgun and sets down on the corner of the stage, where he can watch them disgrunted husbands.

Me and Dirty follows Magpie to a place he’s got partitioned off for a dressing-room. Through the curtain we can hear Yaller Rock County beginning to come in. Me and Dirty are just sober enough to kinda be indifferent to death or taxation.

Magpie gives us our costumes, which consists of cowhide pants with a tail tied on, and a jigger made like a cap, with yearlin’ calf horns sticking out the side. He also gives us each a little whistle made of a willer.

“Where’s the shirt?” asks Dirty.

“Fauns don’t wear shirts.”

“What do you wear, Magpie?”

Magpie holds up a mountain-lion skin and a breech-clout. Dirty looks things over and then says to Magpie:

“If you escape, Magpie, will yuh do me a favor? In my cabin—in a old trunk, is a suit of clothes. I paid sixteen dollars for it the year Bryan run for free silver, but I never wore it. Will yuh see that they lays me out in it? Lawd knows I don’t want to be buried in a outfit like this.”

From outside we hears “Fog-horn” Foster’s voice—

“We-e-e-ll, come on, you mockin’-birds!”

“The house must be full,” opines Magpie, fastening his lionskin.

“Full of hootch and ⸺” sighs Dirty, sliding into his cow skins. “I’m goin’ to die like a ⸺ cow, I know that.”

“My gosh!” grunts Magpie. “I’ve plumb forgot we ain’t got no announcer since the judge quit. Ike, will you do the announcin’?”

“Then I won’t have to dance?”

“Sure you’ll have to dance, but all you’ve got to do, Ike, is to tell ’em what is comin’ next. The first thing on the program is a solo dance, which is knowed as ‘The Gatherin’ Storm,’ by Mrs. Smith; and then she gets assisted by the five ‘Raindrops,’ consistin’ of Mrs. Holt, Mrs. Tilton, Mrs. Steele, Mrs. Gonyer and Mrs. Wheeler. Mrs. Smith is doin’ the solo in place of the departed champeen dancer of the world. Will yuh do this for me, Ike?”

“Do it for Magpie,” urges Dirty. “Do anythin’ to get it over.”

I went on to the stage, and I got the shock of my life. Them females are out there, and I’m a danged liar if they ain’t undressed about as much as possible. I takes one look and staggers for the curtain. I hears one of them women bust out in a “haw! haw!” as I went past, but I never stopped to think that I wasn’t wearing any more than the law allows.

I steps out through the curtain and looks around. Never did the old hall hold as many folks. Fog-horn Foster and Half-Mile Smith are settin’ in the front row, across the aisle from each other. They stares at me for a moment; then both gets up like they was walking in their sleep, steps for the aisle and bumps together.

Fog-horn hit Half-Mile and Half-Mile hit the floor, after which Fog-Horn went right on up the aisle. Half-Mile got up, looks at me again, and follers Fog-Horn, but he ain’t tryin’ to catch Fog-Horn—he’s tryin’ to go past him.

“My ⸺” gasps “Cinch” Culler, lookin’ wild-like around. “Won’t somebody please hold me? I won’t be responsible⸺”

“Ladies and gents,” says I. “I’m out here to let yuh know what’s comin’ off.”

“Wait a minute,” says Abe Mudgett, standing up. “I’ve got my two sisters here with me, and if anything more’s comin’ off⸺”

“Set down!” squeaks Scenery, waving his shotgun at Abe, and Abe sets down.

“Now,” says I, “I’m out here to announce that the first thing on the program is Mrs. Smith. She’s goin’ to imitate a storm comin’ up, and then Mrs. Holt, Mrs. Tilton, Mrs. Wheeler, Mrs. Steele and Mrs. Gonyer are goin’ to show yuh what raindrops look like. This here⸺”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Pete Gonyer, but his laugh don’t show that he’s tickled so awful much.

“Haw! Haw! Haw! Mrs. Smith is goin’ to imitate— Haw! Haw! Haw!”

“Haw! Haw!” howls Wick. “My wife looks as much like a storm as yours does like a raindrop, Pete.”

“My wife,” states the judge, standing up, “my wife ain’t goin’ to do no ⸺ fool thing of the kind. I’ll show her⸺”

“Set down!” yelps Scenery. “Set down, you old Blackstone blatter! This is once when you don’t hand down no decisions.”

“Git off the stage and let ’er rain!” howls Telescope Tolliver. “I’ll see it through if I have to wear a slicker.”

“Ready for us to play?” asks Bill Thatcher, kicking Frenchy to wake him up.

“Use your own judgment, Bill,” says I. “I’ve done all I can, and now I’m goin’ to let nature take her course.”

I starts to step back through the curtain, when “Polecat” Perkins yells—

“Ike, I was wrong—you’re only half-cow.”

I gets back inside. Them women are all scared plumb stiff, but Mrs. Smith wheezes—

“Ladies, we’ve made our bluff—let ’er go!”

Just then Bill Thatcher’s instrument begins to wail and wail, shutting off all chances for Frenchy Deschamps to be heard.

“Sweet Marie!” howls Mrs. Smith. “Gee cripes, don’t he never learn a new tune?”

I ducks out of sight and the curtain slides back.

If Mrs. Smith knew anything about dancing she forgot every step. She trots out on the stage and starts something like Kid Carson used to call “shadow-boxing.” Then she turns around about three times, stubs her toe and falls down. Standing in a line across the stage is the rest of them females, with their hands up in the air like they was being held up by somebody with a gun.

“A-arabellie!” wails Wick. “My ⸺, woman, git out of sight!”

Mrs. Smith gets to her feet and yelps back at Wick:

“Git out of sight yourself—if you don’t like it! I’ll teach you to flirt with a dancer. Start the music over again, Bill.”

“Em-m-m-i-lee!” shrieks Sam Holt. “Ain’tcha got no modesty? Go put on your shoes and socks!”

Bill Thatcher starts squealing on his instrument again, and Mrs. Smith starts doing some fancy steps.

Wow! Here comes Judge Steele, Art Wheeler, Pete Gonyer, Testament Tilton, Wick Smith and Sam Holt, climbing right over the top of folks.

“Git ba-a-a-ck!” squeaks Seenery, waving his shotgun. “Stop it! Whoa, Blaze!”

“Look at the wild man!” howls somebody, and here comes Magpie across the stage hopping high and handsome.

“Stop ’em, Scenery!” whoops Magpie. “Dog-gone ’em, they can’t bust up my show!”

Man, I’ll tell all my grandchildren this tale. Them outraged husbands came up on that stage, while Yaller Rock County yelled itself hoarse and made bets on whether it would be an odd or even number of deaths. Magpie hit Pete in the neck and Pete lit with one leg on each side of Bill Thatcher’s head. Wick Smith got hold of his wife and them two started a tug of war.

Me and old Sam Holt got to waltzing around and around, which wasn’t a-tall pleasant, being as I’m barefooted and Sam ain’t. I seen Mrs. Wheeler and Art locked in mortal combat, and just then I hears Dirty Shirt Jones yelp—

“Heavy, heavy hangs over your head—”

I whirls just in time to see what’s coming, but I can’t escape. Dirty Shirt has turned the atmosphere loose. Them four he-sheep—four ungentlemanly woollies, with corkscrew horns, are buck-jumping across that stage, seeking what they may hit. I swung around to meet the attack, and I reckon the leading sheep hit him a dead center, ’cause I felt the shock plumb to me.

Maybe it hit Sam a little low, because it knocked all four of our feet off the floor, and the next in line picked us in the air and stood us on our heads.

I seen Wick Smith, braced against the edge of the stage, trying to pull his wife over the edge, the same of which is a invitation to a sheep, and the old ram accepted right on the spot. Mrs. Smith grunted audibly and shot into Wick’s arms. Scenery Sims starts to skip across the stage, but a ram outsmarted him, and I seen Scenery turn over gracefully in the air and shoot, regardless, with both barrels of that sawed-off shotgun.

Them load of shot hived up in the chandelier, the same of which cut off our visible supply of light.

I heard the crashing of glass, and I figures that the hallway is too crowded for some of the audience. I lays still, being wise, until the noise subsides, and the crowd has escaped. Then I moves slowly to my hands and knees. I feels a hand feeling of my legs, and then a hand taps gently on my horned cap.

“I—I thought,” whispers old Sam’s voice kinda quavering-like, “I—I thought they was all old ones, but a sheep’s a sheep to me.”

Bam! Something landed on my head, and I seen more bright lights than there is in a million dollars worth of skyrockets. Then things kinda clear up, and I hears old Sam saying to himself:

“Well, I killed one of the ⸺ things. If I go carefully⸺”

I can dimly see old Sam sneaking for the front of the stage. I’m mad. I got up and sneaked right after him. No man can mistake me for a sheep and get away with it. I jumps for old Sam’s back, and just then he seems to kinda drop away from me. I reckon he forgot about the five-feet drop from the stage, and I know danged well I did. I reckon I sort of lit on my head and shoulders on top of somebody. There comes a squeak from Bill Thatcher’s instrument, and then all is quiet.

I wriggled loose and starts to get up, but a strong hand grabs me by the ankle, yanks me off my feet, and I hit my head on a chair. I kinda remember being dragged down them stairs, and then I feels my carcass being dragged over rough ground. It was a long, hard trip, and I reckon I lost about all the skin on the upper half of my body. Finally I bumps over a step, gets yanked inside on to a carpet, and then I hears a voice very dimly—

“Sweetheart, I brought thee home.”

Then a light is lit, and I sees Mrs. Smith putting the chimney on a lamp. Without turning she says—

“I reckon you’ll confine your love to me after this, eh?”

Then she turns and looks at me, setting there on the floor with my back propped up against a chair. I looks around. Just inside the door, sitting on the floor, is Wick. Mrs. Smith looks at me and then at him. Then she wipes her lips and stares at Wick.

“Sweetheart, eh?” grunts Wick, getting to his feet. “Arabellie, ain’t you got no shame? Dancin’ up there without nothing on to speak of, and then you has the gall to bring your sweetheart home with yuh.”

“Did—did—didn’t I—bring you home, Wicksie?”

“You—know—danged—well—you—didn’t. I always knowed you was kinda sweet on Ike Harper.”

“On that!” She actually yelped, and pointed her finger at me. “Sweet on him?”

I gets to my feet, but my legs ain’t very strong. I says:

“Lemme a-alone. I don’t want no man’s wife’s love—especially one what hauls me home by the ankle. When I git married I want a clingin’ vine—not a pile driver.”

I never did have much sense. A feller in my condition ought to keep his mouth shut and sneak away soft-like. I turns my head toward the door, and just then the weight of the world hit me from behind, and it was a lucky thing for that house that the door was open.

I landed on my hands and knees in the yard, with all the wind knocked out of my system. Wick has got some rose-bushes in his yard. Like a animal wounded unto death, I reckon I tried to crawl around on my hands and knees to find a spot to die in.

All to once I sees one of them ⸺ sheep. It’s only a short distance from me. I know if I move it’s going to hit me sure as ⸺ so I remains still. I’ll bet that me and the sheep never moved a muscle for fifteen minutes.

Then all at once the sheep spoke.

“For ⸺’s sake, if you’re goin’ to butt—butt and have it over with!”

I got to my feet.

“Get up, Dirty Shirt Jones,” says I. “What kind of a way is that to act?”

Dirty weaves to his feet and stumbles over to me.

“Ike, thank the Lord, we’re alive!”

“Don’t presume too much. Medical science says that a man can live after losin’ a certain amount of skin, but I’m bettin’ I’ve passed that certain limit. Let’s sneak home and save what life we’ve got left.”

We sneaked around the Mint Hall and Wick’s store, and at the corner we stumbles into somebody.

“Who goes there?” asks Dirty.

“Go ⸺!” wails Magpie Simpkins. “Help me, will yuh? I wrastled all the way down here with one of them ⸺ sheep and now I’m afraid to let loose.”

“You and your ⸺ atmosphere!” groans Dirty.

“I’m settin’ on it,” wails Magpie, “I’ve got a kink in my neck. Will yuh hold it down until I can get up?”

Just then a voice from under him starts singing very soft and low—

“There’s a la-a-a-nd that is fairer than this⸺”

Magpie gets to his feet and takes a deep breath.

“Testament,” says he, “what made yuh blat like a sheep?”

But Testament’s mind is not dwelling on sheep—not the kind of sheep that Magpie meant.

Then the three of us starts limping toward home.

“Mebbe,” says Magpie, kinda painful-like, “mebbe we progressed too fast. Piperock don’t appreciate it, gents, but this night the old town jumped ahead at least fifty years.”

“Jumpin’,” says Dirty, reflective-like, “Jumpin’ don’t hurt nobody, but, holy hen-hawks, it sure does hurt to jump that far and light so hard.”

We pilgrims along, everybody trying hard to make their legs track. Finally Magpie says—

“Personally, I think that interpretive dancin’ has anythin’ skinned I ever seen.”

“Me too,” says I, “and parts I never have seen.”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the April 30, 1922 issue of Adventure Magazine.

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Table of Contents

- Too Much Progress for Piperock

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