The catspaw of Piperock
Date: 2025-01-07T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Western stories; Christmas stories; Humorous stories; Raffles -- Fiction; Piperock (Montana : Imaginary place) -- Fiction

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Title: The catspaw of Piperock

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: January 7, 2025 [eBook #75062]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Butterick Publishing Company, 1929

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75062

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CATSPAW OF PIPEROCK ***

THE CATSPAW OF PIPEROCK

By W. C. Tuttle

Ike Harper and Dirty Shirt Jones return in a hilarious story of the Christmas Season

Dirty Shirt Jones and Scenery Sims got religion. That in itself ain’t of much interest, unless you knew these two. I’ve knowed lots of men who got religion jist like Dirty Shirt and Scenery got it. Remorse, that’s what she was—not religion. Too much liquor on an empty stummick. I’ve felt the error of my ways from the same cause.

Dirty Shirt Jones wasn’t very big. His face was kinda antegodlin’, and one eye sorta roamed around indefinite-like, usually comin’ to rest with the pupil lookin’ down the length of his nose, as though amazed at the crookedness of said organ. Dirty Shirt had some quaint ideas of humor, and as far back as I can remember, he’s harbored a deadly hatred against the towns of Yaller Horse and Paradise. Bein’ a loyal Piperocker he couldn’t do otherwise.

Scenery Sims is smaller than Dirty Shirt. He’s a hard little devil, this here Scenery Sims, almost bald, square above the ears, with eyes like a pair of faded shoe buttons, one flarin’ ear—and a sense of loyalty to Piperock.

It’s December in Piperock. There’s only one tree between Piperock and the North Pole, which don’t noways temper the wind to the shorn lamb. Piperock ain’t no metropolis—but, gentlemen, she’s a town. We sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish together. As Magpie Simpkins says, “We’re one and indigestible.”

Me and Dirty Shirt have been tryin’ to wrest some wealth from the bosom of Mother Nature on the headwaters of Plenty Stone Creek, but the weather drove us back to the fleshpots, where we’re doomed to spend the rest of the winter. I’ve been spendin’ two days against a stove, tryin’ to git some heat inside my frozen carcass. When I does pilgrim uptown, I finds old Dirty Shirt settin’ on the sidewalk in front of Buck Masterson’s saloon. He’s humped up there, with his old mackinaw collar above his ears, hands shoved down inside his old yaller angora chaps, settin’ there in the snow, the thermometer below zero—and right behind him is the saloon, where boot heels are sizzlin’ against the old base burner, and water gittin’ hot for the next round of drinks.

Magpie had told me that Dirty and Scenery were paralyzed drunk the day before, and I had a hunch that Dirty had froze to death. But he wasn’t dead. His active eye does a few loops, steadies down to a strained contemplation of that crooked nose, and he says to me—

“The way of the transgressor is pretty damn’ tough, Ike Harper.”

“All depends on how heavy your underclothes are,” says I. “How about a shot of hot liquor?”

“Strong drink is ragin’, Ike.”

“So’s the thermometer.”

“I’m repentin’ of my sins.”

“Well, you’ve shore got a long hard season ahead of you, Dirty Shirt. Where does it hurt you worst? You ain’t done got religion, have you?”

“My sins are heavy among me, Ike. I’ve shot and slashed and cut and cussed pretty much all m’ life.”

“Not countin’ horse and cattle stealin’, card markin’ and other forms of malignant sins,” I reminds him. “But freezin’ to death ain’t goin’ to wipe ’em out none to speak about. Why not try goin’ to the penitentiary for life?”

“Wouldn’t pay me out, Ike; I’m half through livin’ right now. Me and Scenery got it together. He’s repentin’ in sackcloth and ashes right now.”

“Yea-a-ah—but I’ll bet he ain’t sucker enough to freeze along with ’em.”

“Old Testament Tilton told us—”

“You ain’t takin’ his word for it, are you, Dirty?”

“He’s our preacher, ain’t he? Me and Scenery went to church.”

“How in hell did anybody ever git you two in church?”

Dirty’s eye wobbles a lot, but pretty soon she jerks back to attention.

“They ain’t got no bell,” he says kinda sad-like. “No bell on the church. Don’tcha know it’s a shame—no bell on the church. Fact of the matter is, it don’t look like no church. It’s a shame for a place to not even look like a church. I tell you I’m goin’ to do somethin’ for that church. I’m goin’ to fix her up so she’ll look and sound like a church.”

“What’ll you use for money?” I asks.

“I’ll sell my horseless carriage to the highest bidder.”

I laughs through my chatterin’ teeth.

“Scenery might sell his camel,” says I, merely as a suggestion.

That camel was always a sore spot with Dirty Shirt. Him and Scenery owned a placer mine back on Dog Town Creek, and they cleaned up about fifteen hundred dollars, before the little pay streak played out. Durin’ that time, Dirty discovered a stretch of pretty good lookin’ quartz, and him and Scenery decides to work it. They needed machinery; so Scenery takes his share of the money and heads for Butte to buy the machinery.

In about a week he shows up, half drunk, leadin’ a moth-eaten camel. It seems that he got drunk in Butte, got in an argument with a feller over how long a camel could go without drinkin’, bought a camel from a travelin’ carnival and came back to prove he was right.

Naturally, Dirty Shirt got awful mad. He busted up his partnership with poor Scenery, bought Scenery out for fifty dollars, and went to Butte himself to get the machinery. And then he came back, trailin’ an old automobile behind a pair of misbegotten mules. He had got drunk, bought six hundred dollars’ worth of chances on a raffle—and won the danged thing.

It was the second automobile to ever come to Piperock, and a vigilance committee waited on Dirty Shirt right away; so Dirty stored it in the Piperock Livery Stable, where it couldn’t scare anythin’. Scenery kept his camel out at his shack, and put a warnin’ on the gate, which read:

BEWAIR THE CAMUEL
THE DAMN THING BIGHTS.

Scenery called it Araby. The danged thing smelt like a street in Frisco Chinatown, and it would bite. Acted most of the time as though it had a bad bellyache. The vigilance committee also warned Scenery to keep his menagerie off the main roads, ’cause every bronc that saw it throwed a fit and its rider at the same time.

Anyway, Dirty Shirt wouldn’t come in out of the cold; so I left him there and went into Buck’s place, where I finds Magpie Simpkins, Buck Masterson, Wick Smith and Old Testament Tilton, all settin’ around the old stove. While Old Testament is our minister, he’s broad minded, six feet six inches tall, and no man ever had a more “if I die right now you won’t hear a squawk out of me” expression on his face. Accordin’ to him, there ain’t no livin’ man knows more about hell. Magpie says Old Testament will prob’ly git a job as a guide down there, after he’s dead.

Magpie Simpkins is and has been my pardner for years. He’s as tall as Testament, wears a flowin’ mustache, and is a livin’ example of a man who never did mind his own business. He thinks his mission in life is to elevate humanity. His brain is filled with wonderful ideas, but each and every one is shy some sort of a dingus that makes ’em tick. But he’ll back any of his ideas with a six-gun or a neck yoke, when all else fails.

Wick Smith is a retired killer. He still retains the disposition, plus a walrus mustache and some bunions. He runs the Piperock Merchandise Company, and agrees with his wife, who scales two hundred and sixty. Buck Masterson was suspected of many things, before he settled down to runnin’ a saloon. He ain’t so tall, but he’s got plenty waist, big shoulders and skinny legs. On the Fourth of July he wears a collar, and on Christmas he adds a necktie to same.

Them four pelicans is plannin’ somethin’, I can see that right away; so I backed out and went home. I’m scared of them fellers, and when they git to plannin’ anythin’ I want to be outside their plans. Magpie didn’t say nothin’ when he came home, but he’s got somethin’ on his mind, and I seen him sneakin’ a few peeks at a little black book.

“Whatcha got there?” I asks, but he don’t answer.

But I sneaked it out of his overalls pocket that night, and it’s a Bible. I’ve knowed Magpie to have most everything else, but this is his first time to pack a Bible. I didn’t say anythin’, but I got all set to listen to mornin’ prayers. Mebbe he wasn’t that far gone, ’cause he didn’t pray, but he did mention that fact that Dirty Shirt Jones had turned over a new leaf and bid fair to become a valuable citizen of Piperock.

It was the followin’ mornin’ after that, when I went up to Buck’s place. I knowed I had twenty dollars in my pocket; so I invited those present to partake with me, which they did with cold weather alacrity, as you might say. Magpie was one of the elect. But when I dug deep for my twenty, my gropin’ hand encounters a lot of hunks of cardboard.

I took out a handful and looked ’em over. They’re about two inches square, with a pen and ink number on one side, and on the other is written:

Good for one chance.

I dug once more, but there ain’t no money in my pocket. Buck looks at me kinda dumb-like, and I says softly—

“Charge this up to me, Buck—until after the funeral.”

“No hurry,” says he.

I counted them tickets, and I’ve got twenty. Magpie smoothes his mustache and watches me in the back bar mirror. Then he clears his throat and says—

“It’ll be somethin’ we’ll all date time from, gents.”

“To me,” says I, “it’ll be jist a justified killin’, you long geared pickpocket. You took that twenty out of my pocket and put in them numbered cards.”

“Blessed be the meek,” says Old Testament.

“Meek be damned! I want my money. What are these chances on, anyway?”

“Scenery Sims’ autymobile,” says Buck. “It cost a thousand, new. If you can win it for twenty dollars—”

I blowed right up, but Wick Smith cramped my gun hand and tried to explain:

“It’s to build a new church and buy a bell. It means advancement for Piperock. Here’s Old Testament, grown as gray as a jackrabbit, tryin’ to chase the devil away from us. He’s been a long laborer in the vineyard of the Lord, and we’ve got to show our appreciation. Our church don’t look like a church. There ain’t no bell. Your twenty will do more good where it is right now than over Buck’s bar.”

“You don’t need to git so damn’ enthusiastic,” growled Buck. “I’ve gotta live, ain’t I?”

“That’s all fine,” says I, “but I don’t never go to church. I’m master of my own soul, and I don’t need no sky pilotin’. I wouldn’t give twenty dollars to that church, even if they’d give me Testament’s hide and taller as a bonus. And that was the only twenty dollars I had left.”

“It is better to give than to receive,” says Testament. “Just remember that Dirty Shirt is donatin’ that autymobile, free gratis for nothin’. There’s a lot of tickets bein’ sold in Paradise and Yaller Horse, and the grand drawin’ is to be held at the Mint Hall on Christmas Eve. We’re goin’ to give the best entertainment that’s ever been given in this country.”

“I don’t care,” says I. “I won’t be here.”

“You’ll be here,” says Magpie. “As one of the local donators, you’ll be here to see that it’s a success.”

I walked out of there and went down to Dirty’s shack, where I found Dirty and Scenery. They’ve got a bottle and a warm fire.

“How’s religion?” I asks, as I imbibes about the full of a mule’s ear.

“To’able,” says Scenery. “Day after t’morrow is Christmas, usually spelled with an X. Know why they spell it thataway, Ike? The X marks where the body fell. Me and Dirty Shirt are gettin’ organized.”

“I thought you fellers had religion.”

“We did have,” nods Dirty.

“Oh, we need a reg’lar church,” says Scenery. “We need one that you can see and recognize. That danged church we’ve got now looks like a saloon. I’ll leave it to you, if it don’t. We need one with a belfry.”

“We do,” agrees Dirty. “Oh, we shore do. The present one is a shame and a disgrace. I’m doin’ my part, ain’t I? They’re rafflin’ off my autymobile.”

“Will the danged thing run?” I asks.

“Shore will. It’s got gas’line in her, and all you’ve got to do is twist the crank. Run? My Gawd, that thing’ll rear right up and paw the sky. Stands me five hundred on the hoof right now. They’re goin’ to put planks on the Mint Hall stairs and run her into the hall, where all may gaze upon same.”

“And I’ve donated Araby,” says Scenery, grabbin’ for the bottle.

“They ain’t goin’ to raffle that thing, are they?”

“They shore ain’t! Raffle Araby? Huh! Nossir, they ain’t. I dunno what they want Araby for, but I’ve done made the loan to Magpie and Testament. I reckon the camule is part of the entertainment. I hope he don’t eat an arm off somebody—unless they’re from Yaller Horse or Paradise.”

I stayed all night with them two public spirited men, and the next day I’m so filled with remorse that I almost got religion. Along about midnight Dirty went out to git some wood, forgot to shut the door, when he came back, and when I woke up in the mornin’ I had one frozen ear.

I asked Magpie what the performance was to be, and he asked me if I knew what Christmas was all about. I said it was a time when folks traded shirts, as far as I could understand. He said for me to attend, and I’d learn what it was about. I told him I thought I would, bein’ as it had already cost me twenty dollars. I went down to Paradise that afternoon, and almost froze my other ear. Paradise town is about the same size as Piperock, but if all their morals were laid end to end you’d have to use calipers and a magnifyin’ glass to measure ’em.

I finds Tombstone Todd, Hair Oil Heppner and Hip Shot Harris over from Yaller Horse, and if there ever was an unholy trinity, these are it. Tombstone tries to question me a lot about our festivities, but I don’t respond very much, ’cause I don’t know enough about it myself.

“Peace on earth!” snorts Hip Shot. “Good will toward men! Does that mean men from Piperock? I’d crave to know about it, that’s what I’d crave?”

“It means men,” says Hair Oil. “That natcherally cuts out critters from Piperock. I heard the same thing, Hip Shot. Magpie Simpkins and his misguided cohorts aim to kinda soft soap us fellers. I know him of old. His dove of peace usually turns out to be a chicken hawk. I won’t go up there at no danged Christmas time.”

“Piperock will be glad about that,” says I. “They sent me down here to find out how many of you ain’t comin’. I’ll mark Hair Oil off my list.”

“Mark me off, too,” says Hip Shot.

“You’re off. How about you, Tombstone?”

“I’m comin’. Like a danged fool I bought ten tickets on that raffle, and I attends to see that no skulduggery is practiced.”

“If you ain’t there, your tickets ain’t legal.”

“Mark me back on,” says Hair Oil and Hip Shot together.

“There’s bound to be skulduggery,” adds Hair Oil. “I p’tects my dollar.”

Over at Hank Padden’s saloon I finds ’em playin’ poker, usin’ tickets as legal tender, and only bein’ discounted fifty per cent. I got into that game and lost nineteen tickets on the first jackpot. I’d have lost twenty, but I’d misplaced one of ’em, and didn’t find it until I was halfway home. Old Tombstone Todd won ’em all from me.

Paradise has always wanted that autymobile, and as far as I can see, most of the town are comin’ up to our shindig. Paradise can’t get along together well enough to ever pull off a celebration; so they’ve got to git outside their own limits, if they ever want entertainment.

I didn’t go uptown that evenin’, but stayed at our shack. Magpie wasn’t at home, and I knew he was as busy as a rat-tail bronc in fly time. He’s always the movin’ spirit in Piperock, and up to the present time, I’m the sacrificial goat that you read about in the Bible. But not this time. For once in his life Ike Harper, Esquire, is goin’ to set back and let somebody else be the burnt offerin’.

About nine o’clock that night Dirty Shirt comes down to my cabin.

“Do you want to re’lize on them tickets you got, Ike?” he asks. “We’ve plumb run out of cardboard, and the market is good in Paradise. I can git you jist what you paid.”

“I’ll ride on what I’ve got,” says I, kickin’ myself for that poker game. “I may win that machine myself.”

“Don’t be a danged fool, Ike. It ain’t got no brakes. Why, the whole thing is loose. Anyway, you can’t run it around here. Let Paradise or Yaller Horse have it. They won’t live long enough to enjoy it much.”

Then I told him about the poker game. I’d found the other ticket, but one ticket wasn’t worth botherin’ about.

“You’re the only person in Piperock who has a ticket; so I reckon the town is safe for democracy. We’ve done collected enough to build the new church, and the admission fees will hang a bell on her.”

“Why are you and Scenery Sims so interested in havin’ a new church?”

“The other one is a disgrace, Ike; it looks like a saloon. Well, I’ve got to go back and rehearse.”

“Rehearse?”

“Shore. I’m one of the Three Wise Men.”

“Who’r the other two?”

“Magpie and Tellurium Woods.”

“Yeah, you better go back and rehearse, Dirty Shirt. You three jiggers will shore need a lot of rehearsin’ for a job like that.”

“The Cross J quartette will sing. And Bill Thatcher’s orchestry will render plenty.”

“Well, that isn’t anythin’ to git excited about. There’s a lot of things I’d rather hear than Telescope Tolliver, Muley Bowles, Chuck Warner and Henry Clay Peck singin’. They’re awful, but they ain’t as bad as Thatcher’s orchestra, accordion, bull fiddle and a jew’s-harp, playin’ ‘Sweet Marie’. I ain’t finicky about m’ music either.”

“The rest of it’ll be good, Ike. It’s a specktickle. Livin’ pitchers, as you might say. Well, I’ve got to go back. We’re puttin’ the autymobile up into the Mint Hall, and we’ve got to cut out the side of the wall at the top of the stairs. We’ll elevate the machine up on a couple saw horses, where everybody can look her over. Goin’ to run her up on planks, with a block and fall.”

It shore was a good lookin’ machine, all fancy with shiny paint and brass dinguses. We never had but one other machine in Piperock, and somebody put dynamite under that one. Yaller Rock County is a horse country.

I don’t reckon that machine would do very well in Paradise. But them Paradise and Yaller Horse folks will buy raffle chances on anythin’. They are so danged crooked themselves that they think Piperock is goin’ to pull a crooked deal on the raffle. And me with the only ticket in Piperock! I don’t know what the odds are against me, but if they’ve already got enough money to build the new church, them Paradisers and Yaller Horses has shore dug deep in the old sock. But it’s all right with me—I’m lookin’ for competition. I don’t want the danged machine. I’ve got a horse and a burro, and that’s plenty rollin’ stock for one man in my position. I ain’t even goin’ to the entertainment. I’m goin’ to stand Buck off for a couple quarts and spend a quiet evenin’ beside my own fire.

Well, I got the couple quarts all right, and I packed plenty wood into the old shack for the evenin’. Then I put my gun on the table beside me, declared plenty peace on earth, good will toward all men, and settled down to enjoy life. Once in a while I can hear a few shots fired uptown, but nothin’ to speak about. Christmas is usually quiet thataway, and mostly always it’s so danged bitter cold that it freezes up the grease in a six-gun so badly that you can’t shoot it outdoors. Most of our killin’s are done indoors durin’ the winter months.

I’m setting there by the fire, kinda dreamin’, when all to once the door flies open and there is Magpie and Tellurium.

“Merry Christmas,” says Tellurium. “Git on your hat, Ike.”

“I don’t wear no hat in the house,” says I, reachin’ for my gun, but Magpie beat me to it. Without that gun, I’m outnumbered.

“Here’s the whole thing in a nutshell, Ike,” says Magpie. “Wick Smith fell down the chimbley durin’ rehearsal a while ago, and he busted his collarbone. You’re the only man who can take his place on short notice. Git your hat.”

“Nothin’ less than murder will git me up in that hall,” says I. “Right now I’m filled with the milk of human kindness, but don’t agitate me. All I crave is to be left alone.”

Well, they both talked with me plenty, and like a fool I let ’em lead me uptown. I don’t know what they want of me, but what chance have I got against two men, both bigger ’n I am, and three guns? If Wick Smith, sober, fell down and busted his collarbone, what’ll happen to me? Gravity is somethin’ I ain’t never found out how to defy, and if there’s any rubber in my system, it shore crawls to the upper side every time I fall off anythin’. I pleads a plenty, but it falls on deaf ears; so I resigns myself to fate, reservin’ the right to kill both of ’em as soon as I git around to an even break.

They leads me up to the Mint Hall, where everybody in the world is congregated, and takes me around to the rear of the big platform, across the front of which is stretched a big black curtain. They’ve shore cut a big hole in the side of the wall to git that autymobile through, and there she sets on a couple saw horses and some heavy planks. They’ve got the old hall decorated with green branches, and the orchestra is already murderin’ “Sweet Marie”, playin’ it in jig time. After while they’ll play it for a march, play it for the openin’ hymn, and then change the time for the first waltz. I looks over the assemblage with fear and tremblin’. There ain’t a paid murderer in the whole gang— They do their stuff for nothin’.

“Thank Gawd, there ain’t no Piperocker ownin’ any tickets on that raffle,” says Magpie. “If Paradise or Yaller Horse don’t win that autymobile, it’s ’cause they’ve lost the right ticket.”

I reckon Dirty Shirt has told Magpie about me losin’ mine in that poker game—that is, all except one. I’m wonderin’ if they know the money is to be used to uplift Piperock. Prob’ly not. There ain’t no church in Paradise or Yaller Horse, and if they thought for a minute that Piperock was goin’ to have somethin’ they ain’t got, they’d never bought them chances.

We climbed in at the back of that big platform, and I fell over a ladder. There was more danged carpenter stuff around, and it seemed as though most everybody in Piperock was in there.

“Oh, I’m glad you came, Ike,” says Mrs. Smith. “Poor Wickie had a ter’ble fall.”

“You’ll do fine in his place,” says Mrs. Dugout Dulin, who is six feet six inches tall, and will weigh about a hundred and ten. They ain’t got no bathtub in their house—they use a shotgun barrel.

I’m too full of Christmas cheer to pay much attention, and like a fool I let ’em dress me in a buffalo robe coat, string me with sleigh bells, and try to tell me all about it at the same time.

“No time to rehearse,” pants Magpie, cinchin’ up my belt. “Anyway, you’ll know what to do, Ike. That’s fine! Where’s the whiskers?”

There’s an apparition holdin’ the lantern, and it gradually dawns on me that this is Dirty Shirt. He’s got a white cloth wound around his head, and his figure is draped with one of Mrs. Smith’s front room curtains. And there’s old Tellurium Woods, naked to the waist, with a homemade horsehair wig on his bald head. From his waistline to his boot tops he’s wearin’ a Navaho rug. I begin to see things a little plainer, and my eyes focus on somethin’ that’s hangin’ from the ceilin’.

“Whazzat?” I asks.

“That,” says Dirty Shirt, “is the star of—of—where was it, Tellurium?”

“I dunno the exact location. Pete Gonyer made it for us. Iron star, with a glass front. Put a candle in her, and she looks like somethin’.”

They started to tell me more about it, but jist about that time Magpie and Scenery hooks some sort of a doodad around my chin, ties it off tight in a few places, and I looks down at about three feet of chin whiskers. They kinda shoot out from jist below my lower lip like a waterfall, and they shore smell awful horsey.

“There!” says Magpie. “You look more like Santa Claus than Wick did.”

I try to say somethin’, but I’m whisker bound. I talk through my nose, but I can’t even understand what I’m sayin’. Magpie explains what I’ve got to do. They’ve got a chimbley all built. It’s about ten feet tall, and about three feet square. At the bottom is what looks kinda like a fireplace.

“Here’s your chore,” says Magpie. “You climb that ladder to the top of the chimbley. There’s a ladder built inside for you to come down. Your act is the last on the bill. Up to that time, your chimbley is part of the stable. When we git everythin’ cleared after the next to the last act, we make this up to look like a room in the house. Mrs. Smith will recite a poem entitled ‘It Was The Night Before Christmas’, and while she’s recitin’, you come down the chimbley. There’ll be a Christmas tree, and you’ll have some doojinguses to hang on it, while she speaks. And that’s about all. We aims to show the folks jist why Christmas started; sabe? Kinda show the modern way of celebratin’, jist as a—a extra act, as you might say. Mebbe you better git up there jist before the show starts; so as to be all set. Now, I’ve got to see that the raffle is all pulled off right.”

I got up out of that chair, kinda gropin’ in the dark. I wanted to git that horse’s tail off my chin, so I could talk a little, but that heavy coat and all them sets of sleigh bells prevents me from liftin’ my arms. I’m jinglin’ around, grabbin’ for somethin’ or somebody to support me, when all to once, somethin’ grabbed me by the whiskers and gave an awful yank.

It knocked my feet from under me, but I didn’t fall down, ’cause I was still suspended by the whiskers, and I looked up at the flarin’ nose of Araby, the Scenery Sims camel. The damn’ thing has got me by the whiskers, kinda holdin’ me up at arm’s length, as it were. And then the blamed thing began to swing me around. My neck is jist about to break, when all to once the toggle busts, and I went end over end out through the black curtain, hit the edge of the platform on the seat of my pants, where I ricocheted straight out and landed with both legs around Bill Thatcher’s neck.

There’s a lot of yellin’, but it don’t mean much to me and Bill and his bull fiddle. Willin’ hands separated us, and somebody hauled me back onto the platform, where they yanked me back behind the curtain.

“I’m through Santa Clausin’,” says I. “No damn’ camel is goin’ to use me for a sling shot.”

“Swaller your gorge,” says Magpie. “You ain’t hurt.”

“You take that camel home, or I won’t play with you.”

“We’ve got to have that camel, Ike.”

There’s so much yellin’ out in front that you can’t hear anythin’.

“C’mon with that raffle!”

“Throw Ike out again!”

“Start your show, before we freeze to death!”

Old Judge Steele and Old Testament Tilton went out on the platform. The judge has a sawed off shotgun and Testament has a Bible.

“Peace!” says Testament, holdin’ up his right hand.

“Or-r-rder in the house!” snaps the judge, and cocks both barrels.

“We’ll open with a prayer,” says Testament.

“Show your openers,” snorts Tombstone Todd. “And what’s a lot more, we never came up here to listen to prayers. If you’ve got any prayers to offer, go behind that curtain and offer ’em to Piperock. Ain’t that right, folks?”

“Yea verily,” says Dog Rib Davidson, of Yaller Horse, standin’ up. “I’d like to say a few words. I’ve got ten tickets on that raffle—”

“I’ve got eighty!” snaps Tombstone. “Set down, Dog Rib. I’ve done promised Mrs. Todd that autymobile.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” growls Hank Padden. “Better wait’ll you win it.”

Magpie went out on the platform. He’s got a basket with all the numbers in it.

“We’ll pull off the raffle, Testament,” he says. “No use prayin’ to or for that bunch of horsethieves. No use wastin’ your breath, ’cause the Lord would discount anythin’ you could say good about ’em, anyway.

“I’ve got all the numbers in this basket, folks. I’ll select somebody to draw a number, which will designate the winner. Judge, will you do the drawin’?”

“Not for mine, he don’t!” yelps Tombstone. “Not for mine. You’ve got to deal off the top of the deck to us this time, Magpie. I suggests that my wife draw the number.”

That seemed to suit everybody; so Mrs. Todd waddled up and drew out a number.

It was number eighteen, and you never seen such a scramble to look over tickets. One after another, I hear ’em cussin’ their luck. Tombstone and his wife are talkin’ their numbers out loud, and they ain’t hittin’ nowhere near the right number. The room is kinda still after the countin’ is all done, and when Testament clears his throat, it sounds like somebody tearin’ a horse blanket.

“Who has the lucky number?” he asks. “Who has eighteen?”

Nobody speaks, and I suddenly realize that I’ve got that number in my pocket. It’s the one I couldn’t find when I was in that poker game. I manage to unhook that big coat, and I got the ticket out. It’s number eighteen.

I stepped out on the platform and handed it to Testament, who squints at it over his glasses.

“Ike Harper wins,” he says.

The crowd is kinda dumb over it all. Magpie grabs me by the arm and hustles me back through the curtain.

“I’ve won me a horseless carriage,” says I. “One ticket was all I had.”

“Jist enough to start a killin’,” says Magpie. “Why didn’t you keep that ticket out of sight. Now, they’ll swear it was a brace game, and instead of peace on earth, it’ll be pieces of Piperock scattered over the earth. Scenery, git Testament off the platform, and let’s start the show before they git time to start anythin’. Ike, you danged fool, we swore to Paradise that there wasn’t a ticket held in Piperock. That’s why they spent all their money. Somebody git that quartette to sing. Dirty Shirt, you do it. Tell Muley Bowles to start it. Where’s your whiskers, Ike?”

“The camel done et ’em.”

“Hell! Well, you’ll have to be Santa Claus without the whiskers. No way out of it now. Somebody light the star, will you, Scenery. Will you git Araby set for this scene? Everybody clear off the stage, except Araby and the Three Wise Men. There they go!”

“Ho-oh-lee-e-e-e ni-i-i-i-ight,” wails the quartette.

Blunk!

“Si-eye-lent ni-i-i-i-ight,” wails the trio.

Whap!

“In the good old sum-mer-r-r-r ti-i-ime,” sings the duet, and then quits.

“Who hit Telescope and Henry Peck?” asks Muley, who sings tenor.

Comes the click of a gun, and then Tombstone Todd’s voice:

“I did! Whatcha goin’ to do about it, you hunk of leaf lard?”

“I’m goin’ to do the best I can without ’em, Tombstone.”

“That’s the spirit,” says Judge Steele. “And I want to warn all of you; this gun scatters pretty bad at fifty feet, but as far as that’s concerned, I don’t expect to hit any innocent folks, no matter who I shoot at.”

“We’ve been lied to,” wails Dog Rib. “They told me that nobody in Piperock owned any chances. I tell you, we’ve been gypped. It don’t stand to reason that one lone ticket—”

“Don’tcha worry, Dog Rib,” says Tombstone. “This ain’t over yet. The Todd fambly never quits! I had eighty tickets, and any old time I spend eighty dollars, I hang around pretty close.”

“You ain’t got no more right to it than I have. Numbers don’t—”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the show is about to begin,” says the judge. “As far as Piperock is concerned, the raffle was on the square, and Ike Harper wins.”

Old Testament steps outside the curtain.

“The first scene,” says he, “is the Three Wise Men in the desert. They see the star of Bethlehem, which is brighter than all the stars. It is so bright that it leads them on. And so they arise and foller the star.”

“Do they ever ketch it?” asks somebody.

But jist then the curtain is drawed back, showing Magpie Simpkins, Tellurium Woods and Dirty Shirt Jones standin’ in single file, with Araby back of ’em. And there’s the iron star, with the candle inside it, hanging up in front of a black cloth.

“And the Wise Men saw the star,” says Old Testament piously. “And they—”

“Um-m-m-m-m—a-a-a-a-ahhhh-oo-o-o-o—o-a-a-a-ah!” grunts Araby.

“And they looked and were much amazed, and they—”

“Hoo-o-o-o-o-a-a-a-a-aw-w-w-w-oo-o-o-o-o-a-a-a-ah!”

“Shut up, you moth-eaten, hump-backed old bum!” snorts Dirty Shirt.

“A-a-a-a-a-a-ah-a-a-a-a-a-aw-hoo-o-o-o-o-oah!”

Araby’s voice was almost a wail now. I feel shore that he ate and swallered my whiskers, and it’s done give him a bellyache.

“And they were much amazed,” repeated Testament, tryin’ to make himself heard.

“Wah-hoo-o-o-o-o-o!” wails Araby.

“They shore sound amazed!” yells somebody in the audience.

“Who in hell said I didn’t win?” yells Tombstone. “That wasn’t eighteen at all—it was eighty-one. I’ve got her right here, boys. My wife’s drawed my number! Here she is! By grab, I win that prize! Yah-hoo-o-o-o-o-o! Ike Harper never won nothin’, the bow-legged sheepherder!”

Well, I never let none of that gang call me names, even when I’m sober; so I steps right out on that platform, with all my bells ringin’, and I grabbed the shotgun out of the judge’s hands.

“Who’s a bow-legged sheepherder, you cross between a tarantler and a polecat?” I yelps.

The only light in the place is that big iron star; and that’s behind me, so I didn’t know where to shoot—but they did.

Wham! A bullet fanned my ear, and down came the star—ker-plank!

I ducked down and rolled in behind a corner of the curtain.

“My Gawd!” says an awed voice in the audience. “You shot his head off, Tombstone; I heard it hit the floor!”

Somebody yanked the curtains, and they began turnin’ on the lamps. Magpie took the shotgun away from me and shoved me into a corner.

“This is one of the best shows I ever did see,” declares Hair Oil Heppner. “Two singers done got knocked out, one bull fiddle busted, and a Piperocker minus his head—and this is only the first act.”

“I’ve won that prize,” declared Tombstone. “Jist somebody try to stop me from claimin’ it. Eighty-one wins.”

“I’ve got ten tickets,” says Dog Rib. “If eighteen was the number, I’ve got as much right to have it as you have, Tombstone. I’m from Yaller Horse the same as you and I—”

“You’re from Yaller Horse,” admits Tombstone, “but if you don’t shut up, you won’t never go back there, Dog Rib.”

Dog Rib is settin’ right behind Tombstone. Comes a dull thud, a sort of a scramblin’ noise, and then Mrs. Todd’s voice:

“Git up and take to him, Tombstone. Git up, can’tcha? He hit you with a boot. Did he hurt you, honey?”

“Honey’s in the comb,” says Hair Oil. “You shore do lift and drop a wicked boot, Dog Rib. But you ort to have removed the spur. Common etikette will tell you that it ain’t ethical to pet a man over the head with a loose boot and not remove the spur first. I’ll betcha he’ll part his hair in the middle for a long time to come. Well, the show gits better as we go along, don’t it, folks?”

“The danged murderer’s got some of Tombstone’s tickets!” wails Mrs. Todd.

“You had that boot off all the time, didn’t you?” asked Hank Padden.

“Shore did. How’d you know it?”

“You wouldn’t appreciate my reply, ’cause you live with ’em all the time. Well, let’s go on with the show. What’s holdin’ us back? I paid four bits to see a show, and all I’ve seen yet is small arguments. If all we’re goin’ to do is fight—let’s build up a good one, and then go home.” Magpie hauled me off the floor and led me back, where they’re fixin’ up that stable scene.

“They’re about to do battle out there,” says I.

“That’s fine. If they fight among themselves, they won’t have time to start trouble with us. Climb right up the ladder, Ike. I’ll tell you when to come down, but it won’t be until the next act.”

I started to climb up the ladder, when all at once I seen the rear end of an old red steer below me. The lower part of my chimbley is fixed up like a stall, and they’ve got a mean lookin’ old steer, with jist his head showin’. The rear end is in the clear, but his head is locked tight. On the other side of the scene is that danged whisker eatin’ camel, also caught by the head. They’ve got lanterns to light this scene. I’m pretty sore and stiff, but I climbs up my ladder and sets down on the edge of my chimbley. Anyway, I’m too high up for anybody to bother me, which ain’t such a bad position, but I didn’t realize that I stuck up above the top of the curtain.

Out in front, they’re still quarrelin’, but I ain’t interested. I’ve made up my mind to buy Dog Rib a drink for hittin’ Tombstone Todd. That old steer kinda starts weavin’ back and forth, tryin’ to git his head out, and I’m doin’ a balancin’ act on the top of that chimbley.

“You better calm that cow down there,” says I. “I’m no damn’ canary.”

“So-o-o-o, boss,” says Magpie. “Somebody git behind that damn’ steer with a hunk of two-by-four, will you? Go out and explain this part of the show to them ignorant sheepherders, will you, Testament. They won’t know what it’s all about, unless you diagram it for ’em.”

“Go ahead with your prep’rations,” says Dugout Dulin. “I’ll calm this steer. Whoa, you bald-faced hunk of rawhide. Stop weavin’ or I’ll knock your rear end out of line with your ears. How’re you comin’, Ike?”

“Feet first, if I have m’ choice,” says I, hangin’ on tight.

Testament Tilton’s voice comes to my ears, and he’s shore exortin’ somethin’ about somebody bein’ born in a manger, and the wise men bringin’ gifts.

“That part of it’s all right,” says Mrs. Todd, “but that don’t help Tombstone none. He’s done recited all his mul-pi-cation tables, and that damn’ Dog Rib Davidson done stole over half of his tickets. Ain’t there no law in this place? I’ve been a lady all through these proceeding, but I’m shore goin’ to forget m’ bringin’ up. Git up, honey, and poke him in the nose.”

“Little mul-pi-cation won’t hurt him none,” says Dog Rib. “He don’t know eighteen from eighty-one. He may be honey to you, but he’s shore horseradish to me, ma’am.”

“There ain’t no law against hittin’ a man with a boot, is there, Judge?” asks Hair Oil.

“Not specific, Hair Oil. It may be a breach of etikette.”

“When he wakes up, he’ll kill somebody,” says Mrs. Todd.

“Not with his own gun,” chuckles Dog Rib, “ ’cause I’ve got it.”

“He’ll run you out of Yaller Horse, you sneakin’ thief.”

“Tootms two is eight,” says Tombstone. “Tootms three is—is—”

“Eighteen,” says Dog Rib. “Let’s go ahead with the show.”

“I came out here to explain the scene to you,” says Testament. “Unless you understand what it all means, you won’t know what it’s about. In this scene, we aim to depict and duplicate a scene—”

“What happened to me?” chirps Tombstone, holdin’ his head in both hands. “Where’d all this blood come from? I crave to know who hit me, that’s what I’d crave?”

“Dog Rib hit you, honey,” says Mrs. Todd. “He stole your tickets and your gun.”

“I’ll git your ears for this, Dog Rib!”

“You’ll need ’em to replace the ones I got from you. While you’re at it, you might as well stock up on other parts of m’ anatomy, ’cause when I’m through with you, you’ll need plenty fixin’, Tombstone.”

“Did he git number eighty-one?” asks Tombstone of his wife.

“If I didn’t, I’m shore cockeyed,” laughs Dog Rib. “Folks, I’ve shore pulled the fangs out of this old sidewinder. He’s bossed Yaller Horse jist as long as he’s goin’ to. From now on, Dog Rib Davidson is—

Dog Rib is standin’ up to make his proclamation, when Telescope Tolliver, barytone of the Cross J quartette, flung a chair halfway across the room at Tombstone, and hit Dog Rib right on the head. Dog Rib shudders, folds up like a hat rack and disappears behind Tombstone Todd’s chair.

“Si-eye-lent ni-i-i-i-ight,” sings Telescope, startin’ in where he left off when Tombstone knocked him out.

“Set down!” snorts Muley Bowles. “We’re three murders and a homicide past that song, Telescope. Set down, before somebody kills you. This here peace on earth stuff means to keep down and protect your own head.”

“And Tombstone Todd still bosses Yaller Horse,” grunts Tombstone, as he helps himself to Dog Rib’s gun and his own, while Mrs. Todd recovers most of the tickets.

I can see and hear all this from my perch on top of the chimbley, where I’m swayin’ like a jaybird on a limb.

“Git ready to yank the curtain,” says Magpie. “Put all them lanterns inside the manger. Makes it look better. Somebody blow out the lights out in front.”

“Somebody calm this here bo-veen, will you?” I asks. “I’m gittin’ seasick.”

I see the lights go out over the audience, and then I hears the curtain go rattlin’ back. Every bit of light from all them lanterns is reflected upward, and there I set on that swayin’ chimbley top, like an illuminated buffalo coat, decorated with brass sleigh bells, which are jinglin’ every time that restless steer weaves back and forth.

I’m gittin’ so dizzy I can’t look down, and the rest of the world is all black to me.

“It’s Ike Harper,” says a voice out in the crowd. “The catspaw of Piperock!”

“Don’t shoot, Tombstone! You might be mistaken!”

“I’d know him among a million. Don’t jiggle m’ arm.”

“Stand still, you bald-faced oreano!” yelps Dugout Dulin, and then I hears the splat of that two-by-four across the rear end of the old steer. Wham!

That bullet picked off one of my numerous sleigh bells and sent her jinglin’ up among the rafters, and I let loose with both hands. It wasn’t quite the longest fall I ever had, and I lit sittin’ down, for the simple reason that the chimbley kept me from turnin’ over.

But I didn’t reach the floor. That old steer’s withers was between me and terry firmy, as you might say, and I lit a-straddle of ’em. I reckon I lit jist ahead of Dugout’s next attempt to pacify the steer from behind, and we was both goin’ ahead at the impact.

My nose and chin knocked the front out of that fireplace, and we came right out into that manger. I seen one horn of that steer hook into Dirty Shirt’s curtain, and he seemed to kinda open up, like a newspaper in the wind. It must have scared Araby, ’cause in what short time I had, I seen that old camel’s shoulders and hump comin’ out through the wall, and the camel’s mouth was wide open in a perfect “O”, like somebody tryin’ to blow smoke rings.

“Hook’m, cow!” screams somebody out in that dark audience, and that steer starts sunfishin’ right across that platform, headin’ for the audience, head down, tail up, and foghorn blowin’, while behind us comes Araby, kickin’ at everythin’ in sight, but follerin’ me and the bald-faced steer.

It’s about eight feet drop to the floor off that platform, and I’ve got both knees locked right behind that steer’s horns, when the fall started. I gets a flash of Paradise and Yaller Horse and Piperock, goin’ backwards over their seats in the dark, and then we landed.

It shore was one awful jolt, but you can’t discount the Harper fambly, when it comes to bulldoggin’ a steer. I took that animile to the floor in one blaze of glory, as you might say. There’s only a few shots fired. There was two fired close to the ceilin’, and I think it’s Judge Steele up there with his shotgun, judgin’ from the sound of it. He was right in the path of Araby the last I seen of him.

I’m pretty much shook to pieces, but I still retain my fightin’ instinct, and I got that steer by the horns, holdin’ his head close to the floor. We knocked over all the chairs in reach, both of us growin’ weaker and weaker as the battle progressed.

Finally the steer said—

“Well, damn you, hold my arms, but git your hair out of my mouth!”

There’s a light comin’ from somewhere, and I lifts my head to look down at the face of Dog Rib Davidson. One end of his mustache points up and the other points down, one eye swellin’ shut and there’s hair between his teeth.

The light stops beside us, and I look up at Dirty Shirt Jones, packin’ a lantern. Behind him trails that colored curtain, and that’s about all the raiment he’s got. He looks us over by the light of the lantern.

“Who’re you?” asks Dog Rib.

Dirty opens his mouth several times before he says:

“I’m one of the Wise Men who follered a star—but I lost the damn’ thing.”

“Huntin’ for it with a lantern?” I asks.

“I ’member you,” says he, his left eye doin’ a few loops. “You’re the feller who had ticket number eighteen, but I don’t ’member your name, feller.”

“I’m Sandy Claus.”

“Oh, yea-a-a-a-ah!” snorts a voice, and I set up to see Tombstone and his wife. He’s got both arms braced against her to keep her upright. She’s got the seat of a chair balanced on her head, and her mouth is all puckered up in a silly smile.

“Look out for that steer!” yelps somebody, and here comes the danged animal, wild eyed, with a chair hangin’ to one horn. I reckon he got hung up on somethin’ around behind the platform, and jist got loose.

But that steer ain’t mad; he’s scared stiff. He throws up his head like a deer, bawls like a slide trombone, and comes right straight for me, kickin’ busted chairs every direction. Tombstone Todd let loose of his wife and jumped out of the way, and the steer hurdled her. I fell sidewise, as the steer surged past, and grabbed holt of its long tail.

Never do that. I went up in the air, sheddin’ busted chairs, got a flash of that shiny autymobile in the lantern light, and then my head hit somethin’ so hard that all the big and little stars clustered around me. It shore was worth seein’, but it got monotonous after awhile.

Suddenly I hears voices, and all them stars went zippin’ away.

“Put her feet in, dang you! No, I want her all in. I tell you I’m goin’ to take away what I own. Now, you show me how to start her, Dirty Shirt.”

I raised up and looked around. I’m in the back seat of that danged machine, along with Mrs. Tombstone Todd, and in the front seat is Tombstone, with a six-gun in his right hand. I can’t see Dirty Shirt Jones, but I can see the light of his lantern. Mrs. Todd is sprawled out, snoring lustily.

“Y—you—tut—turn that dud-dingus on that dashboard,” sayd Dirty weak-like.

Zee-e-e-e-e! Somethin’ kinda hummed a little.

Mrs. Todd jerked upright, surged ahead and grabbed the back of the front seat.

“My Gawd, I’ve had a nightmare!” says she.

Well, that sudden surge shoved that machine ahead, and it headed right down them two planks. It hit the floor and headed right for the openin’ at the head of the stairs, with Tombstone Todd kickin’ at every pedal with his feet and yankin’ at every lever with both hands.

“Whoa, you locoed son of a tin-can!” he yelped.

Wham! Bam! Rer-r-r-r-r-r-ro-o-o-o-o-o-w!

I felt that machine jerk ahead like a buckin’ horse, and that dark room was filled with lightnin’ flashes, a cloud of smoke and the noise of a machine gun. I tried to jump out at the head of the stairs, but I hit against the side of the opening, and got knocked back on top of Mrs. Todd, who is yellin’ for Tombstone to let her out.

We shot off the top of them stairs in the dark and I don’t reckon we ever touched again until we shot out through that doorway, over the board sidewalk, bounced a couple times in that icy street, made a slight right hand turn jist in time to take every post out from under Buck Masterson’s porch. The street is full of screamin’ people, horses runnin’ away, porch posts goin’ up and comin’ down.

That’s when I lost Tombstone and his wife. The machine whirled around, kinda actin’ bowlegged, righted itself, and about that time it must have hit somebody, ’cause I’m enveloped in a suit of clothes that’s got somebody inside ’em, and all them little stars came back to play with little Ikie Harper.

I’m conscious of a dull crash, and then perfect peace. I open my eyes, but all is darkness. I can hear somebody movin’ around, but I’m not much interested. Then a lamp is lit and I look around. I’m settin’ in what’s left of that prize machine, and behind me is a wrecked doorway. I look around, and there’s Testament Tilton, standin’ beside his pulpit, without hardly enough clothes on to flag a handcar. One eye is swelled shut and his nose looks like a pickled beet.

“We’ll open services with a prayer,” says he solemn-like. “After that I shall endeavor to explain the different scenes of our entertainment. This is Christmas Eve—the evening when peace on earth, good will to men predominates; the evenin’ when all men are meek and mild, and a little child shall lead them.”

I dunno how I got out of there. That busted doorway wasn’t quite big enough, ’cause both of my legs had different ideas of direction. I’m still wearin’ part of that buffalo coat, and a long string of sleigh bells trail along behind me.

I didn’t go uptown. There wasn’t anythin’ up there to interest me; so I cut across to my own shack. I found Dirty Shirt, Scenery Sims and Magpie there, and they’re a fine lookin’ lot of undertaker bait.

I just comes jinglin’ in and rubs my hands over the fire. Magpie look sad-like at me, but don’t say anythin’.

“The steer broke its neck,” says Dirty Shirt. “Jumped through a winder and landed on its head.”

“Araby died in convulsions,” says Scenery.

“And the autymobile went to church,” says I.

“Anyway, we’re all alive,” remarks Magpie.

“Nobody but a damn’ optimist would say a thing like that,” says I. “I hope you’re satisfied, Magpie.”

“Oh, shore. It accomplished what we set out to do. We’ll have a new church and a bell in the steeple.”

I helped myself to their jug, bent myself in the shape of a chair and sat down by the fire.

“Dirty Shirt,” says I, “jist why did you and Scenery start this movement for a new church? It’s a cinch neither of you got religion.

“Self-p’tection,” says Dirty. “That church looked like a saloon. Me and Scenery got drunk and got in there by mistake.”

“Ter’ble,” says Scenery. “Ter’ble mishtake. Won’t happen ’gain, y’betcha. Goin’ to have a steeple and a bell; so she’ll look and shound like that she is. Well, here’s Merry Christmas to all and peace on earth.”

I didn’t have no gun, and my fists don’t seem to be mates; so I took another drink and went huntin’ for the horse liniment, as usual.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 1, 1929 issue of Adventure Magazine.

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