Playing Safe in Piperock

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Alias Whispering White,” “When Civic Pride Hits Piperock,” etc.

“I have been in lots of places,

Fair as lilies in the dell.

Some of ’em I kinda favor,

Others I don’t like so well.

There is one that’s ever calling,

Come on back and hang your hat,

Tough old, rough old town of Piperock,

You’re a danged good town, at that.”

“‘Magpie,’” says I, “if my corns wasn’t hurting —— out of me I’d have tears in my eyes from such sentiment. I’m all choked up—with alkali.”

“You’ve got to admit that she rhymes,” says Magpie Simpkins, spitting out a mouthful of dust and lifting his canteen to his lips. “I done figured ’em all out of my own head, Ike.”

“You better leave off taking things out of your own head,” says I. “First thing you know, old-timer, you’ll be taking out what prompts you to chaw your grub, and I’ll have to feed you with a stummick-pump.”

Then we pokes off the mountain and hits the trail toward Piperock. For you who ain’t never heard of Piperock, I’ll say this much: Piperock was the place the feller was thinking about when he wrote “Let sleeping dogs lie.”

Piperock looks like a siesta settlement, but she sure is deceiving. Few folks ever get killed in the town. The good old village usually invigorates ’em to a mile-a-minute clip, and we makes it a point never to shoot anybody in the back.

She ain’t the birthplace of nobody, and nothing much except horse-thieves are buried there. When it comes to law and order, we’ve got old Judge Steele. He’s got two law books and a copy of the Congressional Record for 1885, which about covers all the crimes that mankind is heir to, I reckon. Piperock ain’t on no map nor railroad and she ain’t never been sung in song or story, but if you don’t think she’s there, just get off the train at Paradise, ride north on Art Miller’s stage to where he unhitches his team, and then start something.

She’s there like sixty per cent dynamite and no questions answered. Me and that long-mustached, brainless, asinine arguer of a—well, me and Magpie have been away for two months doing assessment work on some mining claims that nobody would jump if we moved ’em down to the railroad and offered to develop ’em free of charge. We sort of hankers for the bright lights of Piperock. Even kerosene dazzles after using candles for two months.

Magpie stops, sudden-like, and appears to be looking down at a little flat below us. I adds my gaze to his and gets astonished right away. There is “Half-Mile” Smith and “Yuma” Yates: Half-Mile is one of our own home folks, but Yuma is sort of e pluribus unum with me and Magpie.

Half-Mile has got his boots and vest off and is standing a little ways from Yuma, who is arguing with a gun in his hand.

“I don’t sabe this play,” says Magpie, wondering-like. “Appears to be a one-sided proposition with Half-Mile on the weak end, Ike.”

Just then we sees Half-Mile make a break for liberty, and Yuma’s gun whangs out loud and clear. If he hit Half-Mile he didn’t get him in a vital place, ’cause he sure is hitting the high spots.

Magpie unhooks with his gun and I sees Yuma’s hat spin off his head. By the time I gets into action Yuma is hived up behind a tree, and his first shot cuts three shells out of my belt. Magpie was a danged fool to miss his first shot, ’cause cover is mighty scarce on the side of that hill.

“Danged assassin!” yelps Magpie and spins lead past that tree so fast that Yuma don’t dare to look out. “Shoot a unarmed man, will you?” And then his gun clicks on a empty shell.

“Give him ——, Ike!” yelps Magpie, but I wasn’t giving anything away right then. I was trying to get my head down behind a rock which only stuck three inches out of the ground.

Yuma must ’a’ got excited, ’cause his shots were all going high, and as soon as he shoots six times I breathes a sigh of relief. Just then a hunk of lead comes from another direction and knocks the plug of tobacco out of my hip pocket.

Then I hears Yuma yell:

“Get above ’em, Half-Mile! They need to be teached a lesson.”

“Half-Mile, are you all right?” yelps Magpie.

“If you don’t think I am, hang on to yourself for a minute!” replies Half-Mile from above us.

“King’s X!” I whoops. “Mistake here!”

“Two mistakes,” yells Yuma. “Who in thunder are you fellers?”

“Magpie and Ike.”

“Oh!” says Yuma. “Sorry I missed.”

Then the four of us stands up and looks at each other.

“Howdy, Magpie. Howdy, Ike,” says Half-Mile. “Nice day today.”

“Great,” agrees Magpie. “Howdy, Yuma. How’s your folks?”

“If I had any they’d be tolable,” says Yuma. “Thanks just the same.”

“You spoiled the best start I ever had,” complains Half-Mile.

“No, he didn’t,” argues Yuma. “You beat the gun, Half-Mile.”

“Not understanding the event and wishful to be wiser,” says Magpie, “I asks would you elucidate the why and the wherefor of this peculiar conduct, Yuma?”

“Feet racin’,” says Half-Mile. “I’m practising. Getting pretty fast.”

“Uh-huh,” says Magpie. “You having any success in racing with a bullet?”

“Racing with ——!” He stares at Magpie. “Think I’m a danged fool?”

“All depends on your answer, Half-Mile.”

“Aw ——! When Yuma shoots the gun I runs as fast as I can, sabe?”

“How many times have you done it today?” I asks.

“Six, wasn’t it, Yuma?”

“Seven.”

“And you ain’t hit him yet? Let me try just once, Yuma.”

“Half-Mile,” says Yuma, “these shepherds don’t know nothing. Let’s go home.”

We didn’t try to stop ’em. We punched our burros into line and at the main road we meets “Scenery” Sims. Scenery beat Magpie for the sheriff’s office, and this is the first time we’ve met him in his official capacity. He’s my idea of nothing to see nor hear, being as he never growed to man’s estate and his voice sounds like rubbing a tin can over a rock.

“He, he, he! Was afraid maybe you hadn’t heard about it,” he squeaks.

“Fill our ears, Scenery,” says Magpie, rolling a smoke.

“Biggest thing you ever heard about, Magpie. Believe me, I’m the party responsible for it all. Piperock needs you fellers.”

“That’s plenty for me,” says I. “I’m going back the other way. I’ve been butchered to make a Piperock holiday, and any old time that Piperock needs me, I’m absent.”

“Hear about it anyway, Ike,” urges Magpie. “Go ahead, Scenery.”

“Old Home Week,” grins Scenery. “What do you think?”

“Go ahead—we’ll bite,” says I.

“Whatever it is it won’t last no week” says Magpie, prophetic-like.

“The big celebration is all in one day. All the old-timers will be there; sabe? This is going to be a hyiu time, if you asks me, and she’s going to be full of brotherly love and peace on earth, good will to all menkind.”

“In Piperock?” I asks, and he nods.

“Brotherly love?” asks Magpie, and he nods again.

“Well,” says I, “if you was a big man, Scenery, or could pull a gun real fast, I’d say you’re mistaken, but being whom you are I’ll say you are either a danged fool or a liar.”

“Quit that now!” he squeaks. “Quit it! Dog-gone you, Ike, I’ve got a lot of power I didn’t used to have.”

“All the old-timers?” inquires Magpie.

“You heard me say it, didn’t you?”

“Hoss-thieves, et cettery?”

“Immune for a week, Magpie. I has issued my proclamation.”

Magpie looks at me sort of sad-like.

“What do you think, Ike?”

“When does the battle begin?”

“The celebration will be on Tuesday.”

“This is Sunday,” says I, “which gives one whole day to dig ourselves in and two whole nights to spend in prayer. Go ahead, Magpie, and may the Lord have mercy on the children ’cause there won’t be no old folks next year.”

Piperock ain’t changed none to speak about. As we pilgrims into the main street we sees “Tellurium” Woods gallop out of Buck’s place, and just as he skids into Pete Gonyer’s blacksmith shop we hears the bang of a gun. Then out of the saloon comes “Tombstone” Todd. He peers all around.

“Whyfor the salute, Tombstone?” asks Magpie.

“Salute ——! Think I’m shooting blanks? Tellurium argued that I ain’t eligible to stay here for Old Home Week. Said the only time I ever was here a delegation comes from Paradise, decorates me plentiful with tar and feathers and rides me off on a rail. Dang Tellurium’s hide!”

“Don’t you remember the incident, Tombstone?” asks Magpie.

“Don’t I? Sufferin’ snakes, I didn’t moult for two months! Scenery said I could stay here as long as I dwelt in harmony and brotherly love, and, by cripes, I’m going to foller the recipe if I has to decimate the whole danged village.”

Me and Magpie nods and pilgrims on to our shack.

“Brotherly love seems to have come upon them,” says Magpie. “This town appears mild and full of loving thoughts. Next thing we know, Ike, these snake-hunters will be carrying autygraph albums and wish us to write—

If you love me as I love you

No knife can cut our love in two.

“And the bunk-house walls will be decorated with ‘Let Us Love Each Other’ mottoes. I wouldn’t be surprized to see ‘Hassayampa’ Harris kissing ‘Doughgod’ Smith.”

“That’s a fact,” I agrees. “She sure is a sweet-cider atmosphere. Next thing ye know they’ll be decorating horse-thieves’ graves. Do I seem to hear joy bells ringing, Magpie?”

“That’s ‘Dirty Shirt’ Jones, I’ll bet a dobie dollar,” says Magpie. “One, two, three! Nope, he ain’t drunk yet, Ike.”

Magpie was counting the clangs of a bell. Dirty Shirt uses that bell as a barometer. It hangs on the corner of the Mint Hall, about sixty yards from the door of Buck’s place, and the bell is a little bigger than a cow-bell. Any time Dirty misses one out of three shots with his Colt he’s drunk enough to quit. As long as he can ring her three times in a row he keeps on until he can’t.

Me and Magpie don’t no more than get settled when here comes old Judge Steele. The old pelican is full of enthusiasm mixed with a certain percentage of alcohol and he welcomes us home again.

“You gents sure came back for the crowning e-vent of our lives,” says he. “We welcome you home and likely we can use you.”

“Use Magpie,” says I. “I’m out of order.”

“Huh!” snorts the judge. “Ornery as ever, eh, Ike? You ain’t got as much civic pride as a cat!”

“Maybe not,” says I, “and I’ve got eight less lives. I may die when my time comes but I ain’t rushing the e-vent. Piperock is always starting something that they can’t finish without bloodshed and horror.”

“We’re progressive,” explains the judge. “We sure are—to a startling degree, and the eyes of the world will e-ventually turn to Piperock.”

“They will,” says I, “and this is what they’ll be saying: ‘The words on that tombstone are appropriate: They Couldn’t Let Well Enough Alone.’”

“This here celebration amounts to what?” asks Magpie.

“Mostly everything, Magpie. On Tuesday we has the celebration proper. There will be feet races, tugs-of-war, shooting matches, et cettery. Lot of the fellers are practising for the events and she bids fair to be a humdinger.

“We aims to put Piperock on the map, Magpie. Always our inhabitants has to go to Silver Bend to see the sights, such as a circus or a opery. If we can advertise Piperock sufficient-like we can get said attractions and keep our money and young men to home. You was pretty good as a ordinary sheriff, Magpie, but you ain’t got the get-up that our new sheriff has. Me and him got together on this and we deserves a lot of credit.”

“You’re welcome, judge,” says I, “and all that goes with it.”

Just then here comes old “Jay-Bird” Whittaker, who owns the Cross J cow outfit and two-thirds of the banks in Yaller Rock county. The judge ain’t partial to Jay-Bird, so he lopes off down-town.

Jay-Bird gets off his bronc and sets down with us.

“Look upon me,” says he sad-like. “Take a good look. Good! Do I look changed? Do I look haggard around the gills? Yeah? I deserve to—gol dingle danged if I don’t! Me and ‘Chuck’ Warner went to Silver Bend to see the sights. Sabe? We seen ’em. That gol-danged, horse-faced, prevaricating son-of-a-sea-cook and me got stewed! I don’t remember all of what passed but I seem to hear talk about Buffalo Bill, Antelope Doc, P. T. Barnum and Frontpaws.

“Well, I woke up with my feet sticking out over the top of a manger, and in my checkbook is a stub which shows that I, J. B. Whittaker, who ought to have at least enough sense to make me half-witted, had paid five hundred dollars for the sole ownership of Oswald’s Dog and Pony Show!”

“Bought it?” asks Magpie foolish-like.

“You hard of hearing, Magpie?” asks Jay-Bird.

“Is she a good show?”

“I never looked—gol dang it! Chuck said I ought to be thankful that I didn’t buy the Mastadon Carnival Company too, which has been showing there a couple of days. Maybe I’d a bought it if I’d a been seen by the owners. Dog and pony show! ——’s bells!”

We all rolls smokes and just about that time here comes Hassayampa Harris of Curlew, who owns the banks that Jay-Bird don’t. Him and Jay-Bird is what you’d call business rivals. Hassayampa squints down at Jay-Bird and shoves his hat off a heated forehead.

“Think you’re smart, eh?” he grunts sarcastic-like. “Buying things, eh? Going to put yourself up as another Buffaler Bill, eh? Going to start a Wild West Show, eh? Well, I spiked one of your wheels, old-timer.”

“Yeah?” says Jay-Bird. “Who told you?”

“Chuck.” Hassayampa grinned from ear to ear. “I got him loaded and he spilled it all to me. Don’t blame Chuck, Jay-Bird, ’cause he was too full to think what he was doing. Sabe? He told me all about what you bought and why you came home after more money.”

“Oh!” grunts Jay-Bird. “He told you, did he? What did he say I came here after more money for, Hassayampa Harris?”

“Haw! Haw! Haw! For why, eh? Haw! Haw! Haw! I beat you to it, J. B. I bought the Mastadon Carnival outfit myself.”

Jay-Bird looks at Hassayampa for a moment, and then falls right off the steps.

“Some shock, eh?” grins Hassayampa. “Maybe I should have told him more easy-like.”

We turned Jay-Bird over on his back and he’s laughing so danged hard that his jaws are almost locked. He ain’t able to talk for some time. After a while he shuts off the tears and looks at Hassayampa.

“Chuck told you that? Haw! Haw! Haw!”

Hassayampa sets there, fooling with his six-shooter and staring at Jay-Bird’s tears; then he swings his bronc around, abrupt-like.

“Where you—Haw! Haw! Haw!—going?” asks Jay-Bird.

“I’m going to kill Chuck Warner. He lied to me!”

“Kill him a few times for me, Hassayampa,” yells Jay-Bird. “He never told me the truth in his life.”

Clang! goes a bell. Bang! Bang!

“Dirty Shirt is drunk,” opines Magpie.

“As usual,” nods Jay-Bird. “Are you going to be active in the celebration Tuesday, Magpie?”

“Ain’t decided yet. I’m going to let Ike help ’em out. Feel it’s my patriotic duty to let ’em have a little assistance.”

“Magpie Simpkins,” says I, “me and you are pardners in material things, but when it comes to my soul you don’t own a share of stock. You ain’t going to loan me and I ain’t going to have no hand in anything. Sabe? I’m going down-town right now, and if you hear my old .41 talking out loud you’ll know that brotherly love has snuck up on me and I’m playing safe. Good-by!”

If we had a newspaper in Piperock, you’d likely see something like this:

The follering guests registered at Holt’s hotel today:

“Piegan” Peters, “Tombstone” Todd, “Ace-High” Anderson, “Dynamite” Davidson, “Calamity” Calkins, “Sad” Samuels, “Windy” Wilson, “Shiner” Seeley, “Slow-Elk” Sloan, “Ornery” Olsen, “Hip-Shot” Harris and others too ornery to mention.

Every danged one of them are practising horse-thieves. Brotherly love don’t mean nothing to that bunch, unless the brother owns some middling good stock.

Then I meets Dirty Shirt. He’s about six and seven-eighths drunk and he greets me more with his eyes than his tongue. He squints one eye at me and then holds out his six-shooter for me to shake hands with.

“Comp’ments of the sheason to the Harper twins,” says he serious-like. “By cripes, Ike, your brother looks more like you than you do. Fact.”

“Which one, Dirty?” I asks and he rubs his eyes.

“Ex-coosh me! My mishtake, I’m sure. You folks goin’ to shelebrashun? If so—why not? All three nods together. Good!”

“Anything going on up-town, Dirty?”

“Naw! Pete Gonyer and ‘Slim’ Hawkins are up in Holt’s hay-mow nursing a pair of Winchesters, while they makes out schpecifications for tug-of-war.

“‘Mush be amachoor,’ says Slim. ‘Stric’ly amachoor.’

“‘Amachoor what?’ asks Calamity. ‘Horsh-thieves,’ says Slim.

“Now everybody’s sore, Ike, ’cause they’re all professionals. Why, there ain’t ’nough amachoor horsh-thieves around here to tug the hat off your head.”

Just then Magpie shows up with two saddle-broncs and a hurry-up expression on his face.

“Get on, Ike,” says he. “Hurry up!”

I gets on that horse and follers him. That’s the trouble with me; I’m a born follerer and no questions asked. We thunders through Paradise like Paul Revere advertising a flood, and I don’t overhaul Magpie until his bronc begins to miss a step here and there.

“Magpie,” says I, “let’s stop and fight.”

He yanks up his tired bronc and stares at me.

“Stop and fight?”

“Uh-huh. I’m just as big a coward as you are, Magpie, but I won’t run no further.”

“There ain’t nothing to fight, Ike.”

“You didn’t think I’d stop if I thought there was, did you? What in the devil are we killing our broncs for, I’d lower myself to ask?”

Magpie rolls a smoke and loops one long leg around the horn of his saddle. When Magpie appears to get confidential I feels that life is but a fleeting flower.

“Ike, me and you has scrabbled mighty hard for existence, ain’t we? We’ve punched cows for forty a month, prospected everywhere and found nothing much, and we run the sheriff’s office with a gun in one hand and our life in the other, ain’t we? What have we got? I asks you as man to man, what have we got?”

“We’ve got between five and six hundred dollars in the Silver Bend bank,” I replies.

“We did have, Ike. We did have a measly amount like that. How far will a amount like that go, I asks you? As old age sneaks upon us, Ike, and our hands lose their cunning we need to be upholstered in worldly goods or go to the bone-yard.”

“Has somebody robbed that danged bank?” I gasps.

“I hope not, Ike. I wrote a check for five hundred and gave it to Jay-Bird, so I ain’t worrying.”

“The —— you did! What for, Magpie?”

“For the complete and entire ownership of Oswald’s Dog and Pony Show, which will be knowed in the future as Simpkins’ Stupendous Shows Combined.”

“Combined with what?” I whispers.

“I don’t know yet.”

I don’t say nothing more. I look at him—that’s all. I hope to die if I didn’t want to kill my pardner. I swallers hard and scratches the butt of my six-gun.

“I knowed you’d choke up with e-motion, Ike,” says he, reaching over to pat me on the back. “It’s a thing that only comes once in a man’s life, and I knowed it would make you happy. Opportunity knocked and I sure let her in. Come on, Ike, and we’ll make P. T. Barnum’s outfit look like a medicine show. Why, dog-gone it, Ike, we can run that outfit one season and clean up enough to let us loaf the rest of our lives.”

“Barnum was right,” I whispers. “He sure was.”

“You danged know he was,” nods Magpie. “He knew.”

“One every minute, Magpie, and no stop-watches on earth.”

I don’t know nothing about circuses. My folks got all their money honestly, and I don’t know a blood-sweating Behemoth from a ant-eater, but it don’t need zoological wisdom to see that me and Magpie owns a lot of undesirables.

First on the list cometh Cleopatra. Magpie has a book which I read once, and it says that Cleopatra showed up on the Egyptian range about one hundred and seventeen years before Christ, but after I looks her over I comes to the conclusion she ain’t that young.

Cleopatra is a man-eating tiger, but from the looks of her ribs I’d say that she ain’t mixed with men folks for a long, long time. Her teeth look like she’d been trying to get sustenance from stones. She might pinch but I’ll be danged if she could bite.

Then comes Allah. He looks like a antique rug that the moths had been living in. They say a camel can go eight days without drinking, but I’m betting Allah can go longer than that without eating. He’s what I’d call a shipwreck of the desert.

Then comes Alcibiades. This critter might ’a’ been a elephant years ago, but right now he ain’t much but a mass of rubber wrinkles and a pair of mean little eyes. Alcibiades sure needed washing and ironing.

The pony end of the outfit consists of four little pinto ponies, and the dogs tally about six mongrels, one mixed breed and one just dog. There’s two monkeys which scratch like lumberjacks. There’s a dirty tent, two painted wagons, a bass drum, a bale of hay and a set of harness.

With these few words I have proclaimed what we own for five hundred dollars. Oh, I forgot to mention a water-bucket minus the bail. I’m looking over our loss when Magpie comes back, grinning like a fool.

“Eighty dollars, Ike!” he whoops. “We own the whole layout now. The Simpkins’ Stupendous Shows United.”

“Eighty dollars for what, Magpie?” I asks.

“Mastadon Carnival Company, Ike. Hassayampa knowed there was no use bucking me. We own everything now.”

“Except brains,” says I. “What does the Mastadon consist of?”

“Why—” Magpie scratches his head—“I’ll be danged if I know. Must be worth eighty dollars. It ain’t reasonable to suppose——”

“Figuring comparative prices, Magpie, you must have got an extra water-bucket for the eighty. What is a carnival, Magpie?”

We ain’t far from Judge Mulligan’s office, so we went over and borrowed his dictionary. It said that a carnival was a time of riotous excess.

“My gosh! We’ve bought a riot, Ike!” exclaims Magpie.

“Not me,” says I. “Don’t blame me. I’ve had a riot wished upon me.”

We didn’t get paralysis of the eyelids looking at our purchase. If the dog and pony show was small, the carnival was the sharp end of nothing whittled to a point. There’s three small tents badly in need of canvas to hide the bare poles. One of ’em has a sign proclaiming it to be—

SONG BIRDS FROM THE SUNNY SOUTH

Inside is a platform and some benches.

“Them birdies has gone south, Magpie,” says I.

The next tent proclaims to be the abode of—

THE PEARL OF EGYPT, THE POETESS OF MUSCULAR

MOTION, DIRECT FROM THE SULTAN’S HAREM

It’s as empty as a last year’s coyote den and smells like a muskrat burrow.

At the next tent we meets the last survivor. It sets there gnawing on a hunk of bread and don’t pay much attention to us. I never seen such outright hair on any human being. His head looks the same from front and back, and all he’s got on is the collar and sleeve of a dirty shirt and a skirt of swamp-grass. The words “water” and “bath” sure was a dead language to that hombre.

“Just about who in —— are you?” asks Magpie.

The feller looks up at us, masticates a few times and then points at a dirty sign on the tent.

BOSCO THE WILD MAN. HE EATS ’EM ALIVE

“Run out of snakes?” I asks and he nods.

“Where’s the rest of the layout?” asks Magpie.

Bosco stuffs the rest of the bread in his face and swallers hard.

“Well, the boss said he was going home; the niggers said they was going back to making beds in Pullman cars, and I heard that the Pearl of Egypt left here with a sheep-herder.”

“You the sole survivor?” I asks and he nods.

“Yep! Know where I can get a job?”

“Job!” snorts Magpie. “I bought you, feller. Cost me eighty dollars.”

“You got stung,” states Bosco. “I ain’t got a snake left.”

“You really a wild man?” I asks.

“Well,” says Bosco sad-like, “I ain’t been paid for two weeks, and they left me stranded here without no clothes, so you can draw your own conclusions.”

Never since the Lord dumped the leavings of the Bad Lands and wrote in the big book, “They will call this Piperock,” has the old moon looked down upon the like. Into the old cow-town, at five A.M., drags the darndest conglomeration a human ever conceived. The Simpkins’ Stupendous Shows Combined drifted into Piperock. It was Magpie’s idea. I wanted to take the things the other way, but Magpie wanted to give the old-timers the treat of their lives and Magpie usually has his way.

Magpie drove the team, which hauled dogs, monkeys, tent-poles and so forth. Then came Bosco on Alcibiades, leading Allah, and behind them cometh Ike Harper driving four calico ponies hitched to a tiger’s cage, inside of which Cleopatra yowled and complained against alkali, rheumatism and lack of sleep. We led our broncs and left ’em at our own shack as we came past.

We pulled around behind the city, unhitched, unloaded and then laid down on a part of the Pearl of Egypt’s tent and went to sleep. When we wakes up we observes Scenery Sims looking over our outfit.

“What is this here mess and what you fellers aiming to do?” he asks.

“This?” asks Magpie surprized-like. “This is Simpkins’ Stupendous Shows Combined.”

“Yes? What you aiming to do with it?”

“Show her off in Piperock tomorrow. She’s some attraction, Scenery.”

“Belong to you, Magpie?”

“Feathers and everything!”

“Then,” says Scenery, “you better hire somebody to haul it away and bury it.”

“Think you’re funny, don’t you?” asks Magpie. “Get this inside your barren skull, little one: This is a cross between a circus and a carnival and tomorrow she helps to entertain the old-timers. Sabe?”

“Smells like a cross between a pole-cat and ancient eggs,” says Scenery. “Remove it from our fair city to once!”

“Away from here? What do you mean, feller?”

“I’m running this celebration.” Scenery pats himself on the chest. “Me and Judge Steele inaugurates same and we has the say-so. Sabe? We adjudicates against anything that ain’t our own doings. In the first place, you ain’t got nothing that attracts us, and in the second place, as the sheriff, I rules against what you have got. You can’t show in the city of Piperock while——”

I saw Alcibiades working closer and closer to Scenery, but I didn’t think it was any business of mine to warn the law. It was nice team-work between Alcibiades and Cleopatra, if anybody asks you. The elephant just wrapped its trunk around Scenery, slammed him up against the cage and he don’t no more than hit the bars when a pair of paws come out and shucks the lower half of Scenery plumb to his birthday suit.

Then Alcibiades cracked the whip with the sheriff, and when he lit twenty feet away he still retains his boots, shirt and an idea of the general direction home.

“Good work!” applauds Bosco, sticking his head out from under the canvas. “Things like that never happen in a carnival.”

“You hang around here very long, Bosco, and you’ll see a lot of things what never happen any place else,” says Magpie.

We’ve just got one tent up when here comes Judge Steele. He hauls out a sheet of paper, balances his glasses on his nose and reads:

“To whom it may concern or annoy:

“Be it knowed this day and date that the city of Piperock, according to the laws of the State of Montana and the rights of humanity, does here and hereby announce to all and sundry, that on the fifth day of August, being tomorrow, there will not be tolerated within our sacred precincts anything of the circus nature. Be it further knowed that the city of Piperock does not hanker for anything of like nature and will not tolerate same. This aforementioned city is aiming to play safe for once, and no questions asked.

“Signed by Lindhardt Cadwallader Sims, sheriff, and wrote out by Judge Steele, notary public. Amen.”

“Is there anything else that Scenery wants?” asks Magpie.

“He said something about a pair of pants, I believe.”

Just then cometh Tombstone, Ace-High, Slow-Elk and Hip-Shot. They stops and considers Alcibiades and then wanders over to us.

“That ultimatum ain’t hardly square, judge,” complains Magpie. “Me and Ike has expended a enormous amount of time and capital on this stupendous aggregation of wonders and we’ve done it all that you might have a enjoyable day. It has cost us a e-normous amount of wasted energy, and in the event that we can’t exhibit here we are broke, busted and worn to the bone.”

“Who says you-all can’t show off here?” asks Hip-Shot.

“It has been so adjudicated by the sheriff,” states the judge. “I wrote her out and I know there ain’t no loop-holes in same. Scenery has decreed that this circus ain’t going to show here, and I represents his feelings.”

“No circus, eh?” says Hip-Shot. “I pines for a circus. How about you fellers?”

“Like a calf for its maw,” agrees Slow-Elk. “I ain’t never seen no circurious, Hip-Shot, but since you spoke I’ve begun to hanker awful for one. Let’s have one.”

“It must be so,” nods Hip-Shot. “We’ll have her.”

“You might talk to the sheriff,” says the judge.

“Talk ——!” grunts Hip-Shot. “Come on, Slow-Elk.”

They pilgrimed away and the rest of us sets down and rolls smokes.

“I just wants to know,” says Ace-High nervous-like, “I just wants to know if there is anybody here except me and Tombstone and the judge and Magpie and Ike? Five is maybe all that is here, but I feels that I’d like to be sure.”

“Much obliged, Ace-High,” says Tombstone. “You’ve got more nerve than I have. Is it or ain’t it?”

“Gents,” says Magpie, “meet Bosco, the wild man. Eats snakes.”

“I could love you, feller,” says Ace-High, “love you for being flesh and blood. Danged if I didn’t think my sins had began to react upon me.”

“Feeling so good I ain’t got the heart to chide you,” says Tombstone, “but if I was you—well, this is a he-man’s town, Bosco, and all that, but we’ve still got some of the finer feelings left, so I’d advise you to get some pants.”

When Slow-Elk and Hip-Shot shows up again, Hip-Shot bows low to us.

“Proceed with your circus,” says he. “All is well and good.”

“You saw Scenery?” asks Magpie joyful-like. “What’d he say?”

“Not much,” grins Slow-Elk. “He said to hang on to them keys, ’cause there ain’t no more like ’em, but he spoke too late.”

“I throwed ’em down that hole where Wick Smith bored for water,” said Hip-Shot.

“Keys to what?” I asks.

“Cell door and the jail,” grins Slow-Elk. “Scenery is bottled up.”

The old judge gets up and shakes out his coat-tails.

“Do you mean to say that our estimable sheriff is locked in his own jail?”

“I pass on the ’steamable part, judge,” grins Slow-Elk, “but you sure guessed the last of it to a gnat’s eyelash. Let’s all have a drink on the sheriff’s impossibilities.”

Then we enters Buck’s place. The rest of the surrounding country is in there and they’re enjoying the fulness of the world. Wick Smith is standing on the bar orating, and we listens to his wau-wau. Wick has been dallying with the weaving water, and his voice is full of silv’ry bells:

“—And friends of old, I says to thee all, there may be cities of gold and silver and palaces of paradise personified, but when a feller hankers for a pat on the back and the grasp of a honest hand and——”

Wick happens to glance down at Bosco and seems to run short on vocal power. He stares at Bosco for a moment, lets his glance wander to the ceiling, shuts his eyes tight and proceeds—

“As I said before, when a feller hankers for a hat on the back and the hasp of a—a——”

Then he glances down again.

“Judge,” says he, sliding off the bar, “you talk a while. I—I reckon my innards are ailing, I reckon.”

He weaves out of the door with his eyes shut.

Bosco looks around at that assemblage and then walks out the back door. Wild men has feelings the same as regular folks, I reckon, but to everybody outside of about six of us Bosco is the limit in hooch hallucinations.

“I’d—I’d set ’em up,” says Buck weak-like.

Six of us faced the barrier but the rest shook their heads. Dirty Shirt took his under advisement. He walked to the door, rung the bell three times, and joined us.

“It may get me e-ventually,” he announces, “but I’m still firm in my left hand, folks.”

All to once Wick stumbles back inside and flops in a chair.

“Send for Doc Milliken!” he yells.

“Ailin’, Wicksie?” asks the judge.

“Terrible!” Wick looks around, wild-like. “Ain’t nobody going to send for a doctor?”

“Will a little liquor take out the hurt?” asks Slow-Elk.

“Liquor ——! I need a antydote! First I see a cannyball and then I see a danged woolly dog!”

Wick’s voice hits a high note, and he stares at us wild-like.

“He seen a dog!” gasps Dirty Shirt. “Wick Smith has seen a dog! My gosh, this is terrible!”

“Woolly dog,” says Wick, like he was talking to himself. “It had a stick in its hands and was walking like a man. When it seen me it hopped up in the air and turned over and lit on its hind feet and——”

“Snakes!” gasps Yuma. “Smitty has got crippled crawlers!”

“You’re a liar!” howls Wick. “Don’t I know a dog from a snake?”

“Grab him before he gets violent!” yells Big-Foot and makes a dive for Wick. Wick might have been sick in the head, but it hadn’t affected his legs. He beat Big-Foot to the door and neither of ’em hit the sidewalk on their way out.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” whoops Judge Steele. “Them darned fools don’t know——”

Big-Foot comes backing into the door, catches his spurs on the threshold and falls flat on his back, where he lays with his eyes shut.

“Take it away!” he yelps. “Dang it all, take it away!”

“You—you got ’em too, Big-Foot?” asks Buck.

“Hawg tie me!” yells Big Foot. “I seen more than Wick did!”

“Somebody has been monkeying with the circus, Ike,” whispers Magpie.

We ducked out the back door. Bosco is setting there on the canvas. He says a couple of the dogs got loose, but nothing else is gone.

We sat down and smoked a while, when Magpie says—

“Bosco, do you know anything about this circus of ours?”

“You ain’t got no circus,” says Bosco. “I seen this aggregation when she was at her best and she wasn’t worth a whoop.”

Magpie nods and considers Alcibiades.

“What good was that elephant? He didn’t travel on his looks, did he?”

“Him? Naw! They used to give him soft rubber balls to throw into the audience—if there was any audience. Oswald never played to capacity.”

Magpie picked up a stone about as big as his fist and walked over to the elephant. He held out the stone and Alcibiades took it. He seems to sort of take a good hold with his trunk and then swings it back and forth, like he was weighing it. Then he whirls his trunk up and sideways, lets out a little grunt and away went that rock.

Crash!

It bored right into the eaves of “Old Testament” Tilton’s shack about fifty yards away. We hears the crash and a moment later here comes Old Testament out of the door.

He’s got his hands folded and we can see his lips moving. Over one ear is a lump the size of a egg.

“Howdy, parson,” says Magpie, but Old Testament don’t hear nor see us. As he walks past us we hears him singing soft and low—

“Rockavages clef’—rockavages cl’—Rockavages——”

Then he shakes his head and starts all over again.

“He can’t get over the rock!” says Magpie, awed-like, and we watches the old preacher turn into the street out of our sight.

“Magpie,” says I, “this here circus is getting in bad. You can do a lot of things around here, but any time elephants start hitting preachers with rocks, it’s going too far. I feel within me that there’s going to be a reaction.”

We sets down to consider things, when here comes Yuma, Wick and Big-Foot. They’re sneaking along like they was afraid we’d fly away. Yuma has a sack in his hand, while the rest of ’em packs guns. They stares down at Bosco and contemplates deep-like over our wild man.

“You—you’re the snake-eater the judge told us about?” asks Yuma.

“I am,” says Bosco. “Eat ’em alive! Greatest sensation of the age! Scientists has pondered over my marvelous powers to withstand the bite of poison reptiles. Yessir, I am Bosco! I eat ’em alive!”

“You sure must be a awful handicap to the snakes,” opines Yuma. “You’ve got St. Patrick beat, feller. All he done was chase ’em. You eat pizen ones?”

“Always! The flavor of poison is vanilly to me.”

“Not rattlers?” says Big-Foot. “Not them spotted devils?”

“Rattlers? Ha! Ha! Ha! I love ’em. I’m sorry I haven’t any left, gents, but I ate the last one day before yesterday. I suppose I’ve got to go back to eating ordinary food.”

“Rise up and cheer!” says Yuma joyful-like, holding up the sack. “You sure get banqueted, feller. In this sack is a ol’ diamond-back with sixteen rattles and a button. Fat as a fool and you gets him free gratis for nothing.”

“A-a-a-alive?” gasps Bosco.

“Betcha! Ain’t even bruised nor shy a button. Me and Big-Foot caught him under the sidewalk. He’s a humdinger. We’ll watch you eat him.”

“Wait!” yelps Magpie. “You fellers think I’m running a free show? This layout costs me money and I only lets Bosco eat snakes after you has paid one dollar per each to see the feeding. Sabe?”

“If we furnishes the eatables?” asks Yuma.

“You can’t noways furnish what you don’t own, Yuma,” states Magpie. “That snake is part and parcel of nature, and you can’t own one unless you raises same from your own stock. Sabe? That snake don’t belong to nobody, so you might as well give it to me.”

“This snake?” asks Yuma, holding up the sack. “This belongs to ——” Alcibiades has edged over close and when Yuma holds up the sack, he just reaches over, wraps his trunk around it and yanks it away. Alcibiades begins swinging that sack back and forth, playful-like.

“Look out!” yelps Magpie. “He’s going to throw it at somebody!”

Wick was wise enough to gallop straight away, but Yuma and Big-Foot seemed to think that height was salvation. They bounces straight for Cleopatra’s cage, being as that’s the highest thing at hand, and they begins to claw their way right up the bars.

That cage wasn’t built for no such a stunt, and when they’re about halfway up the side Cleopatra lets out a woful wail and slams herself up against the bars. The cage sways for a second and then over she comes off the wagon, and two perfectly unreliable horse-thieves and a antiquated tiger bite the dust together, with the horse-thieves underneath.

Allah was almost in the way of the crash and the next thing we know our shipwreck of the desert gets the stampede fever, too, knocks me and Magpie flat into a tangle of canvas and poles, and away he went into the desert. His two humps weave in different directions as he gades away, and it reminds me of two drunken punchers riding double.

Bosco took a high-dive the other way, and I sees him setting there on the ground, investigating some cactus he dove into.

Me and Magpie gets our breath and sets there looking at each other, when here comes Judge Steele, Pete Gonyer, Art Miller, Doughgod Smith and Old Testament. They groups near us and the judge clears his throat.

“Magpie Simpkins, Ike Harper et al.: We, the sober and industrious citizens of Piperock, has gathered in serious conclave this day and date and has adjudicated that we will not have the glorious morrow sullied or marred by a circus or circuses.

“In the name of the parties responsible for Old Home Week, I hereby delivers this here ultimatum: Get your danged circus hence! We are not empowered to arrest you and have no jail to lock you in if we were, but we still got ropes and willing hands. We’ve got enough to cope with tomorrow without dry nursing denizens of the jungles. For once in its glorious existence Piperock is playing safe. Sabe? This here is our final——”

“My ——!” interrupts Pete. “Looky!”

The tiger cage begins to rise up and them ultimatumers backs into a compact body and pulls their guns. Then out comes the remains of Big-Foot. His hat is smashed down over his eyes but he don’t care where he goes.

Then out comes Yuma. He don’t seem to see us. He tips his hat over one eye, does a few fancy jig steps and then reaches in under that cage. Then he straightens up and away he goes, dragging Cleopatra by the skin of her neck.

Cleo has had the shock of her old age but she’s still alive. She spits and slaps, but Yuma goes merrily on his way ahead of a cloud of dust made by a grandma tiger which is digging deep into her soul for sounds to tell us how exasperated she is.

This conclave of indignant citizens stands there and gawps at the free show, until—

Swish!

Alcibiades whales away with that sack and hits the old judge right in the back of his neck. He lands on his hands and knees but skids back to his feet.

“Who hit me?” he wails. “Who threw that?”

Z-z-z-z-z-z-zee!

The string had come off the sack and right at their feet coiled the rattler, indignant as thunder over things in general.

“Ah-h-h-h-h-h! Wow!” yelps Doughgod.

The monkey cage must ’a’ got busted up in the fracas, ’cause just then a mangy little member of the missing links hopped from a wagon-wheel and lit on Doughgod’s shoulder. Doughgod stiffens like he was hanging on to a electric battery and then lets out another whoop and tries to buck the monk off. Doughgod collides with Old Testament and the two of ’em goes down in a heap.

“Make it a good one,” says Magpie and kicks the staple out of the lock on the dog cage.

Doughgod and Old Testament got up just in time to trail the others and lead that yelping bunch of mongrels away from us. Then we flops, weary-like, down upon our canvas again. Magpie slips his gun loose and shoots the head off that snake, which is hunting for a place to hive up under our tents.

“Five hundred and eighty dollars, Magpie,” says I. “She’s going fast.”

“Yes,” he admits, “she’s fading out, Ike. The Simpkins’ Stupendous Shows is about scattered. Nothing left but a snake-eater and a elephant. Sorry you missed your meal, Bosco.”

“My ——! Did you think—I—say, that snake still had its fangs!”

“Oh!” says Magpie. “I see. You—you sort of commit suicide with a empty gun, as it were, eh?”

“As it were,” nods Bosco. “I’m going away from here pretty soon. I ain’t got nothing to wear, no place to go and nothing to ride upon.”

“There’s lots of places to go,” says Magpie, “and you can ride that danged elephant if you want to.”

“Like ——!” says I. “I’m going to have something out of this. I’m shy two hundred and ninety dollars, Magpie.”

Then cometh old Judge Steele and Yuma. They’ve got a white rag on a stick. Yuma is half out of clothes and they both seem chastened in spirit. They halts fifty yards away.

“We come more in sorrow than in anger,” states the judge. “Sorry we didn’t kill you fellers early this morning. Which of you deplorable jassacks is the tiger-trainer?”

“I wash my hands of the tiger,” replies Magpie “I may have Yuma arrested for stealing it but that’s all.”

“It’s in the saloon,” says Yuma, bowing apologetic-like. “Buck is in there and so is Old Testament, and we ain’t heard from them for quite a while.”

“Half-Mile’s bronc is in there, too,” adds the judge. “Half-Mile roped it and then fell off his bronc as it went into the door.”

“Gosh!” grunts Magpie. “I feel sorry for the bronc.”

We walks down to the flag of truce and like a pair of danged fools we let ’em get the drop on us. They takes our guns and throws away the flag. Then they prods us down in front of the saloon, where all of Piperock stands or mills around. They gives us three cheers—we already had a tiger.

“Now,” says Judge Steele, “we’ve got these hombres. Wick, you hold the watch. Now we’re going to give you hombres just five minutes to get your danged tiger out of our late friend Buck Masterson’s place of business.”

“Late?” asks Magpie. “Is Buck late?”

“Well,” says the judge, taking off his hat, “maybe I was a bit hasty in that statement but I will say this much: He’s danged tardy.”

“Old Testament is tardy, too,” says somebody in the crowd.

“One minute is passed,” states Wick.

“The consequences is what?” I asks.

“Your case is parallel with horse-stealing,” states the judge.

Magpie looks at the crowd and grins.

“You horse-thieves suffering any to speak of?”

“Two minutes gone,” reminds Wick. “You know best.”

“Can I have a gun?” asks Magpie, but the judge shakes his head.

Magpie tightens up his belt and spits on his hands.

“Come on, Ike!”

I wonders at the time what Magpie spits on his hands for. He sure wasn’t afraid the tiger would slip through his hands. Cleopatra was awful old and old age naturally makes her childish and cross. Reminded me of that poem about the woman who knew by heart from finish to start the book of iniquity. Cleopatra was that kind, I reckon.

We pilgrimed up to the front door, but all is still.

“You better go around to the back door, Ike,” whispers Magpie.

“Speak up loud!” says I. “What you trying to do, sneak up on her? Why should I go to the back door, Magpie? We don’t want to catch her, do we?”

“Three minutes gone,” drones Wick.

Magpie turns to the crowd and takes off his hat. “Feller citizens, I regret I have only one tiger to die for.”

Then he opens the door.

We walks in like Daniel into the lions’ den or Joner into the whale. The bronc is plain and visible, standing between the pool table and the wall, with the reins looped around its feet. The card-tables are upset and the place shows that there has been a certain amount of action.

Sudden-like, up behind the top of an unset table come the head of Buck Masterson. He squints at us and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down like it was practising to hop out the first time he opens his mouth.

“Howdy, Buck,” says Magpie. “How’s each little thing with you?”

“Tut-tolable,” says he hoarse-like. “Just barely so, so.”

“Where’s the tiger?” I asks and Buck’s eyes get round as nickels.

He’s so scared he can’t speak for a minute; then he whispers:

“Uh-under me! I can’t let loose!”

“Still alive?” asks Magpie.

“I—I don’t know. It ain’t moved for a minute. My ha-hands are paralyzed from squeezing the blasted thing!”

“Get up easy-like,” advises Magpie, “and then jump back.”

“I—I may do it,” whispers Buck.

He takes a breath, eases his feet under him and then jumps high and handsome. He falls over a chair, bumps his head against the bar and collapses on the rail.

“My ——!” he wails. “That was a close shave!”

Then up comes a tangle of green cloth off the card-table, mixed with a striped blanket. It rises to the height of a man and instead of the roar of a man-eating tiger comes these words—

“Let us all arise and sing hymn number sixty-seven.”

The cloth falls away. He stands there, hands folded, and on his face is the look of a man who has made his peace and don’t care what happens.

Buck gets to his feet and weaves forward.

“Tut-testament,” he quavers. “I—I’m sorry I ch-choked you.”

“Take a front seat, brother,” says Testament. “All sinners are welcome.”

“Five minutes are up,” states Wick Smith’s voice.

“Go to thunder!” yells Magpie. “Everybody’s all right. There ain’t no tiger in here.”

I felt sorry for that poor bronc, so I goes over, untangles the reins from its feet and led it out of the door. The crowd splits to let us out and just as we gets out of the door somebody yells.

I whirled and looked back. From the saddle-horn runs a rope back into the saloon and she sure is pulled tight. Somebody slaps the bronc and Cleopatra came among us. I reckon she must ’a’ been behind the bar. She came out of the door, ducked behind the crowd like a flash and the next second about thirty citizens of Cowland are tangled with our tiger.

I slipped the rope off the horn and let nature take her course while I took mine—around back to the remnants of our circus. Bosco is there. Some of that gang must ’a’ lost a quart of hooch, ’cause I finds Bosco trying to reach a point where he can see snakes that he don’t have to eat. I takes it away from him and charms a few for myself.

There’s a lot of noise around on the street but I ain’t curious. Alcibiades stands there like a rubber statue. He sure was about the laziest elephant on earth. Then cometh more noise and here comes the mob, Magpie in the lead, and around his neck is a rope.

I starts to explain things to ’em and I got a rope too. Bosco tried to hide but they roped him from several directions to once.

“Rope the elephant and you’ll have the whole works,” says I.

“What will we do with ’em?” asks Yuma. “There ain’t no trees.”

“It ain’t exactly a hanging matter,” states the judge and I could love him for them words. “They ought to be in jail—blast ’em! If Scenery only had some way to get out and ——”

“He will,” states “Ornery” Olsen.

“‘Dynamite’ Davidson and ‘Calamity’ Calkins went down there a while ago and they said they’d get him out or kill him in the attempt.”

“Where is the tiger?” I asked.

“Dead!” snaps Wick. “Seventeen men fell on her and she died of old age!”

“I’ve got a scheme,” yelps Pete Gonyer, “a dinger of a scheme. Let’s rope ’em on to the elephant and take ’em to jail. Have pe-rade, eh?”

There wasn’t any need of a vote. It was unanimous. Even me and Magpie and Bosco voted “aye.” Jail looked like a happy hunting ground beside of all these ropes and tree talk.

Alcibiades looked on, mean-like, during the roping. Magpie was in front, then me and then Bosco. Somebody tied a rope to the elephant’s trunk and then we strung out like a cross between a funeral and a pe-rade. It sure attracted a lot of attention. Then we hove in sight of the jail.

There is Dynamite and Calamity, busy at something. Dynamite is on his hands and knees, while Calamity stands over him. Beside Dynamite is a wooden box with the cover off. Just then they rise up, sort of hurried-like, and see us.

Alcibiades ain’t had nothing to eat for so long that I reckon he hankered for the contents of that box and he don’t stop when the rest of the pe-rade does. The rope slips off his trunk and we stopped against the jail wall.

“Look out, you danged fools!” yelps Dynamite. “Get away from there!”

The crowd stampedes a little ways but Alcibiades don’t move, and we can’t.

“Ain’t you got no sense?” wails Dynamite. “That fuse is only three feet long!”

We looks down and under the corner of the dobie wall is a spitting fuse. We hammers Alcibiades but he don’t respond.

“Get away from there, you danged fools!” whoops Calamity.

“Don’t talk English—talk elephant!” yells Magpie. “We hear but can’t heed.”

Swish!

Alcibiades whirls his trunk sideways and we sees a stick of dynamite whiz right into Judge Steele’s stummick. The judge lit all doubled up, and the crowd gasped audibly.

“Too bad,” says Magpie. “They won’t always go off.”

Alcibiades digs into that box and roots out another stick.

Swish!

The next stick sailed high over the crowd and we watched it drop out of sight behind Pete’s blacksmith shop.

Bang!

That one went off. We seen a wagon-wheel hop up and roll off the top of Buck’s place and a lot of horseshoes scatter around over the house-tops.

The next one was a line shot at Wick Smith’s wood-shed, but that one didn’t bust. The next one did. Alcibiades just gave it a nice little toss, and she busted behind the crowd, causing some to go prostrate.

“Good boy!” says Bosco, and then Alcibiades picks up the rest of the powder, box and all. Everything is as quiet as a graveyard and we hears Old Testament say—

“In the midst of life we are in——”

Swish!

Up went the box of dynamite straight for the crowd, and just then Magpie throws himself sideways on the elephant, and the rest of us has to foller suit. We’re about half-way down the side of that elephant when Dynamite’s blast goes off. I’d plumb forgot that blast. I’d say that Dynamite knowed how to use powder, ’cause the whole corner of that jail moved out to meet us. It knocked Alcibiades down but he got right up. He’s so thick-skinned that nothing could hurt his feelings.

I can’t hear a danged thing. I look out at the crowd. Most of ’em are still prostrate on the ground, but I can see the dynamite box, so I know she didn’t bust. The ropes has slipped and we are no longer on top of the brute. I’m hanging on the side like a pack-sack; Bosco is draped over its rump and Magpie has one leg over its neck, while the rope holds him under the other knee, and he’s hanging on to the elephant’s ear with both hands.

Out of the ruined side of the jail comes an apparition. It is covered with dobie dust and great wonderment. It weaves up to us with both hands in the air.

“Don’t shoot!” it squeaks. “I give up!”

“All right,” nods Magpie. “Don’t shoot, boys; they’re dying.”

Maybe Alcibiades was shocked, too; maybe he had acquired man-eating propensities from associating with Cleopatra, but anyway he whirled, let out a mean Hur-r-r-r-r-rump! and started after Scenery Sims. Scenery ducked straight for the crowd, and Alcibiades follered him like a bloodhound. We went some.

We didn’t go very many miles per minute, but we went awful strong. We went through Wick Smith’s yard and we took two clothes-lines full of clothes with us. We got so tangled up in washing that we didn’t know where we went. Every one who took the time tried shots at us but we ignored such trifling things.

I managed to get a suit of flannels out of my eyes in time to see our animated vehicle pointing straight for the door of our horse stable. The door is too narrow for elephants, being as we only had horses in mind when we built it, and I starts to yell a warning but the flannels came back and shut me up.

Comes a ripping jar, the snap of a rope and I hit the earth with Magpie on top of me. He got up, dazed-like, and shut the door.

“We’ve got him, Ike,” says he.

Crash! Rip-p-p-p! Smash!

The front logs of the stable goes squeegeed, and from the rear comes the rattle of falling logs and a cloud of dust. We limps to the corner. Out of the cloud of dust comes Alcibiades and on his back is Bosco. The elephant skids to a stop, whirls and points straight into the desert.

“Bosco!” yelps Magpie. “Good-luck! Look out for snakes!”

Magpie stares at me and then at the ruined stable.

“I—I wonder if Bosco really did eat them snakes?” he asks foolish-like.

“He—he did,” states a voice, and out from the squeegeed doorway pokes the hairy head of Bosco. “He sure did, gents. I am the only original snakeeating——”

He stops and rubs his hand over his eyes. He looks all around and then whispers—

“Which way is the city of Piperock?”

Magpie points toward the town.

“Sure?”

“Sure. Why?”

“That’s a —— of a question to ask,” says Bosco, and we watches him blend into the mesquite, going away from Piperock.

“That must ’a’ been Scenery on the elephant,” says Magpie awed-like. “Scenery must ’a’ lost his clothes in the crash.”

“Speculation has ruined a lot of men,” says I. “Why stop to speculate?”

We saddled our broncs and we didn’t hit the main road until we’re in shooting distance of Paradise. Then we turns a corner and runs slap into Jay-Bird and Hassayampa. They’re packing just enough to feel glad. They hands us a bottle.

“You fellers going to the celebration?” I asks.

“You betcha,” agrees Hassayampa. “Looking forward to a hyiu time. How’s the circus?”

“Only thing of it’s kind on earth,” says Magpie between swallers. “Piperock is going crazy over it.”

“Bet they are,” agrees Hassayampa. “Piperock deserves it. Don’t want to sell out, do you?”

“Sell it?” asks Magpie. “Hadn’t thought of such a thing. Who wants to buy it, Hassayampa?”

“It ain’t worth no more than you paid for it, Magpie,” says Jay-Bird, “but we’d pay that much, eh, Hassayampa?”

“Pshaw!” grunts Magpie. “I just got started, gents.”

“You ain’t got no use for it, Magpie,” says Jay-Bird. “Me and Hassayampa can afford a circus better than you and Ike. We’ll pay you back in the same checks you paid us, eh? Is that a go?”

“As you said, we can’t afford it,” nods Magpie. “We’ll trade.”

Magpie puts the checks in his pocket. We take another round of good cheer and ride on.

“See you at the celebration,” yells Jay-Bird.

“If you’ve got second sight,” nods Magpie, and we pilgrimed straight for Silver Bend.

We ain’t done nothing wrong in selling out. Believe me, that money sure looked good. I wondered if Hassayampa and Jay-Bird had gone crazy, but Magpie said if they hadn’t they soon would.

We got into Silver Bend after dark and hived up in a hotel. We’re so sore and tired that we don’t wake up until noon. Magpie opines that we better draw our money and go over to Powder River for a spell, so we pilgrimed down to the bank.

The curtains are down tight, and on the door hangs a card printed in big letters:

TO TRUST IS TO BUST.

TO BUST IS ——.

NO TRUST,

NO BUST,

NO ——.

A feller comes along and stops beside us as we read the sign.

“The cashier runs away with the contents,” says he, “and she’s busted flat. They may pay ten cents on the dollar in a year or two.”

Magpie twists his mustache and stares at me.

“Hassayampa and Jay-Bird knew that,” he snorts. “The danged crooks knowed them checks wasn’t no good, Ike!”

“What did we know about the circus, Magpie?” I asks.

He looks at me, scratches his head for a moment and says:

“Piperock ought to be glad, Ike. Don’t you know it? They ought to rise up and sing a song of thanksgiving and vote us a medal.”

“What for, Magpie?”

“To think we didn’t buy out P. T. Barnum.”

Which we hope Piperock appreciates.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the December 18, 1919 issue of Adventure magazine.