Title: Another ace for Ananias
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: July 17, 2026 [eBook #79111]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1920
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79111
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
“It’s an art, like playing a jew’s-harp, turning a jack in a seven-up game or changing a Bar D brand to a Triangle P,” explains “Chuck” Warner. “You and George Washington runs a dead heat, ‘Telescope.’ It’s natural that he beats you out, ’cause in his time the world was very young and the sheriffs were few and far between.
“You don’t need go kiootin’ around about your honesty. You’ve got to be good, ’cause you ain’t got the ability to lie. Sabe? Honest to gosh, tall-feller, you’ll never have nothing in this vale of tears.
“You ain’t got no imagination like me and Henry and ‘Muley.’ We can hang the Injun sign on you any old time, ’cause you trusts humanity.”
“I’ve got a conscience,” states Telescope, looking up from a three-months-old magazine. “I can sleep nights. Sabe? Even at that I have lied—some.”
“Sure—and got caught at it,” grins Chuck. “Your mouth gets so dry you can’t spit.”
“Honesty is the best policy,” argues Telescope.
“Uh-huh—sure,” snorts Chuck. “Teacher used to keep me in after school and make me write it a hundred times. She looks good in print, but as a working policy she don’t assay a trace. Man has got to lie.
“Why, Telescope, a feller even lies with his face when he plays poker. You look like three aces when you’ve got a bob-tail, and then you expresses a bob-tail when you’ve got three aces. Sure it’s a art.”
“I hate a liar,” declares Telescope. “Hate ’em like ——!”
“All right, cowboy,” grins Chuck; “go to it. Pick yourself a high hill and just set there and hate mostly everybody what amounts to anything or has amounted to anything since the Old Testament was revised by the stone-cutters.
“Everybody is entitled to their own ideas, but don’t chide us because we appreciate our art to the extent that we inaugurates an emblem of superiority. She ain’t gaudy but she’s neat and expressive.”
Chuck holds up a little bronze figure which a storekeeper in Paradise gets with a supply of cigaret tobacco, and lets the sun glisten on its horns.
“I swear,” says Chuck solemn-like, “to defend thee with my honor.”
Telescope snorts and goes on reading. Such is art appreciated. I don’t chide Telescope Tolliver, ’cause I think it’s all right to have one honest man among us. I don’t figure none on winning that emblem, ’cause I don’t think there’s a man living who can beat Chuck at the prevaricating pastime, but as old “Hip Shot” used to say—
“Knowledge is a powerful good thing, but there never was a man wise enough to know which way a dill pickle is going to squirt.”
“Oh-h-h-h-h-h-h!” wailed Telescope. “Oh-h-h-h-h-h, ——!”
Then he sets down on the sidewalk so hard that his bronc pulled back and broke a perfectly good head-stall. Telescope sets there paying no attention to anything while me and Chuck herds that fool bronc into a corner.
Muley leans against a porch post and wastes several cigaret-papers trying to roll one one-handed while we ties up that bronc, and then we all sets down with the suffering Telescope.
“Taking the exclamation into due consideration and observing the extreme pallor of the patient, I’d say he’s been affected by mail,” observes Chuck.
Telescope licks his lips and takes a deep breath.
“Somebody died?” asks Muley, fussing with a cigaret-paper. “Dang it all, I wish I knowed how to roll ’em one-handed. ’Pears that she’s a cowboy accomplishment, but I can’t do it.”
“You ain’t no cowboy,” says I. “You’re too young, Muley. Remember you’ve only been punching cows for twelve years. Forty years from now you’ll be able to keep your rope from tangling, and if your thumbs don’t wear out you’ll be able to roll a cigaret—two-handed.”
“Where does it hurt yuh, Telescope?” asks Chuck. “Tell yo’ li’l buddie.”
“Gas on his stummick,” declares Muley, opening a fresh package. “Turn him across your lap and pat him over the kidneys. Don’t jiggle him on your lap, ’cause that causes colic.”
“Better take him over to Doc Milliken, I reckon,” grins Chuck. “He acts like a calf what had absorbed too much green clover. He’s got awful pains, Muley.
“Look at that face, wouldja? Nobody ever gets a expression like that unless they’re one whoop from a graveyard.”
“A-h-h-h-h-h——!” groans Telescope.
“It talks!” whoops Chuck. “By grab, I know just how Edison felt when he cut loose his first phonygraft record. Speak again, Horatio.”
“Sing for us,” pleads Chuck. “You’re be-yu-tiful when you sing, Clementine.”
Telescope jams that letter down in his chaps pocket and walks across the street to a saloon.
“Something has went crosswise with our first tenor,” says Muley. “Did any of you see that envelope?”
“I think it was from Kentucky,” says I.
“Ah!” grunts Chuck. “That clears up the mystery. Somebody has died and left him a million. He hates money.”
“Just like I do my two legs,” says Muley. “Betcha four bits he’s over there buying a drink for himself. Henry, did you notice what town in Kentucky it was from?”
“I said I thought it was from Kentucky.”
“Oh—you thought so, eh? You didn’t see the letter?”
“Do you know if he got a letter, Muley?”
“Chuck,” says Muley, “some day I’m going to kill Henry Peck.”
“That’s a good thought,” admits Chuck. “You do think of the cutest things to do, Muley. Call me in time to hear his last words, will yuh?”
Telescope Tolliver says that he’s from Kentucky. According to our code of honor a feller has a right to any birthplace he wants, as long as it don’t conflict with anybody else’s.
Chuck Warner never remembers where he was born the last time. If anybody says, “I was born in California,” Chuck wiggles his ears and says, “So was I.”
Maine, Michigan or Mexico is all the same to Chuck. Telescope brags that his relations are all rich—so does Chuck. Telescope claims that he’s coming into a fortune some day; Chuck claims he went through one.
Me and Muley sets on Chuck’s wish-bone one day to try and make him admit that he lied about going through that fortune, but he wouldn’t admit that he lied. Swore he went through the Bunker Hill and Sullivan mine, and if that wasn’t a fortune—what was it?
Chuck is an undersized puncher with a Roman-nosed face and such perfect control of his ear-muscles that we all believe in the transmigration of souls—of jassacks.
Muley Bowles is f-a-t. He’s about three ax-handles across, writes poetry, tries to sing and cusses in a high-pitched voice.
I’m a twig on the Peck tree. My folks handed me Henry Clay along with a good set of brains, and I eventually growed up to be one of the best cow-hands on earth.
The four of us work for “Jay Bird” Whittaker, who owns the Cross J. He’d likely object to my statement regarding “work,” but you can’t expect too much from four talented hired hands. He can cuss for five minutes and never say the same thing twice and hates women almost as bad as he does sheep.
Now that I’ve written a description which would be worth money to any sheriff, I will proceed with this woful tale.
Telescope came out of that palace of vice and drifted homeward. We also drifted homeward and finds him setting on a bunk, looking like he’d lost his last friend. So far as we know, Telescope ain’t got no best friend. When it comes to telling about his family and past history, Telescope Tolliver is some futurist. At times he brags a heap about Kentucky and admits he was born there, but nobody on the ranges of Yaller Rock County ever heard him say anything about his family history.
We surrounds him, pounces upon him from three sides and then sets upon his carcass while we secures that letter. Muley reads her out loud:
“Mister James Valiant Tolliver, Cross J ranch, Montana.”
“My hero!” squeaks Chuck. “Go ahead with the disclosure, Muley.”
“Ouch!” yelps Muley. “You hold the top end of the critter, Chuck—he bit me!”
“Aw-w-w-w, hurry up before you gets hydrophoby.”
My Dear James:
Your success has been a source of great satisfaction to us, and we are looking forwards to seeing you this Summer. We will leave for a Western trip this week, and will wire if we decide to come that far north.
Your letters about your many acres, lowing kine and waving grain read like a passage from “Evangeline.” It makes us mighty proud to feel that a Tolliver was able to build a place in the boundless West. Robert joins me in sending our congratulations. We feels that Clarice must be a wonderful wife, and I am proud to know that your firstborn was named after your affectionate aunt,
Alicia.
Chuck slid gently to the floor and sets there, wiggling his ears, while Muley grabs the post of a bunk and wipes away his tears. Telescope sets up, tears up that letter and then tries to scratch a cigaret on his boot while he puffs on a match.
“My ——!” gasps Chuck. “His firstborn! Lowing kine and——”
“You lied to me!” squeaks Muley. “You said you was sing-g-g-g-ul!”
“Liar!” I hisses. “You betrayed our trust, Valiant. You built without telling us. And we tr-r-r-r-usted you!”
“Oh-h-h-h, —— the whole bunch of you!” wails Telescope.
“Hear him?” yelps Muley. “He curses us. You long, hungry, prevaricating son-of-a-prairie-dog, ain’t it enough for you to deceive us without adding profanity to your many crimes? You he-vampire!”
Muley swallers hard, shakes his fist at Telescope and recites:
Chuck fumbles in his pocket and produces the little bronze emblem.
“Take it, James Valiant. For lo, these many moons have I been the prize liar of Yaller Rock County, and defeat cankers my soul. It irks me sore, but I recognizes a peer. Be good to the little bull.”
Chuck flaps his arms weary-like and sets down.
Just then Jay Bird comes up to the door.
“Say, you alleged cow-hands, can you mismanage this place for a while? I’ve got to go over to Billings.”
He looks us over.
“What’s the matter with the human rake-handle? Sick?”
“Yeah,” nods Telescope. “Sick.”
“Sure we can run the place,” admits Muley.
“You can run it,” says Jay Bird. “Anybody can run it; but I wants to feel that I’ll at least have a branding-iron left when I come back.”
“I’ll hide one where nobody can find it,” grins Muley.
“You might get busy on that new corral fence while I’m gone.”
“We might,” nods Chuck, “but chances are we won’t.”
“Well, anyway, you fellers are honest about it. See yuh later.”
“Honest?” says Chuck after Jay Bird leaves. “Eh, Telescope?”
“I didn’t think it of you, Telescope,” says Muley sad-like. “You sure——”
“Let him tell it,” says I. “He’s dying to get a load off his chest.”
“Well,” says Telescope, “I never amounted to anything in Kentucky——”
“Why designate any certain locality?” asks Muley.
“Wait,” says Chuck. “Hen, you get your banjo and play something soft and low. We gotta do this right.”
“Shut up!” howls Telescope. “Dang it all, I can’t tell nothing unless you act right. Make Chuck quit wiggling his ears. Now. My folks died when they was young. No, I died when they——”
“Now quit lying,” advises Chuck. “You’ve hit a —— of a gait, Telescope, but no use busting all records.”
“Well, blast it, my folks died when I was young; so I sort of hooks up with relatives. They said I was the black sheep of the Tollivers. They told me I was no good and that I’d land in the pen. They——”
“They was able to peek into the future all right,” says I.
“Then I dug out. Sabe? I figured that some day I’d show ’em all up. I was going to hook a big pot some day and go back there, but seems like any time I got into a big pot I had three clubs and a pair of spades.
“They sort of gets to writing to me; so I decides that I’ll string ’em by mail. Maybe I went too strong. I told ’em about getting me this cow-ranch, and they said I ought to get married.
“Next time I wrote I added marriage. Little later on they gets to talking about kiddies; so I adds a kid. Could ’a’ got a kangaroo or a elephant just as easy, but they didn’t suggest it.”
“And they’re coming out to see everything,” says Chuck.
“Oh-h-h-h-h-h, ——, yes!”
“Thy sins have found thee out,” pronounces Muley.
“My relatives will, too,” groans Telescope. “I’m going to pack my war-sack and hit the trail.”
“How old was you when you left there?” asks Chuck.
“Thirteen or fourteen, I reckon.”
“Look like you do now?”
“Naw. Everybody said I was going to be a runt. Pshaw, they’d never know me now, but that don’t make me no never mind. All they’ve got to do is ask questions.”
“They got any money?”
“Gobs of it. Old man owned one of the biggest distilleries in the State. Yuh see, I figures that if I’m a success I’ll get a cut of that roll some day—that’s why I write to ’em. But now—blooey! I’m going.”
“Say not so, James,” grins Chuck. “You can lie, but you ain’t got no imagination. Let me handle this, will you? Hen, are you and Muley willing to help?”
“I ain’t going to impede you none,” says I, and Muley nods.
“Whatcha aiming to do, Chuck?” asks Telescope.
“Make your lie look like Gospel. Trouble with you ordinary liars, you don’t see ahead. You don’t hear me contradicting myself, do yuh? I’m a able liar—which is a rare bird, and helpful in times like these.”
“I ain’t got no ranch,” objects Telescope.
“I have,” grins Chuck, “while the old man is away. I’m James Valiant Tolliver, a runt what never growed up. I don’t know what in —— them lowing kine are, but I’ll get some if there’s any laying around loose.”
Chuck beats it for the corral, and the rest of us sets there.
“He—he said he was me, and—and—” stammers Telescope.
“He will be,” admits Muley. “That hump-nosed truth-juggler is wound up again, and if I was you I’d——”
“What?”
“Hide that little bronze bull, Telescope—if you want to keep it.”
A little later we wanders up to the ranch-house and watches Chuck fog off down the road.
“I didn’t figure they’d want to come plumb up here,” wails Telescope. “That kid must ’a’ caused it all. They didn’t whoop when I told ’em about the ranch, and they didn’t blow off no roofs when I told ’em I was married, but when they hears about that kid—whoo-o-o-ee!”
“I never did see a poor liar that had any nerve,” says I. “They always weaken.”
“Weaken! Who wouldn’t? I had a chance to cut in on the family roll, and now I’ll get nothing but abuse.”
“Well,” says Muley, “you do deserve scolding, Telescope.”
Chuck came home that night and busts right into the bunk-house just as I’m cutting a jack off the bottom to win six bits, and spoils the whole scheme. I only needed one point to win, and I had that cinched.
“Got her all fixed,” says he, grinning. “All hunky-dory. Telescope, you can hang around and count your inheritance.”
“You might tell a feller—” begins Telescope.
“Nothing,” declares Chuck. “You kicked a hole in the boat, and it was up to me to mend it before you got swamped. You took the honors away from me, tall cowboy, but I’m right on your trail.”
Chuck pikes up toward the house with Telescope following behind like a hound pup, hankering for a bone of information. Me and Muley went down to the corral, where we puts in our spare time trying to induce a bad bronc to get used to a saddle.
We’re enjoying the spectacle when we happens to glance up and see “Old Testament” Tilton climbing the fence. He’s got on his Sunday clothes and is packing a boiled collar in his hand so it won’t get dirty. We desists in our labors and climbs up to him.
“Howdy, Henry. Howdy, Lemuel,” says he. “Sort of ungodly and wicked animile you’re fussin’ with, eh? Broncs are like men’s souls thataway. They r’ars and tears against religion somethin’ scandalous but once you gets ’em used to packing a load of Gospel, and bridlewise to Christianity, they’re plumb docile for life.”
“Reckon you’re fairly well saddle-marked thataway, Testament,” observes Muley.
“I dunno. Sometimes I reckon I’m the top-riding sinner of the outfit, Lemuel, and again I gets danged awful meek and lowly. I plays the system the best I can and coppers no bets. Where’s Chuck?”
“Up at the house, I reckon.”
“Primpin’ up a little, eh?” grins the old sky-pilot. “Well, it only comes once in a man’s life, unless he gits him a de-vorce. Glad I’m able to be of assistance.”
He slides off the fence and weaves toward the house while me and Muley sets there and stares at each other.
“Unless he gets a de-vorce,” says Muley foolish-like. “What in thunder does he mean, Hen?”
“I ain’t no wee-gee board. How do you expect me to know? Anyway I’m follering a hunch that Chuck has lied again.”
“Yet,” corrects Muley, “just the same I’m going to go up there. I can look on, even if I don’t feel like asking questions. Come on.”
We finds Old Testament setting on the porch, and in the old man’s rocker, filling it plumb full, is Hulda Hansen, the Triangle outfit’s Swede cook. If you ever hear anybody speak of a “shapeless mass”—that’s Hulda.
She blushes when we walk up.
“Hello, Hulda,” says Muley. “How’s all your folks?”
“Ay got von brudder over on de Vagon Veel o-outfit, and Ay got von onkle vich is dead, t’ank you.”
“You’re welcome. Did he die easy?”
“He vors powder-monkey on railroat, unt—unt smoked his pipe.”
“Nothing easier,” admits Muley, and just then Chuck and Telescope comes through the house and out on to the porch.
“Howdy, boys,” says Old Testament, shaking hands with Chuck. “Miss Hansen didn’t seem to sabe just when this was to be pulled off; so she asks me to come up here with her.”
“Huh?” gasps Chuck, wiggling his ears. “Whatcha say?”
“Your marriage to Miss Hansen,” says Testament. “She told me——”
“Lucky dog,” says I, shaking hands with Chuck. “You sure——”
“Thank—aw, go to ——!”
Chuck yanks his hand away and grabs for his collar. Telescope starts to set down on the top step, but catches his heel and lit half-way down. Chuck gulps and stares at Hulda.
“Say something, Testament,” gasps Chuck. “I—I don’t think I heard you the first time.”
“Ay coom oop to ved mit you,” explains Hulda, and you could ’a’ lit a match on her ears. “You say, ‘Hoolda, Ay vish you to be my vife,’ unt Ay say to you——”
“O-o-o-o-o-oh, mamma mine!” wails Chuck. “Who-o-o-o-o-o-a! Come in the house a minute while I talk to you.”
She yanks loose from that chair after Muley put his foot on the rocker, and the rest of us sets there and stares at nothing.
“Has Chuck been settin’ up with her much?” asks Testament.
“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ow!” comes a shriek from the house. “Whoopee!”
Smash! Crash! Bang!
Hulda Hansen comes out of the front door with her hat down over one eye and the lone feather sticking straight up and half of Chuck’s vest in her hand. She snorts at us, climbs a barb-wire fence, the same of which takes toll from her skirt, and goes off across the field, talking Swedish to herself and waving that piece of a vest like it was a flag of victory.
We watches her fade out of the picture and then we turns to the door, where Chuck is down on his hands and knees, peering around the corner. He’s got a red scratch down the length of his nose, and around his neck is the frame that once held a picture of Dewey at Manila. He looks up at us like a bashful pup, and backs out of the frame.
“Ha—has she gone?” he asks.
Muley nods, and Chuck looks cross-eyed at his scratched nose.
“From what I’ve done observed,” remarks Testament, “I’d opine that there ain’t no pressing need of a marriage service around her.”
“For a preacher,” says Muley, “you has a lot of perception.”
Testament wanders down to his buckboard and drives homeward.
“It don’t pay to lie,” says Muley, easing himself into the rocker. “Naw, sir, it sure don’t. I knowed a feller once——”
“Aw, I didn’t lie to her!” wails Chuck. “I explained to her that I wanted her to be my wife for a week. She acted like she knowed what I was driving at—dang her, but I reckon she never got anything but the proposal.
“When I took her back into the house I tries to explain the joke to her, but she—she——”
“Broke down and cried?” asks Muley.
“Yeah! Oh, yeah, like ——! She grabbed me and slammed me so hard against the wall that a picture fell down, and then she framed me with it.”
“She’d make a durable wife for somebody,” nods Telescope.
“Wife!” snorts Chuck. “She’d make a body-guard for the Regular Army.”
“Shucks, I reckon I’ll pack my war-sack and drift,” says Telescope.
“Set down!” howls Chuck. “One swaller don’t make a Summer.”
“Whatcha want to annex a wife like Hulda for?” asks Telescope. “Can’t yuh pick a good-looker to hang the name of Tolliver on to?”
“Don’t be finicky, cowboy,” says Chuck. “Here comes Ricky Henderson. Maybe he’s got an idea.”
“Maybe,” admits Telescope. “Maybe he’s just found out about your putting emery-dust in that sheepherder’s whiskers. It plumb ruined every razor Ricky owned; and he swears he’ll kill the man who put the kerosene in his bay-rum bottle.”
“I’m a little messenger boy,” grins Ricky, hunting through his pockets. “Gotta telegram for James Valiant Tolliver. Me and the agent reads it, and then opines it must be for Telescope. You got any relation what is liable to visit yuh, Telescope?”
Ricky hunts through some more pockets and shakes his head.
“Had the darned thing when I started. Must ’a’ lost it. Anyway it said something about arriving Saturday morning, and it was signed by—uh—uh—lemme, see——”
“A-a-alicia?” mutters Telescope.
“That’s it. Alicia. Been looking for ’em, tall-feller?”
Telescope stares at Ricky foolish-like, and Ricky nods, “Honest to grandma, Telescope,” and then he turns to us.
“What’s the joke?”
Telescope starts for the bunk-house, waving his arms and talking to himself, while Ricky sets there on his bronc and grins. Muley tells him all about it, and Ricky is as pleased as a pup with a bone.
Ricky is a little dark feller who cuts hair for a living. He’s one of them smooth-fingered hombres who keeps his hair greased until she looks like patent leather, and a joke on somebody else is meat and drink to his soul.
He listens to the whole tale and then hugs himself.
“I’ve got the idea,” says he. “You never can get a female to play the part, but I know a male what can.”
“Meaning which?” asks Muley.
“Ever see yours truly impersonate a female?”
“Good night!” yelps Muley. “Fare-thee-well, Molly darling.”
“Think I can’t do it? You watch my smoke, feller. I’ve got a yaller wig which was part and parcel of a defunct opery troupe, and if I can get me some female clothes—mamma mine! Get your bronc, Chuck.”
Them two schemers rides away while me and Muley sets there and listens to the suffering of Telescope Tolliver.
“Cod-liver oil and axle-grease properly mixed will cure any ills that mankind is heir to,” orates Muley, “but it takes experience, bitter experience, to cure a liar. A feller can pack his gun handy and lie about his friends, but any old time he lies about himself——”
“Shut up!” howls Telescope. “Ain’tcha got no feelings?”
“Feel of me,” grins Muley. “Wait until you see Chuck impersonating you, and Ricky, wearing a yaller wig, impersonating your female wife; you’ll——”
“My ——!”
Telescope looks at us wide-eyed.
“Ricky—going—to—be—my—wife?”
“In name only,” says Muley. “You’ve got to have some wife, ain’t you?”
Telescope groans and settles back. Muley squints at him, and recites:
“Muley,” says Telescope soft-like, “I’m going to kill you—some day.”
“Hear him, Hen?” sobs Muley. “Ain’t he the awful example? Going to add murder to his other crimes, eh? Liar, horsethief, card-sharp, tenor singer, and now—murderer!”
A feller ain’t always to blame for poor marksmanship, especially when he’s laying down, but that didn’t excuse Telescope. I was on the opposite side of the room from Muley, and Telescope never can make me believe that the boot-jack slipped out of his hand.
I dreamed that a little feller with a peaked cap and a long nose comes along packing a lantern. He shuffles up to me, peers into my face and shakes his head sad-like.
“Who you looking for?” I asks.
He shakes his head sad-like some more and says——
“I search for an honest man.”
“Good hunting to you,” says I. “You’ve got some chore.”
Then I hears Muley’s voice saying.
“Holy henhawks, I reckon I’ve got to make another trip. Danged if I’ll mop up the place.”
“Where’s the little feller, Muley?” I asks.
“Telescope? He pulled out for town.”
“Naw, I mean the little feller who looked for a honest man.”
“Man, you must ’a’ got hit hard. I never seen no little feller.”
“You didn’t need to dump half a bucket of water on me,” says I, feeling of my wet self.
“Half a bucket? Blame your hide, Henry, I made three trips to the well. I had to anchor you to keep you from floating out of the door.”
I doctored that lump on my head until she ain’t bigger than a baseball, and then me and Muley spent the rest of the day resting—as usual. About ten o’clock that night we hears somebody ride in, and a little later Telescope’s hat sails in the window and rolls into a corner. We don’t say a word, and then we hears Telescope saying—
“Well, they didn’t shoot at it nor kick it out, so I reckon I’ll take a chance.”
He comes in and sets down on a bunk.
“Chuck home yet?”
“Nope,” says I.
“Mad at me, Henry?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It slipped, Henry—tha’s all. Muley made me mad. He’s a mean son-of-a-gun.”
“Yes,” says I, “you both are. Tomorrow I’m going to buy me a steel helmet and a life-preserver. It’s bad enough to have one of you slough me over the head without having the other step in and try to drown me.”
I beat Muley and Telescope out of seventy dollars, conversation money, and then we went to bed. Must have been along about two o’clock when we hears voices singing; so I lights the lamp.
“No-o-o-o-o-bod-e-e-e-e-e knows how dry I a-a-a-a-a-a-am.”
There is silence for a minute, and then another voice—
“I soaked my sho-o-o-o-o-o-es for drink ’f boo-o-o-o-o-o-ze.”
And then both voices in barber-shop harmony—
“No-o-o-o-o-bod-e-e-e-e knows how dry I——”
I yanked the door open, and Chuck and Ricky, with their arms around each other’s necks, falls inside. They blinks at the light for a moment, and then—
“A-a-a-a-a-a-a-am.”
I blew out the light and left them on the floor. After a while I hears Chuck singing soft and low:
“Swee-e-e-e-e-t A-a-a-a-a-a-de-e-e-line, Swee-e-e-e-e-e-t A-a-a-a——
“Ricky! Ain’tcha goin’ t’ help me? No? All ri’, feller.”
I got that whole gang up at five o’clock ’cause I knowed the train was due early. Chuck and Ricky are sore-headed, but they had enough left to make the world look brighter.
“I’m going away,” declares Telescope. “Nobody can ever tell me that Ricky Henderson can make up like a female and fool anybody. I washes my hands of the whole thing. Sabe? If anybody asks me what I know about it I’ll swear I don’t know a thing.”
“Sure you’ll stay away,” grins Chuck. “Think we want a big boob like you around to ball up things? You don’t appreciate what we’re doing for you, feller. All we ask is that you stay out of sight. Sabe?”
Telescope saddles up and drifts toward town ahead of us. We talks it all over and decides that Muley and Ricky are to stay at the ranch, while me and Chuck go down to meet the relation.
Ricky don’t dare to go down there in his make-up, so Chuck says he’ll tell ’em his wife is too frail to stand the bumping of a wagon. Ricky does look frail.
We went to the depot and found out that for once in its existence the train was on time. Mostly always you can go to town tomorrow and be in plenty of time to catch today’s train.
“Say,” says Paddy Wilkins the depot agent to me, “is Telescopic Tolliver foreman for Whittaker?”
“Say he was?” I asks.
“Yeah. Telegram comes for Whittaker, and I asks Telescope to take it out to him, but he says the old man is away, and, being in charge, he asks me to read it to him. When does the old man come back, Henry?”
“Cannon Ball comin’!” yells Chuck, and I don’t get a chance to answer Paddy’s question.
Chuck has borrowed Jay Bird’s swaller-tailed coat and beaded vest, and we stands there like a reception committee with our hats in our hands. It’s too early for any Paradisers to be on hand.
“Where did you get a dress for Ricky?” I asks.
“We robbed the clothes-line at the Seven A,” chuckles Mr. Warner’s little son. “Annie Schmidt’s clothes, Henry.”
I nodded weakly and watches the train roll in. Ricky won’t weigh over a hundred and twenty, and Annie Schmidt is at least two-fifty.
The first one to get off is a old pelican wearing thick glasses and a hard hat. Behind him comes a female of the vintage of sixty-three, and behind her comes one swell-looking female—young. Words fails me when I try to sing her charms.
The old man might ’a’ owned one of the biggest distilleries, but I knowed at a glance why he didn’t have it any more—he drank it all up. He sure has a nose that shows.
The old lady is one of them haughty old females who are too proud to look at their feet, and her neck is so long that she could wear a fur muffler and a sweater and still be low-necked.
We stumbles up to them as the train pulls out. The old man peers at us and says——
“I am looking for James——”
“Yessir,” grins Chuck. “I’m him.”
“You!” says he. “Well! I wouldn’t ’a’ knowed you at all.”
“James,” says the old lady, “I’m pleased to meetcha. You may kiss me on the cheek.”
Chuck was game.
“This is your cousin Molly,” says the old lady. “You’ve likely never even heard of her, James, but she’s a lovely girl, and we know you’ll like her.”
“Y’betcha,” grins Chuck.
Molly was more human than auntie, and Chuck kisses her.
“Well, James, I’d have never knowed you,” says uncle. “Of course it has been a long time since we were together. You’ve done well, eh? Surprized to see us, eh?
“Never expected to see you, James. Molly, here, is Polly’s girl. You remember Albert Benefield, don’t you?”
“Al Benefield? Sure I do. Is that son-of-a gun alive yet?”
“He is my father,” says Molly.
“Oh!” gasps Chuck, and almost falls over a valise. “Here, Henry, you rustle these valises out to the wagon.”
And then he says—
“Just wait until you see my wife.”
“James!” exclaims auntie. “Where is she?”
“She’s home. You see, she’s too delicate to bounce around in a wagon.”
They all rambles for the wagon, all talking at once, and I’m glad I don’t have to answer any questions.
Telescope got lit up. I reckon the strain was too much; so he gets his skin full of weeping-water. While we climbs into the wagon he comes out of the Happy Days, lets out a war-whoop and tries to lean against a post of the saloon porch.
That part of it was all right. A feller has a perfect right to lean against a post if he wants to, and maybe it’s nobody’s business if the post ain’t there—but it looks bad.
“How perfectly ridiculous!” exclaims Cousin Molly. “He’s so tall.”
“Sh-h-h-h-h-h!” cautions Chuck. “That’s ‘Hell-Fire’ Jones, the worst horsethief unhung.”
“Oh, a real Western bad-man?”
“The worst,” nods Chuck. “Jesse James was an evangelist beside him. He ain’t got no honor at all. Why, that hombre will—uh—lie.”
“By gad, the law should deal with the likes of him,” says uncle.
“Law? Shucks, what can they do? He won’t admit any crimes. Get right up on the witness stand and lie out of everything.”
Just then I happens to think of something. I kicks Chuck on the ankle.
“The baby!” I hisses in his ear.
“Oh, yes, I forgot about the baby,” says he foolish-like, out loud.
“The baby,” echoes auntie. “The——”
“Sus-some kid,” says Chuck. “Yessir, Clarence is some baby.”
“A boy baby?” asks uncle, and I kicks Chuck again.
“N-n-no,” stammers Chuck. “You see, it’s thisaway: We—uh—calls her Clarence for short. Sabe?”
“Why?” asks auntie.
“You see,” says Chuck, staring over where Telescope is sitting on the sidewalk, “my wife is crazy about boy babies. She ain’t a bit well, and she wanted a boy baby so danged bad that we frames up on her, and names it Clarence and so, you see, she don’t know——”
“Do you mean that your wife thinks it is a boy?” gasps auntie.
“Dog-gone it, we had to do something,” wails Chuck. “You see, she ain’t just right in the head, and we thought we’d let her think——”
“Well,” says Cousin Molly, “I think it was awful good of you.”
“Thanks,” sighs Chuck. “I’m glad somebody appreciates it.”
“I feel sure that she must be a lovely girl, and it’s nice of you men to see things in that light. Is she a little woman?”
“Yeah. Pretty as a picture. Got yaller hair. Doc Milliken has done all he can, but you can’t expect much help from a horse-doctor.”
“She ought to have a long rest,” opines uncle.
“Uh-huh,” agrees Chuck. “That’s what the sheriff said.”
“Well,” says uncle, “I suppose we may as well proceed to the farm. I feel sorry for you, James, and more sorry for your unfortunate wife, and I wish you better luck in the selection of an offspring next time.”
“The idea!” snaps auntie. “He had nothing to do with it.”
“No,” says Chuck. “Gawd knows that’s the truth.”
They sure knows how to ask questions.
“Do you own all this country?” asks auntie, indicating everything from the Canadian border to Wyoming.
“Uh-huh,” admits Chuck. “Going to fence it some of these days and see if I can keep track of my lowing kine.”
“Lowing kine?” asks auntie, looking around. “Where are they?”
Chuck turns and wiggles his ears at me.
“Where are they, Henry?”
“Don’t pass the buck to me,” says I. “I ain’t got ’em.”