Part 1

Bearly Reasonable

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Magpie, Diplomat,” and “Sixteen to One on Friday,” etc.

“Ike,” sez Magpie Simpkins, pointin’ down th’ trail, “th’ feller what said, ‘Th’ worst is yet to come,’ must ’a’ meant that outfit comin’ our way.”

I takes uh good look and agrees. In th’ lead is Ricky Henderson, on his calico bronc, and behind him is three figgers on burrows. Th’ leadin’ one looks like uh cross between uh Holy Roller proselyte and uh fence picket. Th’ legs of th’ critter is bent back at th’ knees to keep its feet off th’ ground, an th’ rest of its body ’pears to have been soaked in starch before it seasoned.

It’s wearin’ uh swaller-tailed coat, buttoned at th’ top, makin’ it swell in th’ breeze like th’ wings of uh turkey-buzzard, and th’ peaked, side-whiskered face which bobs at th’ top is crowned with uh hard hat. It is also wearin’ black-rimmed specs, and enough black ribbon floats from th’ top to furnish mournin’ fer uh wake.

Th’ next in line is uh fe-male person, and uh glance shows that she ain’t built fer neither speed nor comfort. Th’ pore li’l burrow she’s ridin’ is wig-waggin’ uh distress signal with its ears, and threatens to cave in at th’ knees in uh short time.

Th’ next in line is one uh them human carbuncles. He’s so danged fat that his clothes ache, and he has to lift his yaller eyebrows plumb to th’ top of his bald head to git his eyes open. When I first sees his face I’m inclined to git th’ skin of uh aig to put on it and draw it to uh head.

Behind this caravan loiters five burros and they’re so danged loaded down with plunder that all yuh can see is their ears. While me and Magpie stands on th’ steps of our cabin, at th’ Silver Threads mine, this aggregation peerades to uh standstill before us, and that she-packin’ burro hee-haws with relief.

“Here we are,” states Ricky, turnin’ in his saddle and grinnin’ at his followers.

“Thank goodness!” snorts th’ fe-male. “I feel that I’m jolted to a shadow. Shall we dismount?”

“Ricky, yuh might make us used to yore friends, and tell us why you terminates th’ peerade at this point,” sez Magpie.

“This person,” sez Ricky, pointin’ at th’ lean critter, “is Perfessor Phinney. Th’ lady is his wife, and this here robust party is Doctor Doolittle. They’re from th’ East—” and then he turns to them:

“Ladies and gentlemen, this slender party with th’ hairy upper lip is Magpie Simpkins, and th’ bow-legged party beside him is Ike Harper, his mate. Now that yo’re properly introduced I’ll pilgrim back. _Au revoir._”

“Yuh will—in uh hearse,” snaps Magpie. “Come back here, yuh blamed coyote and explain why yuh shirks yore duty. What’s th’ great idea?”

“My duty is done,” states Ricky. “These here persons desire to hire competent persons so I brings’ em up here. Every man in Piperock holds up their hands and swears that they ain’t competent, so what could I do? You and Ike shore must be. I reckon th’ perfessor can tell yuh what he wants, Magpie. I hates to deprive yuh of my company, but I’m uh right busy man.”

“No depravity, Ricky,” sez Magpie. “Run right along home.”

And then he turns to th’ outfit. Th’ three of ’em are off their mounts, and busy rubbin’ th’ circulation back into their legs. I feels that th’ perfessor has some chore, ’cause he has quite uh strip uh country to hear from.

“I—er—shall try and explain in a few words,” sez th’ perfessor, peekin’ at us over th’ tops of his specs. “I am up here to settle an argument between myself and Professor Manning. Isn’t it queer what an argument between friends will bring forth?”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Magpie. “She shore is. I’ve knowed six good men to git killed on th’ spot, four more in th’ pen, and dozens who have been crippled fer life over friendly arguments.”

“How unique!” exclaims th’ perfessor’s heavier half. “How unique.”

“Yes’m,” agrees Magpie, “two of ’em was, but th’ rest was jist common ordinary arguments.”

“As I was—er—saying,” continues th’ perfessor, “I am up here to settle a friendly argument.”

“Th’ question is?” asks Magpie.

“Do rattlesnakes and prairie-dogs live together in harmony, and will a female grizzly recognize its own offspring after it has been away from, it for twenty-four hours.”

“That’s uh —— of uh reason fer comin’ way up here!” snorts Magpie.

“Why didn’t yuh write to me? I’d ’a’ told yuh.”

“That’s what I said,” cuts in th’ human carbuncle. “When you told me about it I——”

“Doctor,” pipes th’ perfessor, “there’s no use arguing with me. This is a serious question. Professor Manning’s theory is wrong, and I am going to prove it.”

“Yuh can’t prove nothin’ by uh rattler,” objects Magpie. “Also, yuh got uh sweet chore on yore hands when yuh tries to git uh female grizzly to let yuh take its cub and——”

“Can’t I believe my own eyes?” wails th’ ol’ pelican. “Can’t I see these things?”

“My husband, being a scientist, is very observing,” states Mrs. Perfessor.

“Also set in his ways,” states th’ doc, lightin’ one uh them dude cigarets, which smells like th’ place where uh circus has jist moved away. “All I hope is that I get some good shooting.”

“If th’ perfessor interviews uh fe-male grizzly and fambly, yuh shore stand uh good chance uh gittin’ yore wish,” sez I. “Unpack them long-sufferin’ jackasses and make yoreself to home. Th’ hills is yours.”

“Unpack?” asks th’ perfessor. “Do you mean to remove the impedimenta from the backs of our beasts of burden?”

“Bein’ funny is a art,” states Magpie, “but art ain’t appreciated here in th’ hills. Jist take th’ plunder off them canaries, and settle down.”

“But, my man, that’s your duty. That’s part of what I’m paying you for.”

Magpie looks foolish like at me and then back at th’ perfessor. Th’ doc lifts his eyebrows to th’ eaves of his face and manages to wiggle one eyelid until uh person would almost admit it was uh wink.

“Perfessor,” sez Magpie, “I ain’t yore man. I never seen yuh before, and I ain’t worryin’ about yuh in th’ future. I never hired out to yuh, and I ain’t acquainted with yore rollin’ stock to th’ extent that I wishes to remove their loads. Who wished yuh on to us anyway and why?”

Th’ perfessor removes his hard hat and squints at Magpie.

“The—er—person who brought us up here informed me that you were perfectly competent. Was we misinformed?”

“Misinformed? No, ol’-timer, you was lied to. Sabe?”

“Th’ fact of th’ matter is this,” states th’ doc. “Professor Phinney wants to engage the services of you and Mister Harper. He is willing to pay you a reasonable amount for your services, and is also able to offer a substantial bonus in case you can help him prove or disprove his contention. Am I right, Professor?”

“Yeaus,” drawls th’ ol’ coot.

He’s uh funny ol’ rooster. He allus sez “Yeaus” instead uh “Uh-huh.” I don’t reckon he ever figgered that th’ Lord only give him one set uh vocal cords, or else he didn’t care if he did wear ’em out early in life. Every danged word he orates sounds like th’ letters had been carved out uh granite, and he was afraid to let ’em all fall to oncet fer fear some of ’em might git scratched or busted.

“Yuh might explain th’ bonus part,” sez Magpie.

“You see,” sez th’ perfessor, “for my own personal satisfaction I would observe the home life of the rattlesnake and prairie-dog, but the most important is the test of the maternal instinct in the grizzly bear.

“I shall expect you to furnish me with the opportunity to carry out this experiment to a satisfactory conclusion, and in case you can do so to my satisfaction, I am willing to remunerate you to the extent of two hundred dollars each. Of course I am prepared to pay you each five dollars per day. Do you feel competent to assist me?”

* * * * *

Magpie sticks his thumbs into his belt, shifts his weight on to one leg, and squints at them burros.

“Ike,” sez he, “remove th’—er—imped— imped—th’ packs off them beasts uh burden.”

And then to th’ perfessor:

“Competent is my middle name. When it comes to th’ maternal instinct of grizzly bears I feels as competent as uh hungry coyote in uh herd uh sick sheep. Ike is a authority on snakes and gophers, so between us I reckon you’ll git enough material to last yuh a lifetime. What do yuh know about grizzlies?”

“Nothing at all,” sez th’ perfessor. “I fear that I wouldn’t know one if I were to meet it. I’ll admit it was a foolish argument, when neither Professor Manning nor myself are at all familiar with natural history, but it is things like this that lend zest to life. Am I right, Mister Simpson?”

“Simpkins,” sez Magpie. “Uh-huh, I reckon it does. Yessir, I’d shore agree that it might. But, Perfessor, if I was in yore place, not bein’ familiar with grizzlies, I’d shore side-step anythin’ I met that wasn’t familiar. There’s one redeemin’ feature about uh grizzly—he don’t stop to argue. One or two uh them square-heads would put enough zest in uh man’s life to keep him supplied fer right smart of uh time.”

Well, that shore was some outfit. Them packs looks like uh travelin’ banquet. There’s three foldin’ bunks, sleepin’ bags, rubber bathtubs and most everything that uh man can’t use in th’ hills. Also there is enough fancy grub to feed uh roundup. I manages to git them things off th’ jacks, and Magpie comes over and looks ’em over.

“My Gawd,” sez he. “This is th’ limit, hammered to uh sharp point. What’ll we do with ’em, Ike?”

“Yore uh competent,” sez I. “Don’t ask me what to do, Magpie Simpson. Is th’ perfessor’s squaw goin’ to git supper?”

“She is not, and yuh might call me by my right name. Th’ perfessor sez that he was informed by Mister Henderson that Mister Harper is th’ best culinary artist in th’ State. Uh culinary artist is uh polite name fer uh bull cook, Ike.”

“Sounds re-fined, anyway,” I agrees. “But some uh these day’s I’m goin’ to git my meat-hooks on Ricky Henderson, and there’s goin’ to be sorrow in th’ Henderson tribe. Culinary artist ——! Can’t th’ doctor cook?”

“Th’ doctor can’t do nothin’, Ike. He informs me that th’ one ambition in life is to hit somethin’ with his shotgun. Sez he never had and never expects to, but he’s game to keep on tryin’.”

Pretty soon th’ doc comes down from th’ cabin, and sets down on one of th’ packs. He dusts th’ end of uh cigaret on his hand, and grins at me and Magpie.

“Some outfit, eh?” he sez. “What do yuh think of it?”

“Well,” sez Magpie, “I knowed uh feller oncet what got hung fer sayin’ what he thought, so with this one short remark I’ll close—awful!”

“Exactly,” agrees th’ doc, explodin’ uh cloud uh smoke that would asphyxiate uh gila monster. “I quite agrees with you. You see th’ professor has a lot more money than any ordinary professor ought to have and if he wishes to spend it on a proposition like this it’s none of our funeral.”

“Th’ first part of yore oration sounds sensible,” sez Magpie, “but th’ last line ain’t exactly true. Knowin’ th’ natcheral disposition of uh fe-male grizzly, I’d say that it might be our funeral. Jist because we’re merely accessories to th’ fact don’t affect th’ gray matter in th’ skull of uh she-grizzly.

“All men looks alike to her. Mebby she’d shy at th’ perfessor, but I’m bettin’ that uh rear view of th’ ol’ boy goin’ up uh tree or doin’ th’ vanishin’ act over uh hill might fool uh mad grizzly into thinkin’ she was chasin’ uh real, honest-to-grandma man. Uh course she’d find out her mistake, but by that time it’s too late to rectify it. No self-respectin’ rattler’d bite him, either, but yuh got to figger that nobody ever met uh self-respectin’ rattler. No, sir, I reckon we got to close-herd th’ perfessor.”

“I’d be there with my shotgun,” grins th’ doc. “Mebby I could hit uh bear with it. That would be some satisfaction.”

“And it wouldn’t bother th’ bear,” sez I. “If yuh feels like tryin’ out that two-tunneled spray-weapon on uh bear, take this advice: Try one barrel on th’ bear and th’ other on yoreself. Mebby it’s jist uh li’l out uh place fer uh stranger to tell uh feller how to pass out uh this here vale uh tears, but uh scatter-gun don’t compare with uh grizzly when it comes to messy-lookin’ corpses. Them animiles shore do admire to take yuh apart.”

I cooked supper that night. One thing in my favor was th’ fact that th’ perfessor’s wife is too hungry and tired to make any suggestions. I ain’t no dog-gone French cook, but I shore hates to have uh fe-male person tell me how to cook beans. We worries through supper without no casualties, and after we gits through, Mrs. Per-fessor goes to bed on my bunk, and th’ rest of us sets out in front of th’ cabin and smokes uh while.

“My man,” sez th’ perfessor to Magpie, “it is my desire to investigate the grizzly theory tomorrow morning. I suppose you are prepared to guide me to the lair of a fairly good specimen?”

“Shore,” sez Magpie. “Uh course I’ll have to look over my field notes uh while before I can locate edzactly th’ specimen yuh needs. Uh course yuh wants uh grizzly with uh grizzly offspring.”

“Yeaus,” drawls th’ ol’ pelican. “Yeaus, certainly. Quite naturally a grizzly would have a grizzly offspring.”

“Natcherally,” agrees Magpie. “But yuh often finds ’em with black or brown cubs. Yuh see, Perfessor, uh she-grizzly is uh motherly ol’ thing, and when she finds uh female black or brown bear which don’t treat their li’l ones properly she jist natcherally adopts ’em.”

“Quite commendable,” nods th’ perfessor. “I must make a note of it. Such information is quite valuable. But don’t the other bears object to losing the custody of their offsprings?”

“Quite useless,” drawls Magpie. “As I remarked before, uh grizzly won’t argue.”

“I have a feeling that this trip is going to furnish some material for the scientists to ponder over,” laughs th’ doc, gittin’ up and throwin’ away his camel-hair cigaret. “I must see that my shotgun is in good working order.”

“Did yuh ever shoot any fool-hens?” I asks.

Th’ doc grins at me in uh wise sort of uh way and replies:

“Mister Harper, I may be a poor shot, but I’m not that much of a tenderfoot, so don’t try that old joke on me, please.”

Most of ’em won’t bite on th’ fool-hen stunt, fer th’ simple reason that there ain’t no joke about fool-hens. Now, if yuh spoke about snow-snakes they’d stay all Winter to git uh specimen.

It wa’n’t edzactly what you’d call chivalry that prompts us to give up our cabin to our employers that night. When uh two hundred and fifty pound fe-male occupies yore three by six bunk, and fills th’ air with snores which resembles th’ grunts of uh hungry bear trying to coax uh fat grub out of uh rotten stump, it’s jist human nature to grab uh blanket and move out in th’ brush. Th’ doc crawls into his sleepin’-bag alongside th’ cabin, but me and Magpie holes up down near th’ crick.

* * * * *

That night I wonders out-loud, in Magpie’s hearin’, what are we goin’ to do? Also I mentions in my oration that any man what ain’t got no more sense than to tie up with uh rattle-headed pardner, not mentionin’ any names, but givin’ uh fair description, ought to die early in life in self-defense.

“Field book!” I howls at th’ Big Dipper. “He’s got uh field book what shows th’ dwellin’-place of suitable female grizzlies. Them records will show jist which said grizzly has bears by adoption and which has ’em by maternal instinct. I’m a expert on sidewinders and gophers, eh? Shore. All my life I’ve laid on my belly and observed th’ home life uh said whistlin’ diggers and crippled crawlers. I’ve allus crawled in th’ best society uh Prairie Dog town. Accordin’ to th’ latest reports I’m livin’ in uh dug-out and cultivatin’ fangs. Pretty soon I’m due to coil up and bite somebody.”

Magpie don’t say uh word all th’ time I’m reflectin’ out loud, but after I rolls up in my blanket and drowses off to sleep he grabs me by th’ shoulder and hisses in my ear—

“Ike, I’ve got it!”

“Keep it,” sez I. “I don’t care if we are pardners, Magpie, I don’t wish to share it with yuh. I know you’ve had it fer uh long time, ol’ trapper, but I never mentioned it to anybody. If it hurts yuh worse than usual, I’d advise uh cold compress on yore dome.”

“‘Mighty’ Jones,” he yells joyful like. “By cripes. I can see it all!”

Sometimes when uh feller gits to ravin’ thataway he sez things about folks that he don’t like, so I don’t comment on him mentionin’ Mighty Jones.

Uh course his right name ain’t Mighty. He’s uh pore li’l runty person, with corn-colored hair, and whiskers which makes him resemble uh mountain goat gone to seed. One day he gits into a argument with uh whale of uh jasper named “Buzzard” Bell. Buzzard is big enough to tie Jones in uh bow-knot, and he grins down at Jones and informs him of th’ fact. Jones takes off his coat, throws it on th’ floor, jumps on it with both boots, spits on his hands and yells:

“I’m small but I’m Gawd A’mighty Jones!” That’s how he gits th’ cognomen.

He’s livin’ up in uh li’l cabin at th’ forks of Plenty Stone crick, and he ain’t noways friendly nor confidential. He’s plumb afraid that somebody will jump his alleged copper claim, which don’t assay enough per ton to plate uh twenty-two cartridge shell.

“She’s goin’ to work out to uh gnat’s eyebrow, Ike,” states Magpie when I don’t seem uh heap concerned over his former joyful declaration.

“Yuh might tell uh man yore troubles,” sez I.

Magpie sets up in his blankets and rolls uh cigaret.

“Yessir,” sez he, after th’ smoke is goin’, “that’s th’ solution—partly. Ike, we could use Mighty Jones’s bear fer this here scientific experiment.”

“Uh-huh,” I agrees. “We shore could, only fer several reasons. Mighty’s animile happens to be uh brown bear and, bein’ as its name is Abe, it don’t stand to reason that its got any maternal instinct, much less uh cub. And what is uh heap more to th’ point, Magpie: Mighty would perforate anybody what bothered that brute. If Mighty had about twice as much sense as he’s got he’d be half-witted, and I argues that uh fool and uh shotgun is dangerous. Them’s my sentiments, Magpie. Th’ whole thing is crazy. Yore all crazy, Magpie. Th’ perfessor is loco, th’ doc is likewise afflicted and Mrs. Perfessor is showin’ symptoms. You been crazy fer years and years, Magpie, and I’m gittin’ suspicious uh myself. Let’s put some cyanide in their coffee in th’ morning, and then you and me will go down in Death Valley and dig fer coconuts, Magpie. And besides we ain’t got no cub fer Abie.”

“Objextions all overruled, Ike. In th’ first place, Perfessor Phinney nor any of them wouldn’t know uh brown bear from uh grizzly, and in th’ second place, we’ll go down cautious like and rent Mighty’s bear.”

“What’ll we do fer uh cub?”

“——!” snorts Magpie. “We’re sharin’ fifty-fifty in this here ain’t we? Well, I done furnished my part. I got th’ mother grizzly didn’t I? Well, you git th’ cub. Sabe?”

“Loan me yore field notes on cubs, will yuh? I’m uh snake specialist and——”

Didn’t Magpie tell th’ perfessor he had one? Shore did. That’s what makes Magpie’s conduct so danged inconsistent. He didn’t have no right to git sore about it. Anyway, it’s showin’ danged little knowledge uh social etikette when uh feller hits yuh on th’ head with uh rock as big as yore fist—especially when yore in bed. Uh course I returns it in th’ proper spirit, but my feelin’s is soarin’ and I shoots high.

Did yuh ever hear half uh dozen long-eared, flea-bitten jackasses split th’ stillness of th’ night with their melodjus voices? Don’t tell me that animiles like that don’t talk to each other. They shore must or they couldn’t know jist when to cut loose all to oncet thataway, and make th’ short hair on th’ back uh yore neck crawl right over and tickle yuh under th’ chin.

That herd of Rocky Mountain canaries cuts loose right over our recumbent forms and scares delirious delight out of our feelin’s fer uh minute. They jist orates one short, “Ha-a-aaw!” and then quits cold.

We stands erect in our blankets and sez things to them jacks, but they jist nods in th’ gloom, and wiggles their ears. They sorta surrounds us, and won’t go away. Not bein’ in need uh any more music, we gits peevish like.

“Let’s go over across th’ crick,” sez Magpie. “Them blasted animile Carusos is too friendly, and it’s uh cinch they’ll stay on this side of th’ crick.”

* * * * *

We ambles down toward th’ crick, still wrapped in our blankets, like uh pair uh Injuns, when all to oncet we gits another sensation.

“Whang! Zee-e-e-e! Whang! Zee-e-e-e!”

Th’ gentle evenin’ is shattered. It’s bad enough to have yore ear-drums shattered, but when each shatter is followed by uh handful uh bird-shot, which “skees” and “zees” across yore form and fills yore eyes with lint from yore blanket, it’s time to investigate. Magpie is near th’ crick bank when it happens, and I looks up jist in time to see Magpie disappear over th’ bank, and uh splash informs me that he is in th’ wet.

“My ——!” I hears uh voice opine. “I believe I hit them. I wish I had some buckshot, but I haven’t and——”

“Bung! Zee-e-e-e!” goes that scatter-gun ag’in, only this time it’s both barrels. I hears Magpie spit out uh personal cuss word and splash back into th’ crick.

“Heaven is my home,” states uh voice in th’ gloom, which I recognizes as bein’ that of th’ doctor, and I hears him rastlin’ around in th’ brush.

“Where’s that blamed gun, anyway?” he whines. “I never shot two loads to once before, and after this——”

“Cut—cut—cut it out, yuh blamed maverick!” quavers Magpie, and I sees his arms wavin’ over th’ bank of th’ crick in uh signal uh distress.

“Gracious! Did I hit you? Did it go past you?” yells th’ doc.

Magpie raises his string-bean carcass on th’ bank, shakes th’ water out of his hair, and whoops:

“What went past? Yuh blasted, overfed, red-faced porkypine. What do yuh reckon yo’re tryin’ to do?”

“Calm yourself,” advises th’ doc. “If it hadn’t been for me you all might be dead. What do you think of that?”

“Fine,” sez Magpie. “I’m like Patrick Henry thataway. If I can’t have liberty I’ll take uh li’l death. When fellers like you are pesticatin’ around uh feller’s liberty is shore restricted. What was yuh tryin’ to kill, anyway?”

“What made that noise?” hedges th’ doc. “What made it, eh? I heard it, and comes out to investigate. I saw what I took to be two skulking animals, so I gave each one a load of shot. One of them jumped into the creek, but I gave it both barrels as it went out the other side. This gun kicked so hard that it was impossible for me to determine what my execution was. I hope it was deadly.”

“If I ever has uh hand in it, Doc, it shore will,” sez Magpie. “Better go on back to bed.”

Th’ doc ambles back to his bed, and we recovers Magpie’s blanket. It jist missed uh watery grave.

“Gosh,” sez Magpie. “Missed with both barrels at ninety feet. Let’s go over in th’ brush and sleep. Mebby them jacks will wail ag’in, and yuh can’t expect uh feller to miss every time with uh scatter-gun.”

“Was it uh female?” asks uh husky voice behind us, and there stands th’ perfessor in uh white nightie, on one foot, while he industriously picks cactus out of th’ other. He looks like th’ ghost of some hy-iu white crane.

“What you heard, Perfessor,” sez Magpie, “was uh fool! Better git back to bed before he mistakes yuh fer uh white owl.”

“Yeaus. Exactly,” agrees th’ ol’ coot, and he limps back. Magpie is uh bit damp, but th’ night is warm, so he states that he’d rather sleep thataway than to take uh chance on goin’ near th’ cabin.

We sleeps some late th’ next mornin’, and th’ first thing we hears is that blamed shotgun. Somewhere up th’ gulch th’ doc is tearin’ holes in th’ solitude. We ambles up to th’ cabin, and finds Mrs. Perfessor settin’ on th’ steps. Honest to grandma, she’s uh sight. That person wa’n’t no beautiful vi’let last night, but this mornin’ she don’t qualify a-tall.

“_Klahowya_,” sez Magpie. “Did yuh sleep well, ma’am?”