Part 1

COWS IS COWS

By W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Precedents in Piperock,” “Honest to Doughgod,” etc.

“They who live by the sword shall perish by the sword,” says he.

“Well,” says Magpie Simpkins, sheriff of Yellow Rock County, picking his six-shooter off the table and shoving it into his holster, “if that’s the case the mortality uh this here county is going to be uh danged long ways below par. Swords ain’t stylish uh tall, and ain’t been for some little time. They’re too danged local for good fighting. I prefers old man Colt’s products.”

“Just uh figure uh speech, brother,” explains the hairy one. “It means that as uh man lives so shall he die. Sabe?”

“Then you’ll sure pass out audible, old trailer,” says Magpie. “Ever since you invades my premises you ain’t done nothing but talk, talk, talk. Don’t you have nothing to do but orate uplift opinions?”

“It is my mission, brother. I carry the light to dark places, and I have been called to this end of the earth to scatter seeds.”

He sure looked like uh sower. He’s danged near as tall as Magpie Simpkins, and if anything he’s uh little narrower. He wears uh long black coat, and tucks his pantlegs into the tops of his number twelve boots, which are uh heap run over at the heels, making him arch at the knees. His face is uh cross between Sandy Claws, uh bock-beer sign and uh bale uh fox-tail grass. He punctuates his uplift remarks by spitting through uh hole in the front of his mouth where uh tooth used to stand. He’s wearing uh straw hat, the same uh which was made man-sized, and it balances on top of his ears like uh teeter-board.

“Called, eh?” says Magpie. “Well, you sure didn’t get called for much. What seems to be your trade, anyway?”

“I’m uh Bringer of Light, brother. Meek and lowly I come----”

“Bringer uh Light, eh?” interrupts Magpie. “Never mind the meek part. Me and Ike are both meek and lowly. If yuh got uh good supply uh seeds yuh might scatter some where some of our rustling friends would pick ’em up.”

“Rustling?” pronounces the Bringer uh Light. “Wouldst explain?”

“Wouldst. Uh rustler is uh man who can’t tell another man’s stock from his own. It’s uh sort uh brand blindness. Sabe? We’re burdened with ’em to the extent that three days, hand running, I’ve been accused uh negligence and favoritism. Just because I’ve been duly elected sheriff uh this commonwealth they opines that all I got to do is to bleed and die for my constituents and the glory of the cause. Scenery Sims, Hank Padden, Zeb Abernathy and Johnny Myers is the constituents what endeavors to shape my ends. Yuh might pack uh little light to them four dark places, old-timer.”

“Do they amble in darkness?” he asks, hitting uh knot-hole three times straight.

“Blacker than the ace uh spades. What’s your name, anyway?”

The hairy one hunches up his shoulders, like uh buzzard with uh full crop, takes another shot at that knot-hole and rubs his long hands together.

“I am Obadiah Ezekiel Moses Brown.”

“Pshaw!” says Magpie. “Why didn’t your folks make uh perfect score while they had uh chance?”

“Meaning which, brother?”

“They left out Proverbs and Genesis. No wonder you’re uh Gospel pedler, Obie. I thought at first that you’re uh shepherd, but no shepherd ever had names like----”

“He has came,” announces uh voice at the open door, and there stands Scenery Sims.

If I had my choice between the friendship of Scenery Sims and that of an old buck sheep, I’d never speak to Scenery again. Scenery orates that he’s uh self-made man, that’s about the only thing he can’t blame nobody else for.

He stands about knee-high to uh tall Injun, wears woolly chaps which comes just below his knees, and has uh voice that would make the E string of uh fiddle blush for shame. He owns the Circle-S brand, which consists of about uh hundred animiles. They looks uh heap like Scenery--sort uh measly looking.

“What has came?” asks Magpie.

“Spade Wilson, the detective,” squeaks Scenery. “Jist got in from Helena. Me and Zeb knowed him the minute he rode in. When I says to him, ‘Hello, Spade,’ he just grins and says, ‘Don’t advertise it.’”

“Have you seen the Light, brother?” asks Obie, peering at Scenery with one eye, while he aims at the knot-hole with the other--and rings the bell again.

“My gosh!” whistles Scenery, seeing Obie for the first time. “Is that under arrest, Magpie, or can it still be within the law? My gosh A’mighty!”

“This here is Mister Brown,” says Magpie. “Mister Sims, meet Mister Brown.”

“I gives yuh good cheer, brother,” orates Obie, reaching out uh long hand and pumping Scenery’s hand some industrious.

“I’ll take it,” admits Scenery. “How’s all your folks, Mister Brown?”

“Obadiah Ezekiel Moses,” corrects Obie, biting off uh fresh chew. “They are all in the Great Beyond from which no man ever returneth back.”

“All three of ’em?” says Scenery. “That’s too danged bad, old-timer. I know just how bad yuh feel. I lost twelve more cows myself last night.”

“Don’t weep, Scenery,” advises Magpie, when Scenery finishes off his discourse in uh wailing tone. “This here cow detective ’ll get ’em all back for you.”

“Still sore, eh?” pipes Scenery. “Doggone it, Magpie, yuh can’t blame us, can yuh? Me and Johnny and Zeb and Hank can’t afford to raise cows and have ’em swiped all the time. As uh sheriff yuh ain’t so danged awful bad, except to look at, but as uh catcher of rustlers you don’t show uh trace.

“We figures that the only thing to do is to put up uh howl to the Cattlemen’s Association, and get ’em to send us uh hyiu detective. They tells us that they’re sending Spade Wilson over to us, but we got to stand the expenses. He’s private. He sure looks like he could land ’em. He’s down at Masterson’s playing seven-up with Zeb and Hank. I reckon you’ll see him pretty soon.”

“Are the ones you mentioned still in darkness?” asks Obie, folding his hands, and rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

“No,” says Scenery. “Leastwise they was getting lit up when I left. Come on down and meet ’em, and have uh scoop or two. They’d admire to see yuh, old-timer.”

“The joy of meeting would be mutual,” agrees Obie, uncoiling himself from the chair, and taking one parting shot at that knot-hole. “But I never imbibe or look upon the wine when it is red. Lead forth, brother.”

“Well, it’s your eyes and your stummick,” states Scenery, looking up at Obie, like uh squirrel looking up uh tree. “But if I had uh neck as long as you got, I’d shut my eyes to the color and let her sluice.”

* * * * *

They goes out together, and me and Magpie watches them amble up the street.

“Ain’t it funny what mistakes is committed in the name uh humanity,” orates Magpie. “Now, there goes uh misfit on uh forlorn cause, Ike, and he’s just as happy over it as uh half-breed kid with uh coyote pup. Bringer uh Light! That face uh his would snuff uh candle at sixty yards. I reckon this is the delegation coming down to see us.”

I takes uh look and sees Hank Padden, Zeb Abernathy, Johnny Myers, Scenery Sims and uh fifth person ambling down our way, and behind them, with his coat-tails flopping in the breeze comes the Bringer uh Light.

“Sheriff Simpkins, I’m pleased to make yuh used to Spade Wilson,” says Zeb Abernathy, bobbing his head toward the stranger. “Mister Wilson is the detective from Helena.”

“Pleased to know yuh,” says Wilson. “I’ve heard of you.”

“This here person is Ike Harper,” informs Scenery, pointing me out, like I was uh horrible example. “Ike is sort of uh e-mergency deputy sheriff. When he ain’t doing that, he’s resting.”

“We has hopes that you can assist Mister Wilson uh little, Magpie,” orates Hank Padden. “Uh course we don’t wish yuh to do anything to interfere with your usual occupation, but any help yuh can give the detective to stop the reign uh terror will be appreciated.”

“Hank,” replies Magpie, “your insinuations cuts me deep-like. Uh course, being uh peace officer in good standing with smart men, it’s my duty to give assistance to the weak and needy, but I can’t figure how you-all can insult my abilities by asking me to help somebody else. I’m sheriff--me!”

“It ain’t reasonable to suppose that Kirk Kelso or any of his gang is operating in this county. Just because the party what took them cows out of the Triangle corral left uh card with compliments uh Kirk Kelso on it, don’t argue that he done it. Somebody just done that cause Kirk Kelso’s reputation for foolishness just about covers that kind uh stunt. He never was over in this part of the state, and ain’t been heard of for uh long time. Somebody’s trading on his rep.”

“Them cows is gone, ain’t they?” wails Johnny Myers. “Yuh can’t dispute that, can yuh? All you do is argue. When it comes to sheriffing you’re about as much use as uh bulldog in uh sheep camp.”

All the time this Spade Wilson person leans against the wall, and grins. He’s uh long-legged, red-headed hombre, with uh face that resembles uh contour map of the Bad Lands. He’s got uh lazy look about his face, and his eyes reminds me of the eyes of uh bronc what’s trying to bluff yuh into thinking he ain’t got uh buck left in his carcase.

“I agrees with them sentiments exactly, Johnny,” squeaks Scenery. “Bulldog in uh sheep camp! Haw! Haw! Haw! That sure fits like uh glove.”

“Agreeing with sarcasm is the privilege uh fools,” states uh voice at the door, and Obie strolls in. “I distribute the Light to fools and wise men alike.”

“Who’s your friend, Magpie?” laughs Hank Padden. “He opines that he’s uh light. What sheep range did he drift from?”

“My flocks is on the seven hills, and I search for the lost, strayed and stolen. I am here to shed the--” but Spade Wilson slams the door in his face and cuts off his discourse.

“I hates uh fool,” states Scenery Sims.

“All fools do,” orates Obie, from the open window. “Uh wise man uses his time for better things,” and then we sees him amble back to town.

“Well,” says Zeb, “now that the Light has left us we may as well finish this business. Magpie, we’ve talked it over uh heap and we’re come to the conclusion that we better give Mister Wilson uh free hand. He opines that it’s better for him to work alone, and we promises to stand for anything he does. He orates that maybe we’ll be shocked and pained at what he does, but we’ve agreed to suffer in silence. Ain’t that the how of it?”

“It sure is,” agrees Hank, and Scenery and Zeb and Johnny nods.

“And,” states Hank, “no matter what happens we don’t want no interference from the sheriff’s office. Sabe? If yuh can’t help him none, Magpie, we wishes yuh to shut your eyes to what he does. The three of us is paying the bills.”

“Why waste all that conversation, Hank?” grins Magpie. “I ain’t going to say uh danged thing. Will Mister Wilson use our little jail or will me and Ike build him uh bull-pen?”

“I reckon the jail will hold ’em,” says Hank. “Mister Wilson says that he thinks it’s uh gang uh four, and that the jail will hold that many.”

“I’d be uh heap pleased to get them twenty Herefords back,” states Johnny Myers. “Them was all blooded stock, and they stands the Triangle uh lot uh money.”

“Also, I’m loser to the extent of about forty head,” wails Scenery. “The same night they lifts that bunch from Zeb, they drifts uh bunch uh mine along, too. Let’s go up to Buck’s and get uh little elixir. So much talk makes me dry.”

The four of them ambles back uptown and leaves me and Magpie and Spade in the office.

“Got any idea of where to look for these here rustlers?” asks Spade.

“You’re the doctor,” says Magpie, cocking his feet against the table, and rolling uh smoke. “I ain’t got uh danged thing to say about it. All I know is this: I’m the sheriff uh Yaller Rock County, and I feels able to cope with any rustler what ever vented uh brand, but any time that bunch uh misfire cow-owners opines to hire outside help, I just lays doggo. If the time drags too heavy on my hands I may get out and rustle uh few myself. Sabe?”

“Not wishing to upset your good resolutions,” says Spade, with uh grin, “but I’d sure like to understand uh little about these four people what hires me. Are they the principal cow-owners uh this range?”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Magpie. “That old dough-faced maverick, with the meeker than Moses expression on his face, is Hank Padden. Hank owns the Seven-A outfit and uh grouch. He ranges his cows on the Roarin’ Crick breaks, and his grouch any place.

“Johnny Myers is the foreman of the Triangle by marriage. He married the female what inherited it from her husband. Zeb Abernathy owns the Cross-L herd. He looks so danged much like uh parson that it interferes with his cussing.

“The little tin-whistle runt, with the canary voice, is Scenery Sims. He sold his sheep over in the Big Hole country, and went in for cows. Not having much idea above uh sheep, somebody unloads the worst-looking bunch uh cow critters on him yuh ever seen. Scabby lot uh mongrel stuff, but Scenery opines that they’re the greatest stock on earth. Now, yuh know all about ’em, Mister Wilson, so shake out your rope and go to it.”

“Got an extra star?” asks Spade, rolling uh cigaret one handed, without spilling uh grain of tobacco. Uh man ain’t got much to do when he takes the time to learn a trick like that. Magpie fumbles in his desk and tosses Spade uh star.

“Thanks,” says Spade. “As uh general rule I don’t carry uh star, but, being as this job is an exception, I may need one plumb bad.”

“You’re welcome,” says I. “Being as that is the only star in the county, except the one what shines on Magpie’s manly bosom, it probably lets me out of uh lot uh grief.”

“It takes nerve to put the deadwood on uh rustler,” orates Spade, and I agrees.

“I ain’t lost no rustlers. Why should I use up my visible supply uh nerve? I never owned but one cow, and no rustler ever got her. I called her Sylvia. She was just emerging from calf-hood into cow, when she mistook uh grizzly for something to play with.”

“I thank you for the information and the star,” says Spade. “I’ll go up now and have uh little talk with my employers. Do you aim to help me any in this hunt?”

“Not any,” replies Magpie. “My jail is always open to your prisoners, but further than that I’m neutral. Ike’s neutral too, ain’t yuh, Ike?”

“You know whereof you speak, Magpie,” says I.

“That feller ain’t going to be able to do nothing,” I argues with Magpie, after Spade leaves.

“You’re wrong, Ike,” says he. “That feller is going to do something that I didn’t think was possible. He’s going to pry some real money out of Scenery Sims.”

* * * * *

We sets down to enjoy uh smoke, when in comes Obie, and sets down in his favorite chair.

“How’s your Light working?” asks Magpie, and Obie grins.

“Fine, brother. There is dark places in Piperock which need illuminating uh heap but my mission is not confined to the city. I must work among the meek and lowly, and in order to fulfil my mission I must engage uh mode of locomotion. Dost know of one who would loan me uh horse?”

“Dost not,” replies Magpie. “Me and Ike has got uh burro named Lodestone, which yuh might borrow. He ain’t much for looks, being originally of uh yaller hue, but he’ll get yuh there in time for meals.”

“The vehicle of the Lord,” says Obie, pleased-like. “I’ll take Lodestone.”

Obie was pleased with Lodestone. Lodestone looks Obie over, and goes right back to sleep. I reckon he saw uh critter of his own ambitions, and figgered that uh trip with him would be uh vacation.

When Obie rode that burro out of town it sure was uh thing to look at. Obie is so long that he has to set on Lodestone’s rump, and his long legs stick out in front like uh pair uh buggy shafts.

“All he needs is another mule and uh singletree, and he’s uh tandem,” howls Magpie. He waves au revoir to Obie and the other jackass, and then relapses into the shade again.

Scenery Sims comes down to whittle uh while, but he ain’t received with no open arms. Me and Magpie holds sort of uh local conversation, to the utter exclusion of Scenery.

“Ike,” says Magpie, “ain’t it funny what critters the Lord produces at times? Now take humans, for instance. I know one person who ain’t got brains enough to know when he ain’t wanted. He used to be uh shepherd, but he got so danged orn’ary that the sheep wouldn’t associate with him no more, so he sold out and comes over here into God’s country and tries to raise cattle.

“Now, he didn’t show uh lick uh sense, Ike. He’s been with the woollies so long that he don’t know cows, so somebody sells him uh bunch uh alleged cattle which looks like uh bunch of overgrown goats. Later on some poor deluded rustler, with astigmatism, comes along and burdens himself with what he mistakes in the dark for cows. Now this here runty sheep person opines to pay real money to uh specialist to recover said overgrown goats. I’d say he’s showing poor taste.”

“Them was cows,” pronounces Scenery, in uh chiding way.

“Maybe,” agrees Magpie. “Way back in the miocene period, Scenery, them things might have been cows, but they never progressed.”

“I want ’em back, just the same. Anything yuh pays real money for is worth wanting back, Magpie. And what is more, I’m going to get ’em back, too, and the person what took ’em is going to suffer in durance vile. Sabe?”

“I love the little trees,” says Magpie. “I love the little children and the little squirrels and the little babbling brooks, but, by cripes, I can’t seem to strike uh single spark uh love in my bosom fer uh runty ex-shepherd. God A’mighty made uh mistake when he made ’em in the image uh men and furnished ’em with vocal cords.”

“I don’t like you, Magpie,” states Scenery. “By gosh, I don’t! I ain’t never liked you!”

“Scenery,” says Magpie, “them few words changes my opinion uh you uh heap. Honest to grandma, I never thought you had soul enough in your carcass even to hate anybody.”

Scenery goes uptown, and as far as we can hear him he’s talking to himself.

“I figger that this is going to be uh vacation for us, Ike,” states Magpie. “We’ll just lay around and let ’em detect, eh?”

“You spoke from my soul that time,” I agrees.

Zeb Abernathy comes down to our office the next day, and sets down on the step.

“Your yaller burro stayed at my place last night,” says he.

“Alone?” I asks.

“He brought the Light,” laughs Zeb. “He’s going over to illuminate the Triangle this evening. Seen anything of Spade Wilson lately?”

“He ain’t been here today,” I replies. Zeb sets uh while, and then pilgrims uptown.

The next day me and Magpie is setting in the office, playing seven-up, when we hears somebody yell outside.

“Here’s your first prisoner,” states Spade Wilson. Me and Magpie stares at the party with him, and then grins wide.

“We don’t arrest ’em for getting drunk in this county,” states Magpie.

“He ain’t drunk,” replies Spade. “He’s uh rustler.”

“Rustler ----!” snorts Magpie. “He owns the Seven-A outfit.”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Spade. “He’d own the Triangle, too, in uh short time if I let him alone. I find him setting on the top of his corral at the Poison Springs, admiring them Triangle Herefords.”

“Magpie!” yelps Hank. “Tell this danged lying fool that----”

“You tell him, Hank,” advises Magpie. “Didn’t I hear yuh say that you agreed to suffer in silence?”

“You can’t deny that them cows were there, can yuh?” grins Spade, and Hank shakes his head, sad-like.

“No, I reckon--aw ----! I never put them there!”

“Maybe the jury will believe it,” replies Spade, and then we introduces Hank to the Hotel de Simpkins. He don’t make no further protest. He just flops down on uh bunk and cusses low and earnest-like. We waits until we feels that he’s about cussed out, and me and Magpie goes over to the door.

“Hoist with his own petard, Ike,” orates Magpie.

“Yes,” says I, “but it ain’t no more than I expected.”

I never noticed that Hank had one boot off. Magpie wipes the blood off my temple and fixes the cut up with court plaster, and we resumes our little game.

“I’ve always had uh sneaking suspicion uh Hank,” states Magpie, loud enough for Hank to hear, and Hank snorts like uh scared bronc, but don’t comment none. I makes him throw his boots over in the corner and hold up his hands when I brings in his supper.

Uh delegation from the Seven-A comes down to try and get us to turn Hank loose, but we locks up, and they don’t stay long.

The next morning, Hank is too danged mad to talk but he will eat. We feeds him and then starts our game, again.

I reckon it’s about noon, when we hears a noise at the front door and there we finds Spade and Johnny Myers.

“Hello, Johnny,” says I. “How’s tricks?”

“Go to ----!” snaps Johnny. “Tell this blasted misfire sleuth where to head in at, Magpie.”

“You ain’t gagged none are yuh?” asks Magpie. “Maybe yuh don’t care to talk to uh man you’re paying uh salary to.”

“Gol blast his ignorant pelt!” howls Johnny. “He arrested me for branding uh calf!”

“Better turn him loose,” I advises. “Branding calves is uh common occupation in this country.”

“This one was uh Circle-S,” replies Spade, with uh grin.

“The Circle-S had been partly vented, and the Triangle run on with uh running-iron. Pretty raw stuff! The calf is in that corral near the Medicine Crick ford, where we can get it for evidence.”

“Johnny,” says Magpie, sad-like, “if there was uh drop of forgiveness in my soul for uh rustler, you’re the one I’d sprinkle. I’ve always liked you, Johnny, and I’ve always had uh lot uh respect for your ability as uh cowman, but right now I can’t dig deep enough in my soul to find sympathy for you. I can’t grieve over any cowman who will take uh chance on rustling one uh them scabby little critters what Scenery designates as cows.”

“My Gawd! What’s he been doing?” snorts Hank, as we leads Johnny into the cell.

“Petty larceny,” says I. “He stole uh calf from Scenery Sims.”

Johnny and Hank looks at each other for uh spell, and then Hank turns, appealing-like to us, and says:

“Ain’t yuh got no other cell in this jail, Magpie?”

“Sorry, Hank,” says Magpie. “I know the pollution is awful, but there ain’t uh danged thing I can do. Maybe I can fumigate the cell uh little later on.”

* * * * *

Spade goes back to town, me and Magpie resumes our game, and Hank and Johnny argues in low tones. The next time our game is interrupted, it’s Obie, the Bringer uh Light.

“How yuh shining?” asks Magpie.

Obie sprawls on the table and takes uh greeting shot at that knot-hole.

“Nicely, brother,” says he. “The path is dark, but I bring the glow what guides all men. I hear that the minions of the law have been busy of late.”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Magpie. “That is, if yuh designate uh detective as uh minion of the law.”

“Have they been walking in darkness?” asks Obie. “I’m here to snatch brands.”

“You better leave brands alone, old-timer,” I advises. “That’s what they’re in durance vile for.”

“May I have converse with them?” he asks, and Magpie waves his hand toward the cell door. Obie wanders over and leans against the door and we proceeds to deal uh new hand.

“I come bringing great cheer,” we hears Obie state, and the next thing I know something bounces off my head and slams against the wall. I sees seven million trumps in my hand for uh minute, and she shrinks to jist six cards. Obie is leaning against the wall, with his long hands hanging loose at his sides, and his eyes rolled toward the ceiling.

“We will now sing hymn number--uh--huh--hum,” announces Obie, and slides to the floor in uh heap.

“Ike,” says Magpie, “yuh sure done uh brilliant trick when yuh loaned Hank that walrus-tusk cribbage-board. Whoever throwed it sure made uh perfect billiard shot. Yuh can thank Obie for stopping most of it.”

“Magpie, you keep that blasted thing out uh here!” yells Hank.

“Who in ---- wants cheer, anyway?”