Part 2

Wick sure looks like he had been someplace and met something awful. The mule’s head is hanging down weary-like, while Wick slouches in the saddle, with his jaw hanging down about three inches.

He weaves in the saddle and his mustache acts nervous-like.

“Find anything?” he asks like the weak croak of a frog.

“Not yet,” I whispers back at him.

He nods, slaps the mule side of its head and turns into the road.

“I’m still looking,” he whispers, and I says:

“That’s fine. So am I, but I can’t see nothing, Wick.”

And when I laid down beside Muley, I saw Wick and Solomon fade off up the road toward Paradise. After a while we all got up and sort of stood around. Chuck yawned and looked at his watch-chain. Pretty soon Telescope cleared his throat—

“I’m—I’m all through—with all of you—the whole danged bunch!” says he hesitating-like and starts limping toward town.

“Me—me, too,” says Muley and follers Telescope.

Chuck looks at me mean-like and says—“Me too.”

He pilgrims after Muley.

Then the whole danged bunch limped in behind Chuck.

I passed Chuck in a few minutes, and then I made Muley eat my dust. Telescope has contracted a limp, which causes him to weave across the road a lot and makes it hard for me to pass him. But I made it. Nobody said anything to me, and, when folks don’t speak to me as I go past, I get snobby, too.

I hobbles into Mike Pelly’s saloon and sets down. There ain’t nobody there except the bartender. Pretty soon Telescope weaves in and sets down in the other corner. Chuck points straight for the pool-table, and then Muley stumbles in. He looks to have lost twenty pounds, and his feet have swelled until he’s had to slit his boots.

“You fellers quitting the Cross J?” asks the bartender. “Thought maybe you was,” he continues when we don’t answer, “’cause I seen your boss leading four horses behind the wagon when he left last night.”

“Last night?” asks Muley. “Wagon?”

“Uh-huh. Borrowed Mike’s team and wagon.”

I rolled a smoke, and the match made as much noise as a six-shooter. We never thought to look in the corral last night.

Then Wick Smith comes in. He buys himself a drink, and then he wipes his mustache. He looks at us sad-like and shakes his head.

“Been to the post-office,” says he. “She ain’t coming until this afternoon.”

“——!” grunts Telescope. “That team must ’a’ taken her a long ways.”

“Didn’t have nun-nothing on that—that mum-mule,” grunts Wick, and then he weaves out of the door.

Wick has been drinking.

“What seems to be the trouble with you fellers?” asked the bartender. “You look like you’d been to battle and got run over by a cannon.”

We ignores the inquiry, and pretty soon Telescope says—

“Been anything startling going on here lately?”

“——!” snorts the bartender. “Startling! Nothing ever happens in Paradise.” And he goes on wiping glasses.

“That’s good,” says Muley soft-like. “I love a quiet village.”

We got up, one at a time, and wandered outside. I’m the last one out. There ain’t nothing to do but walk back. We might chip in and hire a rig at the livery stable, but under the circumstances—well, we don’t feel like riding so close together, and rigs cost money.

I seen Muley setting on the sidewalk, pulling off his boots, and over on the watering-trough, one on each end, sets Telescope and Chuck like a couple of snow-birds, soaking their sore feet. Muley joins them, and then Henry Peck goes over and immerses his corns. We ain’t been there long when here comes Doughgod Smith, galloping up the street.

“If he’s got any more dirty work to have done, he can do it himself,” proclaims Chuck. “I’m through deceiving women.”

Doughgod races up to us and hops up and down around us.

“Get down to the depot, Chuck!” he yelps. “She’s there.”

“Who?” asks Chuck.

“The lady—dog-gone you! The one I gave you the money for. _Sabe?_ Point her homeward, boys, and make it sudden,” and Doughgod lopes on up the street.

He sure is skittish around calico.

“We’ve got to stand together,” observes Chuck, pulling on his boots. “We’ve got to. Divided we fall.”

“Under them circumstances I waves a flag of truce,” says Telescope. “I may kill a friend later on, but it never can be said that a Tolliver ever went back on a friend in need.”

* * * * *

We all plods down the street, with Muley carrying his boots, and, just as we got to the depot, a freight-train whistles. The lady is there. She’s setting there on a low truck in the shade, doing fancy work, and she’s the same lady.

“My ——!” snorts Telescope. “She must be made of cast-iron. Ain’t bunged up a bit.”

“And I ain’t only got seven dollars of that money left,” wails Chuck. “I must ’a’ lost it.”

We all digs down and manages to collect enough to make up the original twenty, and, just as the freight rolls in, we walks over to the lady. Chuck leans over and drops the money in her lap, and her face turns white as flour when she looks up at us.

“Get right into the caboose,” orders Chuck. “Dog-gone it, ma’am, we’re sorry as ——, but we ain’t got no time to argue. There’s the money, and here’s your train. Get on like a nice little girl, and you can write to Doughgod for further information. _Sabe?_”

I sure felt sorry for her. She sort of gasps and slides off that truck, but I reckon our looks were enough. She allows herself to walk right into the train, and away she goes off up the track toward Silver Bend.

Doughgod has sneaked up and saw the whole thing, and he sure is glad. We all sets down on the platform, and all to once we feels that it has been a year since we had anything to eat. Doughgod offers to take us to a restaurant, but we ain’t presentable; so he offers to bring us a ton of crackers and cheese and sardines. We accepts and cheers Doughgod as he hurries up-town. There’s another train due in an hour; so we sets down there in the shade to eat. We seen the depot-agent looking at us through the window. He’s a new man there; so we don’t blame him for looking with suspicion upon us. We sure filled our skin with food, and then the train comes rambling in.

The usual bunch of folks hops off to stretch their legs, and all to once we hears a voice behind us—

“Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Smith?”

We all turns, and there stands a tall, skinny female, with a nose like the beak of a hawk and a lot of mustard-colored hair. I glances around and saw Doughgod galloping off up the street like a scared coyote.

“Ma’am,” says Telescope, “I can’t say. He may stop in Paradise, but I’d favor Canada.”

“Say!” yelps a heavy voice behind us, and we all turns. It is the new station agent, and in his hands is one of them sawed-off shotguns which are furnished by express companies, and he’s got it cocked. “I want to know,” says he, “if you are the four whelps who kidnapped my wife and put her in that rig yesterday. The team ran away, turned the corner and ran into a fence, and that’s all that saved her life. I’m asking a question?”

“Yesterday?” asks Telescope foolish-like. “Yesterday?”

“I said it!” he yelps. “And an hour or so ago the same four whelps forced her to climb on a freight-train. She just wired me from Silver Bend. I’m still asking questions, gents.”

I seen that skinny lady edging away from us, and I seen her hop on to the last step as the train starts, and she ducks inside like a rabbit.

“Wait!” says Telescope. “You got that right? The team ran around the corner and into a fence and stopped. Is that right?”

“Ke-rect!” he snaps. “I’ve sworn out John Doe warrants for the men who did it, and the sheriff is investigating right now. All I want is to find ’em and I’ll fill ’em so full of ——”

_Blam!_

Telescope hooked one of his feet behind that feller’s legs, and yanked so quick and hard that the station agent got an upside-down view of his own place of business.

Man, we moved. A buckshot cut a groove in my boot heel, and Muley got one across his hip pocket before we got out of range, which was fast work with a gun.

We dusts straight for town, when we almost runs over Wick Smith. He’s coming along, taking up most of the road, and me and him both tries to turn the same way. I picked myself up as quick as possible, and started on, when I heard Wick say—

“Train in yet?”

“Not yet,” I yells back and tries to catch up with the rest of my bunch, who seem to have met somebody and then went on.

That somebody was Doughgod. I finds him setting in the middle of the road with the brim of his hat down around his neck and a fool look on his face. As I come up, he holds up the letter he’s hanging on to and he says to me:

“Huh-Henry, she ain’t—ain’t coming here. She’s gug-got a bub-better job. She ain’t coming here, Henry.”

“She shows a lot of sense,” says I, and I lopes on.

I seen Telescope and Chuck and Muley gallop off the street and cut across the hills; so I puts on more speed and catches them.

“Bill McFee is up there,” pants Telescope when we slows to a walk. “Dud-don’t forget we’re four John Does.”

“That ain’t nothing to the word I’d use,” groans Muley.

Well, we eventually got home. We collapses on the steps of the bunk-house, and I don’t care if I never move again. Pretty soon Telescope glances up at the door and grunts.

Half-way up the door a piece of white paper has been pasted; so we creaks to a standing position and peruses same:

I put your horses in the livery-stable last night, and, if you don’t want a big bill against them, you better get them right away. (signed) J. B. W.

“——!” snorts Muley. “He—he just led them down to the stable, and that fool bartender thought he was taking them home.”

“And we been walking away from them all this time,” groans Chuck.

“Here comes Mike Pelly and the old man now,” says Telescope.

We watches old J. B. Whittaker and Mike Pelly walking down from the ranch-house, talking serious-like. The old man turns at the barn, but Mike comes on down to us.

“Howdy,” says Mike. “How’s everything, boys?”

“Ain’t able to kick,” says Telescope. “How’s it with you?”

“Tolable. See Doughgod in town?”

“He was there the last we seen of him,” admits Muley. “Why?”

“Going down to see him. Dang this trustee business, anyway. Nothing but trouble. Me and the old man have decided to accept that teacher that wrote to Doughgod, even if she is a female. Never mix into the school-teacher business, boys. She’s ——!”

“She is,” agrees Muley, and we all nods.

THE END

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 3, 1919 issue of _Adventure_ magazine.]