Part 2

We hits the road, and makes good lime for a mile or two, when we meets Mighty Jones. He stops and we exchanges pleasantries. We comments on the weather, the crops—which theer ain’t none—and the general wear and tear on the human race. Muley switches the position of that box, and the next second we’re covered by Mighty Jones. I starts to grin, but when I sees that Mighty is in earnest I irons my face out flat again.

“Hands up!” he snaps, and Muley lets that box slip. She hits the ground and rolls over. I glances at Mighty, and he’s got the look on his face of a man who has seen all there is in life, but ain’t ready to go blind.

“My ——!” he gasps, whirls his bronc around and gallops off down the road like a crazy man, holding on to his hat with one hand and fanning his bronc with the other.

We watches him fade away in the dust, and puts our hands down.

“Of all the locoed actions on earth that’s the sharp end of the limit,” proclaims Muley, sliding off his bronc.

That last shock was almost too much for that box, ’cause when Muley essays to lift her she sort ’a’ opened on one end.

* * * * *

Muley holds his position for a moment, straightens up and gets on his bronc without taking his eyes off the box. He spurs his bronc, easy-like, until he’s a few feet away from that box, and then he imitates Mighty Jones.

Me and Chuck puffs away on our cigarets and watches Muley depart.

“I’ll likely get scared, too, but I’m taking a chance,” states Chuck, and walks over to the box.

He sighs deep-like, and takes off his hat.

“Henry Peck, there must be a Supreme Being what watches over fools and cow-punchers. This box is full of eighty per cent. dynamite. Come and take a look.”

“Your word is as good as gold, Chuck. That stuff must have a good disposition to stand all that grief. Let’s go home before something happens to irritate it.”

We finds Muley at the ford, but he ain’t got much to say. He asks Chuck if he saw what was in that box, and Chuck said that he did.

“Wonderful!” exclaims Muley. “It stood rough handling but I never thought a face like yours could look upon eighty per cent. dynamite and not explode it. That’s why I went away so rapid.”

The old man is home when we gets there, and he announces that Telescope and Archibald Ames are still in jail.

“What does Archibald have to say about it?” I asks.

“That fat four-flusher!” yelps the old man. “He says that Telescope might ’a’ done it. Of course this Ames feller don’t fit the description, but he might at least—aw——”

“I’m going down to see Telescope,” announces Muley.

“He lies down there in durance vile Behind the bolts and locks, With prison staring in his face ’Cause we can’t find that box. That held a little bunch of gold, Which was labeled dynamite. Will we let our pal wear striped clothes?”

“Not by a gol-danged sight!” I finishes, being somewhat of a poet myself.

Muley shakes my hand and invites me to join the Perverted Order of Paradise Poets, of which he’s the only living member.

“Don’t tell too much down there, Muley,” advises Chuck. “If you runs off at the mouth I might get eased into jail, and that would cut down the number of detectives on the case. Sabe?”

“Fear not,” says Muley. “I go but to bring cheer to the needy. I will be back anon.”

About three hours later Doughgod Smith rides in, and we walks out to where him and the old man are greeting each other.

“If this keeps on, Whittaker, you’re going to be short of men,” states Doughgod.

“Huh!” grunts the old man. “One man don’t make no difference this time of year. Three punchers is enough to set around and play cards, and eat up good grub.”

“You only got two left now,” says Doughgod. “Muley’s in jail, too.”

“Muley!” snorts the old man. “What’s he in for?”

“Stealing dynamite from Mighty Jones.”

Chuck had started to set down on his heels, but when Doughgod’s information hits his ears he sprawls flat on his back and blinks at the sky. I starts to lean on a buckboard wheel that is ten feet away, and I ends up on my back with my feet over the tongue.

“Mighty spoke of some folks being accessory to the fact, too,” states Doughgod, offhand-like.

“Stealing dynamite!” yelps the old man. “Where, when and what for?”

“I don’t know. Mighty comes to town and acts like a man what has had delirious delight scared out of him. He anchors to Pelly’s bar until he’s gained normal again, and then he speaks knowingly of powder-thieves. Mighty’s half-loco, and what ain’t loco is absent-mindness, but just the same he has Muley arrested, and he hints of more arrests as soon as certain persons hit town. I seen Muley, and he said if I came this way to have Chuck and Hen come to see him.”

“That’s right,” agrees the old man. “We’ll all go down.”

“Not me,” says I. “I got rheumatic pains in my knees. Notice how I fell over that buckboard handle? I ain’t myself today, and I simply couldn’t stand it to ride.”

“Neither could I,” says Chuck. “I’m sore all over. Let’s wait until tomorrow. Muley will be there just the same.”

“We’ll go in the buckboard,” says the old man. “In a case like this I’d go if I had to walk.”

“I’d admire to walk,” says Chuck, but the old man goes after the team, and me and Chuck helps each other limp to the bunk-house.

“Shake hands with a murderer, Henry,” says Chuck, offering his hand. “I’ve killed the old man and crippled Doughgod for life—in my mind. You and me will spend the evening and night in the Paradise jail, Henry Clay Peck.”

“Can’t yuh think of nothing cheerful to sing?” I asks. “If we’re in jail we never will find that box. Think!”

“Think ——!” yelps Chuck, going to the door. “I’m going to enjoy the untainted air as long as I can.”

I rustles out my war-sack and puts on clean clothes. It’s liable to be some time before I gets a chance to change again. Chuck comes back after a while and sets down on the bunk, disconsolate-like, and plays “Just Before the Battle, Mother” on his mouth-organ. Pretty soon the old man yells to us.

We walks out, slow-like, and I climbs, painfully, into the seat with the old man. Chuck holds the team by the bits until we’re all set. Then he lets loose and hops aboard as we goes past. We whirls out of the yard and hits the road on the run. Sudden-like that equipage does a high dive on one side, and yours truly stands on his head in a mesquite bush.

When I gets through making a cactus pincushion of my cranium, I riseth up and looks around.

Down the road about fifty yards sets the old man, gazing off down the road, and cussing at a piece of line he’s still got in one hand. I hears a groan across the road, and Chuck’s head sticks up out of the brush. The old man gets up out of the road and painfully dusts off the seat of his pants. He plods up to us and looks us over.

“By cripes!” he snorts, “I ain’t suspicious of nobody on earth. I’m a man among men, and I don’t suspicion nobody, but if that wasn’t foul play I’ll eat the whole ranch. Now, I’ll haul you hombres to town in a lumber wagon.”

He plods on to the house, while I extracts cactus spines and cuss words from my carcass. Chuck limps over and rubs his hip.

“Light on a rock?” I asks, and he feels of his hip some more.

He reaches into his hip pocket, takes out an object and tosses it on the ground.

“Lit right on the darned thing!” he groans.

It’s the nut off a front wheel of that buckboard. I kicks it off into the brush, and rolls a smoke.

“Well,” says he, after a while, “you can give me credit for blocking the wheels of progress for a minute, can’t yuh? I’ll likely have to stand up all the way to town.”

“We’ll get plenty of time to rest,” says I.

* * * * *

We got to Paradise, but it wasn’t no pleasure-ride, and the first person we see is Mighty Jones.

Mighty seems to have drowned his feelings, and he’s spending his afternoon trying to hold up the hitch-rack. The old man goes in the saloon, but me and Chuck goes over to have a interview with our enemy. He nods at us like an owl.

“Tut-tut-tried to bub-blow me up,” he stutters, “Tha’s mean thing to-to-to do.”

“Tell us all about it, old-timer,” says Chuck, helping the old boy let loose of the rack, and leading him over to the sidewalk. “What’s all this dynamite stuff I’m hearing about?”

Mighty gets very deliberate in his language:

“Eighty pershent. Tha’s good powder. Sabe? Good powder but too ener-zhetic. Know what I mean? Mine’s eighty per shent. Stage runs away and sehtops at my place. I find box of shixty per shent. Sabe? Eighty too dangeroush to pack, so I exchanges. Sabe. Same price. Eighty per shent too easy on trigger. Know what I mean? Lissen; shomebody mus’ ’a’ stole that eighty from the stage, and I can’ fin’ mine. Sabe?”

“Think!” yelps Chuck. “Think where yuh put it, Mighty!”

Mighty bobs his head and screws up his face:

“I know. Tha’s the box Muley tried to assassinate me with.”

“That was eighty per cent.!” yells Chuck. “Doyuh get that? It was eighty per cent.!”

“Zas so? Fool to drop eighty per shent. Awful careless.”

“Where did you put that box you took off the stage?” I asks, pronouncing every word distinct and separate.

Mighty is so danged absent-minded that yuh got to make him remember.

“You took it out of the stage, and then what did you do with it?”

“Somebody must ’a’ stole—whoa! I know! In the woodshed. I thought I put it in the barn. Ain’ that the limit? Mus’ go and turn poor old Muley loosh. Yes, sir. He never stole nothing.”

“That’s right,” applauds Chuck. “Go right over and tell the sheriff to turn him loose.”

“I got to shee Ricky firsht,” states the old pelican, wise as a barn owl. “Mus’ shee if Ricky wants to hold him for stealing that eighty per shent. Mighty Jones is law-abiding pershon. Know what I mean?”

We watches Mighty weave down the street, and Chuck grins all over his face—

“We’ll find Telescope’s and Muley’s broncs, and we’ll go up to Mighty Jones’ woodshed and rescue that money.”

We finds both broncs in Pelly’s barn, so we saddles up and fares forth. We don’t fare far until we meets Bill McFee. We stops and asks Bill if there’s anything new.

“Nope,” says he. “I reckon we got ’em in jail.”

“So?” says Chuck. “Bill, how would you like to take a ride with us and bring back that seven thousand?”

Bill grins like it was a good joke:

“Uh-huh. I’d admire that. What’s the joke?”

“Ain’t no joke, Sheriff,” says I. “You go with us and bring the gold back. Is that satisfactory?”

“I’d admire to know a little more.”

“Not at all necessary,” says Chuck. “Election is only three months away, and the credit ain’t going to hurt yuh none, Bill.”

“That’s sensible,” agrees Bill. “I’m with yuh.”

Bill attempts to find out things, but we don’t talk much, and it’s dark when we climbs off at Mighty’s place. We hikes right over to the woodshed. Bill lights a match and looks inside, drops the match and don’t stop running for a hundred yards. Me and Chuck gallops with him for a ways, sort of sympathetic-like.

“Bobcats!” whistles Bill. “Shed’s full of ’em!”

Yuh never can tell what kind of a pet a nut like Mighty is liable to have, so we ain’t surprised a lot.

“I ain’t afraid of no cat what ever lived,” states Chuck. “I’m going to get that box in spite of anything.”

We pilgrims up close again, with our guns ready. Chuck finds an old newspaper, which he lights, and we peeks around the corner of the door, and looks right into the shiny eyes of two big cats. Three guns goes off at the same time, and three men went away. There ain’t a sound from the shed, so we sneaks back.

“That’s good shooting,” applauds Bill. “Two shots killed ’em both, ’cause I shot in the ground.”

“Sure was,” I agrees, “I did, too.”

“Wonderful!” agrees Chuck. “They must ’a’ jumped high, ’cause mine went through the roof.”

Chuck tosses in that burning paper. Them cats are still there but don’t move.

“Rugs!” snorts Chuck. “Mighty is sort of a taxidermist, and he put them eyes in himself. They sure look natural.”

We found that box. Chuck makes a presentation speech to the minion of the law, who recites a few appropriate words in return. Bill takes the box on his saddle-horn, and we goes back to Paradise.

We gets McGuire and all the rest of Paradise’s population to see the grand opening. We assembles in Pelly’s saloon and Mike furnishes the hammer.

“Gents,” states Bill, “this ain’t a complete exoneration of Telescope and Ames, but I reckon it clears ’em a plenty. The law recovers said stolen property, but I’ll let Mister Warner and Mister Peck tell the story. I can hunt lost things but I can’t tell a interesting story like some folks.”

“You better superintend this, McGuire,” he continues. “It’s a lot of wealth to look upon.”

He tears the top boards off, and Paradise gazes a plenty.

Me and Chuck takes one gaze, and slips loose. We meets at the door, ambles around the corner and forks our broncs. I follers Chuck’s lead, and about a mile from town we stops and looks back.

“Henry,” says he, sad-like, “who do you suppose put them rocks in that box?”

“If I knew I’d be a murderer,” says I, and then it strikes me funny. “Box of scab-rock guarded by two mounted bobcats! Haw! Haw! Haw! Mister McFee, we hereby puts in your care and custody one box, the value of same being problematical. You being a duly elected officer of the law, and, we having faith in your integrity and sense of duty, turneth over said box to be dealt with as yuh see fit,” says I, quoting Chuck’s woodshed speech.

“Value being problematical takes the curse of anyway, Hen,” says he.

It’s about midnight when we arrives at the Cross J. The old man is in the bunk-house, and he looks us over, sad-like.

“What are you fellers trying to do?” he asks. “The sheriff sure is one sore person. Says he can prove that one or both of you was mixed up in that robbery.”

“Aw ——!” snorts Chuck. “I thought it was the right box.”

“It was. McGuire identified it. The question is this: you knowed where the box was—where are the contents? That’s what Paradise wants to know.”

“Paradise ain’t got nothing on us, eh, Chuck?” says I. “If they wanted to know any worse than we do they’d all be sick.”

Me and Chuck talks it all over and decides that the longer we’re out of jail the more they’ll have against us when we do get in, so we decide to give ourself up before we’re liable to capital punishment.

* * * * *

The next morning we rides away to be locked up in self-defense. Just outside of Paradise we overtakes an Injun. He’s jogging along on a glass-eyed pinto, and he grins when he sees Chuck. Chuck stands in with all the aborigines.

“Hello, Tenas Charley,” grins the buck.

“Hello, Hiawatha,” grins Chuck. “Where you go so early?”

“You sabe Doc Milliken?”

“You bet. Why you wantum?”

“Givum letter. Me got letter. White man hurtum leg. No walk. Me go to Doc Milliken. Sabe?”

He fusses around in his blanket and produces a piece of paper. Chuck takes the paper and reads the few words. He hands me the letter and grins. It reads like this:

Hurt my leg. Follow the Injun to me.

There ain’t no name signed.

“Heap scared,” informs the Injun. “Hurtum leg on tree.”

“Where you camp?” asks Chuck, and we gets informed that it’s on Little Beaver Crick. Chuck gives him back the letter, and swings around. “So long, Setting Bull,” says he, and the Injun grins and bobs off down the road.

“Now where?” I asks, and Chuck grins, “Slippery Silverton!” he whoops. “If it was anybody around here they’d ‘a’ signed their name. He’s hived up with that Injun, and we’re going to land him, Henry. Maybe he’s got the gold, too.”

It didn’t take us long to find that camp. We advances on foot. There’s a white man setting on the sunny side of that teepee, and he’s in blissful ignorance until me and Chuck lands on his shoulders like two playful bears. He gets energetic, but Chuck taps him on the head with his gun, and we hog-ties him proper. When he opens his eyes Chuck grins at him an’ says—

“Hello, Slippery.”

He don’t say a word.

“Don’t talk,” advises Chuck. “Yuh might wear out your teeth.”

The feller looks at us, foolish-like, so we hoists him up on Chuck’s bronc, and Chuck rides behind him. Once he opened his mouth and spoke one line:

“You fellers are an hour late.”

That’s all he said. I reckon Chuck hit him pretty hard.

We pilgrims right into Paradise, and up to Pelly’s saloon. There ain’t a soul in sight, but we observes signs of life down where we holds our court. We takes our captive down there, cuts the ropes off his legs and takes him inside.

The place is crowded and Telescope is on the stand. We gets in just in time to hear the judge ask Telescope if he can think of any earthly reason why he shouldn’t be held for the next term of court.

“A lot of reason, Judge!” yells Chuck, pushing our prisoner up to the front. “Here’s the main reason. Gents, I makes yuh used to Slippery Silverton!”

“Silverton ——!” I hears McGuire yelp.

“That’s the owner of the Golden Cross mine, Mister Warde,” And then he horns his way over to our prisoner and snorts—“What does this all mean?”

“I don’t know,” says the feller. “I—— I must ’a’ got hurt. Unless I’m mistaken I came part-way from the mine with Joe Allerton. We had that gold shipment. We sent out two decoy boxes on account of so many robberies. We rode across the hills. Joe figured on just making that train. He went to Helena. I wanted a pair of moccasins, and Joe left me at that Indian teepee. The owner wasn’t there, so I waited. That’s all, I guess. Somebody jumped on to me and—here I am.”

“The—the gold didn’t come down yesterday?” gasps McGuire, and Warde shakes his head, painful-like. “No. Just a box of rocks.”

Just then in comes Doc Milliken.

“Say!” he yells. “Will one of you strong men come and help me set a man’s leg? Mighty Jones cut a tree the wrong way and it lit on him. Lucky he was found by an Injun, who came for help. He was able to send a note but fainted before he could sign his name. All I want is somebody to hold him down. He’s so absent-minded that he’s liable to run away. He says to tell Ricky Henderson that his box of dynamite is either in the hay-loft or under his cabin floor. He can’t remember which.”

Art Miller is standing close to Chuck, and Chuck grabs him by the arm and whispers—“What does a new wheel for your stage cost, Art?”

“About eight dollars, Chuck—why?” “Here’s ten. Don’t ask me.”

While there is plenty of talk me and Chuck backs out and rides out of town. We’re in the bunk-house when Telescope and Muley and the old man comes home. Telescope and Muley comes in and looks us over, solemn-like. Pretty soon Muley climbs up on the bunk and recites, with appropriate gestures and feeling:

“Let me sing yuh a song of four danged fools, Four punchers whose brains are nix, Who done some things they ought not to do, And got in a —— of a fix. One was stuck on himself and wanted to be Admired at ten cents a throw. Another wore stilts so he’d look like a man, When he went out after the dough. Three of the fools fooled with dynamite, One beat up an innocent man. The price of a wheel was all that it cost. You may beat it—I don’t think yuh can.”

“Beautiful,” says I. “You’ve got a soul, Muley. There’s still that box of dynamite of Mighty’s to account for.”

“He picked it up on his way home,” says Muley. “That’s settled.”

“Did Archibald Ames get his local color?” I asks, and Telescope shakes his head. “Archibald Ames didn’t wait for nothing. He even hired somebody to drive him to Silver Bend. I asked him what he wanted me to do, and he told me to go to a place where they don’t cut holes in the ice.”

“You’ll miss them meals in bed,” sympathizes Chuck, wiggling his ears, and ducks outdoors just in time.

A boot-jack splintered on the door behind him.

“Well, it ended all right anyway,” grunts Muley. “How’d yuh say yuh hurt that leg, Telescope?”

Telescope peeks out of the door, and then limps back to me and Muley.

“I didn’t go to Bowers’ that first day the stage was robbed,” he whispers. “Don’t breathe it to a soul. I wouldn’t have Chuck hear it for a million.”

We holds up our right hands.

“Well,” says he, “that cottonwood snag they made me climb didn’t have no bark on it, and when I started down I slid too fast. Sabe?”

“Chuck was right!” I snorts. “He sure told the truth that time.”

Telescope hops to his feet and grabs me by the arms.

“What do yuh mean, Hen? What did Chuck say?”

“He said it sure was slippery,” says I.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 3, 1918 issue of Adventure magazine.]