Part 2

“I was jist goin’ to say that I’ve done shoed Black Bess,” said Slim, “and I’m believin’ she’ll win th’ Cotton handicap.”

“My boy!” yells th’ judge, grabbin’ fer Slim’s hand and gittin’ th’ hammer instead. “I’d die happy if such things could be. It would pay off th’ mortgage on Sunnybrook and make things easy fer my li’l gal, Annibel.”

“Hist!” sez Magpie to Mrs. Smith. “I have it now! I’ll fix that hoss so she can’t win that race. All you got to do is to win th’ sympathy of th’ ol’ man and th’ gal. Go to it!”

There’s an old pump in th’ yard and Mrs. Smith waddles over towards it sorta tired like. She grunts as she leans against it and tries to pump a drink. She’s so weak she sits down.

“Daddy, who is that?” asks Miss Selva, when she sees Mrs. Smith. “Why, daddy, she’s faintin’!”

Tellurium trots over and grabs her around th’ waist and tries to hold her up. By cripes! He shore needed uh derrick, ’cause they both goes to th’ mat and _smash_! There ain’t no more pump.

“You pore woman,” sez th’ judge, wettin’ his whiskers and wipin’ her face with them. “Some pore wanderin’ woman without uh friend. Pore li’l thing! Almost starved to death. Mose, go in and fix th’ guestroom fer our visitor.”

Jist then in comes Miss Harris. She takes one look at Mrs. Smith and then squeaks out loud:

“I wouldn’t take her in, colonel. She can’t be uh good woman and dress like that. Mebby she’s plannin’ to steal th’ family plate. She’s too purty to trust.”

“Haw! Haw!” yells somebody down in front. “If that’s th’ case we’d better look out fer them Digger Injun squaws down to Cinnamon Creek.”

Wick Smith got up and walked aroun’ in front of th’ audience.

“Who made them re-marks?” he asks.

“That ask goes double!” states Mrs. Smith, who has recovered from her faint spell and is now standin’ on th’ edge of th’ stage. “Some uh you wise galoots from----”

Mrs. Smith’s oration is postponed. There comes uh rip and uh smash and uh section of two-by-four comes sailin’ across th’ stage and hits Mrs. Smith in th’ widest part. She squawks loud and settles down gracefully on ol’ man Thatcher’s head and plumb ruins his fiddle. Uh piece uh that same scantlin’ swipes Judge Steele across th’ shins and th’ judge pinwheels outa sight, cussin’ like uh mule skinner. Miss Selva lets uh mansized whoop escape from her system and emigrates.

“Whoopee!” yells Sourdough, who is nervous and excitable. “Yohe-e-e-e! Whoop!”

He picks up one of his boots and starts to throw it at th’ stage. Jist at that time Dirty Shirt starts to stand up and get uh better view of th’ stage and that boot heel swats him just behind th’ off ear.

“Ump!” sez Dirty Shirt satisfied like, and slumps down into his chair and slides from there to th’ floor.

“Nice work, Sourdough,” applauds Half Mile. “Nothin’ gaudy nor messy. Jist clean and comfortable. Git it patented.”

My attention is drawn back to th’ stage. That pretty li’l house is rapidly comin’ to th’ front and there’s uh heap uh noise behind it. Then I hears Magpie’s voice yellin’--

“Kick, yuh son-of-a-gun, kick!”

And then out on th’ stage comes old Squaw, with Cobalt on her back and she’s kickin’ delirious delight out of everything in sight.

“Yowhee!” yells Cobalt. “Buck, you sorrel, buzzard-headed, sun-fishin’, chunk uh coyote bait! Yeow-w-w-w-h!”

Did she buck? Say, that hoss has th’ rep of bein’ th’ prize bucker of Montana, but I reckon that she pulls enough right there in th’ middle of that li’l stage to stretch that rep to cover everything west of Chicago.

I counts th’ jumps that Cobalt stayed and it was jist two. After which he stands on his head in th’ first row of seats fer uh moment and then shoves his boots into Bill Thatcher’s face and goes to sleep.

Old Squaw starts to jump right off the stage into th’ audience and all th’ male members begins to throw their hats at her to make her go back. Jist about this time Dirty Shirt comes back to life and gits th’ foolish idea that them hats are to be shot at.

Th’ first I knowed about it was when his big gun exploded almost under my nose, and th’ lights went out. Th’ stage light has been busted fer some time and Dirty Shirt’s bullet plumb ruins th’ big kerosene lamp in th’ ceilin’. I reckon that tap on th’ head sorta queered his aim and he shoots high.

Say, that shore was some convention! I could hear everybody yellin’ and pushin’ and tryin’ to find th’ door and git away from that crazy cayuse in th’ dark. Jist about that time Dirty Shirt yells in my ear:

“I told yuh not to take them boots off!” And then _Bam!_ Somethin’ hits me on th’ head and I saw th’ fall of Rome.

* * * * *

When I gits things straightened out again there ain’t no noise goin’ on a-tall. It shore is dark and silent. As I starts to set up I hears some one cuss fluently and then uh match is lit.

“I jist come back,” sez uh voice, and I recognizes Dirty Shirt, “to find out who I hit with that boot. I thought it was Sourdough, but I finds that he goes out ahead of me.”

“I’m goin’ to quit wearin’ uh gun,” sez I, “and wear a boot. They has th’ same effect without th’ noise and smoke.”

“Then you ain’t sore at me, Ike?” he asks.

“Not any, Dirty,” sez I. “I thanks yuh fer showin’ me th’ efficiency of modern weapons.

“Well,” sez he, rubbin’ th’ place behind his off ear, “I’ve been showed, too, so we’re both eddicated, Ike. Let’s go over and git uh drink. Bein’ as that bronk done busted up our orchestra there ain’t goin’ to be no dance.”

“Did anybody git killed?” I asked.

“Not yet. Miss Harris and Miss Selva are over at Holt’s house takin’ turns at havin’ hissteeriks or somethin’ like that. Mrs. Smith won’t ride hossback fer uh spell, and old man Thatcher suffered uh broken rib and uh fracture of th’ fiddle. Old Squaw kicked all of Ricky Henderson’s front teeth out and never cut his lips, after which she essays to dive out of one uh th’ rear windows. She did it too, Ike.”

We starts across th’ street towards Masterson’s saloon and meets Magpie.

“Where’s everybody?” I yells.

“Shut up!” snaps Magpie. “Don’t make so danged much noise, Ike. Judgin’ from some of th’ opinions I’ve heard expressed, our one-act thriller wasn’t appreciated, and most of th’ crowd are on uh still hunt fer me and Cobalt. Uh course they blames us. Have you got uh gun with yuh, Ike?”

“Shore have. Where’s yours?”

“I had it in my hip pocket when the cyclone hit and I accidentally gits in range of old Squaw. She jist naturally kicks me uh glancin’ blow which hooks under that six-gun and I reckon it follwered uh quarter section of my pants plumb out of th’ county. I seen Cobalt foolin’ with th’ mare and I goes over to see what he’s doin’. Jist then it started. It shore spoiled one good show, Dirty Shirt.”

“That last re-mark shore prejudices me agin you, Magpie. That were th’ worst show--barrin’ none--that I ever seen.”

“Ike,” sez Magpie, “give me yore gun!”

I did jist that, and he turns to Dirty Shirt.

“Mister Jones, do you appreciate art as it is expressed in our efforts this evenin’?” sez he, fondlin’ that ol’ gun.

“I done lost my gun in th’ ruckus,” complains Dirty Shirt, “and I done left that boot up-stairs. Bein’ in said position I don’t hesitate to state that I shore does appreciate it to th’ depth of my artistic soul, Mister Simpkins.”

“Hoo, hoo!” sez uh li’l voice behin’ us, and we all turns and strains our eyes in th’ dark.

“Hoo, hoo, yourself,” returns Magpie.

“Co-come over here and lift this--danged sidewalk off,” pleads a voice, which we recognize as belongin’ to Cobalt.

We goes over to th’ entrance of th’ hall and lights some matches. We sees two hands protrudin’ from under th’ walk, which was smashed flat in th’ hurried exit. We lifts it up and hauls out th’ re-mains of Cobalt Williams.

“I give thee much thanks fer succor,” wheezes Cobalt.

“If I hadn’t left that boot behind!” mourns Dirty Shirt. “Save uh man’s life and then have him call yuh uh sucker!”

“This is uh different kind of uh fish,” states Magpie.

“They’re all alike except oysters,” opines Dirty Shirt. “I’m goin’ over and git some hooch. My nerves shore need bracin’.”

Dirty Shirt goes weavin’ off across th’ street and then I turns to Magpie.

“Let’s all go up to our cabin. No use stayin’ here on th’ street and invitin’ disaster.”

When we gits up there Cobalt wants to know what I means by speakin’ of disaster. He sez he remembers fallin’ down-stairs and rollin’ under th’ walk, and that th’ walk done laid down on him.

“What did yuh do to that hoss?” asks Magpie. “Didn’t I see yuh rubbin’ her hip?”

“Yes,” sez Cobalt, “I was doctorin’ her. You see she’s got uh cut on her hip and Masterson tells Art Miller what to git to put on it. Art gits th’ dope on his last trip and, bein’ sorta peeved at th’ show bunch, he asks me to rub some of it into th’ cut in th’ evenin’. He didn’t want it to git any worse.”

“Cobalt,” asks Magpie, “do yuh know jist what medicine that was?”

“Shore. I heard Masterson tell Art to git some carbonate bi-sulfid. He said that with uh li’l external massage it would bring uh dead hoss to life.”

“You----” began Magpie, but Cobalt wails:

“Aw, don’t git sore, Magpie. I only fol-lered directions.”

“_Errare est humanum_,” quotes Magpie seriously.

“Th’ same in United States means what, Magpie?” asks Cobalt.

“That,” sez Magpie, “in th’ Cree language means ‘To forgive is divine.’ I forgives yuh, Cobalt, fer beatin’ me to it. I had uh stick ready to put under that bronk’s tail.”

“For th’ love of ---- ” sez I.

“Make it Annibel,” sez Magpie.

[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the November 1916 issue of _Adventure_ magazine.]