Part 2

“Five dollars!” yawps Pete. “Five hundred dollars when I die? Haw! Haw! Haw! Mighty Jones couldn’t hit a flock of passenger trains. Me and the judge has just about got his location figured out and I’ll bet we shuffle him off inside of another box of shells.”

“Yes, and what good will his corpse be to you? Revenge is sweet, but wouldn’t it be sweeter if you could each collect five hundred dollars on his re-mains?”

“My ----!” snorts the judge. “Is there a bounty on him?”

Say, I explained it to them, and I has a hard time getting away. They each wanted to take out two against poor Mighty.

“Do we bring in the whole carcass or just the ears, like they do with coyotes?” asks Pete.

“Better keep all of him until we figures out some system.”

Old Testament was harder to get at. I sneaks to the back of the stable, leans a peeled pole up to the hay window and starts climbing. I figures to see him before I see Buck. It ain’t over thirty feet up that pole, but she’s a long ways when you’re expecting to be assaulted front and rear any minute. I gets one knee over the edge of the window when down on my head comes a fork-handle and I falls inside just in time to get the drag of both barrels of a shotgun from the rear.

I feels that I’m plumb ragged of rear, but the ringing in my ears makes me forget the pain. I seems to hear Buck’s voice saying--

“I’ll teach you to promote a drouth!”

Then I hears Testament say pious-like:

“In the midst of life we are in death.”

“It sure had its stinger working this day and date,” says I.

Testament has got his head and arms out of the hay and is holding a busted fork-handle.

“The wicked shall perish,” says Testament.

“And the innocent shall suffer,” says I, feeling myself.

“I am prepared to die for my convictions,” says he.

“How are you fixed for a funeral?” I asks. “Got plenty left to plant your remains?”

“I may not die. I shall go softly and pray that this fork-handle faileth me not.”

“And just about bust Buck’s head wide open, eh?”

“Yea.”

“And let the city bury him, Testament. Ever ponder on that? It’s all right to kill a man, but a killer ought to bury his dead. Now, here is the idea: You pay us five dollars per month as long as Buck lives and when he dies we’ll give you five hundred dollars. That will give him a decent funeral.”

“It won’t take that much, Ike.”

“You preach the sermon and keep the balance.”

* * * * *

I was afraid to slide down that pole. I looks the place over for possibilities--and found one. I decided to tread lightly to the front and peek down at Buck, but in treading lightly over the hay I treaded over a hay-hole, but not lightly enough to keep from going hence.

I grabbed both hands full of hay and then cometh flashing lights, the crashing of thunder and the smell of powder smoke. After while I seems to be coming from under the anesthetic and I shake all over. After while I finds out why I shake.

I’m setting on Buck’s back and he’s acting restless. There’s an old shotgun sticking out of a manger and I feel that it must have went awful high to get there.

I takes out an application, writes Old Testament’s name on it and then rolls Buck over and props him against the manger.

“Did--did anybody gug-get out alive?” he wheezes.

“None,” says I, wrapping his fingers around a pencil. “Sign your name on the dotted line and give me five dollars. I’m taking up a collection for the victims.”

I gets the money, and wraps it with the application.

“You and Testament are about fifty-fifty,” says I. “He busted his fork-handle on my head.”

“I’m gug-glad that the little birds didn’t get hurt,” says he. “Can’t you hear ’em sing?”

I tore up my application on the way home. Magpie and Scenery are doing a lot of figuring but they stop when I comes in.

“Did they swamp you with applications?” asks Magpie.

“I done very well,” says I, and then I says to Scenery, “What kind of a sheriff are you to set here and let the city battle each other?”

“Is there discord up there?”

“Wild and free.”

“None of my business,” says Scenery. “I’m the sheriff of the county. They’ve got a marshal, ain’t they?”

“Did have, but he’s resigned twenty-seven times today.”

“He ain’t got no guts,” says Magpie.

“Well, maybe he ain’t,” says I, “but if he has he’s taking good care of them.”

Magpie digs into that bunch of applications and his eyes get plumb wild. He slides his feet off the table and stares at me.

“Tell me about this discord up-town, Ike.”

I explains the whole thing to him and Scenery and they listens without interrupting me once.

“Selling insurance is a cinch,” says I.

“Yes,” nods Magpie slow-like, “it must ’a’ been. You collected sixty dollars, Ike. The whole sum of sixty dollars, and you imperiled us to the amount of six thousand dollars!”

“What say?” squeaks Scenery.

“Likely put us six thousand dollars in the hole. What was you thinking of, Ike?”

“Death--exclusively. I’m getting ghoulish as ----!”

“Maybe they won’t all die,” squeaks Scenery. “Maybe only half.”

“Three thousand!” groans Magpie.

“Say, how much money has the Legion got?” I asks.

“Three hundred, Ike--not counting this sixty.”

“Three hundred!” I gasps. “I put in three hundred----”

“Uh-huh,” nods Magpie. “That’s it.”

I looks at them and they seem to be looking at me more in sorrow than in anger. I hears Magpie say--

“It is monstrous.”

I says--

“Lizardly speaking, it is Gila monstrous.”

Then Scenery cackles and I went loco. I hate to hear men cackle, especially when they cackle in E-string voices. It sort of sends a message to my trigger finger and I seems to lose sight of the tender things of life. I never was a wizard on pulling a gun. I sets by and watches other fellers practise the swift draw and most of them are gone hence, but there comes a time in every man’s life when he forgets that he’s leisurely with a gun. I forgot.

It was all done fairly quick. I got my hand as far as the butt of that gun and then something seems to explode in my head. When my nervous system gets back to the straight and narrow way, I’m on the floor and beside me with the handle busted off is that danged heavy sirup pitcher. I’ve got a pinnacle swelled up over my right eye which matches the one over the left, and my ears are full of molasses.

I staggered over to the door, but she’s locked on the outside. On the door is a notice which reads:

HAVE WENT TO SAVE THE LEGION. STAY WHERE YOU ARE--AND PRAY.

“For the soul of the man who hit me twice in the same day with a sirup pitcher,” says I.

After while somebody unbolts the door and Doughgod Smith sticks his head inside.

“You sure look like a changed man, Ike,” says he, peering at me. “You look meek and mild.”

“My looks are liars, ’cause I’m feeling like a killer, Doughgod.”

“Different here. I’ve been shot at until I can’t walk slow. I want to resign, but nobody will stand still long enough to accept it.”

“You need a deputy.”

“Aw-w-w-w, I don’t need help! I need relief. I’d kiss any man who would take this job off my hands.”

“I’ll take the job, Doughgod, but not the kiss,” says I.

“Hold up your right hand and be swore!” he gasps.

“Give me that star! What’s an oath between friends?”

“You’ve got to admit to the ‘So help you Gawd,’ Ike.”

“I’ll admit that much, but I’m going to place a lot of confidence in my old .44.”

I got the star and went towards town. It’s getting dark but I’m aiming to get close before I shoot. I finds Dirty Shirt setting in front of Buck’s place, which is dark. The Mint Hall seems to be the only lighted place in town.

“I came back for medical advice, but I can’t find the horse doctor,” says Dirty. “I never missed that bell three times in a row before.”

“Come and help me kill Scenery Sims and Magpie,” says I. “I’m sure going to assassinate them two, Dirty.”

“All right, Ike. I ain’t heard such good news since Dewey whipped the Italians at Rhode Island.”

Bill Thatcher tried to stop us at the door.

“What is the password?” he asks.

I jams my .44 under his chin, and he wilts.

“Pass in, friends,” says he.

* * * * *

Then we gets a view of the interior and I forgets that I came to kill. Magpie and Scenery are setting on the platform, each of them with a sawed-off shotgun across their laps. Them blood-hunters are setting around the place as far apart as they can get.

Bill Thatcher, Al Thatcher and “Frenchy” Deschamps, the jew’s-harp virtuoso, are grouped in front of the platform with their discord utensils, and behind them sets “Telescope” Tolliver, “Muley” Bowles, “Chuck” Warner and Henry Peck, the Cross J quartet. Tied to a bench at the rear of the room is one of Mighty Jones’ goats. Me and Dirty takes seats as far as possible from that goat, ’cause we know it’s a cross between a pile-driver and a grizzly bear.

Just then the door of the anteroom opens and Doc Milliken comes out with his sleeves rolled up.

Magpie stands up, cocks both barrels of his annihilator and says:

“Feller Lizards to be--maybe. As I has said to you before, your application is null and void until you has passed medically. Our hired representative erred when he said that all we required was your names, and I wishes to compliment you on your sensibilities on quitting your private feuds until same was settled.

“The eminent doctor is prepared to make minute investigations of your nervous systems and report in detail to us. He may or may not pass you as being whole.”

“I rises to ask a question,” says Buck. “As soon as he notifies us that a victim has passed, do we have a right to shoot and collect the damages?”

“This ain’t no den of murderers,” squeaks Scenery. “You’ll get an even break, Buck.”

Magpie, Scenery and Doc whispers a while, and then Magpie gets up.

“Gents, we’re going to give everybody a square deal. The candidates will be examined as their names are called. After everybody is examined, Doc Milliken will hand me a written list of them what has passed. I will nail the list to the wall, that ye may all read your fate. Testament Tilton is the first lucky man.”

That bunch of belligerents sets there and waits for him to come out. Magpie wraps two fingers around the triggers and studies each one intently.

“Might sing a little song,” offers Muley. “I wrote one for the occasion. What do you think?”

“Take a chance,” squeaks Scenery. “I love music.”

“I moves that they stand up to sing,” says Half-Mile. “I don’t want to make any mistake when I starts shooting.”

They stood up and sang one verse. It went like this:

“We-e-e love our little Le-e-e-g-jun Like a Siwash loves his li-i-i-icker. Will we all hang to-o-o-o-gether? Well, I would sort of sni-i-i-i-icker. We’ll rise and fall to-o-o-o-o-gether N-o-o-o matter what comes u-u-u-u-up, We’ll stick right to our Le-e-e-e-g-jun Like ticks upon a pu-u-u-u-u-u-p.”

Old Testament comes walking out and sets down.

“You old psalm-singer!” hisses Buck. “I wish I knowed.”

“Buck Masterson is next,” announces Magpie.

“Thank gosh!” grunts Buck. “I won’t have to hear no more of that song.”

“Shall we keep on singing?” asks Muley.

“Not to amuse me,” says Magpie. “I reckon that song is musically inclined, but I don’t like to hear four grown men hold their breath like that. Maybe you better rest a while. Maybe the orchestra would like to play.”

“Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast,” says Bill Thatcher, rosining his old bow.

“Not your music,” says Half-Mile. “It makes me mad. I hate ---- out of Sweet Marie, especially when she’s played by main strength. You’d seem a heap like Ole Bull to a deaf man whose eyesight was failing.”

Buck came out and Ornery Olsen went in.

Pretty soon Dirty Shirt stands up and says--

“Magpie, does them fellers have to pay Doc for his opinion?”

“Nope. They pay the five dollars and get examined free.”

“I need looking over,” opines Dirty, “so you can fill me out one of them application things.”

Magpie fixes him up and he was the last one to go inside. The rest of them just sets there and glares at each other. Magpie comes down and has a little talk with the quartet and then they gets up and starts out.

“Why for does the canaries leave?” asks Half-Mile, and Muley says:

“This here bunch of golden-voiced warblers are going to leave before the list is posted. _Sabe?_ We came to praise Cæsar--not to bury him.”

Then Dirty came out and sat down beside me. Magpie and Scenery cocks their guns and hooks their toes around the legs of their chairs. Doc Milliken tiptoes up to Magpie and hands him the list.

Guns seem to appear from every waistband, and I seen Ole Testament spit on his hands and pick up his fork-handle. As Magpie stands up I hears several guns click.

“Gents,” says Magpie, “we’re going to give you all an even break. All of you get up and walk to the back of the room. Then you form a line, like you was going to run a race; _sabe?_ I am going to tack this list against the wall up here, and when I give the word you can all walk--walk, not run--up to where you can read your fate. Me and Scenery are going to stand here, and the first man who hurries, shoves, trips or otherwise hampers his neighbor will spend eternity picking buckshot out of his earthly envelope. Now, line up--dang yuh, line up!”

They followed directions to the letter while Magpie nails that fatal sheet to the wall.

“Go!” says Magpie, and they went, while the orchestra played, soft and low, “What Shall the Harvest Be?”

Somebody cusses soft-like, and I hears Magpie say--

“Easy, Tombstone!” They seems to all stop together and their heads are at least three feet ahead of their boots.

I seen Half-Mile’s hand relax from his gun and it fell on the floor. Old Testament tried to pick his teeth with the fork-handle. Tombstone hitches up his belt and scratches one knee with his other foot.

“According to that, we’re candidates for the cemetery,” observed Judge Steele sickly-like.

“Who passed?” whispered Ornery, who can’t read.

“Dirty Shirt Jones!” yelped Half-Mile.

“Where is Doc Milliken?” howled Buck, but Doc had gone hence.

They just sort of mills around and looks at each other.

“Well,” says the judge, “what will we do now?”

“You might kiss and make up,” suggests Magpie. “Piperock is getting as bad as New York. You fellers won’t kill nobody unless you gets paid for it.”

“Am I a Lizard or ain’t I?” asks Dirty Shirt.

“You ain’t been initiated yet,” squeaks Scenery.

“Whatfor kind of a thing is that?”

“We’ll show yuh,” grins Magpie. “It’s lots of fun. We ain’t got all our things to do with yet, but we _sabe_ a few simple things.”

Magpie and Scenery gets Bill Thatcher and Frenchy to help them, and the rest of us sets back to see the fun. They takes off his boots and puts a can of Cayenne pepper in each one. Then they waltzes him up and down the hall until it gets to working good. I feel sorry for poor old Dirty. He gets past with that, and then Scenery announces that he is about to be presented with the Royal Girdle of the Crippled Crawlers, and he hands Dirty a live bull snake.

Poor Dirty lets out a war-whoop and tries to get loose, but the four of them hang on to him. The poor feller is blindfolded so he can’t see nothing and he don’t know it wasn’t a rattler. Then they picks him up off the floor by the arms and legs.

“Brother Lizards,” says Magpie, “we will now cast him into outer darkness, that he may obtain meekness and learn to crawl.”

Dirty yelps and tries to get loose, but they raises the window, Magpie yells, “Tim-m-m-m-ber-r-r-r-r!” and they threw him out bodily.

“My Gawd!” gasps Tombstone. “You’ve killed the poor coot!”

Magpie turns from the window and grins at the crowd.

“That was a danged inhuman thing to do,” states Half-Mile. “It’s thirty feet to the street.”

Just then we hears somebody yell: “Whoo, hoo! Magpie!”

Magpie opens another window and leans out.

Muley Bowles yells up.

“Hurry up! We can’t wait all night.”

“My ----!” gasps Magpie. “They had the blanket at the wrong window!”

Then I cut the rope off the goat’s neck.

Mighty saw it first. He knew what he knew when he yelled--

“Look out for John L. Goat!”

Man, they looked out. That goat was all primed to do the duties he was supposed to do in a lodge, but the floor was slippery and most of them got past. John L. Goat skidded and blatted and hit Tombstone Todd as he dove for the door, and Tombstone went into the wall against the side of his head, and I saw all the ambition die out of his eyes.

The goat hit him once after he was down, and then went tiptoeing around the hall while I hid behind a chair. It hopped up on the platform, pulled down the notice, picked up a sheet of paper off the table and seemed to make itself a sandwich. Then it came down and went out of the door.

I rolled me a cigaret and pondered deep-like on lodges. Suddenly I hears a scraping noise and into the door comes Dirty Shirt on his hands and knees. He’s got an expression on his face like that of an old dog looking for a place to die. He crawls plumb over to the window and I walks beside him, patting him on the head. Once he licked my hand, I think. Still, maybe he tried to bite me--I don’t just know.

Over by the window he hauls himself up and peers outside. The bunch are lighting the lamps in Buck’s place.

I put my arm around Dirty to keep him from falling out, and he says--

“I--fell--for--a--mile--and--then--I--bounced.”

“Bounced?”

“Don’tcha--believe--me?”

_Biff!_

I had forgotten that goat. The universe seemed to hit me just below the point of balance. I scraped my knee-caps and felt my toes hang for a second--then space. I hung on to Dirty Shirt. It seems years after the landing before I can breathe, and then I sets up in the road beside Dirty Shirt. I says--

“Did--you--bounce?”

“No,” says he weak-like. “I didn’t have a chance, ’cause you was on top.”

It took us about an hour to get home. Dirty had one leg that wanted to go north and I had one that wanted to go south; so we covered a lot of useless territory on the way. Doc Milliken and Magpie are in the cabin, and they sure stared at us quite some when we fell inside arm in arm.

“Dirty,” says Magpie, “we’re sorry. We had men at the window to catch you, but they got at the wrong window when you fell.”

“Which--time?” asks Dirty.

“Magpie, is there an insanity clause in that policy?” asks Doc. “This feller is knocked crazy.”

“Nope. I returned the money you collected today, Ike.”

“Why did Doc pass me and turn down the rest?” wonders Dirty.

“Because you wasn’t mad at anybody,” grins Doc.

“Don’t I get nothing for my trouble?” I asks. “I’ve sure done a day’s work.”

“Yes,” says Magpie, “and it took a horse doctor to undo it, Ike.”

“Is the Legion still doing business?” asks Dirty.

“In times of peace,” says Magpie, “but in these days of paid murder she’d soon put the Bank of England in the sere and yaller leaf. We sure figure on doing big business but----”

The door flies open and Scenery sticks his head inside.

“All is lost,” he squeaks. “Th-the gug-goat ate the ch-charter!”

Which finished Magpie’s sentence and the Loyal Legion of Lizards.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Mid-October, 1920 issue of Adventure magazine.]