Part 1

HONEST TO DOUGHGOD

W. C. Tuttle

Author of “A Bull Movement in Yellow Horse,” “The Henpunchers of Piperock,” etc.

I was christened Henry Clay Peck, but as soon as I gits big enough to answer to the yell uh “grub pile” I has my cognomen depleted to the extent that I answers to “Hen.” Maw insisted that I be called Gilliland Van Dyke, but paw said it was too much like brandin’ uh calf with the map uh Texas.

The next one to my left on the top pole of the corral is uh misfit uh nature, or whatever is to blame fer creatin’ fat cowpunchers. His carcass requires the biggest tree ever put into uh stock saddle. His parents saddled him with the signature uh Lemuel Allender Bowles and uh forgivin’ nature. He responds when yuh yells “Muley.”

On my right, danglin’ over the top pole is “Telescope” Tolliver. Telescope was originally, so he sez, John Quincy Tolliver, by gad suh! He allus adds the “By gad suh!” to give folks the impression that he’s from the South, but I’ve got inside information that the nearest he ever came to bein’ from the South was the time uh Montana sheriff chases him over the line into Wyoming and uh Wyoming sheriff chases him back.

We admires each other uh heap. Muley writes poetry; Telescope sings, and I plays the banjo. We’re jist three cowpunchers--but talented. Uh puncher can have talents the same as bartenders, harness drummers and insurance agents.

Telescope sez that as far as morals goes we’re loaded--never havin’ used up what Nature originally gave us. Muley sez--

“There’s two things they can’t never lay at our door: we never stole another man’s wife nor threw rocks at his kids.”

But that about lets us out, I reckon. Muley’s too danged covetous of other people’s property. If he didn’t combine pleasure with business we’d be uh lot better off. He can’t seem to keep from poetin’. One night he rustled fifteen head uh Five-Dot cows out of uh corral, and leaves uh piece uh poetry stickin’ on the gate, the same uh which reads:

I thanks yuh fer this chance to take, Some Five-Dot cows, which I will sell, And git myself uh poker stake. And as fer you--go plumb to ----!

Muley, bein’ the Poet Lariet uh the county, fer the reason that he’s the only one what can write uh rhyme, is immediately and soon apprehended down at Paradise, and called to answer fer his sins. He tells me and Telescope with tears in his eyes that we got to figger out uh scheme to git him loose or he’ll git sent to the pen, thereby breakin’ the set. Telescope chides him gently.

“Yuh ain’t got the sense that God give geese in Chiny!” sez Telescope. “What did yuh have to write poetry fer, yuh cross between uh loco weed and uh pail uh lard?”

Muley don’t hang his head with shame like he should have done under the circumstances, cause his neck is too danged short. He jist winks real hard and makes funny noises with his throat.

“Well,” sez I, “we can’t let uh guilty man suffer, Telescope. Let’s go home. I’ll play somethin’ sad-like, and you sing Muley’s ol’ favorite, ‘Jist Break the News to Mother,’ and mebby we can figger out uh scheme.”

We did. That night we rides over to the Lazy-Y corral and appropriates all uh ol’ man Wiscomb’s ridin’ hosses, and hazes ’em plumb over into the Frog Pond basin. We shore has uh chore writin’ what we pins to the corral gate. It reads like this:

Though sad but true we must relate Poets is thick in this here State. We writes this rhyme so honest men Won’t have to languish in the pen.

Poetry not bein’ evidence no more, they has to turn Muley loose. Muley promises that he’ll do better next time, but it sort uh peeves him to find out that me and Telescope can write poetry, so he starts tryin’ to pick the banjo, and drives us off the ranch tryin’ to sing, “Love Me and the World Is Mine.”

Uh course me and Telescope steals them broncs to prove uh alibi fer Muley, but all we does with ’em is to haze ’em over to the basin and let ’em drift. We tells Muley about the stunt, and after they turns him loose he disappears fer uh few days. When he shows up ag’in he hands us each uh hundred and fifty dollars.

“Took them broncs down to Silver Springs and sold ’em,” sez he, sort uh offhand like. “Them Lazy-Y fellers has beefed and beefed about losin’ ’em, and I jist couldn’t stand it to see ’em disappointed. Another day and them fool broncs would have been home. They was trailin’ this way when I finds ’em, and prompt action saves us reg’lar money.”

Uh course we chides Muley uh heap, while we saddles up to go down to Paradise, but we chides him without malice in our hearts. One-fifty covers uh multitude uh morals. Also, we can all three set into uh poker game to oncet, which makes it bad fer any one else at the table. We drifts across the hills with joy in our hearts. We jist can’t seem to hate nobody. Even Telescope speaks kindly uh ol’ Bill Metzger, the sheriff what chased him over the line that time. Uh coyote drifts out of uh draw ahead of us, the same uh which usually calls fer at least eighteen chunks uh hot lead, but this time he ain’t molested.

“Look at the ol’ loafer,” sez Telescope, standin’ up in his stirrups to ease his new saddle. “Slant-eyed ol’ pelican! He’ll probably go home and tell his ol’ woman that the Three Disgraces is paralyzed in the hands.”

We fogs along until we’re about five miles from Paradise, when we sees uh hoss wanderin’ along the skyline of uh hill. Seems to be saddled so we goes over and investigates.

“Side-saddle!” snorts Muley. “Who in ---- rides uh saddle like that on this range?”

“I would if I had uh chance,” states uh voice, and then we sees her.

* * * * *

She’s standin’ there beside uh mesquite, and I reckon she’s the maddest pretty fe-male I ever laid eyes upon. I ain’t goin’ to tell yuh what she looked like. It’s too danged much like tryin’ to tell somebody about the stamped design on uh new saddle. They knows what yore talkin’ about but they don’t know what yuh mean.

“I begs your pardon, ma’am,” sez Muley. “Yuh see I didn’t look fer----”

“Don’t apologize,” sez she, with uh grin. “What you jist said ain’t one, two, three with what I been thinkin’ fer the last hour. I got off to pick uh flower and that pony broke loose. I’ve trailed him fer three miles, but he wouldn’t stop. Are you goin’ to Paradise?”

“Ma’am,” orates Telescope, “I’m there now. Ma used to tell me about the land what is fairer than this, but I doubted her.”

With his eyes rolled up like uh sick sheep, Muley recites:

Her eyes outshine the desert stars Her mouth is sweet as cake, And the freckles on her features Shone like lilies on uh lake.

The fe-male starts to grin, but when she sees that we’re serious she irons out her face.

“Ma’am,” sez I, “I’m sorry I ain’t got my banjo. I plays well.”

“That’s nice,” sez she. “I love good music. I am Miss Adamson, the new teacher at Paradise, and I’m lost.”

“Miss Adamson,” states Telescope, “you can calm yore fears, cause you shore ain’t lost no more. My name’s Tolliver--John Quincy Tolliver, by gad--huh. The party on the pinto is Hen Peck, and that emaciated lookin’ party on the Roman-nosed bay is Muley Bowles. We’re all from the Cross-J; free, white and twenty-one and we’re glad to meet yuh.”

“Lemuel is my first name, ma’am,” sez Muley. “Lemuel Allender Bowles.”

“My folks was particular thataway, too,” sez I. “When I enters this here vale uh tears I gits Henry Clay added to the name uh Peck, which I natcherally inherits. My dad’s name was Henry, and bein’ as he had uh ranch in Clay county, Missouri, I----”

“Unique,” sez the lady.

“No, ma’am--corn,” sez I.

Telescope tightens up her cinch and helps her on the bronc, and we all fogs on toward Paradise. She don’t sabe much about ridin’ but who ever cared how uh angel handled uh hoss. She’s livin’ up at ol’ man Irvin’s place, so we rides plumb to the gate with her. She thanks us uh heap and makes uh fuss about how much she owes us.

“Won’t yuh all come down to see me once in uh while?” she asks. “It really does git lonesome evenin’s. Come down, all of you. I’d love to hear Mister Tolliver sing, and Mister Peck accompany him on the banjo. Come down any time, please.”

The way she sez “please” would make uh feller go out and kiss uh sidewinder if she asked him to. We replies that nothin’ would please us more, and then we wanders back to the bright lights uh Dug Chaffin’s saloon.

“Like to hear Mister Tolliver sing, and hear Mister Peck accompany him on the banjo, eh?” orates Muley, sarcastic like. “Them’s hy-iu accomplishments but too boisterous. Now, if I had uh chance to pour uh li’l poetry into her ear--mama, mine!”

“Poetry,” pronounces Telescope, “is all right so long as yuh don’t abuse yore ability. It’s good stuff in its place, like hooch or uh cold deck, but when uh feller uses it to notify the sheriff or uses it to designate that uh lady has freckles on her nose--I’m ag’in it. Sabe?”

“Freckles is but uh beauty spot to call attention to the spot on which they lingers,” states Muley. “Don’t think fer uh minute, Telescope, that I aims to slander the lady. I shore admires her uh heap, and nothin’ would please me more than to introduce her to you as Misses Lemuel Allender Bowles. That’s uh fair soundin’ name, eh? Uh heap more noticeable than Misses Peck or Telescope’s wife.”

“Henry Clay Peck ain’t no name to sneeze at,” I states. “It’s honest, by grab! My ol’ dad----”

I’m jist goin’ to tell how the first grain measure was named after one uh my ancestors, but Telescope interrupts.

“When yuh argues the value uh names, Muley, yuh shore got to let mine set on the first pew. John Quincy Tolliver, by gad suh! The Kentucky Tollivers is one uh the bluegrassedest famblys in America. Any woman would be honored to bear that name.”

“Don’t let’s quarrel,” I advises. “Names is nothin’ but inheritance, like hook-noses, cross-eyes and uh taste fer hooch. We never made ’em. Uh fortune-teller tol’ me once that some uh my ancestors was bushwhackers in the time uh Henry th’ Awful, and that some was beheaded and the rest lynched. She said I was born to romance.”

“Swashbucklers,” corrects Telescope. “Nowadays we designates ’em as ‘blow hards.’ Also, she was wrong about the period. Henry the Awful was----”

“Let sleepin’ dogs gather no moss,” interrupts Muley, squeezin’ the last drop of his sixth glass uh third-rail. “Pore ol’ Henry’s dead years ago, and li’l Lemuel Allender Bowles don’t feel so awful good today, either. Here’s to the fairest flower that in uh garden grew. Her face is like uh--uh--uh--shay, Telescope, wha’s her face like, anyway. Huh?”

But Telescope is already pourin’ out his soul in song, and Muley weeps on the pool-table ’cause he can’t seem to remember what her face looked like.

Now I’m commencin’ to git back to where I starts from, with me and Muley and Telescope draped over the top pole of the corral. It’s the next mawnin’ after we meets the school-ma’am.

Not havin’ much appetite fer breakfast we adjourns early. We’re settin’ there mournin’ over our past lives and wishin’ we didn’t have such pintoed characters, when Telescope opines----

“Uh gal with uh face like that must grade about twenty per ounce. I hope she don’t throw her young life away on some ordinary cowpuncher, that’s all I hope.” Telescope sighs deep-like, and me and Muley follers suit.

“Noble sentiments,” sez I. “It would be like feedin’ vanilly ice cream to uh coyote.”

We sighs in chorus ag’in.

Muley sighs uh couple uh extra times and chews the stub of uh lead-pencil, which he has been usin’ on uh piece uh wrappin’-paper.

“Read her out loud, Muley,” urges Telescope, but Muley sighs and shakes his head:

“I jist can’t seem to find uh word that’s right. What in ---- rhymes with pain? She reads like this:

“My love is livin’ in the town, It fills my heart with pain, To know that I ain’t with her now,”

“She’s uh dinger as far as she goes, Muley,” sez Telescope. “Can’t yuh think uh nothin’ that rhymes with pain?”

“I got it,” sez I. “Yuh might say, ‘Tomorrow it may rain.’ How’s that, eh?”

Muley puts his foot into my equator, and I sprawls into the corral, right under the feet of uh outlaw bronc called Pirate. I jist about gits kicked into the middle uh next week before I escapes.

“That’s the last time I ever helps uh poet in distress,” I states, as soon as I gits back on the rail. “They’re uh thankless tribe. In love or in jail it’s all the same. I’m goin’ over and tune up my ol’ banjo. There’s uh lady what loves good music, and she’s plumb crazy to hear me play.”

“She shore is if she wants to the second time,” states Muley.

I goes over to the bunk-house, and pretty soon Telescope and Muley comes in and sets down. They rolls cigarets and Telescope clears his throat.

“Well,” sez I, “spit her out, Telescope.”

“Hen, we’ve done come to the conclusion that we can’t all come to see her to oncet. What do yuh think about it?”

“Two ag’in one is uh majority. What’s the verdict?”

“It’s thisaway, Hen,” explains Telescope. “All things bein’ free and equal, we’re goin’ to leave the decision to the lady. We’ll write the names of the days uh the week on pieces uh paper, put ’em in uh hat and draw. The feller gits to call on her the night he draws. Sabe? That won’t give nobody the advantage.”

“And,” sez I, “the other two stays right here on the ranch. Don’t go cuttin’ into the other feller’s night a-tall, eh? We shore got to play this here love game on the square.”

They both agrees, and we draws from the hat. I gits Monday, Telescope draws Friday, and Muley’s affections shows on Wednesday. Bein’ as to-day is Monday, I shaves some careful-like and oils my saddle.

“Don’t git mushy and tell yore past life, Hen,” warns Telescope. “Uh feller’s apt to fergit himself in uh case like this. Yore past won’t interest her none to speak of, and me and Muley figgers too danged prominent like. She might turn us all down fer uh sheriff or uh United States marshal and tell all she knows. Sabe?”

“One thing I never does,” sez I, “and that is to commit social suicide.”

I reads that in uh female’s magazine, what comes to the Cross-J by mistake oncet.

* * * * *

I gits on my calico bronc, hangs the banjo on the saddle horn and proceeds to show the Cross-J that Hen Peck can ride ’em straight up. I knows that there’s uh stick under that pinto’s tail, but I don’t wish to spoil Muley’s idea of uh good joke. When I gits that pinto lined out toward Paradise I finds that three strings is busted on that banjo, the same uh which fills me with sad thoughts.

“This shore is one ---- of uh situation,” sez I. “Not another banjo string this side uh Helena, and uh li’l gal simply pinin’ away fer to hear me play.”

The nearer I gits to town the worse I’m feelin’. I feels so bad that I enters Dug Chaffin’s rum palace and renews my vitality, and also gits vivacious. That’s another word I reads in that magazine. I meets “Doughgod” Smith and he also gits vivacious.

Doughgod’s got lots uh money and the disposition of uh bulldog.

“I’d admire to hear yuh play uh tune, Hen,” sez he, noticin’ that I’m packin’ uh banjo. “After listenin’ to Tony, the Hunk, play the squeeze organ over at the Cross-in-uh-Box, I’m game to listen to anythin’.”

“She’s uh good ol’ rig but she’s done busted down, Doughgod,” sez I. “Yuh can’t expect to fan uh machine like that over uh bronc’s head fer any length uh time and expect it to run smooth right away. If yuh hunger fer music I’ll sing fer yuh.”

“Hen,” sez he, pattin’ me on the back, “don’t put yourself out to try and entertain me. The way I feels right now I don’t miss singin’ uh bit. Much obliged jist the same.”

Doughgod horns into uh poker game, and I absorbs uh few more scoops. When I’m organized sufficient-like I opines to go over and serenade the school-ma’am.

I has uh hard time gettin’ my bearin’s, but pretty soon I gits to goin’ good. Sudden-like I remembers that I’m shy on strings.

“Now,” sez I, “you cross between uh distillery and uh bale uh loco weed, where do yuh think yore goin’, eh? Goin’ to serenade uh lady fair, eh? Goin’ down there with uh souse on. Hen Peck, you ain’t fit to carry hawg meat to uh bear. No-good, common ol’ puncher, with loads uh sin on yore conscience.

“You ain’t fit to see her or listen to her voice. Yore jist uh drunk ol’ cow rustler, and if yuh got what was comin’ to yuh you’d be over in Deer Lodge, wearin’ uh number like uh box-car. Yore hyas cultus.”

That kind uh talk from me makes me feel uh heap bad, but I has to agree that it’s Gospel truth even if it does yank on my heart-strings.

“Nothin’ like knowin’ yoreself,” I informs uh fence post. “Hen Peck is uh wise ol’ coot--yessir. I ain’t no good, but by cripes, I got two of the best friends on earth. Telescope and Muley. Good enough fer any gal on earth. All I got is two friends and uh lovin’ disposition. No use in three tryin’ to win--nossir. Two’s company--three’s uh crowd. I’m goin’ back to Dug’s place, where there’s life and cheer. Love is but uh fleetin’ flower, and mine has fleeted.”

I cries uh heap, and my heart lies in my bosom like half-done flapjacks on yore stummick, and the scaldin’ tears obstructs my vision to the extent that when somebody throws uh clump uh mesquite bushes at me I can’t dodge.

The moon is wanin’ when I manages to git out from under the brush, so I forks my pinto and comes home. I ain’t what you’d designate as uh gay lookin’ Lothario to look at, but I feels that I’m to be commended uh heap. I don’t aim to tell the boys what I done cause they’d say I got col’ feet on the job. Also, they’d use up all the nights between ’em, and Hen Peck would have to play to the bunk-house walls. Telescope and Muley is settin’ on the fence when I rides in, and they looks me over some careful. I turns my bronc into the corral, and starts fer the cook-house.

“Is her paw in Paradise, Hen?” asks Telescope.

“No,” sez I. “Why do yuh ask that?”

“What happened to yuh, Hen? Did the lady smear yuh with uh rollin’-pin or has the Crees gone on the war path? Yore uh sight, Hennery.”

“Jist general wear and tear,” sez I. “I’m hungry.”

Muley grins all over his fat face, and recites:

He went to see his lady fair. He loved her passin’ well. He played some banjo music, And came home all shot to ----.

“Ain’t that uh humdinger, Hen?” laughs Telescope. “Muley’s shore wastin’ his talents in uh place like this. Did yuh tell her that me and Muley’d be down this week?”

“I did not,” sez I. “Why take the joy out of her life thataway? I believes in lettin’ somebody else be the bearer uh sad news. I’m not advertisin’ you fellers, believe me. Why should I mention you, eh?”

“That’s fair enough,” admits Muley, and when we’re together he gits confidential like.

“Hen, what in ---- does uh feller talk about to uh fe-male? I loses my nerve when it comes to that. Tell me somethin’ to say, won’t yuh, Hen?”

“Aw, anythin’. Recite her that poem yuh wrote about Snow-shoe Mary. Jist keep yore face out uh personalities, Muley.”

“What’s personalities, Hen?”

“Aw, corsets and stockin’s and----”

“----!” he snorts. “What do yuh think I am, Hen? Uh dressmaker? Also I don’t intend to recite Snow-shoe Mary. Why, dog-gone yore hide, that poem wasn’t wrote fer female ears. Yore kind advice leads me to believe that you wishes me to not only be put out of the runnin’ but yuh also desires that I fills uh early grave. Did she enjoy yore playin’? Yore banjo looks to me like yuh sort uh overdid yoreself, Hennery. Now, if you was uh poet----”

“I’d admire to git lynched,” sez I, and then I goes up to the cook-house, and gits cussed by the cook, fer comin’ in so late.

The next mornin’ Muley can’t seem to git his mind on his work a-tall. He can’t think about nothin’ but his chance to see the lady. He aims to put his rope on the li’l sorrel he’s been ridin’, but he don’t notice when he misses and the loop snags ol’ Pirate.

So long as he don’t notice his mistake, me and Telescope is too gentlemanly to call his attention to it. He jist shortens his rope, turns his back on that outlaw and starts leadin’ it over where his saddle is layin’.

I reckon that hoss never had been ignored thataway before, and it cuts him deep. He sticks back his ears on his rattlesnake head and grabs Muley between the shoulders. Comes uh squeal and uh cloud uh dust and Muley’s layin’ over in the corner with nothin’ left of his shirt except the collar, and the bronc breaks straight fer the Wyoming line.

* * * * *

We moseys over and gazes at Muley’s recumbent form. He’s got uh beautiful expression on his face, and all he needs is uh bow and arrer and uh couple uh wings to pose fer uh statoo uh Cupid in the Corral. He’s starin’ at the sky, and all to oncet his lips opens and he recites:

Her eyes is like the evenin’ star, She’s graceful like uh deer. Her mouth is like uh rosebud. I wish--I wish--I--huh----

“I wish I had uh glass uh beer,” finishes Telescope. “Now, Hen, you can see what love does to uh feller. That Muley person is so danged deep in love that he don’t notice that he’s leadin’ Pirate. No sir, he don’t know nothin’ a-tall. When uh poet gits in love he’s liable to kiss uh mewl. Harmless and happy but lots uh bother.”

Muley rolls over and sets up. He claws some corral dust out of his eyes, and looks around.

“What in ---- is goin’ on around here?” he asks, foolish like. “I can’t seem to remember nothin’ except beautiful winged critters, with floatin’ garments, and music playin’ and----”

“Never mind the human insects, Muley,” sez I. “Go and git uh shirt on. Uh sylph-like figger is uh thing uh beauty and uh joy forever, but yore packin’ too much lard on yore carcass to qualify. Git inside uh piece uh flannel before some pork packer comes along and mavericks yuh.”

“Aw, you ain’t got nothin’ to say, Hen,” he opines, fumblin’ with the collar of that departed shirt. “You ain’t no beautiful statoo in the nood. I ain’t goin’ to put on no danged shirt until----”

“Good mornin’, gentlemen.”

We turns some sudden, and there is the school-ma’am lookin’ over the top uh the corral from the back of her hoss.

“Howdy,” sez I, and Telescope almost prostrates hisself in the dust, when his foot slips in uh soft spot. “Won’t yuh come in?”

“Come in and make yourself to home,” invites Telescope, but she grins and shakes her head.

“No, thank you,” sez she. “I’m not familiar enough with the interior of corrals to feel at home in one. Didn’t I hear Mister Bowles’s voice as I rode up?”

I looks around quick and there is Muley, humped up in the corner of the fence, with uh saddle blanket over his head, and about twelve inches uh bare skin shinin’ in the sun.

“No, ma’am,” sez I. “Muley’s been gone some time. He heard that his wife has run away with uh half-breed Piegan, and he’s gone down to the reservation to investigate.”

“Isn’t that some one over in the corner?” she asks, cranin’ her neck over the rail.

“Yes’m,” sez Telescope. “That’s uh sick Injun takin’ uh saddle-blanket treatment fer ticks. We handles most of the local cases up here. This one is particularly stubborn. He’s been under that blanket fer nearly an hour, and only one tick has left him.”

“How strange,” she exclaims. “I’ve heard of all kinds of diseases and treatments, but this is decidedly novel. I studied nursing for some time, and I natcherally am interested. May I come in and watch the proceedin’s?”

“Deelighted!” sez Telescope. “Git off yore hoss and come inside.”

“No, I’ll jist set on top of the fence with you, and we can watch it much better.”

I hears Muley groan as we climbs the fence, and I sort uh feels fer him. It’s about ninety-nine in the shade right now, and that blanket shore is odoriferous. We perches on the rail like three buzzards watchin’ fer uh sick calf to quit this vale uh tears, and makes remarks about the sufferin’ bunch uh humanity under the blanket.