Part 2

“How long will it be before he is cured?” she asks.

“Well,” opines Telescope, “he’s been under there fer an hour now, and only one tick has drifted away. As uh usual thing they has six ticks, so, unless the other five decides to stampede in uh flock, we’re due to sit here fer several hours yet.”

“I don’t mind,” sez she, sweet-like. “I haven’t uh thing else to do. Isn’t his skin awful light for an Indian? I’ll bet he’ll be badly sunburned where the sun is strikin’ that large bare spot, and if I was in yore place I’d----”

“Snap! Smash!”

That’s all that ever saved Muley. That top rail wa’n’t any too strong anyway, and with three of us in the center it couldn’t stand the pressure when Telescope begins to bounce up and down with glee. I lights inside the corral in the dust, and I sees uh whirl uh skirts and boots, where Telescope and the school-ma’am tangles up on the other side.

I glances the other way and I sees somethin’ that Nature claims to be impossible. Muley weighs about two hundred and forty, and the fence is eight feet high, but by the horns on the moon, he never scratched it goin’ over. He jist sailed like uh bird, and the saddle-blanket which had draped his shoulders was still in the air over the spot where he had sat when he hit the ground on the other side. There was jist uh rippin’ sound in the atmosphere, two grunts, uh slam, and Muley’s inside the bunk-house with the door locked.

That fe-male shore is game. She wipes the dust out of her eyes, and laughs hearty-like, and me and Telescope joins her with great cheer. She climbs the fence ag’in and gazes at the spot where Muley had been.

“Well!” sez she, sort uh surprised-like. “Our patient has gone!”

“Yes’m,” I agree. “They don’t stay long after the ticks leave ’em, and ticks can’t stand excitement. When that rail broke I saw them five ticks lope off across the corral, and I reckon by this time they’re half-way to the reservation lookin’ fer another healthy buck to inhabit.”

“I’m sorry it happened,” she states, as she crawls on to her bronc ag’in. “I would like to have seen that Indian. Was he an Albino?”

“No, ma’am,” sez Telescope. “He was uh Piegan. The Albinos all live in Arizona.”

* * * * *

After she’s gone, me and Telescope sets there fer quite uh spell and don’t have much to say. Pretty soon Telescope sighs deep and rolls uh cigaret. I sighs some, too, and borrows the makin’s.

“Where do we sleep tonight, Hen?” he asks. “Bein’ as our guns is both in the bunk-house we’re helpless-like.”

“Sleep in the barn, I reckon. I ain’t goin’ into that bunk-house until Muley leaves, that’s uh cinch. I’ll bet that hombre would admire to waller in our gore.

“Wife run away with uh Piegan! Haw! Haw! Haw! I’ll bet that Muley won’t git that saddle-blanket smell out of his hair fer uh week. He may still make rhymes, Hennery, but he shore won’t smell like uh reg’lar poet. Here comes Doughgod Smith. Wonder what the ol’ pelican wants up here.”

Doughgod rides up, and we exchanges salutations.

“Where’s Muley?” asks Doughgod.

“Over in th’ bunk-house,” sez Telescope.

“Reckon I’ll go over and see him,” he opines, slidin’ off his bronc. “I got somethin’ fer him, and I rides all the way up here to give it to him.”

“Go right on over, Doughgod,” sez Telescope, pleasant-like. “I feels that Muley is in uh receptive mood right now.”

Doughgod grins, and ambles right over to the bunk-house door. He don’t rap. He opens the door, gits half-way in and then comes right out on his neck. The door slams behind him, and he sets there on the ground and paws away at his face like uh cub-bear at uh bee-tree. Pretty soon he gits up, walks into the corner of the cabin and falls down ag’in. We hears him cussin’ some fluently as he gits up, and this time he heads our way. He has his hands over his eyes but he hits the corral gate dead center, butts right into the snubbin’ post, and falls down ag’in.

“That’s good so far as she goes, Doughgod,” applauds Telescope. “But it ain’t nothin’ out of the ordinary. Now, if yuh had blindfolded yoreself, hit the gate dead center and then jumped the post, that would have been some stunt.”

“My Gawd!” wails Doughgod. “What fer kind of uh way is this to treat uh guest? Bust uh hoss-liniment bottle on his head! My Gawd!”

He sets up and wipes the tears out of his eyes with both hands.

“What did yuh say to him?” asks Telescope. “Muley don’t do things like that as uh general thing.”

“I didn’t say nothin’ to make him act thataway,” wails Doughgod. “He was lookin’ at his watch, and I said, ‘Don’t she tick!’ That’s all I said to him, honest.”

“If uh man done that to me I’d shore smoke him up,” orates Telescope.

“I ain’t got no gun, though,” complains Doughgod. “Never have uh gun when I needs one. Loan me yores, will yuh, Telescope, and I’ll immediately and soon find out why I’m assaulted.”

“You can have mine,” sez I. “I never throws uh friend down when he’s in need. Yore welcome to it, Doughgod. She’s hangin’ over my bunk, beside Telescope’s.”

Doughgod gits the tears dried up long enough to git on his bronc. He shore looked funny, puffin’ away at his pipe, with the tears runnin’ down his cheeks, and the purple place over his right eye, where the bottle had lingered.

“Gentlemen,” sez he, solemn-like, “there is times when the American language ain’t noways sufficient nor competent to elucidate the extent of uh feller’s feelin’s. Jist to attempt to say what I think of the Cross-J and its hired help would be like offerin’ salt to uh thirsty man. I thought I knowed uh lot uh flossy cuss words, but they pales into insignificance when I consults my immortal soul. Adios.”

He swings his bronc around, and the last we sees uh him he’s still reachin’ up reg’lar like to wipe away the tears.

We don’t invade the bunk-house, so we don’t see Muley until supper-time. He looks us over some close but don’t say uh word. In fact there is uh great lack uh conversation at the table, the same uh which is noticed by ol’ man Miller, our boss. We’re used to uh bright flow uh personalities durin’ our mastication time, and this here stillness gits on th’ ol’ man’s nerves.

“Well,” sez he, shovin’ his chair back, and reachin’ fer his hat, “I don’t know jist what’s the matter with you Jaspers, but as uh general treatment I’d suggest sheep dip.”

Th’ ol’ man leaves the shack, and Muley sets there and stares at the floor. He’s uh heap like Doughgod was--too mad to express it in words.

“I resents that implication!” orates Telescope. “No danged man--not even the boss--can imply that I’ve got ticks. How about you, Hen?”

“Not uh tick!” sez I, emphatic like.

Muley rolls uh cigaret, sort uh absent-minded like, takes out uh match, lights his smoke and throws it away. He puts the match in his mouth, and because it won’t puff he tries to scratch his tobacco sack on his pants.

“Never try to scratch tobacco, Muley,” sez Telescope. “Allus use uh cigaret paper to light yore match with.”

Muley spits the match out and beats it fer the bunk-house. Me and Telescope joins him in uh few minutes.

“My gosh!” sniffs Telescope. “Who spilled the liniment?”

Muley looks us over fer uh minute and then busts out laughin’.

“Which one uh you Jaspers did I hit?” he asks.

“You did not,” sez I. “You hit Doughgod Smith.”

“I--I hit who?” gasps Muley.

“Doughgod Smith,” I repeats. “Hit him right square in the face, and he wept tears all the way to Paradise.”

“Well!” sez Muley, “after thinkin’ it over. He’s uh honest man.”

“Meanin’ which?” I asks.

“He came up to pay me the forty dollars I loaned him in uh poker game the other night.”

“No use weepin’ over spilled liniment,” sez I. “Mebby he’ll pay yuh the next time he sees yuh, Muley.”

“Not if I see him first. I shore don’t want to look like uh porous plaster when I goes to see the lady. I don’t reckon she knowed it was me under that blanket; do yuh?”

“No,” sez Telescope. “You jist keep yore shirt on, Muley, and she won’t never know it was you.”

I don’t reckon he ever heard me tell her that Muley’s wife had run away with uh Piegan. Anyway, he saddles up and fogs off toward Paradise.

The next mornin’ Muley comes back to us with uh sad look in his eye. He don’t eat much breakfast, and jist moons around.

“Didn’t yuh enjoy the evenin’?” I asks.

“Uh-huh,” sez Muley, queer-like. “Shore I did. Jist because I don’t throw my hat in the air and yell yuh don’t think I had uh good time. Uh natcheral poet ain’t boisterous-like, Hen. His abilities sort uh calm him down. Sabe?”

Uh li’l later on I finds Muley alone on the shady side of the cabin. He’s settin’ there on uh box, gazin’ off into space.

“Hen,” sez he, “I ain’t so danged awful bad, but I’m too bad at that.”

“What yuh figgerin’ on doin’, Muley--gittin’ bit by uh snake?”

He don’t answer fer uh while. I reckon my reply went right over his head, cause he jist sighs and opines thusly:

“Hen, uh feller like me ain’t noways fit fer uh gal like that. I’ve examined all my past life and I finds that it don’t assay uh trace uh good. She’s too danged good fer me.”

“Well,” sez I, consolin’-like, “you don’t need to worry about it. You ain’t got her, have yuh?”

He shakes his head and digs holes in the dirt with his heels.

“No, Hen, and I don’t expect to. She’s out uh my class. Now, take you and Telescope for instance. He’s from uh good ol’ fambly, and he’s got uh lot of ability. Outside of his face and feet he ain’t uh hard person to look at. And, Hen, that hombre shore can entertain uh person with his voice. Why, when he sings ‘Jist Break the News to Mother,’ I can feel myself layin’ out there on uh battle-field all shot to ----. That’s art, Hennery.

“Now, take yoreself, Hen. You must be from uh good fambly, too. Yore ol’ mother must uh been uh mighty gentle woman to take the trouble to raise uh boy like you. You can play the banjo some plentiful, and uh woman likes uh musical man.

“I leave it to you, Hen, if it ain’t the right thing fer me to do. I’m goin’ to step aside and let you and Telescope fight it out, and may the best man win. I’m sort of uh black sheep, and while I loves her like uh bear loves honey, I know I ain’t fit to play the rôle. I got uh quart uh hooch inside the bunk-house, Hen. Let’s go in and drink uh toast to you and Telescope.”

We did just that li’l thing. We has enough toasts to make uh square meal, and pretty soon Muley gits tearful ag’in.

“Don’t tell ol’ Telescope what I aims to do, Hen,” he pleads. “To have some one applaud my actions makes it hard to bear. We’ll jist let on that I’m still in the race.”

“Muley,” sez I, “I’m uh heap proud to know uh man like you what knows all about himself and tells it without reservation. Outside of poetin’ you shore don’t amount to much. No gal would be happy with you. I agrees that it’s the reasonable thing fer you to do.”

“Hen,” sez he, “don’t git too danged personal in yore remarks. How do you know that no gal would be happy with me? Outside uh poetin’--why, you gol dinged, hoss-faced maverick, what did you ever do beside bein’ seventeen kinds of uh fool simultaneously, and playin’ uh banjo uh li’l?”

“Nothin’, Muley,” I agrees. “Not uh danged thing. You and me is two misfits. We’ve both busted all the Commandments from the middle both ways. Neither of us is fit to cinch her saddle. Telescope is the only virtuous man in the set. There’s uh hy-iu man, Muley. Dog-gone, there shore is one he-man. Good fambly, wise as uh barn-owl, and he shore does save his money.”

“That last is too true,” wails Muley. “He shore can save. He borrowed uh ten spot from me six months ago, and he thinks so much of it that he won’t give it back.”

“I got uh good idea,” sez I, depletin’ that bottle about the full of uh mewl’s ear. “Me and you’ll job ol’ Telescope. We has hereby agreed that we ain’t fit, so we’ll smooth the trail for Telescope. We’ll take our reg’lar turns goin’ down to see her, but we won’t see her. Sabe? Natcherally, without no opposition he wins out. Our ol’ pal is happy, and the fe-male gits uh prize. We’ll go down and play poker all night instead of courtin’ her, and everybody’ll be happy.”

“That’s uh good hunch, Henry, but it takes money to play poker. That bunch down there has simply got my goat. If Telescope’d pay me that ten, and I could git Doughgod to leave that forty where I could pick it up, I’d have uh stake.”

“Aw, make Telescope uh present uh that ten,” I advises. “Yuh got to figger that courtin’ costs money, Muley. You know danged well that if he paid yuh back that money he’d have to borrow it ag’in. Why don’t yuh go right down and ask Doughgod fer that money?”

“Not me, Hen! Not li’l Lemuel Allender Bowles. He was buyin’ some .45 ca’tridges the other day, and he informed Nick Parsons that he was jist honin’ to meet me. Said he wanted to hand me somethin’.”

On Friday night Telescope dolls up like uh plush hoss. He wears one uh my blue silk shirts and Muley’s new hat. The next day he’s uh heap vivacious. He gits me off to one side and informs me that he’s had uh hy-iu time.

“It’s shore goin’ to be uh hard row fer me to hoe,” he states. “Miss Adamson shore does cotton to you and Muley uh heap. Muley’s poetry made uh hit with her, and she sez that banjo music hits her right where she lives, when it’s played by uh master hand. I’m afraid that you fellers have got the jump on li’l Telescope Tolliver, by gad suh!”

“Be uh good cheer,” I advises. “Faint heart never won on two small pair.”

“Takes money,” he complains. “Uh feller what is short on money like I am ain’t got no chance with uh fe-male’s heart. If I had twenty I’d feel uh heap safer.”

I don’t offer it to him, but I talks with Muley later on.

“My cripes!” sez Muley. “What do yuh think I’m goin’ to do--finance uh weddin’?”

“Friendship is uh great asset,” I orates. “Telescope is our pal, and I reckon he’d do as much fer us. You must remember he’s the Jasper what wrote most uh that poetry what kept you out of the pen.”

“I got ten what ain’t workin’,” sez he. “I ain’t no piker, Hen.”

I hands Telescope twenty and he’s thankful.

* * * * *

On Monday night I goes down, plays poker all night, and comes home and lies to Telescope. On Wednesday night Muley does the same thing. He tells Telescope that the fe-male spoke well uh him, and he’s pleased. On Saturday Telescope asks me fer enough to buy some tobacco. Th’ ol’ man is goin’ down-town after supplies.

“Where’s the twenty?” I asks him. “Spend it all last night?”

“Gals shore come high, Hen,” he sighs.

I loans him two-bits this time. The next day, bein’ Sunday, me and Muley takes the wagon and goes to town after uh stove the ol’ man bought, and natcherally we horns into uh game uh draw in Dug’s place. Muley has jist stood pat in uh good pot when Doughgod Smith comes in the door. Him and Muley sees each other at the same time.

“I’ve shore had uh hard time gittin’ to see you, Muley,” sez Doughgod, and reaches fer his hip.

Muley shore is some speedy on the draw, and jist as Doughgod’s hand moves forward, he fans two .45 slugs across the table at Doughgod, and busts the hinges off the back door gittin’ away.

As soon as the smoke clears away I sees that Doughgod is still on his feet. He’s starin’ at his right hand some industrious-like. He opens his mouth several times before he sez uh word, and when he does it’s some profane.

“----!” sez he. “Wouldn’t that break yore heart?”

He holds up his right hand and lets some scraps uh paper drift to the floor.

“I asks you all to take notice,” he orates. “I hereby states that I’m goin’ to pay him that forty dollars or die. First time I tries to pay him he assaults me with uh bottle uh hoss liniment, and this time he shoots three tens and two fives into ribbons. My Gawd! There ain’t no sense in destroyin’ good coin of the realm thataway when there’s lots uh better targets to practise on.”

“Don’t be stingy, Doughgod,” sez I. “If I ever had as much money as you got I’d shore rather have folks shoot at my roll than at me.”

Muley ain’t no place in sight when I goes over to the wagon, so I fans that team out of town and ambles back toward the Cross-J. About two miles out uh town Muley steps out from behind uh mesquite. He’s got uh gun in his hand and sorrow in his eyes.

“Did he die?” he asks, sort uh careless-like, as though uh killin’ was uh daily occurrence with him.

“Muley,” sez I, “you can’t expect nothin’ else when yuh shoots uh man at close range with uh .45. All pore Doughgod was tryin’ to do was to git that forty out of his hip pocket and pay his debts.”

“My Gawd!” wails Muley, leanin’ ag’in the wheel, and moppin’ the perspiration from his brow. “The Jasper what said that honesty is the best policy was loco. Hereafter I don’t loan money to no blamed man unless he’s dishonest. It’s dangerous! Where’s the posse, Hen?”

“Organizin’. I figgered that they’d overtake me before I got this far. You better hop right into the wagon here with me, Muley.”

“That’ll do uh lot uh good!” he wails. “Do yuh think fer uh minute that you can outrun uh posse with uh dead-ex wagon?”

“Muley,” sez I, pityin’ like, “no wonder yore uh fugitive from justice. You ain’t got no ideas a-tall. See them ol’ sacks in the bottom of the wagon? There’s yore getaway. I’ll pull one over yore head and one over yore feet and pile the rest on top. Then I’ll roll yuh under the seat. If they asks me I’ll say it’s some spuds I’m takin’ home.”

Muley’s willin’ to take uh chance on anythin’, so I fixes him up. As I rolls him under the seat I hears uh muffled voice opine:

“Hen, yore awful good to me. Do the same fer you some time.”

“Don’t mention it, Muley,” sez I. “I know yuh would.”

I drives along fer uh spell, and Muley rides comfortable. Then I gits uh happy thought.

“Muley!” I yells. “The posse’s in sight, and I got to leave the road. Hang on!”

“_Ooof glubb mmff!_” I hears emanatin’ from the roll, so I opines that he’s thankin’ me some more.

I swings the team off the road and over some of the worst goin’ yuh ever saw. Part of the time I’m on the seat and part of the time in the air. You can imagine what it was like to the man on the bottom of the wagon--uh wagon without no springs. When I unrolls Muley down back of the barn he’s shore uh sight. Take uh man what tilts the scales at two hundred and forty, wrap him up in uh lot uh dirty gunnysacks, bounce him in the bottom of uh lumber wagon fer eight miles and then unroll him, and you’ve got uh pitcher uh Muley Bowles.

“Did we--huh--dodge ’em?” he wheezes, tryin’ to rub the kinks out of his legs, and peek around the corner at the same time.

“So far,” I replies. “You shore got to give me uh lot uh credit, Muley. I shore have done uh lot fer you on this day uh the month.”

“I know it, Hen. I appreciates it uh heap. Where do I go now?”

“Under the bunk-house fer you, Muley,” I replies.

When the ranch-house was built fer the Cross-J, the ol’ man opines to build uh root-house. He gits it dug about three feet deep and he runs into solid rock. Not havin’ any blastin’ powder he abandons that place and digs in another. In order to cover up the hole with the least labor he builds the bunk-house over it.

“Close quarters,” complains Muley. “Dog-gone, uh feller ain’t got room to breathe in there, Hen.”

“Easier’n breathin’ with uh rope around yore neck,” I orates, and Muley agrees. “You got to crawl all the way on yore stummick, though,” sez I. “Yuh shore got to keep low, cause fer all we knows the posse may be up talkin’ to the ol’ man.”

He did jist that li’l thing--crawl. I hauls him in the back window, pushes him under the floor and nails him down. I manages to smuggle some grub and uh canteen full uh water from the cook-shack, and eases it under to him.

“The posse’s hot on yore trail, ol’-timer,” sez I, consolin’-like. “You better lay plumb still fer uh spell.”

“Cripes!” sez he. “How soon do yuh reckon I can git away, Hen?”

“I don’t know much about law, Muley, but I do know that some debts is outlawed in seven years. Mebby it takes longer to cover uh killin’.”

* * * * *

That evenin’ me and Telescope plays seven-up in the bunk-house. Telescope feels uh heap bad, out loud, about Muley.

“Pore ol’ Muley,” he mourns in uh high key. “Play yore jack on that ace, Hen Peck. Do yuh reckon they’ll hang him? They say that Sheriff McFee allus gits his man, so there ain’t much use uh Muley tryin’ to git away. I got high, low and the game. That puts me out. Wonder where pore ol’ Muley is tonight, Hen. This will shore break the set. Did yuh ever see uh man hung?”

“Uh-huh,” sez I. “They shore kicks hard. What are we goin’ to do about the courtin’ agreement? This kind uh busts it up, don’t it?”

“Shore does,” agrees Telescope. “If I had some money I’d go down to see her tonight.”

“I ain’t got none,” I states. “But I got uh good idea, Telescope. Muley thought uh heap uh you, and he allus said that you could have anything he had. I seen Muley put some money in his war-sack yesterday, and I know if he was here he’d let yuh have it in uh minute. Money ain’t goin’ to do him no good no more, so yuh might as well take it. Here it is, Telescope--thirty-five simoleons.” I talks in uh loud tone all the time, and oncet I hears the floor squeak.

“I hates to take it,” sez Telescope, puttin’ it in his pocket. “But it’s jist as you say, Hen--where Muley’s goin’ they don’t use gold, except to pave the streets. I wonder if I hadn’t better sell Muley’s saddle? I hears Pete Pickett offer Muley fifty dollars fer it uh few days ago. Pete can’t git uh tree big enough, and that one jist fits.”

“Sell it,” I advises. “It would jist dry up and spoil hangin’ up here, cause it’s too blamed big fer uh ordinary man.”

Telescope saddles up and pulls out, and Muley tries to bust through the floor.

“Lay still, yuh animated lard can!” I yells. “Ain’t yuh got no sense a-tall, Muley? The sheriff’s up at the house.”

“Don’t let Telescope sell that saddle!” comes in muffled tones through uh knothole. “I can’t never make my getaway in uh small saddle.”

“You shut up, Muley!” I advises. “I’m goin’ up and see how much the sheriff knows.”

I goes up and plays pitch with the ol’ man until midnight.

“Where’s the rest uh the Three Disgraces?” he asks.

“Gone to town.”

“Well, you might as well stay with me, Hen. No use uh both of us bein’ lonesome.”

The next mornin’ I slips Muley uh li’l breakfast, and he shore is one peevish person.

“Yore uh ---- of uh friend!” sez he. “I been keepin’ awake all night to hear what the sheriff has to say. Dog-gone yuh, Hen, did yuh ever stop to think that I’m layin’ here on my back in the dust? Every time I moves I chokes to death to keep from sneezin’.”

“Muley,” sez I, “If yore goin’ to be uh outlaw yuh shore got to put up with uh li’l discomfort. I’m lookin’ fer the posse to show up any ol’ time. The sheriff was here all night and I shore had uh hard time to keep him away from here.”

“This is the last day, Hen,” he pronounces. “I’d jist as soon hang as to be buried alive thisaway. Also you got uh lot uh nerve to tell ol’ Telescope that he could sell that saddle. Some sweet day I’m----”

“Duck!” I yips in his fat face, as I hears voices outside.

Muley ducks into the dirt and I shoves the nails down with my heels, sets uh chair careless-like over the board, and then occupies the bunk.

Some horses ambles up to the door and in comes two people. In the lead is Sheriff McFee and behind him comes Doughgod Smith.

“Howdy, Hen,” sez McFee, settin’ down on the other bunk.

Doughgod nods and sets down on the chair.

“How’s every li’l thing at the Cross-J?” asks the sheriff, and I informs him that everything is fine as frog-hair.

“I’m lookin’ fer Muley Bowles,” sez McFee.

I hears the bunk-house settle about six inches, and jist then Telescope comes in.

“Hello, Sheriff,” greets Telescope, with uh wide grin. “What’s the good word?”

“So, so, Telescope. Where’s Muley?”

“What do yuh want Muley fer?” I asks.