Part 1

IKE HARPER’S HISTORICAL HOLIDAY

W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Inside Information,” “Playing Safe in Piperock,” etc.

“I ain’t figured none on making it a personal holiday,” says old Judge Steele, shifting his position on the sidewalk. “I’ve been thinking about taking myself plumb out of range of earthly things on said date. A man of my age has got to look out for his health.”

“The Lord giveth and, also and moreover, He taketh away in His own time,” states “Old Testament” Tilton pious-like.

“Gospel fact, Testament,” nods the judge. “But there ain’t no use of a fellow trying to force the issue. I know Piperock.”

“Needs tempering,” orates Mike Pelly. “Piperock is all right for a little town and she plumb exhibits energy beyond her capacity, and that is one of the reasons I’m trying to get you pelicans to see things my way. Paradise will act as an anchor. _Sabe?_ You Piperockers would be lost in a place like Paradise.”

“Too true,” nods Magpie Simpkins, sheriff of Yaller Rock County, caressing his long mustache. “Great place to lose things, Mike. I had two horse-thieves stolen from me in that city.”

“Curlew is a comer,” proclaims “Hassayampa” Harris, who owns what there is of the town. “Why not come to Curlew? She stands to welcome you with open arms.”

“Any time she does I’ll hide my money in my boot,” squeaks “Scenery” Sims.

“Open ----! The only thing what is open in Curlew is the jail.”

“I fear me that this meeting will soon need legal or medical assistance,” announces Judge Steele, blowing his long nose apologetic-like. “There ain’t no use skating so near to air-holes, folks. There ain’t a danged one of you what ain’t moved your guns around to the front. What for kind of a way is this to arbitrate?”

“You unbuttoned your vest, judge,” reminds Magpie. “Don’t you wear a shoulder holster?”

“Patriotism, Magpie. It ain’t because I’m belligerent. Any old time these snake-hunters from foreign parts belittles our shining city I can only remain cool and collected up to a certain point. I hadn’t ought to wear a vest.”

Me and “Dirty Shirt” Jones listens to this elevating conversation in disgust. Me and Dirty are not with the meeting nor a part of it, except being as it’s pulled off out in the open we can’t help hearing it. Magpie represents Piperock, Mike orates Paradise’s opinions and Hassayampa is there to lay Curlew at our feet.

Old Judge Steele has to horn in to add dignity to the affair and little Scenery Sims adds his squeaky voice, which detracts from any dignity the judge might add.

“Now about the religious attractions--” begins Old Testament, but Magpie gives him a look and he sets down.

“This is a Fourth of July meeting, Testament,” states Magpie. “We may need you later on to proclaim ashes to ashes, but right now you better pass the hand. _Sabe?_ You’re all the sky-pilot we’ve got around here, and for the good of our soul I asks you to keep out. You’re all right for what you’re intended.”

“Come on, Ike,” says Dirty. “These _hombres_ will frame up something awful, you can gamble on that, and the less we has to do with it the more chance we has to get shot by accident and mourned by few.”

Then we went over to Buck’s place and leaned against the mahogany.

“Committee come to a understanding?” asks Buck.

“As usual,” replies Dirty. “They’ll mistreat each other for a while, stop by mutual consent and celebrate as they see fit. There ain’t no sense in having a community celebration, Buck. Ain’t it bad enough for each community to kill off of their own without joining up to make it a wholesale slaughter?”

“If Lincoln knowed what he started when he made the Fourth a holiday he’d wish he’d kept right on splitting corral poles, believe me,” grinned Buck.

“Robert E. Lee,” corrects old Sam Holt, looking up from his solitaire layout. “Lincoln didn’t have no hand in it, Buck.”

“Yeah?” grunts Pete Gonyer. “Is that so? Let me tell you both something: If General Grant hadn’t hankered to march to the sea, where would your old Fourth of July be, I’d rise to inquire?”

“I said Lincoln,” reproves Buck, dropping his hands below the level of the bar. “I can prove it.”

Pete hitches forward in his chair and rubs the palms of his hands on his hips.

“I said Grant--U. S. Grant! _Sabe?_”

Old Sam Holt yawns and slips his hand unconcerned-like under the shoulder of his coat. Then he spits out into the middle of the room.

“Robert E. Lee!” he snaps mean-like.

“Hurrah for history!” yelps Dirty and we both went out and sat on the hitchrack.

“Dirty,” says I, “which one was right?”

“Ike, I’m ---- if I know. As soon as the convention is over I’ll ask the judge. He ought to know.”

Maybe he did. He comes walking along stiff-legged like a bear and Dirty accosts him thusly--

“Judge, who is responsible for the Fourth of July?”

The old pelican stops, peers at Dirty over his glasses and clears his throat.

“I’m surprized to find anybody so danged ignorant,” says he, pained-like.

“Yeah? I didn’t ask you to display oratory over my ignorance, judge. You might at least express an opinion. We won’t dispute you.”

“The Fourth of July was started--was started back in--let’s see.”

The judge scratches his chin and peers at the ground.

“Back in 1492--seems like that’s the date. Anyway, it was along about that time----”

“I asked you who, judge, not when,” reminds Dirty and just then Magpie strolls up.

“What’s the argument?” he asks.

“Who started the Fourth of July, Magpie?”

“Which one, Dirty? This one, the last one or the one before? Be definite.”

“There you are,” grins the judge, “Magpie’s a scholar. Your question was too general, Mister Jones.”

Him and Magpie locks arms and goes into Buck’s place, while me and Dirty sets there on the rack and registers disgust. Know what Dirty looks like when he shows disgust?

* * * * *

Dirty is so cock-eyed in one eye that he has to shut it in order to see straight. His eyebrows grows so high up on his forehead that he looks plumb astonished at everything, and he walks like somebody was prodding him in the back of the knees. When Dirty registers disgust on his face, he’d make a bee-stung grizzly stop scratching to laugh.

Pretty soon there comes a yelp from the saloon, a shot is fired, and Pete Gonyer comes out like a comet. He’s looking back as he exits and he slams right into one of the porch posts, takes it along with him and acts mean-like over it, like it was alive. Then he sets up and looks around.

“Who started the Fourth of July, Pete?” asks Dirty.

“U. S.----” begins Pete and then glances up at the bunch crowding the door.

Buck has got a shotgun in his hands. Pete scratches his chin and says--

“Lincoln!”

“What Lincoln?” asks Buck sweet-like.

“Nebrasky,” grunts Pete and Buck nods like he’s satisfied.

Just then Chuck Warner, a freak from the Cross J, rides in. He’s got a long, tired looking face and short legs. He comes over and leans against the rack.

“Chuck,” says Dirty, “who started the Fourth of July?”

“Well, you might say it was George Washington and again you might say it was the Delaware River,” replies Chuck, wise-like. “You see, Washington wanted to get across the river, which was full of ice, so they put him in a boat and rowed him across. _Sabe?_ In honor of said voyage, which was on said day and date, they sets same aside as a holiday.”

“Ice!” squeaks Scenery. “On the Fourth of July, Chuck?”

“Beyond the shadder of a doubt,” replies old Judge Steele. “I’ve got a picture of it in my office.”

“The Delaware River don’t freeze in Summer,” objects Buck. “She’s sort of a south river, if I reminds myself correct.”

“In spots,” grins Chuck, wiggling his ears. “Washington crossed her north end, Buck. She’s a long river.”

“Sure,” agrees Pete. “River was too long to go around. I knowed that Lincoln didn’t have no more to do with it than--than Grant did.”

“Speaking of Fourth of July,” states Sam Holt, “I’d admire to say a few words about Robert E. Lee.”

“I’m going home,” says Dirty Shirt. “I don’t care a whoop who did start it. All I know is this: It might ’a’ been a wise man who started it, but a lot of danged fools have monkeyed with it until she ain’t no good for man nor beast.

“I may attend in a body, but I hereby states that I won’t be part nor parcel of celebration and I won’t act as pall-bearer on July fifth, nor the day after nor the next day. I won’t do anything that might carve ‘Died July Fourth’ on my tombstone. _Adios._”

Dirty Shirt rode out of town and I went up to our cabin. I say “our cabin” meaning the place where me and Magpie hangs out. We’re pardners in everything, except when I declare myself out, when Magpie declares me in and I ain’t long winded enough to argue it.

Magpie is sheriff of Yaller Rock County, which is something to be proud of--like being a target--and any time he feels that I ain’t going fifty-fifty with his troubles he swears me in as a deputy. He comes home later on and sets down to our table, where he does a little work with a pencil.

After while he yawns and rolls a smoke.

“Ike, it is better so,” says he.

“It always is, Magpie,” I admits.

“Curlew won’t go to Paradise,” he states. “Paradise won’t go to Curlew. Curlew won’t come to Piperock and Piperock won’t go to Curlew. Paradise won’t come to Piperock and Piperock won’t go to Paradise. See how it is?”

“Uh-huh,” I admits. “There ain’t nobody going no place. Good!”

“Wrong, Ike.”

Magpie hists his boots upon the table and twists his mustache.

“We’re going to have a community celebration. This is going to be a hum-dinger and entirely out of the ordinary. Paradise, Piperock and Curlew are going to have a three-corner celebration and we’ve picked Dancing Prairie as the celebration center. How does she strike you, Ike?”

“Ker-bump!” says I. “That sure is a fitting place, Magpie. Following an Injun precedent, we can dance the scalps. There’s an old Injun graveyard on the river bank which could be put in shape and would save the trouble of hauling the casualties home. Yes’m, you picked a grand spot.”

“Aw, this ain’t going to be no hip-hooray celebration, Ike. We’re getting civilized on celebrations, Ike. There ain’t no hot heads on the committee, so she’ll all come off cool and collected-like.”

“Said committee is?”

“‘Chuck’ Warner, ‘Hassayampa’ Harris, ‘Doughgod’ Smith and Mike Pelly.”

“Yeah?” says I. “Some class! A liar, a thief, a fool and a bartender. What are you going to be, Magpie?”

“Me? I’m going to be the boss of the whole works. I’m the _hombre_ what sees that every thing is pulled off as per program. I may need an aid.”

“Then you’ll pick him from the rabble,” I states. “I will be far away and going farther on that day, Magpie. Three days from now I’m going to have a hundred miles between me and Dancing Prairie and the distance will grow farther as the day goes on.”

“Hold up your right hand, Ike,” he snaps. “Swear to do your duty as deputy sheriff, so help you Gawd? Huh! Now, dang your bow-legged soul, you stay hitched to the law for four days! You run out on me and I’ll get you thirty days for contempt of court.”

“Who do I have to have contempt for, Magpie?” I asks.

“Well, Judge Steele and--uh--me, I reckon.”

“Put me in,” says I. “Thirty days for one contempt, Magpie? Better hurry up, ’cause my contempts are growing so fast that one lifetime won’t begin to cover the case.”

Magpie ain’t a man of his word, so I has to suffer freedom. I permits myself to be sworn in as a deputy to a sheriff but nothing nor nobody can swear me in as a deputy to a Yaller Rock celebration. I sets down in the office and lets nature take its course.

* * * * *

I sees Hassayampa and Magpie waving their arms in arguments, which don’t never seem to be settled. Then I sees Mike and Magpie imitating windmills, as they thresh out the details. Delegates from Paradise and Curlew seem to mingle free-like with the gentle folk of Piperock, but as yet there ain’t no great lot of gun-play. I feel that there is plenty to come, so I don’t deplore the inaction.

Lumber and all such needful things are hauled from Piperock, but I sets there in the office, with my feet on the table and sorrow in my heart, ’cause I know--man, I know there’s going to be sorrow somewhere.

Cometh to me “Sad” Samuels of Curlew, sets him down at my table and looks sorrowful-like.

“Ike,” says he, “can you give me a description of Custer?”

“Horse-thief?” I asks.

“Fit Injuns,” says Sad. “Remember him, don’t you?”

“Not from your description, Sad. Think you seen him?”

Sad rolls a cigaret and looks sad-like at me. He’d look sad if somebody left him a million. I seen him cry over a straight flush one night. He wets that cigaret and then drops it on the floor. Too sad to smoke.

“Ike, do I look like Custer?”

“Want me to say yes, Sad?”

“I’ve got to be Custer.”

“Yes,” says I. “It’s all right with me, Sad. If you must you must, but why has you got to be unnatural thataway?”

“Ike,” Sad chaws his chin-strap and becomes melancholy, “Ike, who started the Fourth of July?”

I dropped my feet off the table and yanked out my gun. Sad lit on his feet and backed toward the door with his hands up.

“Sad Samuels, did you come here to start something?” I asks.

“Honest to Gawd, Ike, I never did! Hassayampa orates that General Custer did, _sabe?_”

“In such a case I’m ashamed of Hassayampa,” says I. “Just because the Injuns didn’t like Custer it ain’t giving you and Hassayampa no right to try and turn the whites against him too.”

“Don’t blame me, Ike,” wails Sad. “We can’t all be educated. According to the opinions I’ve heard lately there’s a lot of difference in histories. Ain’t you got no opinions on the matter?”

“There’s just one thing I do know, Sad,” says I, “and that is this: The next _hombre_ what asks me that question is going to get knocked so far into the Dark Ages that he’ll be able to get his information first hand.”

Sad nodded his head and went out. Sad makes me weary with that we’re all-got-to-go-sometime expression on his face.

Then cometh Mike Pelly. We exchanges the peace sign.

“Tomorrow is the Fourth,” states Mike. “Tomorrow morning.”

“According to Hood’s Sa’sparilly,” says I.

“Yeah,” admits Mike, drumming on the table with his fingers. “Seems queer how much ignorance a feller can uncover in this here cow-country, Ike. Any man with brains knows who started the Fourth.”

“With brains,” I admits.

“You know, don’t you, Ike?”

“I do, Mike, but I promised not to tell.”

“I ain’t asking, Ike. Any man has a right to his opinions. Magpie’s bull-headed and so is Hassayampa. I ain’t saying that they ain’t got a right to their opinions, Ike. So long as Magpie orates that Piperock is going to do the originator proud, and Curlew aims to do the same, ain’t it O. K. and proper that Paradise should hold up their ideals and aims?”

“What do you wish me to do, Mike?”

“Me and Judge Steele ain’t friends by about six years, Ike. There ain’t another one in the county and I’m asking you as a friend if you will try and borrow the judge’s stovepipe hat for me? See your way clear?”

I looks at Mike’s head, which takes a number eight, and then I thinks of about six and seven-eighths for the judge. Everybody is entitled to their own fancies, so Mike sits there while I gets the hat for him.

“Ask you if you was going to wear it, Ike?” he asks, tickled over it.

“Nope! Never asked a question,” I replies, which was true, ’cause the judge wasn’t in his office.

Magpie comes home happy that night. He poured beans in his coffee and put sugar in his soup. I don’t mind, because I’m feeling loco myself.

“Ike,” says he, puffing on his spoon, “what did Washington do after he crossed the Delaware?”

“Search me! What did he cross it for, Magpie?”

“That’s the ---- of it. Reckon I better go up to the judge’s office and take another look at the picture. He must ’a’ had a reason.”

“Yes,” says I. “Maybe there was some danged fools from Piperock on his side of the river and he wanted to get away while the getting was good.”

Magpie comes back after I’m in bed. I reckon he thought I was asleep. He gets out in the middle of the floor, puts one foot on a soap-box, shoves his hand inside his vest like something itched him and throws back his head. He keeps rearing back and feeling inside his vest until I gets nervous.

“Mister Simpkins,” says I, “if you’d hang your shirt on an ant-hill they’d all leave. What’s the idea of the foot-rest?”

He glares at me and I ducks under the blankets. After while I peers out again and right then I elects him to the highest office in the loco lodge. He’s got my old blue overcoat on with both sides pinned back from the bottom, like two big lapels, and he’s got my old fedora hat on cross-ways. I peeks out after a while and sees him shining his boots with stove-polish. I hears him grunt--

“I’ll make ’em up and take notice.”

“All but you,” says I. “You won’t notice much, old trailer, ’cause you’ll be dead. Somebody will kill you too dead to skin and I’ll have to sew up the holes in that coat before cold weather sets in.”

Then I went to sleep with a six-gun in my hand.

Dirty Shirt shows up at our cabin the next morning just after Magpie left and sets down on the bunk.

“Happy Fourth of July, Ike,” says he by way of greeting. “We’re going down to the celebration?”

“Maybe you, Dirty--not us.”

“Aw, be patriotic, Ike.”

“I love my country, Dirty, but she ain’t going to mean nothing to me after I’m a memory.”

“The glorious Fourth was invented for patriotic folks, Ike,” says he. “Foreigners and shepherds are the only ones exempt. I feel it my duty to hold argument with you.”

“I defy anybody to make me go!” I yelps. “I mean it, too.”

Well, when we came in sight of the scene of conflict Dirty gave me back my gun and asked my pardon. I told him to save his breath for running and then we went down to Buck’s tent, where we bought a demijohn and spent the morning welcoming folks to our celebration.

We welcomed a lot of folks that morning. When we ran out of folks we’d welcome each other.

* * * * *

Later on we had trouble making the turns around the tents, being as we tangles plentiful in the guy-ropes. We emerges out of one tangle and are just about to celebrate our narrow escape, when I sort of reaches out and picks a man out of the air. That man sure is moving plenty and him and me went into the dirt. I set up and put on my hat, and along came a hunk of lead and took it right off my head.

Then I ducks and somebody steps on my head, the same of which drives my nose deep into Dancing Prairie. When I gets unearthed I finds Old Testament Tilton setting there with a pair of black eyes and a foolish expression on his face. Dirty is walking circles on his hands and knees, like a pup preparing for bed.

Old Testament feels of his eyes, squints at me and says:

“I said to him--‘Judge, we’ll open with a prayer,’ and he said-- ‘We will not. We’ll open with a speech from me. I’ve got a whangdoodler of a speech all framed up.’ I says to him-- ‘Judge, I takes exceptions----’”

Old Testament hauled out a paper and held it in front of me.

“Got a prayer all wrote out, Ike.”

I picked up my hat and looked her over. I shoved my finger through the bullet-hole in the crown and looks at Old Testament.

“Wonder where the other two went?” says he. “He shot three times.”

“Who?” asked Dirty.

“Ain’t I just got through telling you that I wanted to open with a prayer and the judge wanted to open with a speech?” says he indignant-like.

“Neither one of you held openers, Testament,” says I. “Next time anybody starts shooting at you, old-timer, you run away. _Sabe?_ The judge ought to be ashamed for shooting at a preacher, Dirty.”

“Yeah,” agrees Dirty. “Very poor shooting. Missed three times. Awful!”

We left the old pelican setting there on the ground and pretty soon we bumps into Hassayampa. Hassayampa has got a gun in his hand and a tearful countenance. When he sees us he wipes the tears away with the muzzle of his gun and weaves up to us.

“Goin’ to killum,” says he, quavering-like. “Sure’s ----!”

“Who’s going to bite the dust?” asks Dirty.

“Knocked ’im down faster’n he can get up, and then shoot three times at ’im,” states Hassayampa, wise as a owl. “Ol’ Testyment’s frien’ of mine. No brains but sholid meat. Soon live as die. Tha’s me.”

Hassayampa rocks on his heels.

“Goin’ to make speech, eh? Prayer’s best. Got a idea, folks. Le’s let Old Testyment make prayer for the judge. Thassa good idea. Kill two birds with one rock.”

Hassayampa smiles through his tears and goes hunting for the judge.

“Well,” says Dirty, “let’s check off anybody but the judge, ’cause right now Hassayampa couldn’t hit the supreme bench of Montana with a shotgun full of bird-shot.”

Just then Magpie comes parading along and I accosts him.

“Just about to open up the show, gents,” says he. “Go on up to the speaker’s stand and get a good place. Things are working out better than I thought they would. Never seen the like.”

“Same here,” says I. “Casualties are too few--so far.”

We finds the crowd milling around the front of a big tent. There ain’t no sign of the speaker’s stand, so we asks Doughgod Smith about it.

“This is it here,” states Doughgod, pointing at the big tent. “The platform is built inside the tent or the tent is built over the top of the platform. Danged if I know which is correct!”

“Private speaking, eh?” grunts Dirty. “Good idea!”

Just then Magpie mounts a box in front of the tent and raises his hand in the peace sign.

“Friends and folks from Paradise and Curlew,” says he, “we meet today to celebrate in a civilized way the----”

“I takes that first statement to heart, Magpie,” interrupts Hassayampa. “I don’t mind being unlisted as a friend but I do object to being put behind Paradise.”

“Paradise is my happy home right now,” squeaks Scenery Sims. “You snake-hunters from the great unwashed had better not let your hearts enter too much in the festivities. _Sabe?_”

“You trouble-hunters go crawl in a hole!” yells Magpie.

“Free country, ain’t she?” asks “Telescope” Tolliver of the Cross J. “Ain’t a man got a right to talk?”

“If that’s the way you feels about it, cut your wolf loose!” yelps Magpie. “I got up here to open this show, which is supposed to be a heap carefree and joyous, but any time you fellers opine to take it serious I reckon there’s enough mourners to go around.”

“Aw, let Magpie open her up,” urges somebody back in the crowd. “If we don’t like it, there’s plenty of daylight left to enable us to shoot straight.”

The crowd seems to see the wisdom of the remark, so Magpie says--

“Friends and folks from Curlew and Paradise----”

I heard that gun click and so did Magpie, ’cause he covers the crowd and looks us over serious-like.

“Scenery Sims,” says he, “you put that gun back in your holster or I’ll heat the muzzle and brand you with the double-doughnut! _Sabe?_ I put Paradise in front of Curlew the first time.”

Magpie lowers his gun and faces the crowd.

“I don’t want no blame for what you’re going to see, folks. There’s a difference of opinion as to who is to blame for this glorious date, so in order to keep everlasting peace in the county we lets each and every participating city show their patriotism in their own way and according to their own beliefs. The sign will tell the tale. Let ’er go!”

The flaps of the tent swing open. I don’t know how she looks to anybody else but this is as she was viewed by Ike Harper.

There stands Mike Pelly in the middle of the platform. He’s got on Old Testament’s long black coat which fits him at no place except around the bottom, being as Old Testament is built like a lodge-pole and Mike is fashioned after the specifications of a hogshead. On his head balances Judge Steele’s stovepipe hat; in his hands is an ax, while he stands all spraddled out over a couple of poles.

The sign reads:

ABRAHAM LINCOLN ACCORDING TO PARADISE HE DONE IT

_Bung!_