Part 3
“Well, we’ve got the ones we needed,” says Yuma. “It’s a cinch now.”
“We can git in the back door,” says Tombstone. “C’mon.”
“What’ll we do with these two snake hunters?” asks Smoky Potts.
“Better gag ’em,” suggests Hardpan; and that’s what they done.
“Lock ’em in the grain room,” says Tombstone. “Somebody’ll find ’em in the mornin’.”
* * * * *
I tried to yell, but it wasn’t any use. I wanted to tell ’em that the grain room was full of wild animals, but all I could do was glub a little. I knowed dam’ well nobody would find us in the mornin’, unless they performed an attopsy on a lion and a tiger. My gun was gone, my hands tied and my voice cut off just behind my tonsils.
Dirty was makin’ a lot of funny noises, but ’nobody paid any attention to him. They shoved us around to the back door, which they had opened. The lantern was still lighted. Smoky comes in, leadin’ several of them circus horses.
“Better unhook that front door,” says Tombstone. “It locks from this side. We want to be all set to git out of here. P’session is nine points in the law, and we p’sesses right now. Git them harnesses on and let’s git goin’.”
We hears one of ’em slidin’ that front door open kinda easy-like.
“Unfasten that grain room door,” says Yuma, “and let’s git these two jiggers off our hands. No use of me holdin’ ’em, when there’s more important work to be done.”
I look at Dirty in the lantern light. His hair is standin’ up on end, and his one loose eye is doin’ a war dance. He’s tryin’ to tell ’em why we don’t want to go in that grain room, and it sounds like a hawg diggin’ for roots.
“Oof gloogl oof oof glug mff glug oogle,” says he.
“Shut up, you damn’ Eskimo!” snorts Tombstone. “Open the door, Yuma, and I’ll see how far inside I can kick these two Piperockers.”
And he kicked me so far inside that my vertebrae knocked a chunk off my solar plexus. Me and Dirty landed on our hands and knees jist inside the door, when a cross between a yaller streak and a locomotive went between us. That is, he went between us as far as the rope would let him, and then he took up the slack. I went upward and backward and my spinal column rattled like a handful of poker chips when my back hit the wall beside the door.
It’s my opinion that the rope broke, but I won’t swear to anythin’, except that I bounced off that wall and landed with my nose against the side of the big grain bin. I see a lot of stars that ain’t never been seen by any telescope, but I didn’t lose my presence of mind. Somethin’ seemed to be sayin’, “Ike Harper, esquire, don’t forget that even with the lion out there somewhere, eatin’ up Yaller Horse and Piperock, you are still among the tiger; and while the lion is the king of beasts, the tiger is the minister of war.”
And that still, small voice made me forget my sore nose and unjointed vertebrae. But the Harper fambly are fighters from the belt both ways. The door is shut, but I can hear sounds of conflict outside. The rope comes loose from my hands, and I gathers m’ muscles--what’s left to gather--and gits ready for anythin’.
It’s awful dark in there, and I’ve lost all track of direction, but m’ ears are tuned plenty. Then I hears that tiger--Jessie James. He’s goin’ soft, kinda sniffin’, sniffin’ along. I’ve fought all kinds of things in one way or another, but I don’t _sabe_ the proper attack on tigers; so this is kinda new to me, and jist about the time I’m tryin’ to figure out a plan of battle, as they say, Jessie James rubs agin me.
As I said before, I’m plumb lackin’ in feelin’s, but the fightin’ instinct is strong within me, and I took to that tiger like he was m’ long lost brother. Did we have conflict? Ask the man who has took to a tiger. There wasn’t no furniture in that grain room to hamper us--jist four walls and some big grain bins--plenty room to show the superiority of the white race agin’ the striped.
We went around and around that place in the dark, kickin’, bitin’, scratchin’, bumpin’ into the walls. Sometimes the tiger is on top, and agin Ike Harper rises above all obstacles and whangs that man eater from above. We’re both active, as you might say, but I hit m’ head on the wall a few times, and I’ve got inside information that unless the tiger has had about enough, the fight is goin’ agin the white race. And about that time I gits my hand on what feels like a loaded quirt, and the next time I gits on top, I socks Mr. Tiger over the head with all my remainin’ strength. It was plenty. The tiger sighs kinda deep, relaxes, and Ike Harper rolls off on his back, weak but triumphant. Barrin’ that one wallop with the quirt, I’ve whipped a man eater with m’ bare hands. I’m takin’ a lot of deep breaths and wonderin’ how much of this is goin’ to be believed, when I hears a weak voice sayin’--
“Ay don’t like dis haar t’ing.”
“Olaf, is that you?” I asks
“Ay am de calli-yupe player,” says he. “My name is Yergens, from Copenhagen.”
“C’mon down, Olaf. Everythin’ is all right--I’ve whipped the tiger.”
“Ay am down.”
With a hand that feels like it belonged to somebody else, I finds a match and managed to scratch it on the floor. Beside me lays Olaf Jergens, minus most of his clothes, both eyes blacked and a long scratch across his nose. We stare at each other until the match goes out.
“Where’s the tiger?” I asks.
“Ay don’t know,” says Olaf painful-like, “Ay have whip heem, Ay t’ink. Yeeminy gosh, we have fight!”
“And you let him git away from you?”
“Ay t’ink de ruff fall in on me.”
I tried the door, but it was locked. Olaf wasn’t very steady, but he followed me up the stairs to the loft. I’ve lost all fear of that tiger, but my legs don’t track good; so I gets down on my hands and knees and starts crawlin’ toward that hay hole agin, with Olaf crawlin’ behind me. He don’t know what it’s all about, but he’s too dumb to ask questions.
We reached the hay hole, when I happens to turn my head, and there’s the two shiny eyes of that tiger behind us. He must have been hidin’ in the loft. I sat up with my back toward the hay hole. I wanted to save my life as much as ever, but I didn’t want to take that fifteen foot jump agin. Mebbe the tiger had an idea that we had him cornered.
Jist then the floor seems to kinda raise under me, and the stable begins to shake.
“Yo-o-o-o-o-owr-r-r-r-r-rr!” yowls Jessie James, and he came between me and Olaf Jergens like an arrer from a bow.
* * * * *
I made one grab with both hands, got me a flyin’ tackle on some part of that tiger, and went out through that hay hole with such a jerk that I yanked my backbone into place agin. I let loose in midair and landed with a splat right on the broad back of that elephant, which is half-way through the door of the livery stable and don’t seem to be able to go either way. That was what was givin’ us an earthquake feelin’ up there.
There’s horses and people runnin’ everyway, yellin’, givin’ advice.
“Shoot him!” yells Pete Gonyer.
“Shoot him.”
I reckon they meant me, ’cause the first bullet nicked a chunk off the bridge of my nose. The elephant is surgin’ and gruntin’, and the old stable is loosenin’ in all her joints. And then there comes another sound. The only thing I ever heard make a noise like that was the old automobile Tombstone Todd won at the Piperock raffle. It had a horn on it that sounded like the wail of a lost soul. Yaller Rock County forbid Tombstone from runnin’ it, and he stored it in a blacksmith shop in Paradise.
Nearer and nearer she comes, wailin’ plenty. Even the elephant stops his house wreckin’ and tries to pull loose. And then we see it in the moonlight, and it’s an automobile, runnin’ like a comet, with fire shootin’ out the rear end. It hit a little culvert at the end of the street, about a hundred feet from the stable, whirled around on one wheel, and in less time than it takes to tell it, the danged thing hit the elephant square in the rear end.
The front end was jist high enough to knock the elephant loose from his hind legs, and he came backwards with the whole front of the livery stable, and we all crashed down in a shudderin’ heap. My light went out then. It had been flickerin’ badly, anyway.
When I woke up, I’m settin’ in a chair in Buck’s saloon. There’s Yuma Yates, Hardpan Hawkins and Smoky Potts. All three of ’em look like the climax of a nightmare. It seems as though all of Piperock is there. Propped up in a chair is a stranger. He’s wearin’ what’s left of a checked suit, a white collar sticks straight up the back of his neck, and around his neck is the brim of a derby hat. Both of his eyes are black and his nose looks like a peeled beet.
“Here’s another one,” says Magpie.
Runnin’ Wolf comes in through the doorway, and he’s shore a downtrodden lookin’ aborigine. He’s been hit so hard that he’s more bow-legged than ever, and all he’s wearin’ is about half of a boiled shirt and a twisted eagle feather.
“Set down,” orders Magpie. Runnin’ Wolf tries to, but he can’t bend.
“What happened?” asks the stranger, plenty hoarse. “I don’t remember much. I was in that town they call Paradise and I wanted to come up here. That Indian had an automobile and offered to take me up here with him. We missed the road and knocked down a lot of little trees, I think, and some of them must have hit me in the head.”
“The Injun was drivin’ it, eh?”
“I drive,” nodded Runnin’ Wolf. “Go like hell.”
“Where did you git that horseless carriage?” asks Magpie.
“Tombstone traded it to him for the circus,” groans Yuma.
“Traded for what circus?” asks the stranger.
“Oh, the one an Injun brought in here.”
“Traded? Say, that outfit belongs to me! I rented it to that Injun. He wanted to put on style, and I needed the money. Where are my animals?”
I’ve been listenin’ to all this, but my eyes have been on the back door, where Dirty Shirt is standin’ with his back toward us, pullin’ on a rope which extends around the corner. He turns his head and says:
“I dunno where the rest of your damn’ mee-nagerie is, mister--but I’ve got the lion. Gimme a hand, will you?”
“You--you got the lion on that rope?” yelps Magpie.
“Yea-a-a-ah--and he’s balkin’ on me. Gimme a hand, will you?”
In less than three seconds there’s only me and Dirty Shirt left in the place. I managed to git to my feet and go wobblin’ down to Dirty, who is bracin’ his feet, pullin’ awful hard. I slips out my knife and cut the rope, and Dirty went over backwards against the wall.
I helped Dirty to his feet and we went wobblin’ down to the front door. He thought the rope broke. We went outside, hangin’ on to each other, and almost run into Tombstone Todd. He’s got a rope tangled around his neck and one arm, and he ain’t got enough clothes on to build a handkerchief.
“Wh-where’s the lul-lion go?” he asks.
We didn’t know.
“It dragged me all over the damn’ town,” he wails. “Tried to drag me into the saloon, but the rope busted. I’m through. I traded Runnin’ Wolf my horseless carriage for his damn’ circus, but I take my loss cheerfully.”
An apparition limps in out of the dark. It is Olaf.
“Ay am de calli-yupe player,” says he. “My name is Yergens, from Copenhagen.”
“Did you know Chief Axlegrease only rented that circus outfit?” I asks.
“He tal me, ‘You say Ay buy dis outfit, and Ay pay you ten doolar.’ Ay don’t get no pay. Ay am what you call socker.”
“And,” sighs Dirty Shirt, “when Barnum said that he didn’t jist mean that they had to be born thataway. Lotsa grown folks git that way. I lose ten dollars, too.”
“I’ll make that damn’ Injun give me back my gas buggy,” groans Tombstone.
“If I’m any judge,” says I, “you’ll have to take it out of the elephant’s hide.”
Next mornin’ they found the lion and tiger sleepin’ together in their cage, and the elephant eatin’ up all of Pete Gonyer’s haystack; so the owner paid Pete for his loss and took ’em away. I was glad to see ’em leavin’. I’ve always been a great lover of animals--but I owned a lion onct. His name was Judas.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 15, 1929 issue of _Adventure Magazine_.]