Part 2

“_Klahowya_,” greeted the old warrior. “Me catchum talking paper. Good! My klooch too much belong to me. _Sabe_? Me brungum young klooch. Good cook. You betchum life!”

“Even the reservation wasn’t sacred,” said Chuck, in a far-away voice.

“Love is like a Shepherd’s Bible--it has a wide circulation.”

“I--I--” The old man choked and teetered back and forth on his feet. “I--oh--!” And he weaved toward the house with the pair of aborigines trailing behind.

Chuck and Hen stared at each other and then went back to finish dressing. Chuck swore softly over a tight boot and Hen nodded agreement. They were just putting on their belts when Muley came in, grinning, and dumped his saddle into a corner. Chuck and Hen merely glanced at him, as he sat down on a bunk, and grinned over a letter.

“Got a letter from Telescope,” he announced. “Listen to this:

“The opery troupe busted up in Silver Bend, and I’ve got a mate for the old man. Her name is Evangeline Van Dyke. We’re both broke. Send me ten dollars. If she don’t suit I’ll get her a job slinging hash. She looks fine by lamplight. Tell Chuck and Hen to stop worrying, ’cause this settles the cat-hop.”

“You sent him the money?” asked Hen, and Muley nodded.

“Uh-huh. He’s too late though, ’cause I’ve brought that new hasher from Paradise to apply for the position. She’ll make a hit with the old man. Leave it to little Muley to furnish the goods.”

Muley shut the door, and Chuck stared at the ceiling dazedly, while Hen got up and walked to the door and gazed toward the house.

“Chuck, come here and have a look!” exclaimed Hen.

Chuck walked over and gazed toward the house. The front porch was filled with the gentle sex, and from the attitudes there was a coldness between each and every one.

“Gee gosh!” gasped Chuck. “Poor old Jay Bird!”

“Howdy, boys,” greeted a voice, and they turned to see Doc Milliken, riding up.

He climbed off his horse and squinted at the ranch-house.

“Remember what you mentioned to me one day, Doc?” asked Chuck. “About the old man getting a wife? See what your prescription done?”

“Golly!” Doc looked at the riot of color on the porch, and then: “I never knew he was a Mormon, Chuck. I’ll congratulate him.”

Doc walked up the path, but turned and went around to the back door. Chuck and Hen leaned carelessly against the doorway, and Chuck even essayed to whistle a funeral march, when they heard a whoop and a crash and the kitchen window, sash and all, came out along with Doc Milliken. Doc sprawled on the ground for an instant, shook the casing loose from his neck, and galloped toward his horse. Without a backward glance he jumped into the saddle, ignoring stirrups, and skidded his mount around the corner of the barn.

A second after Doc disappeared around the corner, old man Whittaker limped out of the kitchen door, with a rifle in his hands. He looked all around and then plodded down to the bunkhouse, where he peered around the corner and then shook his head sadly.

“Out of range?” queried Chuck, and the old man nodded.

“Wrong diagnosis?” asked Hen.

“Gol dang him, he makes fun of misfortune!” wailed the old man. “He came in there and he says--‘Morning, Elder!’ I’d love to kill a horse-doctor. How in thunder am I ever going to get rid of them women?”

“You might ask Muley,” suggested Chuck. “He’s up there in the house, looking for your opinion.”

“Muley, eh? I’ll try anything a few times,” and he trotted up to the house, and brushed past the women.

“I’m going to go away pretty soon, Henry,” said Chuck solemnly. “This is getting too much for--look!”

Muley Bowles’ fat body slams through the crowd, crashed against the railing of the porch, which gives way, and Muley landed on his neck in the dirt. He got to his feet, walked dazedly around in a circle, and then pointed straight for the bunkhouse. A section of the porch is around one of his feet, and he drags it along like a toggled bear. He stopped in front of Chuck and Hen, and smiled absently.

“How did the old man like her, Muley?” inquired Chuck.

Muley rubbed a swelling on the back of his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“Take a look and answer it your own self,” he wailed. “I knowed she wasn’t no Lillian Russell for looks, but I didn’t think she’d drive him to murder.”

“What did you say to him?” asked Chuck sympathetically.

“Say? I said: ‘I’m the _hombre_ what delivers the goods. She can cook----’ ”

“What did he say?” grinned Hen.

“He didn’t say,” wailed Muley. “He hit me with a chair and pitched me off the porch. He can keep his old thousand dollars--ornery old son-of-a-gun!”

* * * * *

Came the rattle of a buggy, and they turned to see Telescope Tolliver and a lady. The lady was a stranger to the trio, and was resplendent in gorgeous colors, both as to complexion and clothes, and Telescope smiled triumphantly, as he pointed at the porch with his whip.

“What’s going on up there?” he asked.

“Reception,” grunted Chuck, wiggling his ears at the lady. “Muley spread the word, Telescope, and it’s a bridal reception waiting for you.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed the lady, and Hen nodded. “Yes’m--I hope so.”

“Where’s the old man?” asked Telescope.

“In the house,” replied Chuck. “Bashful old pelican.”

Telescope swung the team around and drove to the house. Muley grinned sadly and walked unsteadily into the bunkhouse, while Chuck and Hen followed the rig up to the house.

Telescope stopped with a flourish, and a smile at the reception committee, but there were no answering smiles. Telescope glanced inquiringly at Chuck, but the latter’s immobile, trusting eyes gave him no clue.

“Hold the team, will you, Chuck?” asked Telescope. “I want to go in and see the old man.”

“You don’t need to get down,” stated the old man’s voice from the door, and he stumbled out with his hat in his hand and cold anger in his eyes.

“Mister Whittaker, this is Miss Van Dyke,” announced Telescope. “She can cook a little, and ----”

The old man kicked loose a remnant of the broken porch, which hit one of the high-strung horses in the ribs, and then he hopped into the air and cracked his heels together.

“Yeah-h-h-h-h-h!” he screeched and threw his hat at the head of the nearest horse, with the result the front wheel of the buggy removed the rest of the broken porch, left the wheel there as a token, and rattled and banged out of sight across the prairie.

When Telescope made the introduction he was standing up, and when the team whirled into the porch Telescope imitated a pin-wheel and lit in the dust on his back with Miss Van Dyke sitting on his chest.

She slid from there to the ground and tried to lift her big hat off the bridge of her nose. Telescope got to his feet, dug the dirt out of his eyes, and pointed at the lady. He couldn’t talk.

The old man nodded understandingly and jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the rest of the frightened women.

“Herd her with the rest, Telescope,” he said. “Bunch ’em until I can build a corral.” And then he limped slowly down toward the bunkhouse.

Henry and Chuck turned slowly and followed the old man, who walked into the bunkhouse door, and then came right out again, with the big water bucket hanging around his neck. He wandered straight for the corral, talking to himself and slapping his hands on his hips.

Muley peered out as Chuck and Hen came up to the door.

“Old pelican thought he could slip down here and hand me another one, I reckon,” grinned Muley. “Golly, he sure must of hated that lady on sight. I handed him the bucket full of water, believe me!”

Chuck gave Muley an idea of what happened to Telescope, and he shook his head, sadly.

“We sure must have guessed wrong--or Chuck lied about that thousand dollars.”

“I didn’t lie!” snapped Chuck. “He said it. You and that animated flagpole had to cut in and do a jobbing business, and ruin things. I told you to keep off, didn’t I? He’d ought to kill you both, believe me!”

“Say, is Whittaker around here?” inquired a voice at the door.

“Howdy, Hank,” greeted Hen. “How’s things at the Seven A?”

“Mer-r-yah!” snarled Padden. “Where is he?”

“Down at the corral, I reckon,” answered Chuck.

“Corral?”

“Yes,” nodded Chuck. “Want me to give you a map? He don’t know what the word means, boys, ’cause his animals are all raised pets.”

Chuck and Hen, scenting trouble, followed Padden down to where the old man stood at the corral gate, gazing off into space. He whirled and glared at Padden.

“Why don’t you get a nose-bag?” asked Padden sarcastically. “Look better than that bucket.”

The old man stared down at the bucket, and then threw it over the fence.

“What do you want, Padden?” he demanded.

“Where’s my Swede cook?” asked Padden. “You danged kidnaper! Make love to my cook will you?” and he made a rush at the old man.

The footing was none too secure, and Padden must have misjudged the distance, because, when the whirl of dust blew away, Padden’s head was through a space between the poles of the fence, and the old man was on his hands and knees, administering chastisement to Padden with a piece of broken board. Padden managed to squirm loose and got out of range of that broken board.

“I ain’t kidnapped--uh--no--uh--Swede!” panted the old man. “If she’s up at the--uh--uh--house--go get her! Gol--uh--dang it!”

Padden looked himself over sadly and nodded, and then limped up toward the house.

“What seems to be the trouble around here?” inquired a voice, and they turned to see Johnny Myers, foreman of the Triangle, sitting there on his horse, staring at them.

“How--howdy, Johnny,” panted the old man.

“How--howdy ----!” snorted Johnny. “I came for my cook, and I’m going right up and get her. _Sabe_?”

“He’s a gentleman and I wish him luck,” stated the old man hopefully, as Myers rode toward the house. “Reckon I better wash up a little before somebody else brings me a cook.”

Hen and Chuck wandered back to the bunkhouse, just as Padden and Myers rode down that way and stopped. The old man sat on the edge of the horse trough and slowly washed his hands, and paid no attention to them as they rode past.

“Chuck, I’d admire to have some kind of an explanation,” begged Padden, glancing back at the house. “Hulda insists that she’s hired out for seventy-five a month and won’t come back to the Seven A.”

“Annie puts up the same howl,” nodded Myers. “Old J. B. ain’t got no use for two cooks.”

“Two?” yelped Chuck. “Two? Them are all cooks up there!”

“My ----!” exclaimed Hank piously. “I hit a crazy man!”

“Yes,” agreed Hen, “and you’ll be sorry every time you set down, Hank.”

“Here comes the sheriff and the doctor,” grinned Myers. “Between that combination we ought to do well.”

“I’ve got a warrant for the arrest of J. B. Whittaker, charging attempt to murder upon the person of Doctor Milliken,” announced the sheriff. “Where is Jay Bird, Chuck?”

“He tried to puncture my earthly envelope,” apologized Doc. “He’s cook crazy!”

Chuck wiggled his ears desperately for a moment, and then:

“You fellers all come in the bunkhouse with me. I got something to tell you.”

* * * * *

They filed into the bunkhouse, and gathered around Chuck, while he unfolded the whole tale, as near as he could.

“We was getting rotten cooking,” concluded Chuck lamely, “and--everybody seemed to think he wanted to get married.”

“He really said he’d give a thousand dollars if he was married,” stated Hen. “He sure did.”

“That warrant is null and void, Bill,” laughed Doc. “I don’t blame the old man a bit, but how in thunder is he ever going to explain things to all them women?”

“My cook is a darn good pot-wrastler, but her head is six feet thick,” wailed Padden. “She can’t see nothing but that seventy-five dollars.”

“Mine, too,” nodded Johnny Myers. “She’s minus understanding.”

“You do it, Doc,” begged Chuck. “Can’t you frame something?”

Doc Milliken scratched his head for a moment, and then:

“Hank, you hitch up a team to the old man’s hay-rack, and the rest of you fellers stay right here. I got an idea.”

They shut the door behind them, and in a few minutes the old man came in slowly and sat down on a bunk.

“I’m sick,” he announced sadly. “I’m a sick man.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Chuck. “You’re suffering from a complication of females, old-timer.”

Bill McFee picked up a greasy deck of cards and began to build a solitaire layout, while the rest of the crowd watched him, abstractedly. Suddenly the door creaked and through the narrow opening came Telescope’s voice:

“Hey, Muley! Pitch my war-sack outside, will you?”

“Ain’t fired are you, Telescope?” asked Chuck.

“Not me--I’m quitting. I ain’t going to get no smallpox.”

“Smallpox?” grunted the old man. “Who’s got smallpox?”

“You have!” yelped Telescope. “Leave my stuff there, Muley. I don’t want it after he’s contaminated it that way.”

“Well, ----!” wailed the old man, as the door banged shut. “What will I have next? I ain’t got no smallpox--gol dingle dang it! Where could I get smallpox?”

“From me,” laughed Doc Milliken, sticking his head into the back window. “I gave you the first thing I thought of. That accounts for it all. You was delirious and didn’t know what you was doing. Talk about fast colors! Whooe-e-e! Calico never faded so fast.”

Came the rattle of a wagon, and they made a rush to the door, in time to see a wagon-load of women jolt past and roll out of sight up the road.

“Gone!” gasped the old man. “Gone! I’m too much relieved to be curious, but I’d sure like to have a little light on the subject. Am I or am I not crazy?”

“You are,” declared Chuck. “But not too crazy.”

“Chuck,” the old man hitched his gun around to the front, and rubbed the palms of his hands on his hips. “Chuck, you’re doing the talking.”

“Well,” said Chuck, “we thought--now, keep your hands off that gun! You want to hear this? Well, fold your arms. Seems like everybody wanted to get you married, and you said--remember the day I brought you that long letter? Remember I said that you ought to get married, and you said: ‘I’d give a thousand dollars if I was.’ Remember that? You said you’d give a thousand if you was, and ----”

“Yeah!” howled the old man. “Yeah, I said that! Go ahead!”

“Didn’t you mean it?” asked Chuck.

“Gol dingle dang it! Course I meant it.”

“Well,” wearily, “what you kicking about? We done the best we could to earn that money and make you happy.”

“Best?” yelped the old man. “You done your ----”

“Necktie party?” inquired a voice, and they turned to see Ricky Henderson sitting there on a pinto horse, grinning at them. He looped one long leg around the horn of his saddle and calmly rolled a cigaret.

“Well, let’s get to the bottom of this here thing,” grunted Whittaker. “Go ahead, Chuck.”

“Well,” continued Chuck, glaring at Ricky, “you said you’d give a thousand dollars if you was married, and ----”

“Yah!” spat the old man. “I said it--dang you! I said I’d give a thousand dollars if I was married. Can’t you understand United States language? Listen: I don’t like to tell this in public, but there comes a time in the life of every darn man when he gets so mad or crazy that he has to bare his soul. _Sabe_? I’m both, I reckon. When I was down at Great Falls, a month ago, I met a female of the species who seems to be a gold-digger, and she--she sued me for breach of promise and ten thousand dollars. That long letter was from a lawyer--dang you, Chuck.”

“You said you’d give a thousand dollars if you was--” began Chuck weakly.

“Was--you imbecile!” howled the old man. “Was--not to get! Now, who is to blame for ----”

“Wait,” begged Chuck. “Wait a minute.”

Chuck whirled and trotted to the door of the bunkhouse, and came back in a moment, with a bunch of envelopes in his hands. He sorted them over and glared at Ricky, who looked supremely innocent of wrongdoing.

“Ricky,” Chuck placed both hands on his hips and wiggled his ears at Ricky. “Ricky, did you ever find out who sent you that picture of a barber shaving a pig?”

“Nope,” replied Ricky, shaking his head.

“Wish I knew. I sure bought a lot of them things, and I handed somebody a bunch, but nobody peeped.”

“Nobody peeped, eh?” snapped Chuck. “You sure handed somebody a bunch, Mister Henderson. The wrong folks got it handed to them.”

Chuck tore open an envelope, looked at the contents, and then handed the whole bunch to Ricky.

“Take your darn funny pictures and get off the ranch before I ----”

“My ----!” gasped Ricky, staring at the envelopes. “I--I sent the wrong bunch of letters!”

“You most absolutely did!” yelled Chuck.

“I--I wish I knew who sent that one to me?” mumbled Ricky foolishly. “I--I’d like to get even. I’d send this whole works to that one person. I’d sure like to get even with that person.”

“Yah?” yelped the old man. “Would, eh? Say you would? Well, gol darn your hide, Ricky, you are! According to my judgment you’re even. _Sabe_? I--I sent it to you.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the April 3, 1919 issue of Adventure magazine.]