Part 2

“_Squr-r-r-r-reek! Meo-o-o-o-o-ow! Yip, yip, yip!_”

First comes Amelia. She’s traveling so blamed fast that she looks like a string of about six cats. Right behind her comes that coyote pup, digging deep into his soul for joyful sounds, and behind him, screeching and screaming comes Alfred, and they invades the parlor.

Wick hops to his feet as they enters, and of course he’s the highest point in the room. A cat will always hit for elevation—therefore Wick got Amelia. Me and Muley sort of draws back to keep the score, but things happens too fast for computation. Amelia draws all four feet together in Wick’s scalp, the same of which makes Wick wrinkle up his face, and forget the rheumatism in his legs. The bird and the coyote don’t do much except cut circles until Wick starts, blind-like to leave there, and falls over a chair.

Wick turns over once, lands on his hands and knees, and pilgrims out of the door, with the cat prospecting his dandruff, Alfred hopping up and down on his back, and the coyote pup hanging on to his coattails, and skidding along, making little snappy barks of delight.

They all rolls off the porch, where the three animals tangles up, leaving Wick alone. He forks his bronc in a hurry, and sets there rubbing the haze out of his eyes.

Amelia is setting a new cross-country record for cats, as she hunts for a high spot, and the pup is singing along right behind her.

Alfred walks circles around a post for a few seconds, and then flutters to the top of the hitch-rack. He ruffles up what feathers he’s got left, cocks his head on one side and screeches:

“Har, har, har! Sheep dip! Who’s crazy?”

“My gosh!” explodes Wick. “That cyclone hit me so hard that I can see green eagles and hear ’em talk!” and he backs his bronc away, cautious-like, and leaves us in a hurry.

Me and Muley looks at each other for a while, and then Muley yawns:

“I must have lost that piece of letter where Zeb could find it. Well, it didn’t say nothing about buying sheep, anyway, Hen.”

“Lucky it didn’t, Muley. If the community thought you intended to bring eighty thousand dollars’ worth of sheep on to this range you’d be the honored guest at a cravat party. Your auntie didn’t understand conditions when she wrote that will, Muley.”

“Why emphasize ‘when she wrote that will,’ Henry!” he asks, sad-like. “After looking at Alfred and Amelia—well, Henry, there’s a destiny what shapes our ends.”

Next morning at breakfast we’re interrupted. Comes a thump of feet outside the door, and a voice yells—

“Hello, the house!”

“Hello the ——!” says I. “That sounds like Zeb Abernathy, Muley.”

Muley steps over and picks up the old man’s shotgun.

“Let him in, Henry,” says he. “If he comes on the prod I’ll scatter his remains to the four winds.”

I opens the door, and the old pelican bows to me like I was the fourth king in the deck to enter his hand.

“Howdy, Henry,” says he, and then he happens to see Muley with the shotgun. “I comes in sorrow not in anger,” he states, “my soul is filled with contrition.”

“As long as she’s filled with something I’ll save my buckshot,” opines Muley. “Come on in and rest your ticks, Zeb Abernathy.”

“Nice weather,” observes Zeb, mopping his face with a red handkerchief. “May rain and it may not. I kind of look for a dry spell.”

“The Weather Bureau at Washington gets but annual reports, which reach us too late, so we thanks you for the information,” says Muley.

“I hope I see you both well,” opines Zeb.

“Your eyesight don’t worry me none to speak about,” states Muley. “The last time I meets up with you I made you throw your gun down the well. How’s your sentiments concerning me at present?”

“I’m filled with meekness and contrition, as I aforementioned, Le-mule. It aches my heart to know that I provoked you thataway, and I pilgrims over here to make amends. Sabe?”

“Why this sudden change of attitude?” inquires Muley, and Zeb sort of squirms in his chair.

“She comes to me like a yelp in the night,” says he, pious-like, “I gets to thinking thusly: ‘Le-mule Allender Bowles, I ain’t treated you right. I hops on to you like a coyote on a carcass, and reviles you abusive-like, ’cause you desires to marry into my family. I lets my interest in Susie blind me to her best interests, but now I sheds the scales off my eyes, and comes out into the sunshine of true understanding.

“The more I thinks about it, Le-mule, the worse I feels. Youth calls to youth, and what is stronger than the call of true love? She ain’t never yelped at me, boys, but I’m a heap wise. While Le-mule is only getting forty a month now, I feels that in the due course of time he’ll be a shining light of the community, and maybe go to Congress.”

“Good sentiments, Zeb,” I agrees, “but it will likely be a close race between the voters and the sheriff to decide whether he goes to Helena or Deer Lodge.”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Zeb. “Muley will never go to the penitentiary.”

“Not willingly,” I agrees. “What are your sheep worth today?”

“I have no sheep, Henry,” he grins. “Sold out to a feller from St. Marie’s basin, and his drive started today. Yep. I’m a civilian now.”

“Got a good price, too,” he grins, when he sees me look foolish-like at Muley. “Glad I sold. Too much sentiment against sheep. Well, boys, I reckon I’ll toddle along. I couldn’t sleep until I comes over and squares myself with Le-mule. Come over and make yourself to home at my place, Le-mule.”

“Thanks, Zeb-uleon,” says Muley, “I may do that little thing, Zeb-uleon. How’s Susie, Zeb-uleon?”

“Tolable, Le-mule. She’s pining.”

We watches him ride away, and then Muley spits, reflectively:

“Henry, if that old pelican had called me Le-mule once more I’d have slaughtered him. He must have found that letter I lost.”

“You ought to invest your money in a detective agency, and run it yourself. I suppose you’ll go over to see Susie?”

“Dang well know I will! Why not?”

“Go ahead. Go ahead, Muley, and lose a hundred thousand. What’s a fortune beside her? Your brain ain’t big enough, Muley. When it gets over forty dollars it all looks alike to you. You take my advice and buy sheep.”

“Yah-h-h-h!” he blats. “Where?”

“What will you give me if I buy ’em for you?” I asks.

“You? You got a dead aunt, too, Henry?”

“No, but I got brains, and I can buy sheep.”

“Go buy ’em then!” he snaps, “I’m from Missouri—me.”

* * * * *

Muley rides away in the general direction of his heart’s desire, and I gets an inspiration. Over in St. Marie’s basin is plenty of sheep, and I never saw a sheep-man yet what wouldn’t sell out. I like Muley. Dog-gone his irresponsible heart, I like him. His mind ain’t big enough to contemplate a hundred thousand dollars, and I feels glad for him that he’s got a friend like me to make good for him.

I may be rewarded for my efforts, and maybe not, but anyway I’ve always wanted to handle big money, and show to the world that Henry Peck could be more than he’s ever showed.

I saddles up Glory and puts a pack on Blazer, and leaves a note for Muley, telling him that I’ll be back on the fatal day to save him from ruin. Little Henry is going to be a hero, and hopes to do his heroing on a commission basis.

I pilgrims over into a country that cowmen designates as being a fair example of the place where sinners will reside in the hereafter, and eats mutton and talks sheep.

Believe me I could talk sheep faster than the men that owned the herds, and I confides in ’em about Muley’s inheritance. Of course I didn’t tell it all, but anyway I got options on enough sheep to cause Yaller Rock County to build an extra wing on the insane asylum, and said options didn’t cost me a cent.

“Old Testament” Tilton rides back with me. I’ve spent about fifteen thousand of Muley’s credit with him, and being a minister, he’s a little suspicious of his fellow-men.

“I ride with you for the good of my soul,” orates the old boy, when he offers to accompany me.

I reckon that when a shepherd goes into cow-land, it’s like taking a ship into fresh water to knock off the barnacles.

He’s a queer old coot. Imagine a man of his cognomen, add the smell of sheep, dress him up around the neck like a preacher, tuck his pants into the top of a pair of heavy boots, and you’ve got a portrait of Old Testament. He rides a little calico bronc, with one cropped ear and a rat-tail, and calls it Ebenezer. The only way, I figure, that he could ever hand out salvation would be by correspondence.

“Now, this here Le-mule Bowles,” remarks the old boy, “do you think I could induce him to come into the vineyard?”

“Muley will go into anything that’s got a door on it,” says I. “Also, he’ll take anything what ain’t nailed down.”

“I fear me it will be a task,” he says, sad-like, and then he sort of brightens up. “Have you ever considered your soul?”

“I have no soul,” says I.

“Say not that you are a lost sheep,” he chides me, and it makes me sore, and I points off down the valley.

“We’re in cow-land now, old-timer, so you lay off on that lost-sheep stuff. Sabe? Down here they calls ’em plain strays.”

We plods down into the Sleeping Creek country, and stops at Hank Padden’s place for dinner. Old Testament and Hank are old friends, but Hank don’t more than give me a nod. I reckon he ain’t forgot what he thought was Muley’s voice, and he blames me, too. When we gets ready to leave Hank acts like I had a contagious disease.

“Drop in any old time, Tilton,” says Hank. “Glad to see you.”

“Me, too, Hank?” I asks, and he gives me a hard look.

“You travels on your own responsibility,” he replies.

“I wonder what Hank is sore at me for?” I asks Old Testament, a little later, but he shakes his head, and mumbles something about the flocks on the seven hills and the wrath to come.

“Did you tell him that I bought them sheep?” I asks, and he nods.

“Yea. I did not lie, Henry Peck. I know naught of Bowles.”

“I suppose you also told him that I was going to stock this here range with sheep, didn’t you?”

“I merely told him that I surmised so.”

We rides almost to the Cross J, when we overtakes Abe Evans, the depot agent at Paradise.

“Gosh! I’m glad you caught me,” pants Abe, “I never was built to fit a saddle, and this here nag ain’t no rocking-chair. Here’s a telegram for Lemule Bowles, charges paid. You sign for it, Hen, and let me go back home.”

We pilgrims on to the ranch, but Muley ain’t there. There’s a note on the table which orates that he’ll be there at three o’clock, and it’s addressed to Weinie Lopp, of the Triangle.

“This here telegram ought to be opened,” opines Old Testament, who is as nosey as a pet coon. “A telegram always means that something is going to happen, and it’s better to be prepared.”

I tears the cover off and looks her over. It says—

Will arrive your town this date meet me with a vehicle.

And she’s signed Frederick & Quincy.

I looks at my watch and decides on quick action.

“You set down here and rest your feet,” says I to Old Testament, “I’ll hitch up the buckboard, and go to town. I just got enough time to get there.”

That was some ride. Them broncs were as wild as deer, and we went to Paradise so fast that the dust didn’t settle for thirty minutes after I ties up at the station.

The train is late, so I goes over to Mike Pelly’s place, and washes the sheep-taste out of my throat. It takes quite a lot of liquid, and when I goes back to the station I’m sheep-proof.

The train pulls in and I spots my man. There’s quite a crowd at the station, but I knowed him the minute he got off, and it takes me about three steps to get where he’s standing. Being sheep-proof, I’m also polite, so I takes his valise away from him, and starts for the rig.

“Come on, Blackstone,” says I, “your carriage waits without.”

He starts with me, but he seems to complain a heap, so I stops and asks him whyfore the objections.

“Where the Sam Hill are you taking my bag?” he asks, getting red in the face. “Who told you to take that valise?”

“Mister,” says I, “don’t excite yourself thataway. I’m doing all I can to make you comfortable. Sabe? I advises you to come along peaceable, and anything you may say will be used against you.”

I always thought that lawyers tried to settle things peaceably, but I don’t reckon this one runs true to form, ’cause he hit me so hard under the chin that he drove my head right up to the top of my hat. That hat always was too small, but after that wallop I has to stuff the sweat-band with paper so she’ll fit.

The train is pulling out when I wakes up, and I sees that fat feller standing on the rear platform.

“What was you aiming to do, Hen?” asks Bill McFee, our sheriff, who is setting beside me on the platform.

“That was the feller I was here to meet, Bill,” says I. “He’s sure a sudden son-of-a-gun for a lawyer.”

“He ain’t no lawyer, Henry,” says Bill. “He’s the railroad paymaster, and he thought you was trying to steal his roll.”

“Wrong man,” says I. “Seen any stranger get off the train?”

Bill shakes his head, so I pilgrims around to where I tied my rig, and there sets Telescope, Chuck and the old man. Them three acts like they was tickled stiff, and Telescope yelps at me—

“Got the telegram, did you, Henry?”

I don’t have nothing to say, and that seems to make ’em more joyful. I don’t keep silent from choice, but that feller darn near unjointed my jaw and she hurts like thunder when I opens my face.

“Muley still wearing crape?” asks Chuck, as we ride out of town, and all three of ’em busts out laughing.

“Danged mean trick,” opines the old man. “You remember Jimmy Frederick, don’t you, Hen? He was out here a few years ago. He knows Muley well. We were up in his office and Telescope and Chuck got him to write that letter.”

“How many sheep has Muley bought on his nerve?” asks Chuck.

“Come on through, Hen. Did he buy out Zeb’s herd? I hope he ain’t got mutton for our supper.” And then Telescope sings sort of plaintive like;

“I love a little chicken and I love a little fish. When somebody says ‘ham and eggs,’ I pass along my dish, When I get good and hungry I could eat a roarin’ bull, But when they passes mutton meat my stummick’s full.”

And then Chuck joins in the chorus:

“I’m a tough old rooster, and I’ve eaten snakes, I’ve spread giant powder on my buckwheat cakes, I’ve drank rawhide stew ’till I was out of breath, But when they serves up mutton meat I starves to death.”

“You’re a fine bunch of friends!” I snaps, taking a chance that my jaw is still on its hinges. “She was his favorite relative, and since that letter he ain’t done nothing but mope. You’re a danged bunch of ghoul comedians. Muley’s due to kill somebody when he finds out about it. What was the main idea?”

“Well,” laughs Telescope, “we made him rich for a while, didn’t we? Zeb orates that he wants Susie to marry money, so we gave it to him in a lump. We puts in that marriage clause just to see if Muley loved her enough to lose the money, Sabe? We knowed danged well that he couldn’t buy no sheep. What did the parrot have to say, Hen?”

“Told Hank Padden he could use sheep dip.”

“Haw, haw, haw!” whoops Chuck. “Did he honest say that? I sat up all one night and day trying to teach that parrot some sheep-talk, but all it ever did was to bite me. Telescope swiped that cat at the depot in Milwaukee.”

* * * * *

Just before we reaches the ranch, three people rides in ahead of us and waits for us to come up. It’s Hank Padden, Johnny Myers and “Scenery” Sims. They all got rifles.

We exchanges greetings, but they don’t seem glad to see nobody but me.

“We don’t aim to be nosey, Mr. Peck,” says Hank, “but we’d admire to hear a little more about them sheep.”

“What sheep?” I asks, surprised-like.

“Old Testament told me,” says Hank. “He spoke about you going to start a herd here and——”

“I thanks you for the compliment,” says I. “It seems nice to be mistaken for a capitalist, Hank, but what I wants to know is this; how long since have you been taking the word of a shepherd? Do I need to deny it?”

“Old Testament must have lied, Hank,” states the old man. “He must have been crazy to state such a thing. Somebody’s crazy anyway.”

“That’s what I said,” squeaks Scenery. “Hen Peck couldn’t buy a pair of wool socks.”

They all nods sort of agreeable-like, and he drives on.

“After a while, when there ain’t nobody around to interrupt us, I’m going to ask you a few questions, Henry,” states Chuck, solemn-like.

“You better bring a witness,” says I. “All I wants is an uninterested third party present so I can prove I shot in self-defense.”

We pulls up to the ranch. The front door is open and two rigs are tied out in front. We pilgrims up to the door, and are greeted with some sight.

There’s Old Testament standing in the middle of the room, with his eyes rolled toward the rafters, while in front of him stands Susie Abernathy and Muley Bowles. Muley’s vest is stretched to the bursting point, and you could light a match on Susie’s freckles.

To one side stands Zeb Abernathy, and on the other stands Weinie Lopp, all dressed up in a celluloid collar, and no place to put his hands.

We hears Old Testament finish up his prayer, and as Muley folds Susie to his bosom we troops inside. Muley sees us over Susie’s shoulder, and breaks the clinch. Zeb grins out through his whiskers and Weinie Lopp turns up the collar of his coat.

Everything is still for a few seconds, and then Old Testament smiles at me over his specs:

“My son,” says he, “it’s fortunate that I came with you. I had considered taking a trip over into the Bitter Roots, and Mister Lopp would have missed me.”

“Exactly,” says I, having the understanding of a fish. “All very true. Was Weinie on your trail?”

“Uh-huh,” gurgles Weinie,“I—I was after a preacher for Muley.”

“They—they just got married,” chuckles Zeb. “Just now.”

“Well,” says Chuck, foolish-like, “who gets the first kiss from the bride—after you, Muley?”

“Muley, you’re a hero!” gasps Telescope. “Any man is a hero who will sacrifice a hundred thousand dollars at the throne of love. Everybody take off your hats to Muley Bowles.”

Everybody’s got their hats off so we don’t respond.

“What did you mean by that, Telescope?” gasps Zeb. “Do—do you mean that he—he’ll lose all that money ’cause he married Susie?”

“You said it, Zeb,” grins Telescope. “Ain’t you proud of him? What a nephew-in-law!” and then he turns to Muley: “Muley, old-timer, I didn’t think you had it in you, but you never can tell which way a dill pickle will squirt. How does it seem to lose a hundred thousand dollars?”

“Well,” grins Muley, putting one arm around the shrinking bride. “I ain’t lying to you when I says I don’t know how it feels. You see, Telescope, the name of Allender don’t cover no branch of my family-tree, and I never had any Aunt Agnes.”

There’s a painful silence for a minute, and then comes a flutter of feathers, and in waddles Alfred. He ain’t got no tail-feathers left, and the rest of his carcass is pretty well plucked. He looks us over, wild-eyed, ruffles up his remaining foliage, croaks:

“Har, har, har! Who’s crazy?”

Zeb looks wide-eyed at the bird for a moment, and then sneaks past it and out on the steps:

“I’m going away,” says he in a low, hoarse voice. “Going away before that bird answers its own questions.”

“Tally three more,” states Telescope, and him and Chuck and the old man sneaks out.

“Make it five,” says I, and me and Weinie goes out, too.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the September 3, 1918 issue of Adventure magazine.]