Part 2

Never since the Lord dumped the leavings of the Bad Lands and wrote in the big book, “They will call this Piperock,” has the old moon looked down upon the like. Into the old cow-town, at five A.M., drags the darndest conglomeration a human ever conceived. The Simpkins’ Stupendous Shows Combined drifted into Piperock. It was Magpie’s idea. I wanted to take the things the other way, but Magpie wanted to give the old-timers the treat of their lives and Magpie usually has his way.

Magpie drove the team, which hauled dogs, monkeys, tent-poles and so forth. Then came Bosco on Alcibiades, leading Allah, and behind them cometh Ike Harper driving four calico ponies hitched to a tiger’s cage, inside of which Cleopatra yowled and complained against alkali, rheumatism and lack of sleep. We led our broncs and left ’em at our own shack as we came past.

We pulled around behind the city, unhitched, unloaded and then laid down on a part of the Pearl of Egypt’s tent and went to sleep. When we wakes up we observes Scenery Sims looking over our outfit.

“What is this here mess and what you fellers aiming to do?” he asks.

“This?” asks Magpie surprized-like. “This is Simpkins’ Stupendous Shows Combined.”

“Yes? What you aiming to do with it?”

“Show her off in Piperock tomorrow. She’s some attraction, Scenery.”

“Belong to you, Magpie?”

“Feathers and everything!”

“Then,” says Scenery, “you better hire somebody to haul it away and bury it.”

“Think you’re funny, don’t you?” asks Magpie. “Get this inside your barren skull, little one: This is a cross between a circus and a carnival and tomorrow she helps to entertain the old-timers. _Sabe?_”

“Smells like a cross between a pole-cat and ancient eggs,” says Scenery. “Remove it from our fair city to once!”

“Away from here? What do you mean, feller?”

“I’m running this celebration.” Scenery pats himself on the chest. “Me and Judge Steele inaugurates same and we has the say-so. _Sabe?_ We adjudicates against anything that ain’t our own doings. In the first place, you ain’t got nothing that attracts us, and in the second place, as the sheriff, I rules against what you have got. You can’t show in the city of Piperock while——”

I saw Alcibiades working closer and closer to Scenery, but I didn’t think it was any business of mine to warn the law. It was nice team-work between Alcibiades and Cleopatra, if anybody asks you. The elephant just wrapped its trunk around Scenery, slammed him up against the cage and he don’t no more than hit the bars when a pair of paws come out and shucks the lower half of Scenery plumb to his birthday suit.

Then Alcibiades cracked the whip with the sheriff, and when he lit twenty feet away he still retains his boots, shirt and an idea of the general direction home.

“Good work!” applauds Bosco, sticking his head out from under the canvas. “Things like that never happen in a carnival.”

“You hang around here very long, Bosco, and you’ll see a lot of things what never happen any place else,” says Magpie.

We’ve just got one tent up when here comes Judge Steele. He hauls out a sheet of paper, balances his glasses on his nose and reads:

“To whom it may concern or annoy:

“Be it knowed this day and date that the city of Piperock, according to the laws of the State of Montana and the rights of humanity, does here and hereby announce to all and sundry, that on the fifth day of August, being tomorrow, there will not be tolerated within our sacred precincts anything of the circus nature. Be it further knowed that the city of Piperock does not hanker for anything of like nature and will not tolerate same. This aforementioned city is aiming to play safe for once, and no questions asked.

“Signed by Lindhardt Cadwallader Sims, sheriff, and wrote out by Judge Steele, notary public. Amen.”

“Is there anything else that Scenery wants?” asks Magpie.

“He said something about a pair of pants, I believe.”

Just then cometh Tombstone, Ace-High, Slow-Elk and Hip-Shot. They stops and considers Alcibiades and then wanders over to us.

“That ultimatum ain’t hardly square, judge,” complains Magpie. “Me and Ike has expended a enormous amount of time and capital on this stupendous aggregation of wonders and we’ve done it all that you might have a enjoyable day. It has cost us a e-normous amount of wasted energy, and in the event that we can’t exhibit here we are broke, busted and worn to the bone.”

“Who says you-all can’t show off here?” asks Hip-Shot.

“It has been so adjudicated by the sheriff,” states the judge. “I wrote her out and I know there ain’t no loop-holes in same. Scenery has decreed that this circus ain’t going to show here, and I represents his feelings.”

“No circus, eh?” says Hip-Shot. “I pines for a circus. How about you fellers?”

“Like a calf for its maw,” agrees Slow-Elk. “I ain’t never seen no circurious, Hip-Shot, but since you spoke I’ve begun to hanker awful for one. Let’s have one.”

“It must be so,” nods Hip-Shot. “We’ll have her.”

“You might talk to the sheriff,” says the judge.

“Talk ——!” grunts Hip-Shot. “Come on, Slow-Elk.”

They pilgrimed away and the rest of us sets down and rolls smokes.

“I just wants to know,” says Ace-High nervous-like, “I just wants to know if there is anybody here except me and Tombstone and the judge and Magpie and Ike? Five is maybe all that is here, but I feels that I’d like to be sure.”

“Much obliged, Ace-High,” says Tombstone. “You’ve got more nerve than I have. Is it or ain’t it?”

“Gents,” says Magpie, “meet Bosco, the wild man. Eats snakes.”

“I could love you, feller,” says Ace-High, “love you for being flesh and blood. Danged if I didn’t think my sins had began to react upon me.”

“Feeling so good I ain’t got the heart to chide you,” says Tombstone, “but if I was you—well, this is a he-man’s town, Bosco, and all that, but we’ve still got some of the finer feelings left, so I’d advise you to get some pants.”

When Slow-Elk and Hip-Shot shows up again, Hip-Shot bows low to us.

“Proceed with your circus,” says he. “All is well and good.”

“You saw Scenery?” asks Magpie joyful-like. “What’d he say?”

“Not much,” grins Slow-Elk. “He said to hang on to them keys, ’cause there ain’t no more like ’em, but he spoke too late.”

“I throwed ’em down that hole where Wick Smith bored for water,” said Hip-Shot.

“Keys to what?” I asks.

“Cell door and the jail,” grins Slow-Elk. “Scenery is bottled up.”

The old judge gets up and shakes out his coat-tails.

“Do you mean to say that our estimable sheriff is locked in his own jail?”

“I pass on the ’steamable part, judge,” grins Slow-Elk, “but you sure guessed the last of it to a gnat’s eyelash. Let’s all have a drink on the sheriff’s impossibilities.”

* * * * *

Then we enters Buck’s place. The rest of the surrounding country is in there and they’re enjoying the fulness of the world. Wick Smith is standing on the bar orating, and we listens to his wau-wau. Wick has been dallying with the weaving water, and his voice is full of silv’ry bells:

“—And friends of old, I says to thee all, there may be cities of gold and silver and palaces of paradise personified, but when a feller hankers for a pat on the back and the grasp of a honest hand and——”

Wick happens to glance down at Bosco and seems to run short on vocal power. He stares at Bosco for a moment, lets his glance wander to the ceiling, shuts his eyes tight and proceeds—

“As I said before, when a feller hankers for a hat on the back and the hasp of a—a——”

Then he glances down again.

“Judge,” says he, sliding off the bar, “you talk a while. I—I reckon my innards are ailing, I reckon.”

He weaves out of the door with his eyes shut.

Bosco looks around at that assemblage and then walks out the back door. Wild men has feelings the same as regular folks, I reckon, but to everybody outside of about six of us Bosco is the limit in hooch hallucinations.

“I’d—I’d set ’em up,” says Buck weak-like.

Six of us faced the barrier but the rest shook their heads. Dirty Shirt took his under advisement. He walked to the door, rung the bell three times, and joined us.

“It may get me e-ventually,” he announces, “but I’m still firm in my left hand, folks.”

All to once Wick stumbles back inside and flops in a chair.

“Send for Doc Milliken!” he yells.

“Ailin’, Wicksie?” asks the judge.

“Terrible!” Wick looks around, wild-like. “Ain’t nobody going to send for a doctor?”

“Will a little liquor take out the hurt?” asks Slow-Elk.

“Liquor ——! I need a antydote! First I see a cannyball and then I see a danged woolly dog!”

Wick’s voice hits a high note, and he stares at us wild-like.

“He seen a dog!” gasps Dirty Shirt. “Wick Smith has seen a dog! My gosh, this is terrible!”

“Woolly dog,” says Wick, like he was talking to himself. “It had a stick in its hands and was walking like a man. When it seen me it hopped up in the air and turned over and lit on its hind feet and——”

“Snakes!” gasps Yuma. “Smitty has got crippled crawlers!”

“You’re a liar!” howls Wick. “Don’t I know a dog from a snake?”

“Grab him before he gets violent!” yells Big-Foot and makes a dive for Wick. Wick might have been sick in the head, but it hadn’t affected his legs. He beat Big-Foot to the door and neither of ’em hit the sidewalk on their way out.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” whoops Judge Steele. “Them darned fools don’t know——”

Big-Foot comes backing into the door, catches his spurs on the threshold and falls flat on his back, where he lays with his eyes shut.

“Take it away!” he yelps. “Dang it all, take it away!”

“You—you got ’em too, Big-Foot?” asks Buck.

“Hawg tie me!” yells Big Foot. “I seen more than Wick did!”

“Somebody has been monkeying with the circus, Ike,” whispers Magpie.

We ducked out the back door. Bosco is setting there on the canvas. He says a couple of the dogs got loose, but nothing else is gone.

We sat down and smoked a while, when Magpie says—

“Bosco, do you know anything about this circus of ours?”

“You ain’t got no circus,” says Bosco. “I seen this aggregation when she was at her best and she wasn’t worth a whoop.”

Magpie nods and considers Alcibiades.

“What good was that elephant? He didn’t travel on his looks, did he?”

“Him? Naw! They used to give him soft rubber balls to throw into the audience—if there was any audience. Oswald never played to capacity.”

Magpie picked up a stone about as big as his fist and walked over to the elephant. He held out the stone and Alcibiades took it. He seems to sort of take a good hold with his trunk and then swings it back and forth, like he was weighing it. Then he whirls his trunk up and sideways, lets out a little grunt and away went that rock.

_Crash!_

It bored right into the eaves of “Old Testament” Tilton’s shack about fifty yards away. We hears the crash and a moment later here comes Old Testament out of the door.

He’s got his hands folded and we can see his lips moving. Over one ear is a lump the size of a egg.

“Howdy, parson,” says Magpie, but Old Testament don’t hear nor see us. As he walks past us we hears him singing soft and low—

“Rockavages clef’—rockavages cl’—Rockavages——”

Then he shakes his head and starts all over again.

“He can’t get over the rock!” says Magpie, awed-like, and we watches the old preacher turn into the street out of our sight.

“Magpie,” says I, “this here circus is getting in bad. You can do a lot of things around here, but any time elephants start hitting preachers with rocks, it’s going too far. I feel within me that there’s going to be a reaction.”

* * * * *

We sets down to consider things, when here comes Yuma, Wick and Big-Foot. They’re sneaking along like they was afraid we’d fly away. Yuma has a sack in his hand, while the rest of ’em packs guns. They stares down at Bosco and contemplates deep-like over our wild man.

“You—you’re the snake-eater the judge told us about?” asks Yuma.

“I am,” says Bosco. “Eat ’em alive! Greatest sensation of the age! Scientists has pondered over my marvelous powers to withstand the bite of poison reptiles. Yessir, I am Bosco! I eat ’em alive!”

“You sure must be a awful handicap to the snakes,” opines Yuma. “You’ve got St. Patrick beat, feller. All he done was chase ’em. You eat pizen ones?”

“Always! The flavor of poison is vanilly to me.”

“Not rattlers?” says Big-Foot. “Not them spotted devils?”

“Rattlers? Ha! Ha! Ha! I love ’em. I’m sorry I haven’t any left, gents, but I ate the last one day before yesterday. I suppose I’ve got to go back to eating ordinary food.”

“Rise up and cheer!” says Yuma joyful-like, holding up the sack. “You sure get banqueted, feller. In this sack is a ol’ diamond-back with sixteen rattles and a button. Fat as a fool and you gets him free gratis for nothing.”

“A-a-a-alive?” gasps Bosco.

“Betcha! Ain’t even bruised nor shy a button. Me and Big-Foot caught him under the sidewalk. He’s a humdinger. We’ll watch you eat him.”

“Wait!” yelps Magpie. “You fellers think I’m running a free show? This layout costs me money and I only lets Bosco eat snakes after you has paid one dollar per each to see the feeding. _Sabe?_”

“If we furnishes the eatables?” asks Yuma.

“You can’t noways furnish what you don’t own, Yuma,” states Magpie. “That snake is part and parcel of nature, and you can’t own one unless you raises same from your own stock. _Sabe?_ That snake don’t belong to nobody, so you might as well give it to me.”

“This snake?” asks Yuma, holding up the sack. “This belongs to ——” Alcibiades has edged over close and when Yuma holds up the sack, he just reaches over, wraps his trunk around it and yanks it away. Alcibiades begins swinging that sack back and forth, playful-like.

“Look out!” yelps Magpie. “He’s going to throw it at somebody!”

Wick was wise enough to gallop straight away, but Yuma and Big-Foot seemed to think that height was salvation. They bounces straight for Cleopatra’s cage, being as that’s the highest thing at hand, and they begins to claw their way right up the bars.

That cage wasn’t built for no such a stunt, and when they’re about halfway up the side Cleopatra lets out a woful wail and slams herself up against the bars. The cage sways for a second and then over she comes off the wagon, and two perfectly unreliable horse-thieves and a antiquated tiger bite the dust together, with the horse-thieves underneath.

Allah was almost in the way of the crash and the next thing we know our shipwreck of the desert gets the stampede fever, too, knocks me and Magpie flat into a tangle of canvas and poles, and away he went into the desert. His two humps weave in different directions as he gades away, and it reminds me of two drunken punchers riding double.

Bosco took a high-dive the other way, and I sees him setting there on the ground, investigating some cactus he dove into.

Me and Magpie gets our breath and sets there looking at each other, when here comes Judge Steele, Pete Gonyer, Art Miller, Doughgod Smith and Old Testament. They groups near us and the judge clears his throat.

“Magpie Simpkins, Ike Harper _et al._: We, the sober and industrious citizens of Piperock, has gathered in serious conclave this day and date and has adjudicated that we will not have the glorious morrow sullied or marred by a circus or circuses.

“In the name of the parties responsible for Old Home Week, I hereby delivers this here ultimatum: Get your danged circus hence! We are not empowered to arrest you and have no jail to lock you in if we were, but we still got ropes and willing hands. We’ve got enough to cope with tomorrow without dry nursing denizens of the jungles. For once in its glorious existence Piperock is playing safe. _Sabe?_ This here is our final——”

“My ——!” interrupts Pete. “Looky!”

The tiger cage begins to rise up and them ultimatumers backs into a compact body and pulls their guns. Then out comes the remains of Big-Foot. His hat is smashed down over his eyes but he don’t care where he goes.

Then out comes Yuma. He don’t seem to see us. He tips his hat over one eye, does a few fancy jig steps and then reaches in under that cage. Then he straightens up and away he goes, dragging Cleopatra by the skin of her neck.

Cleo has had the shock of her old age but she’s still alive. She spits and slaps, but Yuma goes merrily on his way ahead of a cloud of dust made by a grandma tiger which is digging deep into her soul for sounds to tell us how exasperated she is.

This conclave of indignant citizens stands there and gawps at the free show, until—

_Swish!_

Alcibiades whales away with that sack and hits the old judge right in the back of his neck. He lands on his hands and knees but skids back to his feet.

“Who hit me?” he wails. “Who threw that?”

_Z-z-z-z-z-z-zee!_

The string had come off the sack and right at their feet coiled the rattler, indignant as thunder over things in general.

“Ah-h-h-h-h-h! Wow!” yelps Doughgod.

The monkey cage must ’a’ got busted up in the fracas, ’cause just then a mangy little member of the missing links hopped from a wagon-wheel and lit on Doughgod’s shoulder. Doughgod stiffens like he was hanging on to a electric battery and then lets out another whoop and tries to buck the monk off. Doughgod collides with Old Testament and the two of ’em goes down in a heap.

“Make it a good one,” says Magpie and kicks the staple out of the lock on the dog cage.

Doughgod and Old Testament got up just in time to trail the others and lead that yelping bunch of mongrels away from us. Then we flops, weary-like, down upon our canvas again. Magpie slips his gun loose and shoots the head off that snake, which is hunting for a place to hive up under our tents.

“Five hundred and eighty dollars, Magpie,” says I. “She’s going fast.”

“Yes,” he admits, “she’s fading out, Ike. The Simpkins’ Stupendous Shows is about scattered. Nothing left but a snake-eater and a elephant. Sorry you missed your meal, Bosco.”

“My ——! Did you think—I—say, that snake still had its fangs!”

“Oh!” says Magpie. “I see. You—you sort of commit suicide with a empty gun, as it were, eh?”

“As it were,” nods Bosco. “I’m going away from here pretty soon. I ain’t got nothing to wear, no place to go and nothing to ride upon.”

“There’s lots of places to go,” says Magpie, “and you can ride that danged elephant if you want to.”

“Like ——!” says I. “I’m going to have something out of this. I’m shy two hundred and ninety dollars, Magpie.”

* * * * *

Then cometh old Judge Steele and Yuma. They’ve got a white rag on a stick. Yuma is half out of clothes and they both seem chastened in spirit. They halts fifty yards away.

“We come more in sorrow than in anger,” states the judge. “Sorry we didn’t kill you fellers early this morning. Which of you deplorable jassacks is the tiger-trainer?”

“I wash my hands of the tiger,” replies Magpie “I may have Yuma arrested for stealing it but that’s all.”

“It’s in the saloon,” says Yuma, bowing apologetic-like. “Buck is in there and so is Old Testament, and we ain’t heard from them for quite a while.”

“Half-Mile’s bronc is in there, too,” adds the judge. “Half-Mile roped it and then fell off his bronc as it went into the door.”

“Gosh!” grunts Magpie. “I feel sorry for the bronc.”

We walks down to the flag of truce and like a pair of danged fools we let ’em get the drop on us. They takes our guns and throws away the flag. Then they prods us down in front of the saloon, where all of Piperock stands or mills around. They gives us three cheers—we already had a tiger.

“Now,” says Judge Steele, “we’ve got these hombres. Wick, you hold the watch. Now we’re going to give you hombres just five minutes to get your danged tiger out of our late friend Buck Masterson’s place of business.”

“Late?” asks Magpie. “Is Buck late?”

“Well,” says the judge, taking off his hat, “maybe I was a bit hasty in that statement but I will say this much: He’s danged tardy.”

“Old Testament is tardy, too,” says somebody in the crowd.

“One minute is passed,” states Wick.

“The consequences is what?” I asks.

“Your case is parallel with horse-stealing,” states the judge.

Magpie looks at the crowd and grins.

“You horse-thieves suffering any to speak of?”

“Two minutes gone,” reminds Wick. “You know best.”

“Can I have a gun?” asks Magpie, but the judge shakes his head.

Magpie tightens up his belt and spits on his hands.

“Come on, Ike!”

I wonders at the time what Magpie spits on his hands for. He sure wasn’t afraid the tiger would slip through his hands. Cleopatra was awful old and old age naturally makes her childish and cross. Reminded me of that poem about the woman who knew by heart from finish to start the book of iniquity. Cleopatra was that kind, I reckon.

We pilgrimed up to the front door, but all is still.

“You better go around to the back door, Ike,” whispers Magpie.

“Speak up loud!” says I. “What you trying to do, sneak up on her? Why should I go to the back door, Magpie? We don’t want to catch her, do we?”

“Three minutes gone,” drones Wick.

Magpie turns to the crowd and takes off his hat. “Feller citizens, I regret I have only one tiger to die for.”

Then he opens the door.

We walks in like Daniel into the lions’ den or Joner into the whale. The bronc is plain and visible, standing between the pool table and the wall, with the reins looped around its feet. The card-tables are upset and the place shows that there has been a certain amount of action.

Sudden-like, up behind the top of an unset table come the head of Buck Masterson. He squints at us and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down like it was practising to hop out the first time he opens his mouth.

“Howdy, Buck,” says Magpie. “How’s each little thing with you?”

“Tut-tolable,” says he hoarse-like. “Just barely so, so.”

“Where’s the tiger?” I asks and Buck’s eyes get round as nickels.

He’s so scared he can’t speak for a minute; then he whispers:

“Uh-under me! I can’t let loose!”

“Still alive?” asks Magpie.

“I—I don’t know. It ain’t moved for a minute. My ha-hands are paralyzed from squeezing the blasted thing!”

“Get up easy-like,” advises Magpie, “and then jump back.”

“I—I may do it,” whispers Buck.

He takes a breath, eases his feet under him and then jumps high and handsome. He falls over a chair, bumps his head against the bar and collapses on the rail.

“My ——!” he wails. “That was a close shave!”

Then up comes a tangle of green cloth off the card-table, mixed with a striped blanket. It rises to the height of a man and instead of the roar of a man-eating tiger comes these words—

“Let us all arise and sing hymn number sixty-seven.”

The cloth falls away. He stands there, hands folded, and on his face is the look of a man who has made his peace and don’t care what happens.

Buck gets to his feet and weaves forward.

“Tut-testament,” he quavers. “I—I’m sorry I ch-choked you.”

“Take a front seat, brother,” says Testament. “All sinners are welcome.”

“Five minutes are up,” states Wick Smith’s voice.

“Go to thunder!” yells Magpie. “Everybody’s all right. There ain’t no tiger in here.”

I felt sorry for that poor bronc, so I goes over, untangles the reins from its feet and led it out of the door. The crowd splits to let us out and just as we gets out of the door somebody yells.

I whirled and looked back. From the saddle-horn runs a rope back into the saloon and she sure is pulled tight. Somebody slaps the bronc and Cleopatra came among us. I reckon she must ’a’ been behind the bar. She came out of the door, ducked behind the crowd like a flash and the next second about thirty citizens of Cowland are tangled with our tiger.

* * * * *