Part 2

Many of their quaint phrases are in my note-book, but as yet I have not had time to investigate their meaning. Their vocabulary of profanity seemed unlimited, and at times very amusing. It seems that they had little reverence for the finer things of life, and when we gently remonstrated with them, the one called Dirty Shirt said:

“Oh, go to ——! What do you think this is—a ladies’ cemetery?”

I as yet fail to see the reference to a burial-place.

As Mr. Harper has already told you, we sat on the slope of the hill and watched the outlaws purloin part of the flock. I believe that my ancestors were fighting-stock, for my gorge arose at the sight, and I was filled with visions of revenge. Perhaps it was the spirit of the West that possessed me, but at any rate I arose and shook a folded fist in their direction.

“Go ahead and cuss, professor,” said Dirty Shirt. “If you get stuck for a word, maybe me or Ike can supply it.”

Now, I am going to make no attempt to quote them. At times they talk in academic English, and at other times a jargon. Professor Middleton will bear me out in saying that their language is both weird and wonderful, and also easy to acquire.

I am sure that our friends were shocked at our conversation when we related our experiences, and it required constant vigilance over our tongues to keep from—as Ike said—“talking like a he-man.” I feel that Middleton was a worse offender than I in that respect.

I said to Dirty Shirt—

“We shall most surely follow them and recover our property, shall we not?”

“Not,” answered Ike. I am leaving off the prefix “Mr.” as they rarely use it in conversation.

“But,” said I, “it is a plain case of theft, is it not?”

“Well,” replied Dirty Shirt, “you can call it anything from petty larceny to train robbery, professor, but I’d be —— if I ever was so fond of sheep that I’d sacrifice my skin in their interests.”

“Do you mean you are going to let them keep the sheep?” asked Middleton.

“——’s delight!” exclaimed Dirty Shirt. “You still talking sheep? Let’s go back to the rag shanty and scare up a feed.”

So back we went. They showed no worry over the loss of the sheep, and I am certain they must be of value. The chops alone would be worth— But why quote prices? They led us back to the tent, and then Dirty Shirt said:

“If you pelicans want to be regular shepherds you’ve got to learn how to cook. See what you can find in your own packs and then scare up a batch of biscuits.”

Our pack-luggage had been stacked in front of the tent, and as I walked over to investigate our provender Dirty Shirt added—

“Cook anything you see, ’cause my big insides are eating up the little ones.”

He did not use the word “insides,” but its vulgar equivalent.

“Scare up a biscuit?” asked Middleton. “How does one scare a biscuit?”

“Build a fire in the stove,” said Dirty Shirt. “All you have to do is touch a match to the kindling, as the fire is all set. Then we’ll show you the next step.”

I went inside the tent, knelt beside the stove and scratched a match.

The sticks of wood over the kindling caught my eye. I removed one as I touched the match. One must betray ignorance to acquire knowledge, so I carried one out to them.

“Pardon me,” said I, “but is this some new preparation to combat the scarcity of fuel?”

Dirty Shirt glanced at the stick, then at the smoke coming out of the small stovepipe, and then he and Ike grasped their hats in their hands and dashed away. It really was ludicrous.

“Come on, you —— fools!” cried Ike without stopping to explain.

“What an amazing thing to do!” exclaimed Middleton. “Why in the world are they——”

It is of course ridiculous to say that the world came to an end before Middleton’s question had been propounded, but that is what seemed to happen. The earth seemed to vomit dust, flame and smoke, and I seemed to feel myself being carried away. Ages later I awoke. I turned my head, and then said to myself—

“Pettingill, you have been knocked topsy-turvy.”

I really had. I seemed to be trying to stand on my head in wet clay, although in reality I found that I was reclining, head down, on the side of a bank of what might be termed an abandoned water-course.

Modesty forbids that I tell what clothing is missing from my person. I managed to regain my natural poise, and turned sufficiently to allow my feet to slide down.

Near me is a section of the tent containing the red-flannel patch, and as I take stock of my surroundings that patch seemed to loosen, and from out through the aperture emerges the head of Professor Middleton.

“My dear fellow, are you all right?” I asked.

He looked at me in a dazed sort of a way, and then spat out—along with a mouthful of clay:

“Go to ——! What do you think this is—a ladies’ cemetery?”

I could readily see that he was speaking from his subconscious mind, quoting from Dirty Shirt’s reply to me. He got to his feet, not without visible effort, and we both looked at Dirty Shirt and Ike. Their gaze seemed inquiring, but I was as much at sea as they.

“We are still alive, as you may see,” I volunteered.

“Takes a lot of dynamite to kill a shepherd,” nodded Dirty.

“Dynamite?” asked Middleton. “A powerful explosive?”

“Concentrated ——,” nodded Dirty.

“Regular old bustem quick. Some son-of-a-goat loaded the stove on us. Must ’a’ been several sticks.”

“Five, I believe,” I replied. “Here is the sixth.”

I opened my hand and showed them a mass of what appeared to be fine sawdust and grease.

“My ——!” cried Dirty, not profanely.

“The old dictionary-digger choked that stick to a mush! Don’t drop it!”

* * * * *

His order came too late. I suddenly realized what I was doing—what I had in my hands—and I cast it down as a deadly thing. Dirty and Ike seemed to sigh with relief, and then Dirty said:

“Lord, I ain’t got much religion. I don’t _sabe_ nothing about Jonah and the Ark, but I sure hands up thanks to whoever is to blame for blocking the trigger of that thing. Amen.”

“Have you any special creed or religious affiliations?” asked Middleton.

“No.” Dirty Shirt shook his head. “Not yet, but if you two are going to hang around this range for any length of time, I’m going to join something—that’s a dead cinch.”

“There was a cap in that stick, Dirty,” said Ike. “Wonder it didn’t go.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Dirty. “There’s something that protects drunks and idiots, Ike.”

“Yes, Dirty, you’re right. Even them danged burros was removed far enough away to be safe. Drunks, idiots and jassacks—all under protection.”

He certainly was not referring to Middleton or myself, as neither of us ever touches liquor in any form.

Later on I insisted on knowing the probable destination of the sheep.

“Over in Sandy’s corral,” said Dirty Shirt. “Everything is grist that comes to his mill. He’ll demand payment for the range he thinks the sheep ate.”

“Oh, is he a miller?” asked Middleton. Dirty and Ike exchanged glances, and Ike said—

“That’s what education does for a feller, Dirty.”

Education had little to do with it, as any one would know that no one but a miller would have need of grist, and he spoke of “his mill.” Dirty proved adept as a chef, and Middleton and myself enjoyed the first real meal since we left the dining-car. When it grew dark Ike kicked out the fire, leaving us in darkness. I remonstrated, but he said:

“Build you one if you want it, old-timer, but remember this: Any jasper who will load your stove won’t hesitate to shoot at night.”

We spread our blankets in the dark, and Ike and Dirty immediately fell to sleep. The novelty of looking at the stars, and the noises of the night kept Middleton and myself awake. I thought of the stolen sheep and we conversed in whispers.

“The loss of so many sheep must be greater than they care to acknowledge,” whispered Middleton. “They are like the American Indian inasmuch as they are stoical under loss or punishment. It would be wonderful if we could recover the sheep. I am beginning to like them, Pettingill.”

We shook hands over it, procured our shotgun and pistol, and stole away silently, except for the tinkle of Middleton’s spurs.

We crawled out of hearing, got our bearings from the stars and started on our well-meant errand. We were going in single file along the side of a hill on a tiny path, which showed white in the dim light, when suddenly we were confronted by a gigantic figure.

It towered above us, a black hulk, coming at a fast walk. I tried to avoid the impact, but slipped and fell right into the path of the monster.

The next instant it fell over me and into Middleton. I retained my shotgun. I had no way of knowing the fate of poor Middleton, but I ran a short distance before I stopped.

I saw the silhouette of it against the sky and for the first time in my life I fired a gun. The impact of the shot threw me into a cactus-patch, and I feared for a time that it had crushed my lower jaw. I managed to tear myself away from the clinging barbs, and stood erect.

“Middleton!” I cried. “Professor Middleton!”

“Well, what in —— do you want!”

You can readily see that he was beginning to acquire the dialect of our associates.

“I shot it!” I cried. “I shot it!”

“Pettingill—” his voice was a bit sarcastic—“I will always thank the man who sold me these leather trousers. I didn’t get hit with more than—let me see— Oh, I am unable to estimate.”

“Heavens! Did I hit you, Middleton?”

“Yes, you did—you—er—pelican!”

“What became of the monster?” I asked. “Did it say anything?”

“It spoke. It knocked me down, got to its feet and said, ‘Aye am de ship-hoorder,’ and then it went on, Pettingill; it went on—with my shirt in its hands. If you ever feel that you have to shoot again—hold lower, old-timer.”

Then we went on. Middleton complained about the effects of the shooting, while I suffered untold agonies from cactus spines and the effects of that shotgun.

“We should soon be able to see the mill,” said Middleton, peering into the night, “but all I can see is a huddle of low buildings. One is larger than the rest, but none would be suitable for milling.”

We walked closer and closer. Finally a canine barked several times, and a man came to the door of the larger house. Middleton and I crouched down behind an old vehicle.

“Some more of those —— coyotes, I reckon,” said the man in the door. “They smell the sheep.”

And then he shut the door.

“They do not mistrust us,” said I, “which simplifies things. No doubt they will be enraged at the coyote in the morning.

Do you know what a —— coyote is, Middleton?”

“No, I do not, and perhaps it is just as well.”

Just then we heard the gentle lowing of a sheep. Perhaps it was the call of one to its mate, and we knew we had come to the right place. We crossed to a fence, inside of which we found the sheep.

The gate was locked, but Middleton immediately went to work to break it with a rock. The noise he made seemed to irritate the canine again, causing it to emit staccato barks.

“I fear that the dog will upset our plans, Pettingill,” said Middleton as we heard the door open again.

“Not at all,” I reassured him. “We will use strategy. A coyote is a young wolf, don’t you see? I will dissemble.”

I have never made a study of the cries and calls of wild animals, but I did the best I could. Clearing my throat, I began a low-voiced howling, such as one hears in the Zoo at feeding-time.

The dog only barked the louder, and then came voices.

* * * * *

“Coyote ——!” cried someone.

“That’s a banshee with bronchial trouble, Sandy.”

I stopped howling, the dog stopped barking, and then we heard:

“I’ve a hunch, Micky. Give me them shells loaded with number sevens. This ain’t no buckshot party.”

“Ah! Thank goodness, the barrier is removed!” exclaimed Middleton, and I heard the chain fall.

Middleton gave the gate a shove, and it creaked open.

“Sic ’em, Shep!” cried a voice.

It is likely that the dog misunderstood orders, as I feel sure that its master meant us when he said “’em,” but the dog circled us and went through the fence after the sheep.

“Run!” exclaimed Middleton. “They’re coming out!”

Middleton was right.

Just at that moment one of those sheep tried to go between my legs. It was a large one—too large, in fact. I grasped it with one hand, quickly, holding my gun in the other, and attempted to ride it away, but it sprang for a place where all of the fence was missing except for a barbarous wire stretched along the top; and I went backward into the dirt.

I managed to roll over and get to my hands and knees just in time to be struck a murderous blow from the rear, which projected me under the wire and outside the fence. There may have been other openings in that fence, but I will wager that a large per cent. of those sheep came through there and walked over me. After the procession of sharp hoofs had passed me I crawled back and recovered my gun. I had no idea of where Middleton had gone. In fact I don’t believe I gave him a thought.

I got to my feet and limped away, feeling rather dazed, as a man might feel after being hard hit, as it were. I toiled up the side of a hill, and suddenly I discerned Middleton. I knew him by the silhouette of his hat against the sky.

“Thank goodness, I have found you!” I exclaimed.

“Same to you,” he replied; and it was not Middleton’s voice but the voice of the party who suggested the banshee.

I saw the glisten of his gun as he turned. I don’t know what prompted me to do it, but I leveled my gun and pulled the trigger.

The roar deafened me and the concussion hurled me backward, but I had presence of mind enough to crawl away. Suddenly I fell into a depression, where I lay quiet.

“Hey!” cried a voice. “Was that you, Micky?”

“It was—worse luck to me, Sandy!”

“Was it a shepherd?”

“I won’t swear to nothing until I assay meself, but from the feel of me I’d say it was a duck-hunter. Ouch! The divil blazed away at sixty feet, and almost cut the boots off me legs! Bird-shot be the handful!”

“Which way did he go, Micky?”

“How should I know? I always hides me head in a storm of bird-shot.”

“Where in thunder did you get that hard hat?”

“Down be the corral. Did you ever know a shepherd to wear a baked bonnet before, Sandy?”

They talked in low tones for a few moments, and then I heard the one called Sandy say:

“Well, they’re well scattered, and there’s no use hunting in the dark. Next time we’ll pack Winchesters when them —— woollies cross the Mesquite.”

“Sure, and I’ll wear armor next time I hunt for hard-hatted shepherds in the night time,” replied the other, and their voices died away into the night.

I managed to clamber out of the hole, suffering extreme torture all the while. I had not the slightest idea of direction; in fact I seemed to be lost. At any rate I climbed the hill, went down the other side and then climbed another, where I sat down on a rock.

It was very, very quiet up there. Finally a dog came along. I tried to be friendly, but it slunk away at my whistle. Then another one came; and another. I said to myself—

“Pettingill, there must be kennels near here.”

From a distant butte, against the pale light of the moon, I saw several more, and then came a wailing howl. From near me came a blood-curdling answer. I said to myself—

“Pettingill, those ‘dogs’ are wolves!” The realization was painful. I really believe I grew homesick. In all that waste I could not see a tree. I peered around. Ah! On a not too distant ridge stood a tree.

I stood erect, grasped my gun, and hurried up the slope, spurred onward by the howls of at least a million savage throats. Perhaps it was undignified, but I ran; actually ran. Luckily the branches grew low, and I was able, suffering as I was, to climb into the sanctuary of those thick branches. I breathed a sigh of relief, and exclaimed aloud—

“Thank Heaven for this tree!”

And from above me came—

“Pettingill, it is fortunate that you spoke, as I was about to pistol you.”

“Middleton!” I gasped. “You here in this tree?”

“Yes. I could find no other. I—I thought perhaps you—that perhaps that sheep had came back; don’t you see?”

“Sheep? Sheep do not climb trees, Middleton.”

“Well, I am glad to know there is some one thing that it could not do. I would readily believe it could climb, Pettingill.”

“How did you happen to pick this tree?” I asked.

“I claim no credit whatever, Pettingill. As the sheep came out of the gate, one of them struck me very, very abruptly. I landed outside the fence, where I tried to conceal myself, but it searched until it found me, and each time I tried to get up it knocked me down. From there to this tree was just a succession of hard knocks.”

“That is really too bad,” I replied. “I am physically imperfect myself, Middleton. I think there is nothing more that could hurt me. Have you a comfortable seat up there, Middleton?”

“Wouldn’t use it if I had!” he actually grunted at me. “Right at present I am hanging over a bough like a carpet on a line. Pettingill, I may never, never sit down again.”

* * * * *

We cheered each other as much as possible through the long night, and were truly grateful when morning came. Looking at Middleton gave me a faint idea of my own appearance. He had neither shirt nor hat, and the upper part of his body was streaked with blood and dirt. His limbs were so stiff he could hardly walk, and mine were little better.

I still retained my hat, although the crown would open and shut in the breeze. We wished for the coats we had left at our camp. Then we walked in what might be the right direction, and suddenly came to a road. Not a well traveled thoroughfare, it is true, but at least a roadway. Along this we limped for a while, when we heard the creaking of a wagon behind us.

“Just suppose there should be some ladies aboard,” suggested Middleton, and we hastily crouched down beside some bushes.

When the equipage was almost up to us we saw that the team was being driven by a man, and that there were no ladies. We would ask for a ride. We stepped into the road and threw up our hands, signaling him to stop. The driver was smoking his pipe, but as the team halted he opened his mouth, letting the pipe fall to the ground.

Then he sprang to the ground, grasped his hat in his hand, and ran back down the road as fast as possible. His limbs were very badly bowed.

“What a ridiculous thing to do!” exclaimed Middleton. “Abandon his equipage in this manner before we have an opportunity to question him. What will we do, Pettingill?”

“We will drive on. No doubt the team will take us some place. It is reasonable to suppose that a road leads to something. I hope we will eventually arrive at some place where a physician resides.”

We climbed in, and Middleton took charge of the lines. It was much better than walking, although neither of us could occupy the seat. All went well until we came to a steep hill, where the horses seemed unable to check the speed of the wagon. I spoke sharply to Middleton about our speed, and he rudely replied:

“Oh, go to ——! If you’re going to be a shepherd, be a regular one—dang it!” I fear that Middleton would soon acquire a profane vocabulary. Somehow we seemed to lose the road. I spoke to Middleton about it, thinking he did not know, and he shouted in my ear—

“Go get it if you want it—you danged pelican!”

I pondered over his apparent rudeness, and the next instant the team seemed to be taking us straight over a sharp pitch, the wagon swaying sharply as it crashed over rocks and brush. I caught a glimpse of the bottom of another abandoned water-course, and then, with a lurching crash, I was hurled into oblivion.

* * * * *

I dreamed of lying under a plashing fountain, and as I opened my eyes I looked up at Dirty Shirt, who was pouring water into my face from his large hat. I heard Ike’s voice say:

“This old pelican ain’t dead, Dirty. He just spat out another tooth.”

“Say, professor, when did you take a job driving a sheep-wagon?” asked Dirty Shirt.

“Middleton was driving,” I whispered. My voice was strangely weak.

“Well—” Dirty Shirt scratched his head and peered across the hills—“well, as a driver he’s got more intestines than judgment. He sure is the short-cut kid.”

After a while Middleton sat up and essayed a grin. Several of his front teeth were missing, which gave him a leering look. The wagon had smashed to kindling-wood, but they told us that the team escaped serious injury. Dirty Shirt and Ike told us to take it easy while they rounded up the team, which we tried to do.

My gun was in the wreckage, but beyond a deep dent in the barrel it was in very good shape. There were still four cartridges in it, and I managed to manipulate one into the firing-chamber. It is well to be prepared.

Middleton had acquired a pronounced lisp, caused, no doubt, by the missing teeth. Suddenly we saw a man on horseback coming down toward us. Ordinarily I would have paid little heed to him, but we were becoming chary of strangers. I stood up and threw my gun to my shoulder.

“What in —— is the idea?” he asked, halting. “Put down that gun!”

“Thoot him!” lisped Middleton. “Thoot him if he cometh too cloth.”

“Have a little sense and put down that gun,” said the man.

“Don’t let him ditharm your thuth-pithions,” warned Middleton.

“Go back!” he ordered. “You are in danger.”

“——’s delight!” he exclaimed. “There must ’a’ been a break in the loco-lodge.”

And we watched him ride back to the top of the hill.

“Nithe generalthip,” applauded Middleton. “Look—thomebody elthe.”

Another rider had joined him, and they both came riding down to us.

“I shall be compelled to fire upon you if you come too close,” I warned them.

“Thoot —— out of them if they monkey with uth,” said Middleton.

The new one was very tall and grim-looking, with long mustaches and a very large hat. He appeared to uncoil a long rope, and then showed his teeth in a snarling grin.

“Going to shoot that thing, _hombre_?” he asked, and I nodded emphatically.

“You know best,” he answered. “Get all set, ’cause I’m coming to get you!”

He spurred his horse forward and sidewise, and just then I fired. I felt that I had wasted the shot, for I pointed where he had been. A terrific force seemed to crash into me, my lungs filled with smoke, and somewhere in my consciousness I seemed to hear a deafening explosion. Then I seemed to feel myself bouncing and sliding over the ground, only to stop with a grinding shock.

A still, small voice within me seemed to say:

“Pettingill, your sands of time are running low. A human being can stand only so much, and you’ve had your share.”

And then I came back to life. I heard voices, far, far away, and some one laughed. The laugh grated upon my nerves; it was as if some one had laughed aloud at a funeral.

“The barrel was dented two-thirds through and bent bad,” stated a voice. “Wonder it didn’t blow his fool head off instead of kicking —— out of him.”

Then I sat up and looked around. I was propped against a rock. Around my chest and over my arms is a tightly pulled rope, and the other end of the rope is fastened to the front end of a saddle on a horse. Two men are standing near me, examining the remains of my shotgun.

Middleton is sitting near me, his hands and feet roped, and as I looked at him he vulgarly spat out through where a tooth had been, and winked at me. The two turned, and I saw upon the bosom of the taller one the badge of a police officer.

“I didn’t think that Olaf had brains enough to go crazy,” said the other.

“Got to have some brains to start on, I reckon.”

“Never can tell,” nodded the tall one. “They caught him trying to put dynamite in the stove. He said he was going to blow up the law. Funny thing about it; somebody had filled his pants with bird-shot.”

Just then we were interrupted by the coming of Ike and Dirty Shirt, leading the runaway horses. They stared at the strangers.