Part 3
“Holy henhawks!” exclaimed Dirty. “They’ve roped our shepherds!”
“Uh-huh,” nodded the tall one. “You might say a few words, Dirty.”
“Hello, Adams,” nodded Dirty to the other one. “Meet Professors Pettingill and Middleton. Gents, this person is Alcohol Adams. The tall one is Magpie Simpkins, the sheriff of Yaller Rock County. He’s just as bad as he looks. Magpie, what you got ropes on them pelicans for? They ain’t done nothing.”
“Well, talk a little, can’t you?” asked the Magpie person.
“Well—” Dirty Shirt rolled a smoke—“we tried our dangedest to fulfil our deputation, Magpie. These scientific pelicans pilgrim along, and we take ’em in. _Sabe?_ They wants to know from personal experience whether it’s sheep or just general wear and tear that puts a shepherd into that mental condition known as crazy.
“They’ve had a hard time, gents. They sure have herded in the interests of science. We’ve all had a hard time, Magpie, and I’m off sheep forever. If Scenery Sims and Alphabetical Allen wants them sheep rounded up, they’ll have to do it themselves. _Sabe?_ Law or no law, we’re all done.”
“So?”
The sheriff scratched his long nose, and began a silent laugh that shook his gaunt frame.
“Haw! Haw! Haw! You poor, locoed snake-hunters! Listen: I didn’t no more than get started for Piperock when I meets Scenery and Alphy. They’ve done patched up their differences. We went over to notify you, but you never showed up. I’ve been looking for you.”
“Haw!” replied Dirty Shirt vacantly.
“You—uh— Say, who in —— owns the sheep we’ve been dry-nursing, Magpie?”
“I do,” said Mr. Adams. “I had a Swede out here, but he went loco, I reckon, and tried to dynamite Scenery’s camp, and——”
* * * * *
Ike stepped over and took the ropes off Middleton and myself.
“I met the driver of my grub-wagon,” said Mr. Adams. “He had been drinking too much lately, I reckon. Said he was held up by twin devils, and that from now on he’s through with booze or sheep.”
We went down the hill, where Middleton and I recovered our coats. Dirty Shirt and Ike caught our mules and put on the packs. Then they gave us each a rope to lead with.
“The road over there will take you to Silver Bend,” explained Ike.
We thanked him heartily, and then shook hands with them all.
“I hope you gents got the information you desired,” said Magpie.
“Nothing like personal experience.”
“Yeth, we got it,” lisped Middleton. “We tholved it.”
“I hope you didn’t jump at it suddenlike,” grinned Magpie.
“No, thir. Not thudden.”
“I reckon it’s a mistake to say that all shepherds are crazy,” observed Magpie. “Cow-men use that expression more because they hate sheep than because the shepherd is loco. They figure that any man is crazy who would herd sheep. _Sabe?_
“What is your scientific opinion, gents? Do you think they’re crazy?”
I looked at Middleton inquiringly, and he nodded.
“I will thupport you, Pettingill.”
“Well,” said I, “after personal observation, I will say this much: If he isn’t crazy to begin with, and doesn’t go crazy—he is a superman.”
“Reckon the sheep are to blame?” asked Adams.
“Of courth,” lisped Middleton, caressing his back, “the theep are primarily rethponthible, but I’d thay that the greater evil cometh from general wear and tear.”
“Which goes to show that personal experience is better than hearsay,” agreed Magpie.
“Ordinarily,” I agreed, “but from now on I will be more than willing to take unsupported word for things I know nothing about. How about you, Professor Middleton?”
Middleton picked up his rope and spat through his vacant teeth.
“Oh, ——! Leth go, Pettingill. You thaid a mouthful.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March 3, 1920 issue of Adventure magazine.]