Part 2

Somebody is comin’ up th’ gulch on hosses, and from th’ noise they’re makin’ they shore are in uh hurry. We tries to git up th’ bank to flag ’em, but it’s too slick and we jist skees back to th’ bottom. Jist when I fills my lungs to yell out that we’re down in th’ washout, we hears some cussin’ in about six different voices, and _Zowie!_ uh bronc busts through th’ mesquite, and before we has time to clear th’ track we has another mess of man and hoss in th’ bottom of our li’l clay-pit.

“Our popularity increases!” whoops Friday. “If this keeps up I’m goin’ to have this pit platted and sell town lots.” We hauls th’ rider from under th’ hoss, leans him up agin’ th’ bank and gloms th’ clay out of his features. His eyes open and he stares at Friday.

“How’s Matilda?” asks Friday.

“Tolable, Friday, tolable,” sez ol’ man Wilmot, th’ sheriff. “What have I got into? I--er--huh”--He spits out uh chew of perfectly good moist clay and looks at th’ other two on th’ ground and at th’ broncs. “Well, by th’ ha’r on uh fool-hen, if there ain’t th’ pair of them! How’d yuh do it?”

“We’d rather not tell, eh, Shiner?” sez Friday. “Yuh see, Mister Wilmot, me and Shiner--well, there’s th’ men yuh want. We figgers that you’ll be along pretty soon so we don’t even tie ’em up.”

Th’ sheriff goes over and inspects th’ pair. They’re still in th’ land of th’ livin’ but they ain’t fussin’ about it. We helps all th’ live-stock on their feet and then sets down and enjoys uh smoke.

“Where’s yore posse?” asks Friday.

“My posse! By th’ ha’r on th’--huh, I plumb forgot ’em. We was all ridin’ up th’ cañon, and we figgers that we’re on uh red-hot trail. All to oncet our hosses goes plumb loco at somethin’. I reckon it was uh bear. ’Pears to me that I was th’ only one what was pointed this way. Yes sir, it must ’a’ been uh bear.”

“Shore,” I agrees. “Must ’a’ been, ’cause that’s th’ only thing in th’ hills that would scare uh bronc thataway.”

“Sheriff,” sez Friday, “did yuh ever hear of whisky called ‘Sixteen to One’?”

Th’ ol’ man scratches his head fer uh minute and then grins all over his face.

“Gosh!” sez he. “I shore have. Reminds me of Hip Shot Brady and his political orations. Boys, somewheres in these hills is uh hooch cache, and if anybody ever finds it they’ll have one hy-iu time. I’ll bet by this time that stuff would give uh man th’ finest collection of animiles on earth. Where did you hear of Sixteen to One, Friday?”

“Yes, it shore would,” agrees Friday, turnin’ his face away and gazin’ up th’ cañon, “it would--oh, my daddy brought some. That is, he tol’ me about it.”

“His father was uh preacher,” I explains.

“Name of McGovern?” asks Wilmot.

“No,” sez Friday. “Yuh see, his folks didn’t want him to be uh preacher so he traveled under another name. Different one in each town.”

“Well,” sez th’ sheriff, “some people are queer thataway. I reckon we better tie these stick-up artists on their broncs and be on our way. You fellers can ride behind ’em--that is if th’ broncs don’t object.”

“I never questions uh bronc’s desires,” states Friday.

“Me and Shiner can ride anything yuh can put uh rope on, can’t we, Shiner?”

“Why qualify yore statement by sayin’ ‘ropes’?” sez I.

We ropes them fellers on their broncs, and climbs up with ’em. Uh course no self-respectin’ bronc likes to carry two grown men, but there’s too much weight to make buckin’ uh pleasure so they gits plumb docile in uh few minutes. We tops th’ far side of th’ cañon and stops to look around, but there ain’t nobody in sight.

“My posse is vanished,” sez th’ sheriff. “I reckon they all know th’ way home, so we won’t worry. I forgot to tell you boys that there’s uh thousand dollars reward fer these two clay-spotted hombres. I reckon yuh won’t have no trouble in collectin’ it.”

“Thanks,” sez Friday. “How’s Ma--til----”

“Tolable,” grins Wilmot. “I comes near gittin’ these two fellers last night. I surrounds ’em in th’ willers up on th’ south fork, but they gits away. I’m up there in th’ cold all night. Dog-gone, I reckon if I’d have got sight of ’em I’d shore have punctured somebody. They has th’ gall to ride right out in th’ open, and not over three miles from Paradise. What do yuh know about that?”

“Hardened characters,” I agrees, and Friday burns most all th’ ha’r off one side of his dinky li’l mustache tryin’ to smoke uh lighted match after he throws away his cigaret.

“Say, where’s yore own hosses?” asks th’ sheriff. “I never thought about them.”

“I don’t know,” replies Friday, truthfully. “They wasn’t camp broke and leaves us last night.”

* * * * *

We cuts into th’ wagon road about five miles from Paradise, and meets Barney Metcalf and Hugh Mercer, of th’ Flying M outfit. They’re dustin’ along in uh buckboard, and stops to talk. We explains what we got with us and they congratulates us uh heap.

“We been over to Silver Bend,” states Barney. “Left our rig in Paradise and pilgrims down there on th’ train. We aimed to see th’ circus, but th’ danged thing got wrecked some place and ain’t showed up yet. We had to come home. Anyway, it wasn’t nothin’ but a animile show.”

“That’s all,” agrees Hugh. “But dad blast th’ luck! I did want to see that one-humped camule, th’ zeebray and that sixteen-foot ji-raff.”

“Aw, them folks allus says they got somethin’ they ain’t,” grumbles th’ sheriff. “I never seen half th’ things that they advertise in circuses.”

“These people are re-liable,” states Friday. “I know.”

“Well, mebby,” agrees Barney, gatherin’ up his lines. “So-long, boys.”

“Say,” yells Friday, “where did yuh say that wreck was?”

“I didn’t say,” replies Barney, “but I hears that it’s some place between Paradise and Silver Bend.”

“Exactly,” sez Friday.

We ambles along fer uh spell and then ol’ man Wilmot sez:

“That makes me remember that Matilda tells me that you two fellers had gone down to see th’ circus day before yesterday. She speaks of it late last night--or rather this mornin’ early after I gits back from th’ south fork.”

“God bless--shore we did intend to,” sez I, “but when we finds out that it’s nothin’ but a animile show we decides not to. Yuh see, sheriff, me and Friday ain’t noways partial to animiles.”

“Did yuh ever see uh geewhinkus or uh whangdoodle, sheriff?” asks Friday.

“Not to my certain knowledge, Friday. I’ve seen most everythin’, drunk or sober, but I never seen th’ things yuh mention,” laughs th’ sheriff.

“Was yuh ever almighty drunk?” asks Friday.

“Not so very,” grins th’ sheriff.

“Well,” sez I, “you never seen ’em then.”

We was dog-gone glad when we ambles into Paradise and down to th’ li’l jail on th’ outskirts of town. It ain’t no cinch to ride behind uh saddle and hang on to uh half-dead outlaw, especially when yore so danged hungry yuh could eat th’ horn off uh cow.

Th’ prisoners don’t seem to take no interest in th’ trip a-tall, but jist as we gits in sight of th’ jail th’ one which I’m chaperonin’ sorta comes to and looks me in th’ face. He reaches up and picks out uh gob uh clay which is still stickin’ in between his eye and his nose, rolls it in his fingers slow-like and then sez to me in uh sort of uh mumble--

“It had uh-uh-uh neck--twenty--feet long.”

“Uh-huh,” sez I. “Go back to sleep and don’t worry. It can’t bother yuh where yore goin’.”

“I was sober, too,” he whispers.

“Don’t feel bad about it,” I whispers right back at him. “I wasn’t.”

We puts them outlaws into th’ jail and sends fer ol’ Doc Milliken. Th’ sheriff gives us th’ broncs to ride home on and we starts out fer th’ restaurant to make up fer lost time.

“Come down tomorrow, boys, and we’ll fix up about that reward!” yells th’ sheriff. “And also, Friday, yuh might come down and see how Matilda is yoreself. Haw! Haw! Haw!”

“Ain’t he th’ ol’ cuss?” chuckles Friday, searchin’ fer his sack uh smokin’. “Ain’t he, Shiner? Dog-gone his ol’ hide, I love him. Funny ol’ cuss in his way, but I reckon we’re all queer some ways. Foxy ol’ feller, Shiner. Did yuh notice that he never mentioned gittin’ that let--my Gawd!”

Friday has been friskin’ all of his pockets fer that sack uh tobacco, and he happens to reach into th’ inside pocket of his vest. He pulls out an envelope, looks foolish-like at it fer uh minute or two and then tears it up and scatters it along th’ trail. When they’re all gone I hands him his pack of tobacco. He rolls uh smoke sorta thoughtful-like and lights up.

“Shiner,” sez he, “I got uh danged rotten memory, but I’m glad of it. That communication I jist tears up nets us jist five hundred apiece, and probably saves my life.

“If th’ sheriff got that letter about th’ time that hold-up is pulled off--well, I’m glad fer my sake that he never got it. Mebby he won’t let me marry her anyway.”

“Not wishin’ to pose as uh sure thing gambler, Friday,” sez I, “but from th’ present indications, yore chances look to me like about Sixteen to One. Want to bet?”

“Not on your whangdoodle!” sez Friday.