Part 2

He sure did. He’s got a old bear-skin overcoat on, and about three strings of sleigh-bells around his waist. He’s got a stove-pipe hat on his head and on his chin is a bunch of whiskers made from the tail of a white horse. Personally, I think he’s the dangest-looking thing I ever saw.

“Well,” says Magpie, “you sure look it, Tellurium, but I’m danged if I know what you do look like.”

“Sandy Claws,” says Tellurium, proud-like. “I’m him. Come up to show you what can be done when you’ve got the ambition.”

“Sandy Claws?” says Magpie. “No, no Tellurium. Sandy Claws don’t look like that. What do yuh want to do—scare folks? You look like a cross between a item of natural hist’ry and a smallpox germ.”

“I comes into the program as a sort of special thing,” says Tellurium.

“No,” says Magpie, “not into my program, Tellurium. You better go out and scare coyotes with that outfit. I ain’t using no Sandy Clawses anyway.”

“I’ve went to a lot of trouble,” complains Tellurium.

“So’ve we,” says Muley. “He won’t let us shing, and now he don’t want no Sandy Clawses.”

“I’d make a good one, too,” says Tellurium.

“Yeah, you would—not,” says Magpie. “I’d just as soon see a wild bull come in there dressed like that, Tellurium. You’d ruin the show, you know it.”

“Let’s not talk to him,” says Muley. “He has no soul, Tellurium.

“He won’t let us shing. Nossir. No Sandy Claws, no shongs—where’s your ol’ Christmas?”

“Come on, Ike,” says Magpie. “Let ’em wail. I’m goin’ to pull off one show that Piperock can be proud of, yuh bet your life.”

* * * * *

We went up to Mint Hall. Mrs. Smith and Matilda Mudgett are there, sort of strutting around like a pair of fool-hens. Ricky Henderson, Wick Smith and Frenchy Deschamps are there, fixing their orchestra seats. Wick’s new drum is there, and he’s some proud of it.

“Mr. Harper,” says Matilda, “have you ever heard ‘Spring, Lovely Spring’?”

“Not since last April,” says I.

“We are going to render it tonight,” says she.

“We?”

“Me and Mrs. Smith. She has a lovely alto.”

I goes over and talks to Ricky.

“Ricky, you knows something about music—what is a alto?”

Ricky thinks deep for a while, and then he says:

“Ike, did yuh ever let out a whoop, and then hear the same whoop come back to yuh? That’s it?”

“I thought that was a echo.”

“Yeah, sure; but that’s only when yuh hear one reply. Sabe? When yuh hears two replies—that’s alto. It’s a Hungarian word, which means two.”

“What does it mean when you hears more than two?”

“That’s basso profundo, Ike.”

“I thinks Maud S is paralyzed,” complains Wick. “She don’t seem to have no use of her legs.”

“For this we offer much thanks,” says Dirty.

“But she’s got to get up and go with yuh,” says Wick. “You can’t leave her layin’ there on the stage.”

“She’ll get up,” declares Dirty. “I know a lot about mules. Lemme alone and don’t worry about Maud S.”

“There ain’t much use of rehearsin’,” squeaks Scenery; “I’m the main thing up there, and I’ve studied my gestures a-plenty, and I know the words fine.”

“We’ve got to put the humps on Maud S,” says Wick. “We can hang some stuff over the humps, so nobody will know she ain’t a cam-el. You know how they does in a circus, Magpie?”

Me and Dirty, not wishful to get the least hazy, decides to buy us some more bottle cheer, instead of carousing around with the common herd, and we communes with each other in my cabin, until the shades of night have come down upon us. Then we finds our way back to the hall. We’ve got a full audience—in more ways than one. Doughgod Smith has been appointed door-keeper and he annexes our guns as we goes in.

“Yuh can’t take your guns in with yuh,” he states. “Them is orders.”

He’s got a lot of belts and holsters, but few guns hanging on a hook. Dirty looks ’em over and picks out a good-looking gun, which he shoves down inside his waistband.

“Them orders don’t say yuh can’t pack a strange gun, do they?”

“Not my orders,” says Doughgod. “They tell me not to let any man in with his gun, that’s all. You ain’t settin’ no precedent, Dirty. I reckon every man in the hall is packin’ a strange gun, but there’s one satisfaction—they can’t shoot more than six time per each, ’cause I’ve got all their extra ammunition.”

I picks out an old decrepid .44, and goes inside the hall. I looks over that congregation and I can’t see where Doughgod had any reasons for being cheerful. There’s at least a hundred men in there, which means six hundred shots, which is usually plenty and sufficient.

The reward notices are sure well represented, and you could just about lynch the whole bunch and not make any mistake.

We finds the acting talent behind the curtain. Scenery is all dressed up in a gunny-sack gown, with a ribbon tied around his head and no boots on. He’s making gestures like a prize-fighter.

“My ——!” gasps Dirty. “Would yuh look at that?” Scenery jerks one fist outward and upward, swings the other arm behind him, like he was guarding his rear, and then squeaks:

“Lo, there shineth a bright light. Let’s go to it.”

“Mark an X after Scenery Sims,” says Dirty. “He won’t last.”

We goes over where Wick is looking at Maud S. She’s still laying down and don’t act like she’s ever get up again.

“’Fraid she’s on her last legs,” says Wick. “Yessir, I reckon we’re goin’ to lose Maudie.”

“’Fraid?” snorts Mrs. Smith. “That de-eared hay-hound? Let her die.”

“Not until she’s been a ca-mel, maw,” says Wick, and then he goes out to set down beside his new drum.

Dirty sets down beside Maud S and takes her head in his lap.

“Ain’t the Cross J quartet going to sing?” asks Matilda.

Old Testament shakes his head.

“Nope. They got mad—them and Tellurium. They all went home.”

“Tweet, tweet, tweet,” goes the flute.

“Bum! Bum! Bum!” goes the drum.

“Whar-r-r-oo-o-o-o-o-m-m-m-m,” goes the jew’s-harp.

“The orchestra is tunin’ up,” observes Dirty. “We ain’t got long to live, Ike.”

* * * * *

Then old Judge Steele steps out through the curtain, and the hum of conversation dies down.

“Feller citizens and ladies,” says the judge, “the first thing on the program is a du-it. Miss Mudgett is going to sing ‘Spring, Lovely Spring,’ with the kind assistance of Mrs. Smith. This here is a soup-ranner and alter du-it. We asks yuh to bear with the orchestra to the limit of your patience, as this is their first appearance together.”

“Who?” asks Big Foot Forrest.

“All of ’em. They’re acquainted, but that’s about all you can say for ’em. All right, Wick—let her go.”

“Tweet, tweet, tweet! Bum, bum, bum, bum! Whar-r-r-oo-o-o-m-m-m-m!”

Mrs. Smith and Matilda goes out through the curtain. Somebody laughs out loud and then comes a thud.

“All right—go ahead,” says Hair Oil Heppner’s voice. “Big Foot thought he saw somethin’ funny, but he’s forgot what it was.”

The song starts and this is how she sounds:

“Tweet, bum, Spree-e-e-hing, lovely spree-e-e-hing, tweet, tweet, bum, whar-r-r-oo-o-m, Spree-e-hing, Spree-e-e-hing, bum, bum, kerong-g-g-g, tweet, tweet.

“You cree-e-e-heep o’er me-e-e-adhows be-e-e-e-right, whar-r-r-room-m-m, bum, bum, tweet, tweet, o’er me-e-e-adhows be-e-e-right, bum, bum, bum, tweet, tweedle, wharoom, whar-r-r-oom——”

“Whoa, Blaze!”

I whirls just in time to see Magpie get kicked behind the knees by Maud S, who is laying down. She must ’a’ just sort of cramped herself and then let fly with both hoofs.

Magpie turns plumb over and goes out through the curtain and right into Mrs. Smith, who is straining over “be-e-e-right;” and when they hit the platform she’s on top.

“From Spring to Fall!” yelps Mex Mason.

Mrs. Smith gets off poor Magpie, and lets out a wail:

“O-o-o-o-o-o-oh! Every time I try to do something, some hammer-head comes bustin’ along and spoils it!”

“Did you hit her on purpose?” demands Wick, standing up.

“Your —— mule—” begins Magpie, foolish-like.

“You done it on purpose!” howls Mrs. Smith.

Wick believed her, I reckon, cause he throwed his drum stick right at poor Magpie. It was a good shot. It came right through the hole in the curtain and it hit Judge Steele on the bridge of his nose. The old boy sort of got dignified acting.

“Wonderful,” says Dirty. “Wonderful cons’tution.”

The judge just walks around the stage, making gestures and working his lips, but there ain’t no words. Pretty soon he stops, seems to listen, and then he says, soft-like: “Guilty? Why, gentlemen, that man is as innocent as a new-born baby.”

“Knocked back seven years,” says Dirty, awed-like. “That’s what he said the time he was my lawyer, and that was seven years ago.”

The crowd out in front are talking loud, and I know danged well that there’s going to be trouble if we don’t keep going. Mrs. Smith comes waddling in, follered by Matilda and Magpie.

Mrs. Smith is sore as a boil.

“I will not sing another note,” she declares. “Every time I start to do anything in public——”

“Maud S is getting restless,” states Scenery. “We better pull off our act.”

“Can yuh get her up at the right time, Dirty?” asks Magpie.

“Get things set, and I’ll do my dangest.”

Then they cleared everybody away, while we got ready. Me and Dirty and Scenery are all dressed in them gunny-sack gowns, and have got our boots off.

They’ve got a big bunch of cactus and a lot of rocks, which they puts around to make it look like a desert. Pete Gonyer is behind the back curtain, ready to take the cover off the moon, and then turn up the lamp. Maud S is making funny noises in her throat, but Dirty is setting on her head.

“What’s the matter with her?” I asks.

“Speed-crazy,” grins Dirty.

“Get ready,” says Magpie. “Now, for gosh sakes, make this look real.”

They blew out all the lights except one in the back of the room, and then pulled the curtain.

“What does she represent—a load of dirt?” asks Pole-Cat Perkins.

“That’s a —— of a thing to ride thirty miles to see,” opines “Windy” Wilkins.

“Where is the moon?” squeaks Scenery, in a whisper. “Pete, where in —— are yuh?”

“Aw, ——!” groans Pete. “Magpie, did yuh turn out this lamp?”

“It was lit when I left there!” snaps Magpie. “You must ’a’ blowed on it.”

“I never blowed on nothin’!”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Art Miller. “This is one funny game. Like a minstrel show. Pete, ask him why he thinks yuh blowed on it.”

* * * * *

Comes a little bit of light, and I feels Scenery climb to his feet. There he stands in the gloom, pointing up and down and sidewise, and then he squeaks:

“Lo, there bringth a slight—uh—slineth a bite—I mean—a—a—lineth a—let’s go to it—uh—to it.”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” howls somebody. “Pete Gonyer’s lightin’ the moon!”

I turns and takes a look. There is Pete at the back of the stage. He’s got the cover off the moon, and is trying to get the old lamp to light.

“Dang it!” he howls. “I’ve turned the wick plumb into the bottom!”

“Whoa, Maud!” howls Dirty. “Help me hold her, Ike!”

I turns, and there is Maud S standing on her hind legs, and, as I look, them humps, which wasn’t well cinched, being as she was laying down at the time, swing down and just about fill up all the space between her front and hind legs.

“Ho-hold her!” wails Dirty; but Maud S thinks she’s a circus animal.

Hold her? Man, that mule, after all these years, found out that she had authority to go to some place. She waltzes around a couple of times, busts a hole in the stage and falls over backwards into the orchestra.

Wick Smith falls over backwards, pulling his new drum over with him, thereby saving his part of the orchestra.

“Whoo-o-o-ee! Pow-w-w-w-der Ri-i-ver!” yowls a puncher, and a circle of chairs lands around Maud S, trying to block her, but Maud S ain’t to be stopped.

She bucked plumb over the top of Wick Smith, and that drum rattled against her heels.

Zowie! She telescoped and lifted that drum with both hind feet. Dirty Shirt was just going to jump off the stage to attack her from the rear, and that drum caught him in midair. Dirty comes plumb back onto the stage and lands setting down in that bed of cactus. The drum hit me in the knees, and I went plumb over the top of it and dug my chin into the desert.

When I got my senses again I sees that about seven punchers have hold of Maud S, and are trying to hold her.

“Lights!” yelps Wick. “Light some lamps. My ——, my drum is busted!”

“—— your old drum!” howls Dirty Shirt, standing on the stage, trying to lift the seat of his pants loose from himself.

“O-o-o-o-oh, the tab-lew is ruined!” wails Mrs. Smith.

Everybody helped light the lamps, and then we stands and looks at each other. Maud S looks like her course was about run, but them punchers don’t take any chances.

“Sandy Claws has come!” yells a voice at the door, and we all takes a look. I never seen anything like that apparition. It’s a two-year old steer, wearing a bear-skin overcoat, with a string of sleigh-bells around it, and on the lower lip of the danged animal is Tellurium Wood’s false whiskers, and over one horn is that tall hat. The steer is about half way into the hall when we see it coming, and its tail is twisted over its back. Around its mouth is twisted a rope, which is yanked off as it humps into the door.

“Ba-a-a-rr!” blats that steer, like it hurt all over, and right up that room it comes, romping regardless of life or limb.

I know it was Chuck’s voice that yelled—

“Sandy Claws has come.”

“Ho-o-old fast!” yells a puncher, and just then the steer lams into poor Maud S, scattering the punchers. Hair Oil Heppner tries to bulldog that locoed animal, but he might as well ’a’ tried to bulldog a box-car.

Then Maud S gets enervated again, and things begin to boil a-plenty.

“Ba-a-a-a-w!” bawls the steer.

“Ha-a-a-a-w!” sings Maud, and the both of them starts gamboling toward the stage.

“Git ba-a-a-ck!” yowls Pete Gonyer. “Daw-w-w-gone yuh, git back!”

Rip-i-i-p! The steer gets its horns into the curtain, rips about twenty feet of it loose, and starts to climb the stage.

Crash! The moon went down, and the danged old oil lamp inside exploded.

“Fire! Fire!” howls Judge Steele, and then he picks up that blazing moon and whales away at the steer with it.

Clank! The judge was left-handed, which might account for the poor throwing, but he got his feet tangled in some of that loose curtain and hit Scenery Sims right in the head with that heavy moon.

Bang! Somebody took a shot at the steer and knocked several bells, and one of them danged bells hit me in the nose. I hate to get hit in the nose with a bell. I hates to get hit in the nose with anything, but I sure does detest a bell. I can see folks going out of the door as fast as they can travel. I seen Hair Oil climbing onto poor Maud S, and then my time is all taken up with that danged steer.

All this stuff is taking place a lot faster than I can tell it. I bulldogged that steer. It was the first steer I ever tried to bulldog, and if all future steers will keep away from me it will be the last.

* * * * *

I hooked onto his horns just in time to feel my feet dangle off the edge of the stage, the same of which helped my act quite a lot. The steer upends from my weight, and me and that steer landed into a jumble of chairs, and over the top of us goes Maud S, celebrating her second childhood by making Hair Oil pull leather.

The few remaining folks in the hall sort of celebrates by taking some shots at the lights, the same of which makes our immediate future kinda gloomy.

“Lo, I see a bright light!” squeals Scenery’s voice.

“Sus-sunfish, you crop-eared coyote!” yells Hair Oil, and then comes a crash of glass.

“My ——!” yells Magpie. “She throwed Hair Oil out of the window! Where are you, Ike?”

“Keep away!” I yells. “I’m paralyzed all the way down from my upper lip and I don’t know whether me or the steer is on top.”

“Paralyzed —— ——!” howls Dirty. “Wish I was. Who in —— got the idea of puttin’ cactus on the stage?”

“Look out for that mule!” yelps Magpie, and I looks up at the dim figure of that locoed mule, almost over me. I yanks away from my steer and the steer yanks right with me. Under ordinary conditions I’d ’a’ been able to get away, but I’ve got one leg through a string of them sleigh-bells, and when that steer starts for the door, Ike Harper E-squire went right along—on the back of his neck.

I hooked a lot of chairs on my way, kinda trying to impede the hoofs of progress, but that scared steer made funny little noises and keeps going. There’s a lantern hung at the head of the stairs, and I reckon the steer was hunting for light.

Just before we hits the top of the stairs I hears a strain of quartet music:

“Tentin’ to-o-o-o-night, tentin’ to-o-o——”

Crash!

We hit the doorway with our assortment of furniture, and the next thing I know I’m amid more feller mortals and we’re all traveling the downward path. I sees some red, white and blue lights, and I’m loose. I reckon the bell strap busted. I gets to my feet, dodging stars and other aerial impediments, when the stairs almost shakes out from under me, and I gets a glimpse of Maud S falling downstairs.

Folks, I jumped—but too late. Me and Maud S landed at the bottom together. I grabs the mule with both hands, and I feels her get up with me hanging to some part of her anatomy. It’s about twenty feet from the bottom of the stairs to the door, and I rode some part of that crop-eared mule as far as the exit, where the top of the door slapped me in the face and I went into the land of Once Upon a Time.

I’m just about to live happy ever afterwards, when something seems to wake me up. I feels a dragging sensation, along with other painful things, and then I dimly hears Dirty Shirt say—

“You’ve gotta help me, Muley.”

“I’ve gotta have a little help myself,” wails Muley. “I tell yuh that danged steer knocked me down and then the mule fell over me.”

“But poor old Ike is de-e-e-ad!” sobs Dirty.

“He’ll keep,” croaks Muley; “but I’ll spoil if I don’t have help.”

“Yuh gotta help me drag him home, Muley. You was to blame for his de-mise.”

“Naw, I wasn’t, Dirty. Chuck got the idea of dressin’ up that steer in Tellurium’s clothes. Tellurium was sore, too. We twisted a wire around the steer’s tail to make it bawl when the gag was pulled off.

“We just wanted to make it blat at Magpie. Nossir, yuh can’t blame us for it, ’cause that mule would ’a’ killed him anyway. I’d like to know what in —— woke up that gone-to-seed mule.”

“There ain’t nobody to hear,” says Dirty, “so I’ll tell yuh. I took a can of red pepper and a can of ginger and mixed ’em. Then I made a gob of dough in Dee’s shack and put the hot stuff in the middle. _Sabe?_ Maud S. swallered it. That’s all.”

“They’d kill us if they knew,” groans Dirty.

“Death’s stinger wouldn’t hurt me,” groans Muley.

I crawls to my feet, and they don’t see me until I’m standing up beside ’em.

“You—you—uh—” stammers Dirty. “You won’t tell, w-will yuh, Ike?”

“Ain’t you dead—yet?” gasps Muley.

“Enough,” says I, “enough to foller out the old saying—dead men tell no tales. I’ve got eyesight enough left to see the lights of Buck’s place.”

“L-let’s go tut-to it,” stammers Dirty.

Which shows that Piperock never started anything that they couldn’t finish—after a fashion.