Th’ next mornin’ me and Magpie goes over to do uh li’l work on th’ crick, and th’ doc goes off across th’ hills with his shotgun. Th’ perfessor and th’ badger gits busy watchin’ each, other ag’in. Long about ten o’clock we decides to drift back to camp to see how things is progressin’.
We’re up on uh point above th’ shack where we can git uh clear view uh th’ country, and about two hundred yards below th’ cabin we sees th’ doc. He’s doin’ uh reg’-lar Injun sneak in some bull-pines. We watches him sorta sad like fer uh while, figgerin’ that he won’t hit what he’s sneakin’ on, when we happens to see what he’s after. Up th’ creek bottom comes Mighty Jones and Abe. Abe is humpin’ along about ten feet ahead uh Mighty. Mighty seems uh heap sore at th’ bear, and anxious to overtake him.
“Blasted ol’ ossified porkypine,” wails Magpie. “Bringin’ that moth-eaten, alleged grizzly right over where it spoils our whole game. Let’s git down there and stop him in th’ brush.”
We breaks down past camp. Th’ perfessor is still studyin’ th’ badger. Mrs. Perfessor sticks her head out of th’ door and yells somethin’ at us as we goes past, but we don’t stop—not a-tall. We’re jist passin’ th’ cabin, when:
“Blam! Blam!” goes doc’s shotgun down in th’ timber.
“Come on, Ike!” pants Magpie, stretchin’ out his long legs like uh bull elk goin’ to water, and hurdlin’ everythin’ except the lodge-pole. He didn’t need to waste his wind thataway. I’m with him.
We busts into uh li’l clearin’, where we first sees th’ doc doin’ his sneak, and we runs into th’ queerest bunch uh misery I ever seen. I’ve seen uh cougar with th’ St. Vitus dance and an ulcerated tooth, and I’ve beheld uh jack-rabbit which was shot in th’ north end with uh load uh rock-salt, but by th’ whisperin’ wolves, this here exhibition makes ’em all look like uh stachoo uh peaceful moments. Right there in th’ clearin’ is pore ol’ Abe, and he shore is adjustin’ hisself to suit local conditions.
First he puts his head down between his front legs and does uh lot uh contortion work that would stump uh snake. He whizzes across th’ clearin’ like uh fur pin-wheel, uncouples hisself and comes back with his nose in th’ dirt and sorrow in his soul.
He’s jist about half-way back, and me and Magpie is standin’ there with our jaw-bones restin’ on our chests, when:
“Bling! Bling!” goes uh six-gun.
Not knowin’ th’ angle uh them shots, we immediate and soon assumes uh reclinin position.
Mebby them shots was uh heap opportune, cause if we hadn’t uh laid down of our own accord, ol’ Abe shore would have spread us some.
He didn’t seem to pay no attention to them shots, but somethin’ in his carcass seems to say, “Go east, ol’ bear, go east,” and Abie shore heeds th’ summons, and hurries right across us.
He plants one foot on th’ part uh my carcass where uh civilized man wears his rear collar button, and his long toe-nails seems to shake dice all th’ way down my vertebray.
We arises too late to see him leave, but he’s shore pointed toward our happy home.
“Abie seems to have hit his second childhood,” yawns Magpie. “I’d ——”
“Did I hit it?” yells uh voice across th’ clearin’, and there stands th’ doc.
He shore is uh sight. He sets there, hangin’ onto uh tree, and tries to watch four directions to oncet. His hat is gone along with uh lot of his clothes, and his respect as uh big game hunter seems to leak out of every pore.
“There was two,” he wails. “I shot one, and before I could see whether I had killed it or not, the other one walked all over me. I didn’t know they went in flocks. I lost my gun. I wonder if I hit it?”
“You did,” states uh voice behind us, and there stands Mighty Jones. He’s standin’ sorta bent forward at th’ waist line, while one hand explores th’ rear of his pants.
“Did I hit it?” asks th’ Doc, ag’in, sorta eager like, and Mighty replies more in sorrow than in anger:
“You shore did. Both loads, dad bust yore soul—and me without no drawers on. I tries to smear yuh with my six-gun, but finds that all I’m shootin’ at is yore hat and part uh yore shirt on uh bush.”
“Say, Mighty,” sez Magpie, gittin’ around on th’ windward side of th’ ol’ jasper, “you must uh took uh bath in that Jap oil. You shore are odoriferous, ol’-timer. Whew!”
“It slopped uh li’l,” sez Mighty. Abe was ailin’ somethin’ awful over in that ol’ prospect, and I figgers that th’ doc would relieve him uh heap if I brings him over. I reads th’ epitaph on that bottle and it orates that it’s good fer cramps.
“I tries to give some to Abe but he don’t warm up to th’ smell a-tall. In fact he won’t even associate with me, and ambles ahead uh me all th’ way over. Down here uh li’l ways I manages to overhaul him and shoves th’ whole works down his blamed neck. It shore animates him uh heap, Magpie. I’m watchin’ him go spry like and loudly off into the brush, when all to oncet two loads uh bird-shot comes along and hives into th’ seat uh my pants. It riles me uh heap. I’ll leave it to you if bird-shot ain’t aggravatin’, Magpie.”
Th’ doc gits enough of th’ conversation to learn that he’s shot Mighty, and he seems uh heap concerned. He’s still hangin’ onto that tree, but he holds up his other hand and sez:
“No more, I’m through using a gun. Mister Jones, would you accept that gun as a present?”
“Now, ain’t that ——?” wails Mighty. “Ain’t it, Magpie? Here I been wantin’ uh britch loader shotgun fer years, and jist when somebody gives me one I’ve already tied th’ danged thing around uh tree so it won’t never shoot no more. Ain’t that cheerin’?”
“Well,” sez I, “lets go up to th’ cabin and see how things is shapin’ up there. I has uh feelin’ that all our good works is ravelin’ out.”
We gits almost to th’ cabin when we sees th’ perfessor. He’s settin’ on th’ ground near where th’ badger was tied to uh tree, but there ain’t no sign of th’ badger, and Abe ain’t in sight.
Th’ perfessor’s black coat is split up th’ back, and his hard hat is circlin’ his arm like uh band uh crape. There’s uh scratch th’ whole length uh his face, but he’s still grinnin’ and tryin’ to write on one leaf uh that li’l book. Th’ rest is some tore up and scattered.
“I was right!” he squeaks. “I told Professor Manning that the parent bear would seek and find its young. They went away together. I had untied the cub to take it down to the creek for a drink, when the outraged mother came along and forcibly freed her baby. She——”
“Bang!”
From th’ inside of th’ cabin comes th’ report of uh heavy shootin’ iron, and Mrs. Perfessor spills out of th’ door, and skates her three hundred pounds off th’ porch. She sets there and claws th’ hair out of her eyes.
“Remarkable performance!” exclaims th’ perfessor. “She never fired a shot before.”
“It—it—it buh—buh—busted,” she stutters, pointin’ at th’ cabin.
“Wimmin ought to let guns alone—also some men,” states Mighty, still prospectin’ fer lead on th’ rear of his personal property.
“Gun,” snorts th’ injured lady. “It wasn’t no gun.”
“What was it, my dear?” asks th’ Perfessor.
“Milk,” she snaps. “Milk for the bear. It just got hot and blew up.”
“My ——,” gasps Magpie. “Ain’t that jist like uh woman. She forgot to punch uh hole in th’ top of th’ can.”
“Never mind, my dear,” consoles th’ perfessor. “My contention is proved, and we can leave at once. We’ll adjust matters with our employees and go home.”
“What about th’ snake theory, Perfessor?” I asks.
“Do they or don’t they?” he asks, haulin’ out th’ remains uh that li’l book.
“They don’t,” sez I. “They never have and never will.”
“At least I can point with pride to the fact that I hit something,” remarks th’ doc with uh grin, when he gits on his burro and lights another one uh them stinkin’ rolls. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a rifle, I might have killed a bear.”
“If yuh can see this far, and sabe th’ direction, yuh might point with pride to th’ fact that I can’t set down fer uh week,” orates Mighty.
“Perfessor,” sez Magpie, “would yuh mind tellin’ me jist edzactly what competent means?”
Th’ perfessor adjusts th’ remains uh that hard hat on his peaked head, and squints at Magpie over th’ top uh them funereal-rimmed glasses. “Why,—er—it means, adequate or sufficient.”
“Thanks,” sez Magpie. “It shore is and we have had.Adios.”
“It stands to reason—” begins Magpie, as th’ caravan goes off down th’ trail, with Mrs. Perfessor’s burro squeakin’ and groanin’ at th’ rear, but Mighty ceases scratchin’ long enough to snort:
“Reason, eh? By cripes, Magpie, that’s uh fightin’ word with th’ Jones fambly from now on and ever more. I listened to reason oncet, and look what she done to me. I got to sneak up on my belly to dinner, and pore ol’ Abe’s——”
“Abe,” sez Magpie, “is either uh bear angel by now or uh fugitive from Jap oil. Here’s an extra ten dollars, Mighty. Be glad.”
“That’s shore reasonable,” sez Mighty.
THE END
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August, 1917 issue ofAdventuremagazine.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August, 1917 issue ofAdventuremagazine.