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.
“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 ofAdventuremagazine.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March 3, 1920 issue ofAdventuremagazine.