PAGEANT
And just below that is two more big words—
OF PROGRESS
“What’s that, Magpie?” asks Dirty Shirt.
“Depictin’,” says Magpie, wipin’ some black paint out of his mustache, “the progress of Piperock. Pageant means a high-toned parade. There has been parades before, but this is the first pageant. If you two fellers will go up to Wick Smith’s house you’ll prob’ly find Mrs. Smith and Miss Greenbaum workin’ on yore costumes. They was goin’ to make ’em first thing today.”
“Our costumes?” I asks. “Whyfor costumes for us, Magpie?”
“Have to have ’em, Ike.”
“Oh, well, if we have to have ’em.”
Me and Dirty spells out the next thing on the list:
WHEN EAST MEETS WESTTHE EAST IS AMAZED AT THE PROGRESS OF THE WESTTHEY MINGLE LIKE BROTHERSTHE COMING OF THE WHITE MAN VICTORYTHE SPIRIT OF PIPEROCK—PROGRESSDON’T FORGET THE BIG DANCE AT THE MINT HALLTHATCHER’S COMBINED ORCHESTRA WILL FURNISH THE STRAINS AND SCENERYSIMS WILL DO THE CALLIN’COME ONE AND ALLTWO DOLLARS PER EACH WILL COVER THE PAGEANT AND DANCEPIPEROCK CHAMBER OF COMMERCEMAGPIE SIMPKINS, President
We found Wick Smith at the store. He hoodled Hassayampa into takin’ charge of the animals again and is runnin’ his own store; but he ain’t cheerful.
“Tomorrow is Labor Day,” says he with tears in his voice. “I ort to be happy, I s’pose, ’cause the proceeds of the pag-unt is to help pay me for them animals; but somehow I can’t seem to rend the veil, as Old Testament says, and see the silver linin’.”
“Aw, it’ll be all right,” says Dirty. “Parades ain’t much to worry about.”
“Thasso?” Wick squints at Dirty. “You’ve survived some of our parades, ain’t yuh, Dirty?”
“Yeah, but you’ve got to figure that Piperock is civilized. It ain’t noways what she used to be, Wick. Right now Piperock is meek and mild.”
“I’ll betcha,” nods Wick. “Well, I still has hopes, but—I dunno. I can’t quite figure out my wife lookin’ like a statoo of Victory, nor I can’t figure out Mrs. Pete Gonyer and Mrs. Mighty Jones depictin’ Progress. My —, my wife don’t look like Victory.”
“You ain’t never won a battle from her yet, have yuh?” I asks.
“No, that’s a cinch. Well, mebbe it’ll be all right. You fellers ain’t got no easy chore yoreselves.”
“We ain’t?” I asks. “What have we got to do with it, Wick?”
“You two depicts the East, Ike. Anyway, that’s what they’ve proclaimed for yuh.”
“—, I don’t look like no East!” snorts Dirty.
“I don’t think I do either,” says I. “Anyway, I ain’t seen nobody from the East that looks a — of a lot like me. How does she come that we’re inflicted with this idea, Wick?”
“Don’t ask me. My —, it ain’t none of my doin’s. I’ve got all the grief I can stand. You better ask Magpie or Jasmine. They fixed it all up between ’em.”
“Do we wear costumes?” asks Dirty.
“Search me. My wife does. Mosquito-bar! My —, can yuh see my wife in a mosquito-bar dress?”
“I’d like to,” says Dirty.
And then we left. Wick hadn’t ought to be so finicky. His wife is about five feet four inches tall and weighs two hundred and fifty. She also wheezes considerable in her talk. Mrs. Gonyer is six feet two inches tall, and so danged thin that she rattles when she walks. Mrs. Mighty Jones ain’t no taller than Mrs. Smith, and she don’t weigh a hundred.
Me and Dirty don’t get much satisfaction around that town. Magpie goes to Paradise to advertise the affair, and to probably do a lot of braggin’ about himself. We runs into Scenery Sims, who has his eyes focused on the wine when it is red, and he ain’t exactly what you’d call coherent.
“I—I ain’t much,” he tells us tearful-like.
We agrees with him, which don’t help him none.
“I can’t do nothin’,” he tells us.
“—, that ain’t news,” agrees Dirty. “Everybody knows that.”
“In the pay-jint,” says he. “I want to be somethin’.”
“All right,” says I. “You be a hump in the road for the wagons to run over.”
“That’s all right f’r you two pelicans,” says he. “You’ve got things to do. I’ve been shoved aside, that’s what I’ve been done to, by gosh. Mebbe Piperock is progressin’, but I’m right where I was a week ago. Have a drink?”
We would. In fact we had several. We got to a point where Dirty gets to braggin’ about bein’ East. He orates that he’s also effete. Magpie comes back from Paradise, all swelled up over himself, and invades Buck’s place.
“They’ll come,” he tells the world. “Paradise will be here in copious gobs. From Curlew we’ll poll a big majority, and there’ll be a sprinklin’ from Yaller Horse. I prognosticate that Piperock will hold about all there is in Yaller Rock County. We has spread the gospel of progress, and the world responds.”
“Has Paradise got her animals yet?” asks Buck.
“Not yet. Mike Pelly tells me that they’re on the way. It’s goin’ to be nip and tuck between us towns. Well, I’ve got to go and see how things is goin’. Is Pete and Yuma workin’ on that float?”
“All day,” says Buck. “It’ll be a dinger.”
“Float?” says Dirty. “My —, they’re ignorant, Ike. There ain’t water enough in this town to float a cork. We’ve done give our word to see that this here pe-rade is a howlin’ success; but after it’s over, me and you starts a pilgrimage. I sicken of the flesh-pots, jack-pots, et cettery. Long may she wave. Let’s have another libation to old man Backus.”
And that’s the way she went. Bill Thatcher and his orchestra showed up a little later on—a bull-fiddle, a squeeze-organ and a jews-harp. Bill’s boy, Ham, is the squeeze-organist, and old “Frenchy” Deschamps is doin’ the moanin’ on the harp.
“Kinda wanted t’ know what kind of music Magpie wanted us to play,” explains Bill. “We’ve got all kinds.”
“You fellers graduated from ‘Sweet Marie’?” asked Dirty.
“That’s good music,” says Bill kinda indignant-like. “If yuh don’t like that, we can play it any old way you want it.”
Some of Paradise comes that night, and among ’em is the gang from the Cross J. Chuck gets me aside and asks how we’re comin’ on the animal stealin’. I points out the difficulties, showin’ him how close Piperock is guardin’ their zoo.
“Get ’em durin’ the parade,” says Chuck. “Everybody will be interested in that, don’tcha see?”
“Can’t be did,” says I. “I’m part of the parade.”
“What part are you, Ike?”
“I’m half of the east end,” says I. “Now you know as much as I do.”
“Who’s guardin’ ’em now, Ike?”
“I ain’t sure, but I reckon Hassayampa is on duty.”
Chuck goes away, leavin’ me to nod at the bartender and lean against Dirty Shirt. Then cometh Polecat Perkins and his pack of high-class mongrels. He’s got eight of ’em, all on ropes, and they proceeds to tangle themselves around our legs.
“Greetin’s, everybody,” says Polecat. “Lay down, dogs!”
Polecat joins our convention and gets enthusiastic over the fact that tomorrow is Labor Day and that we’re goin’ to have a jollification.
“Take them dogs outside,” orders Buck. “My —, this ain’t no doggery, Polecat. Take ’em away so folks will have a chance to git to the bar.”
Just about that time Hassayampa Harris comes into that saloon. I dunno how far he jumped from the outside, but I know he scraped his head on the top of the doorway and landed plumb in the middle of the room
“Yeeow-w-w-w! Look out!” he yelps.
Right behind Hassayampa comes Cleopatra. She comes among us, like a striped streak, hits in the middle of the room, lands on the pool table and goes plumb out through the back door, which has just been opened by Mighty Jones. Mighty’s feet flip up where his hat had been, and over him goes Polecat’s flock of dogs, each one tryin’ to yell louder than the rest.
“That’s our tiger!” explodes Buck.
“You—you can huh-have it!” pants Hassayampa.
“How did it get loose?”
“Go and ask it. I—I was talkin to Chuck Warner at the front door of the stable when all to once I hears somebody yell, and here comes Cleopatra.”
“Somebody yell?” snorts Buck. “By golly, I’ll bet some of that Paradise gang turned her loose while you was at the front door. Git down there, everybody, before they turn ’em all loose.”
They all went down there, except me and Dirty and Buck. They could turn ’em loose as far as me and Dirty are concerned. A few minutes after they’re gone Old Testament and Muley Bowles comes in. Testament ain’t got no hat and his coat is split up the back. Muley don’t track very well and he’s got a swellin’ over one eye.
“‘In the midst of life we are in death,’” says Testament, indicatin’ that he don’t want his lemonade straight.
Buck looks ’em over.
“You two been fightin’ each other?” he asks.
“It—it was a mistake,” says Muley, drinkin’ the water and pourin’ his liquor in the cuspidor. “I thought Testament was a—a—”
“He thought I was a door,” finished Testament, “and tried to go through me. Perhaps we had better go home, Muley.”
“Yeah—and stay home,” says Muley painful-like.
They went out just before the crowd came back. It seems that Gunga Din and Sahara are all right, but they left five guards in the stable.
“We found a hat,” said Mighty. “Hassayampa said that they ain’t fed that tiger for two days, and I’m kinda scared that we won’t never find the man to put under that hat.”
I’m goin’ to draw a veil over the rest of that night. It will be sufficient to say that mornin’ came apace, the sun came up in its usual way, and among us was brotherly love and the sweet spirit of progress. Civilization is sweet to the civilized.
Magpie found us the next day. He looks us over, tells us what he thinks of our ancestors, takes our guns away and leads us down to Wick Smith’s home. I’m kinda hazy on just what happened to us, but it seems that me and Dirty went to sleep on a bed.
I dunno what time I woke up, but I suppose it was afternoon. I sets up on that bed and looks at the dangest person I ever seen. He was settin’ there, lookin’ at me. He’s kind of a dirty, brown-complectedhombre, with somethin’ white wrapped around his head, and his body is covered with a striped gown of some kind.
I bats my eyes a couple of times, but he don’t disappear.
“I’m dead and in —,” says the apparation.
It has the voice and eye of Dirty Shirt Jones, but the rest of it don’t look like him. Right then and there I marks an X after my name for a temperance vote.
“Yessir, I’m dead,” says the person. “I’ve had delirium tremens enough times to know that this ain’t it.”
I looks across the room and sees another jigger of the same brand. Then I starts to get out of bed, intendin’ to head for the door and this second dirty-faced thing moves right along with me. I’ve been lookin’ in a mirror. Then I lifts one hand to my face, and it comes away the color of chocolate. There’s a strong odor of turpentine in the place.
“What in — has been happenin’?” I asks.
“Are you Ike Harper?” he asks, kinda awed-like.
“If that’s a mirror, I ain’t,” says I. “Who are you?”
“I used to be Dirty Shirt Jones.”
I starts to scratch my head and finds it all wrapped up in cloth.
“Did we get hurt, or somethin’?” I asks.
Before he can answer me, Wick Smith, Yuma Yates and Mighty Jones come in. They looks us over, and Wick Smith says—
“Thank gosh, they’re sober enough to ride.”
“Who done this to us?” asks Dirty. “I’ll kill the man that painted me thisaway!”
“There was six of us done it,” says Yuma. “It sure is one good job. By golly, nobody will know yuh, that’s a cinch. Haw-haw-haw-haw!”
I got off that bed, intendin’ to maul somebody; but Yuma pulled his gun and backed me onto the bed again.
“The worst is over, Ike,” says he. “Be docile and gain great fame for yourself—you and Dirty.”
“We better be goin’,” opines Wick. “The crowd is anxious for us to get started. C’om, you East Injuns.”
“East Injuns?” says I. “Is that what we look like?”
“Accordin’ to the book,” nods Yuma. “C’mon.”
What could we do, I ask yuh? We went out with them, wearin’ bandaged heads, house-paint and mother-hubbards. That paint is beginnin’ to dry on my face, and the turpentine stings like a lot of bees. I opened my mouth and I can’t get it shut.
“H’rah for —!” wails Dirty. “Who’s ’fraid of fire?”
We follers ’em up to the corner of Holt’s hotel, and there we finds Gunga Din and Sahara, which are bein’ held by Pete Gonyer, Olaf Hansen, Hassayampa Harris, Scenery Sims and “Half-Mile” Smith.
“Gunga Din is broke to ride,” stated Hassayampa, “but I dunno about Sahara. Ike can ride the elephant, ’cause he’s the biggest, and Dirty Shirt can mount the camel.”
“Just a short moment,” says I. “Nobody asked us. When I ride, I choose a horse;sabe? I ain’t no elephant scratcher.”
“Ain’t yuh?” asks Yuma. “You swore to do what Miss Greenbaum asked yuh to, Ike. She asks yuh to ride the elephant.”
“But what for?” I asks.
By golly, I ain’t got no idea what it’s all about. I can hear folks yellin’ out in the street, and when they start to yellin’ in Piperock, I don’t wish to be there.
“Here’s what yuh got to do,” says Yuma. “You two ride down the street. About in front of Wick’s store yuh will meet old Chief Cod Liver Oil and old Runnin’ Dog. They’ll have on their war-bonnets, et cettery, and they know what to do. They represent the old West;sabe?
“They give yuh the peace-sign, and it seems like yo’re all talkin’. That’s the part of it which is knowed as the West meetin’ the East. Then comes Pete in an old covered wagon. That is the comin’ of the white man. The Injuns act surprized. Behind his wagon comes Scenery Sims’ autymobeel, which has been made into a float, and on it is the three figures, which represent Victory and the Progress of Piperock;sabe?
“Then that’s about all, I reckon. I dunno what else there’s to be done, Ike. Magpie explains that much to me. Thatcher’s orchestra will be playin’ all the time, I reckon. Anyway, it’ll be good. Hassayampa, you and Half Mile help Ike up on Gunga Din.”
“It’ll be good all right,” grunts Mighty. “Cod Liver Oil and Runnin’ Dog done split a quart of lemon extract and a bottle of perfume between ’em.”
I let ’em put me up on the back of that India-rubber ox, which ain’t wearin’ saddle nor bridle. Behind my animal is Dirty Shirt, settin’ on the hump of Sahara, his face twisted kinda funny. He’s got a pair of reins to hang on to.
Just then Gunga Din starts ahead. There ain’t nothin’ I can do but set there and let things go. We went surgin’ around the corner and into the main street. Yaller Rock County sure was there. Every hitchrack is packed with horses, and between the racks and the middle of the street stands the population of a county, waitin’ for us to show up.
They lets out a cheer when we showed up, and we ain’t more than halfway to ’em, when up the street comes old Cod Liver Oil and Runnin’ Dog, both of ’em decked out in war-paint, nose-paint, war-bonnets, and ridin’ painted ponies.
I reckon it was a sight worth seein’. Honest to gosh, I sure did feel aboriginal. I was stoical, too. The only emotion I can show is with my right leg—the left one has gone to sleep. Then the East met the West.
We got within twenty feet of each other before them pinto horses got a good look at Gunga Din and Sahara. Cod Liver Oil’s pinto just spread its legs, bawled like a calf—and fell down, sendin’ the old buck into a somersault almost under Gunga Din. Runnin’ Dog’s pinto turns around on one hind leg, shuckin’ old Runnin’ Dog, and went past us like a streak.
Gunga Din reached down, wrapped his trunk around Cod Liver Oil, and stood the old boy on his head twenty feet away.
“Yee-ow-w-w!” yelps Liniment Lucas. “Some show!”
And into it all comes Pete Gonyer, drivin’ a team of broncs hitched to a covered wagon. He is the Comin’ of the White Man. He came—I’ll say that much for him. The yellin’ is too much for that team of broncs, and here comes Pete, feet braced against the front-gate of that wagon, haulin’ short on the lines, while behind him billows that wagon-cover, like a anchored balloon.
Runnin’ Dog has got to his feet, with the war-bonnet over one eye and blood in the other one.
“Whoo!” he screams. “Hyas masahchie mokst la tet!”
It was the first elephant he ever seen, and he called it a big evil with two heads.
There ain’t no chance for me to move Gunga Din out of the path of them two broncs; so I sets supine and lets death rush down upon us. But it don’t rush all the way.
About twenty feet away, them two broncs get their first look at the East, and they don’t like it. They dig their heels into that hard street, set down in their harness, and out of that cloud of dust comes Pete Gonyer, all spread out like a flyin’ squirrel, and he lands all spraddled out on the head of Gunga Din, still hangin’ onto his lines.
As old Judge Steele might say—“Pandyammonium reigns.”
The two broncs regains their equilibrium, ducks sideways and tries to go around us. They were goin’ pretty good when they took up the slack on them lines, and Pete Gonyer lifted right off the dome of Gunga Din, sailed off through the air and butted Dirty Shirt plumb off his camel. He not only butted him off, but took him along.
Then Gunga Din lifted his trunk high in the air and bugles loud and free—
“Ra-a-a-a te ta-a-a-a ta ta-a-a-a!”
Right then I want to get down. I don’t reckon that any Harper ever lived that wanted to get down as badly as I do; but there ain’t no safety on the ground. Every horse at them hitch-racks are heavin’ and surgin, folks yelpin’. I want to yell, but that darned paint has set, with my mouth half open, and all I can do is say—
“Hoo, hoo, hoo!” like a darned owl.
Then cometh Victory—and Progress. Pete Gonyer has made a riggin’ to fit over the top of Scenery Sims’ automobile, kinda like a platform, and there’s a railin’ all around it, decorated with flags and colored cloth. The driver ain’t in sight, and the danged thing looks like a runaway raft.
On the front of the arrangement stand Mrs. Wick Smith, all gauded up in cheese-cloth and a silver crown, which is settin’ down over one ear, kinda rakish-like. One hand is grippin’ the rail, while the other hangs to a big banner.
Behind her stands Mrs. Gonyer, dressed in white, tryin’ to hold up one hand, like an Injun givin’ a peace-sign, and hangin’ onto her is Mrs. Mighty Jones, wearin’ a nightgown and a pair of paper wings, one of which has climbed up on her shoulder, makin’ her look like a broken-winged duck.
I seen all this in a lot less time than it takes to tell it. The thing is comin’ too danged fast, Isabethat much, and I know that an automobile don’t scare at elephants. A runaway horse goes past me, hits its rump against the platform of Victory and Progress and skids the thing aside.
Mrs. Smith goes down in a lump, and Mrs. Gonyer lands on her knees, with that one hand still up in the air. Then Victory and Progress hits the East.
They knocked Gunga Din loose from the street, but they didn’t remove him. I got Mrs. Smith in my arms, but Mrs. Mighty Jones went past me so fast that I didn’t have no chance to make a collection. Then Gunga Din got his four feet on to the terry-firma agin’ and started out.
He bowed his head, put it against that float and started for Buck’s saloon front. I seen Magpie’s head come up from among the wreckage and he starts hammerin’ Gunga Din over the head with a piece of two-by-four, but he might as well ’a’ kissed him, for all the good it done.
Wick Smith comes gallopin’ alongside of us, yellin’—
“Leggo my wife! Leggo my wife! Dang you, Ike—leggo her!”
“Tell it to her!” I yelps back at him. “You — fool, I ain’t doin’ the holdin’.”
The rear wheels of that equipage hits the sidewalk, lifts up real sudden, and we begins to shove that whole works plumb through Buck’s saloon front. It was then that I managed to get loose from another man’s wife, and proceeds to fall backward off that elephant.
I dunno what in — Sahara was doin’ right behind Gunga Din, unless he was supposed to be there; but I do know that I lit kinda folded up across his long neck, and he starts to run with me. We went around in a circle three times before I fell off, and that — camel walked all over me.
Then I sets up in that dusty street and tries to see what is goin’ on. Horses are runnin’ around like they was in a circus ring, and some of ’em are draggin’ wagons and buggies behind ’em, which makes the street a dangerous place for to be. One wagon circled the street twice before I notices that Dirty Shirt is standin’ up in the wagon, kinda balancin’ himself, with his arms spread out wide.
Then the wagon hit the sidewalk and Dirty turned over twice before landed sittin’ down on the sidewalk. I managed to limp and crawl over to him. His good eye is plumb closed, and the bad one won’t keep still.
He’s singin’ soft and low, and kinda beatin’ time with that jiggly eye. I has to listen real close, but above the roar of destruction I hears his singin’—
“Littul birdie in the tree, in the tree, in the tree;Littul birdie in the tree-e-e-e-e, sing a song for me-e-e-e-e.”
“Littul birdie in the tree, in the tree, in the tree;Littul birdie in the tree-e-e-e-e, sing a song for me-e-e-e-e.”
“Littul birdie in the tree, in the tree, in the tree;
Littul birdie in the tree-e-e-e-e, sing a song for me-e-e-e-e.”
“There ain’t no tree, Dirty,” says I.
“Ain’t there?” he asks soft-like. “There ort to be—there’s so — many birds.”
Over around Buck’s place there’s folks yellin’ to beat four of a kind, and some misguided jigger starts shootin’. I can see that there ain’t no regular doorway left in Buck’s saloon—just an openin’ about ten feet wide.
Just about that time Gunga Din comes around the corner. He ain’t got nobody on his back now, but he’s got a chair hooked around one hind leg. He runs into the hitch-rack, tried to go under it, and lifts it plumb out of the ground. This kinda makes him sore; so he wraps his trunk around one of the posts and starts for us, packin’ and draggin’ it along with him, while on the far end of it is tied a piebald bronc from Paradise.
The most of the crowd stampeded for the Mint Hall, Wick’s store and other places of safety, and it sure don’t take long to clear the street of spectators. Isabethat Gunga Din is on a regular bust; so I picks Dirty Shirt up in my arms and staggers toward Buck’s place.
I ain’t in no shape to pack anybody, ’cause my right leg acts too short, which makes me circle a little to the right and I’m close to Gunga Din before I realize it.
There’s just awhapand arip, and outside of Dirty’s headgear he’s as naked as the day he was born. Gunga Din shucked him like an ear of corn. But Dirty don’t know it, and I don’t care; so we staggers on through the haze.
We fell into Buck’s place, and it don’t take a normal man to see that everythin’ ain’t right in there.
Old Testament Tilton is settin’ up on what used to be the back-bar, squattin’ there like a wise old owl, lookin’ over the world; settin’ there like a statue, sayin’ nothin’. Piled up against the bar is what is left of the float. Buck is flat on his back, with his feet up over the pool-table, which has been moved over against the wall.
All to once that mass which used to be the float begins to heave upward, and from among the busted two-by-fours, twisted wires and colored cloth, cometh Sahara. How in — that camel got mixed up in that float, I don’t know, but there he is.
He comes out of there, plumb decorated, and hanging to his tail like grim death comes Magpie Simpkins, the president of Piperock’s Chamber of Commerce.
Magpie has still got on one boot, a suit of red underwear and the crown of his hat, and in his eyes is a stern resolve. And behind him, pawin’ out of the wreck, comes Wick Smith. They all gets clear of the wreck and Sahara stops. Wick has a two-foot piece of two-by-four in his hands, and he braces his feet far apart.
“Mum-Magpie,” says he kinda thin-like. “You has made me a widder man, gol ding yuh.”
But Magpie don’t hear it. His mind is far behind that pageant of progress. He bows and kinda smiles, as he says:
“The wheel of progress is turnin’, and wo unto him who gits under the tire. The people of Piperock has risen in their might, unleashed their bonds which has held them in darkness—”
Tunk!Wick Smith’s two-by-four ended the speech.
“You didn’t have to blame him entirely, Wick,” says I.
He turns and looks at me, kinda weavin’ on his feet.
“You?” he whispers. “You come bub-back? Where’s my wife?”
“I dunno, Wick.”
“You had her, dang you! I seen you huggin’ her!”
I seen that piece of scantlin’ comin’, but didn’t have flexibility enough to dodge. I distinctly heard it clank against my head, and then I finds myself out in the street again. I can hear a lot of dogs wailin’, and I wonders if I can hear this because I’ve gone to the dogs. Ain’t it funny what a feller will think about in a case like that?
A lot of folks are yellin’ at somebody or somethin’; so I sets up and concentrates on the present. A bullet digs into the dirt beside me, but I don’t mind. I kinda wonders why they’re shootin’ at me, of course. Then somethin’ hooks me off the ground and begins to give me a ride.
I managed to get one eye open and finds that I’m on one end of that hitch-rack, and the motive power is furnished by Gunga Din. They’ve picked me up in the angle between one post and the top-pole, and the friction on that part of me which wasn’t on the pole was somethin’ awful.
Then Gunga Din let out another of them awful bugles, shucked the hitch-rack and headed for Buck’s place again—and hangin’ to the slack skin of Gunga Din’s rear end was Cleopatra. Behind them came Polecat Perkins’ pack of hounds, run to a frazzle, but still able to stagger on and wail plenty loud and long.
Them dogs has run that tiger all night, and it ain’t no wonder that the tiger is huntin’ for somethin’ to climb on to. Right into the wreck of Buck’s place they went, while the crowd, which is located in places of safety, yelled, shot and generally decided that — was havin’ a recess.
It’s only about five minutes since East met West, but there has been several things come to pass. Gunga Din has gone back into Buck’s place, tryin’ to get rid of Cleopatra, when here comes Chief Cod Liver Oil, packin’ an old Sharps rifle. The old war-whoop sure must ’a’ been fortified against fear by much flavorin’ extract, ’cause he heads straight for Buck’s shattered entrance, soundin’ his tribal war-whoop regular.
I got to my feet. I reckon they were my feet. There ain’t no feelin’ in ’em, but they hold me up; so they must be mine. An armless man could count all the Harper heroes on the fingers of his hands, but just the same I goes pawin’ toward Buck’s place to see what I can salvage from Gunga Din, Cleopatra and Cod Liver Oil.
I don’t quite get there, when Cod Liver Oil comes out. He came out of there, end over end, missed me about a foot, and stood on his head and shoulders in the street. His Sharps lit just outside the doorway; so I picked it up and went in.
Cleopatra is settin’ on what used to be the end of Buck’s mahogany bar, her mouth wide open and her eyes shut. Gunga Din is standin’ in the middle of the room, with one hind foot on Magpie’s pant-leg, and Sahara is half-in and half-out of a rear window. And every time Gunga Din weaves the whole building shakes.
Dirty Shirt has got to his feet, and there he stands, plumb out of clothes, kinda rockin’ on his feet and grinnin’ foolish.
“Dud-do somethin’!” whispers Magpie. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to do somethin’?”
“Call on the Chamber of Commerce,” says I.
From under a smashed card-table, Wick Smith shoves up his head. He’s got the brim of his hat in his teeth, but manages to work it loose with his tongue.
“I give up,” he wheezes. “I know when I’ve got enough.”
Old Testament is still settin’ on the back-bar, but now he shakes loose and falls into Cleopatra. He kinda takes that big striped cat into a lovin’ embrace, but Cleopatra yowled once, kicked Testament backward and jumped straight at me.
I throwed up that old Sharps, took a wing-shot at Cleopatra and then a great weight settled upon me. I ain’t no fighter. None of my family ever won any diamond belts; but there never was a Harper that wouldn’t fight to save his own life. And I sure went into a clinch with that tiger.
My eyes are too full of dust and pain for me to see just how the battle is comin’. We just kept on fightin’, thassall. Once we got separated and it takes us quite a while to get together again, but we did. I can’t see a danged thing and I don’t reckon Cleopatra can either; so we locates each other by sense of smell.
I dunno how long we fought. Scientists would probably differ as to how long a man and a tiger can fight without one or both of ’em dyin’. I ain’t got no feelin’ left within’ me. I reckon I’m kinda primitive just now, and I fights with tooth and claw. I hears voices around me, kinda cheerin’; so I puts up a supreme effort, as it were, and feels the tiger go limp.
“My —!” I hears Dirty gasp hoarse-like. “They’re still at it.”
“I licked him—her,” says I.
I ain’t got more than enough breath to say that. And then I kinda passed out.
It seems like I heard somebody say:
“Let him alone, dang yuh! He done jist what I’ve wanted to see done for a long time.”
It was probably quite a some time before I woke up again. For quite a while I can’t figure out just where I am and what’s goin’ on. I seem to be layin’ across somethin’ that heaves and surges a heap. I manages to get one eye open and discovers that I’m on my stummick across a saddle.
Out in front of me and the horse is a queer-lookin’ figure. It’s got on a pair of overalls, which won’t stay up, barefooted, bareheaded. It looks back at me, and I recognize Dirty Shirt by his jiggly eye.
Then I slides off and sets down beside the trail.
“Where we goin’?” I asks.
Dirty comes back and sits down beside me.
“It don’t make no difference, does it?” he asks. “They said that we was mostly to blame; so I took you away from ’em and went away. It wasn’t our fault, Ike; but they have to blame somebody.”
“Magpie was mostly to blame,” says I. “We done the best we could. I dunno what you done, Dirty, but I know I saved Piperock from a lot of heartaches.”
“You sure did, Ike,” says Dirty.
“That critter would ’a’ been the ruination of Piperock.”
“That’s a cinch, Ike. But the worst of it is, you only stops the plague temp’rarily.”
“Thasso?” says I. “I done my best, Dirty Shirt. I wish I had the hide for a souvenir.”
Dirty looks queer-like at me.
“I dunno,” says he kinda sad-like. “A shock sometimes causes a feller to jerk back to his cannibal ancestors.”
I dunno what he’s talkin’ about, but I’m too bunged up to care much, and my face is beginnin’ to crack.
“How in — did it finish?” I asks.
“All right, Ike. The animals all hived up in the livery-stable, and Wick Smith sold ’em to Paradise.”
“The — he did!” I exclaimed, or as much of an exclamation as I can use in my condition. “And didn’t the Piperock Chamber of Commerce stop him?”
“There was only one to vote agin’ it—and he was too danged near death to even squawk. They never even give him credit for tryin’ to save the tiger. I seen it all, Ike. When you lifted that old Sharps to shoot Cleopatry, Magpie got loose from Gunga Din and fell into yuh.”
“Uh-uh-huh,” says I, feelin’ weak. “And then what did I do to the tiger, Dirty.”
“Nothin’ a-tall. The wheels of progress got to turnin’, and Magpie got under the tire, thasall. In the language of Magpie Simpkins, I wouldn’t be surprized to see Piperock one of the big cities of the world.”
“Well,” says I, “in the language of Ike Harper, whose spirit, liver, lights and gizzard has been busted to make a Piperock holiday, let’s get to — out of here, before the place grows too big. I don’t want to even be seen in the suburbs.”
But she hasn’t grown any since.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June 10, 1925 issue ofThe Blue Book Magazine.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June 10, 1925 issue ofThe Blue Book Magazine.