Too much progress for Piperock

by W. C. Tuttle Author of “Law Rustlers,” “The Spark of Skeeter Bill,” etc.

I never seen anything like her before--not alive. One time I found a piece of an old fashion magazine, and there was a picture of a female in that--a female that some feller drawed; but I just figured that it was all imagination with him. I take one look at this live female and then I takes off my hat to the artist.

She said she was an artist. What in ---- anybody could find to draw in Yaller Rock County--except guns--was more than I could see. Me and “Magpie” Simpkins was down at Paradise, setting in Art Wheeler’s stage, when she got on, headed for Piperock.

Art got one look at her and then jackknifed his four horses in trying to turn around and go the wrong direction. Magpie Simpkins never took his eyes off her. Magpie’s old enough to know better, but he didn’t seem to. Art’s eyes don’t foller the road much, with the result that he runs a front wheel off Calamity grade and danged near sends us all to our final destination.

She said her name was Henrietta Harrison. Art pulls up for a breathing spell at Cottonwood Crick, and we stops in the shade of a tree. She looks at the big tree and then she says--

“Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird’s throat----”

“Me,” says Magpie, kinda foolish-like.

“You!” snorts Art. “Tune your merry note! Haw! Haw! Haw! You could ‘lie----’”

“Mebbe you could!” says Magpie, mean-like. “But your wife wouldn’t let yuh.”

“Set down, you ancient he buzzards!” I yelps. “Ain’t yuh got no sense?”

“I don’t understand,” says Henrietta.

“Nobody does,” says I, consoling her. “If we did, we’d know whether to lynch ’em or send ’em to the loco lodge, ma’am.”

“Magpie makes me tired,” declares Art. “Any time he wants to tune his note----”

“It’s my note, Mister Wheeler. If I want to tune my own note----”

“I was merely quoting Shakespeare,” says the lady.

“Giddap, broncs!” says Art Wheeler, and we rocked on into Piperock.

I’ll tell you right here and now; beauty ain’t even skin deep in Piperock. We’ve got wimmin folks--that is, some has--but nobody ever kidnaped any of ’em.

If they belonged to me I’d trust ’em with any man.

There’s Mrs. “Wick” Smith, who jars the hay-scales to two hundred and seventy-five, and wheezes plentiful. Art Wheeler’s better half tasted of life and found it sour, and never got the acid out of her system. Mrs. “Testament” Tilton looks upward for guidance in all matters except when it comes to flattering Testament’s head with a skillet. When Mrs. Pete Gonyer is in sight, Pete’s voice sinks seventeen inches below a whisper. Somebody remarks one day that Pete’s kinda henpecked.

“Henpecked, ----!” says Pete. “Orstrich--if there ain’t nothin’ bigger what wears feathers.”

Mrs. Steele, the wife of our legal light, is six feet two inches tall, and she’s always oratin’ about the sanctity of the home, whatever that is. One cinch, the prize never hands down any decisions in his own home.

Mrs. Sam Holt goes through life worrying about somebody alienating the affections of old Sam, who can barely hear himself yell, and has to eat his spuds mashed or miss the taste of ’em.

There’s the Mudgett sisters, who must ’a’ been the originals of the first cartoon of “Miss Democracy.” Cupid would have to use a .30-30 if he went to work for them. Scattered around the range is a occasional female, but nothing that you’d bet your money on in a beauty contest. Annie Schmidt is cooking for the Triangle outfit, but the same don’t seem to cause any of the other ranches to go short of help.