Injuneered

Old Runnin’ Wolf claims that he’s the son of a chief. Most Injuns do, as far as that’s concerned; but Runnin’ Wolf covers too many tribes in his claim to greatness. On one bottle of kidney cure he can become a son of Sittin’ Bull. Give him a couple shots extra of hair tonic, and he claims Chief Joseph, of the Nez Perce tribe, as his father. A pint of corn liquor drives him plumb back to Pontiac; and I’ve knowed him to mourn a heap over the death of his sister, Pocahontas.

Runnin’ Wolf is six feet six inches tall, and if it wasn’t for the size of his nose he could dive out of sight in a shotgun barrel. Nobody knows how old he is, and nobody cares. He’s jist a mean lookin’ old war whoop, who lives in a teepee outside the town of Piperock, schemin’ all the time to get money enough to buy alcohol, and a little left over for a poker game. Can he play that pastime? Give him two deuces, and he’ll win more jackpots than any livin’ aborigine.

At one time in his distant past, Runnin’ Wolf traveled with a medicine show. The owner was one of them sleight-of-hand fellers, crooked as a snake in a cactus patch, and he taught Runnin’ Wolf how to play winnin’ poker. And that war whoop, comin’ straight from a long line of horsethieves, et cettery, shore absorbed knowledge. I wouldn’t play him for a two-bit piece, if he’d let me do the dealin’. Yaller Rock County knows him so well that he’s in the sere and yaller leaf, as far as winnin’ anythin’ goes.

Me and Dirty Shirt Jones are settin’ on the hitch rack in front of Buck Masterson’s saloon one mornin’, like a couple old buzzards, lookin’ for something to happen. Dirty Shirt ain’t very big, but he’s got a man sized capacity for anythin’ you might mention. His left eye is his predominatin’ feature, bein’ as it ain’t noways fixed like a regular eye, but kinda darts hither and yon, finally comin’ to rest in the northwest section of his eye socket, peerin’ up at the angle between his crooked nose and his eyebrow. All of which gives Dirty a cockeyed expression.

We’re settin’ there, tryin’ to elect a Democrat President, when here comes old Burnin’ Wolf, headin’ across from the post office, trailin’ his blanket.

“I ain’t goin’ t’ lend that old marrowgut a cent more,” declares Dirty.

But Burnin’ Wolf merely scratches his shoulders against the rack post, picks up the butt of the cigaret I’ve jist dropped and asks me for a match.

“Gittum letta,” he says.

“Who got a letter?” asks Dirty.

“Me gittum letta.”

“Who from?”

The old boy fishes out a dirty envelope from inside his shirt and hands it to me. In one corner of the envelope it says, “Barker Brothers Great Consolidated Shows”.

“Dirty Dora prob’ly died and they’re askin’ Wolf to take his place,” says Dirty Shirt. “Open it up--the war whoop can’t read.”

Inside was a single sheet of paper; on it was written, kinda sprawly--

I em cum to veesit yu sunn. --CHEEF AXILGRISS

“What say?” asked the chief.

I reads it to him. He scratched his left knee with the toe of his right moccasin, and then he laughs kinda foolish.

“Who’s Chief Axlegrease?” I asks.

“Long time ago I be with him in medicine show. Him Osage or Cherokee or somethin’.”

“He’s a hell of a lot like you, eh?” grunted Dirty.

“I’m a Sioux.”

“Yeah--when you’re sober.”

“Pretty damn dry now.”

“Yeah,” says Dirty, “and if you don’t quit drinkin’ hair tonic, you’ll have to eat moths to keep down the fur. So this here Axlegrease Injun is comin’ to visit you, eh?”

“Um-m-m-m. Play damn bad poker.”

“I suppose you’ll skin him out of his moccasins, eh?”

“Um-m-m-m. Me no got money. Mus’ have money for play poker.”

“Yeah, we all found that out a long time ago, Mister Vanishin’ Race.”

It might be well to tell you somethin’ about our town of Piperock and of the rest of Yaller Rock County. Piperock, Yaller Horse and Paradise are set in a sort of triangle. Yaller Horse grew up from a one shack horsethieves’ hangout. I mean she growed up in size, but her morals remained dormant. The town is kinda mismanaged by Tombstone Todd, Yuma Yates, Hardpan Hawkins and Smoky Potts, knowed by us Piperockers as Murderer’s Row. Whenever folks enumerate the poisonous reptiles, they mention them four in connection with rattlers and copperheads.

Paradise is only of more consequence, because of a larger population. A horsethief got run out of Piperock, hid in a hole down the country, and out of spite he started a town, which they called Paradise. Bein’ of the same minds and dispositions, Yaller Horse and Paradise buried the ax against each other, in order to concentrate against Piperock.

Piperock is a lovable old place, full of memories, tryin’ to get along in a peaceable way and amount to something. If it wasn’t for the folks in Piperock it would be a great old town. But even with our failin’s, we’re united. We don’t need no outside help. We stand for a certain principle, and we back our own--right or wrong--and there ain’t been an innocent bystander killed in years. We shoot straight. We go on the idea that if the law leaves us alone, we’ll leave the law alone. Reciprocity, Magpie Simpkins calls it.

Magpie is built a whole lot like Runnin’ Wolf, has sad, droopin’ eyes, like a disappointed bloodhound, and a long mustache. And nature didn’t cheat him, when it comes to noses. He’s full of quaint ideas, all of which suffer a heap from missin’ parts, and his main idea in life is to keep Piperock on the map.

Well, me and Dirty Shirt proceeds to forget all about Chief Axlegrease, and he ain’t brought to our attention until the next day when a runaway bronc, bearin’ Mighty Jones in the saddle, comes down through our main street like Paul Revere spreadin’ his anti-English propaganda. Mighty ain’t very big, but his hair is long and his voice is plenty resonant, as you might say.

When he’s about in the middle of the town, wingin’ along on that locoed animal, which is jist touchin’ here and there, we hears him yelp--

“Ho-o-o-o-old your ho-o-o-orses!”

Jist one more clickety-clack, and he’s faded out complete.

“That,” says Dirty Shirt, “is damn’ queer advice, under the circumstances. But mebbe he’s like Old Testament Tilton, allus preachin’ advice that he won’t foller hisself.”

“I’m pure in heart,” replied Old Testament, who is also built awful high above his corns.

“Lotta bum watches have plenty good main springs.”

“I’m meek and lowly,” says Testament, pious-like.