Public-domain ebook
by W. C. Tuttle
Language: en
Subjects
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #78651.
The opening · free to read
Author of “A Bull Movement in Yellow Horse,” “Bearly Reasonable,” etc.
Did yuh ever git so dog-goned good and hungry that yore mind gits to hangin’ onto one single item uh grub, and yuh feels that yuh won’t never be satisfied until yuh gits it?
Shore yuh have. Cowpunchers have that failin’ uh heap, and the one item is usually ham and aigs. Shore, ham and aigs is one item uh grub same as liver and bacon or hawg and hominy. The full moon of uh aig yolk, shinin’ on uh background uh juicy ham--Cripes! That’s how me and Magpie Simpkins felt when we ties our broncs in front uh Jimmy Peyton’s chop-house in Piperock, and wipes the alkali dust out uh our ears.
Two souls with but uh single thought--ham and aigs. When we gits inside we finds Slim Hawkins and Cobalt Williams, of the Seven A outfit, and they’re settin’ at uh table lookin’ sad-like at Jimmy.
Jimmy stands there, with that long lock uh hair slidin’ down off his head and interferin’ with the sight of his right eye, and the other eye is squinted from the smoke of uh limp cigaret which hangs out uh the corner uh his big mouth.
“Not one, Jimmy?” asks Cobalt. “Not uh danged single one?”
Jimmy shakes his head, and wipes off uh table fer me and Magpie.
“Not one, Cobalt. The aig crop in Piperock is minus. The last one I has I boils fer Buck Masterson this mawnin’. There’s the last sad re-mains over ag’in the door where Buck tries to assassinate me with it. Buck swears that it chirped when it busted. It wa’n’t what you’d call uh brand-new aig.”
“What do yuh know about that, Magpie?” asks Cobalt. “Me and Slim rides plumb over from Hell Gate Springs to git uh big feed, and finds that the ingredients is invisible. Shucks! Uh feed house without aigs ceases to deserve the title.”
“Come to ponder on the subject,” sez Magpie, drummin’ on the table with his fork, “a aig shore does appeal to my stummick. Nothin’ like uh nice aig yolk on uh piece uh juicy ham, but when yuh takes away the aig that ham ain’t nothin’ but jist plain hog.”
“My opinion edzactly,” agrees Slim. “I jist seems to pine fer uh aig like uh calf fer its maw. I ain’t got no ham hunger unless it’s chaperoned by a aig.”
“I’d hate to say what I’d give fer one,” sighs Cobalt. “I reckon I’d give uh four-bit piece fer one right now--middlin’ fresh one at that.”
“Why don’t some uh these nesters around here rustle uh herd uh she-chickens and raise aigs?” complains Slim. “They harbors uh lot uh dogy cows which don’t produce milk, and they raises onions. Who the ---- wants onions! Shucks! Give me uh can uh peaches and some coffee.”
When Magpie Simpkins was born he inherited uh li’l kink, which has allus stood in his way when it comes to bein’ uh normal human bein’. Sometimes he’s normal but when anythin’ happens to enervate that kink th’ stuff is all off. When it gits to kinkin’ yuh can tell it by jist one sign--song. I knowed when we walked out uh that restaurant that day that my peace and comfort was drawin’ to uh sundown, ’cause when we forks our broncs and ambles off toward our shack, Magpie lifts his voice in song:
When the Springti-i-i-ime cometh, gentle Annie-e-e-e-e.
Jist that one line. I’ve often wondered what happened to gentle Annie when the Springtime cometh, but Magpie said he hadn’t never heard. He jist wailed the one line, and he could hold uh high note on Annie until I often feels sorry fer the pore gal. I opines to myself that I ought to go to uh photygrafter and git my tin-type taken so I could show folks how I looked before. I don’t ask no questions. When that kink is workin’ he’s about as sociable as uh pole-cat.
“Ike,” sez he, th’ next day, when we’re settin’ in front of our cabin, “I’ve got it all figgered out.”
“I’ve got uh lot uh friends in Piperock,” I states, “and all I asks, Magpie, is uh chance to pack my war-sack, and tell ’em all good-by. Yore experiments don’t appeal to me a-tall, but I don’t want to leave without uh word.”
“Experiment? Who said this was uh experiment?” he snorts. “This here is uh dead immortal cinch, Ike. Go ahead and punch cows fer forty uh month if yuh wants to.”
“They’ve all been cinches, Magpie,” sez I. “I’m gittin’ tired uh cinches, so I reckon I’ll jist move along while the way is open. Mebby when I’m in the sere and yaller leaf I’ll appreciate uh cinch and then I’ll come back to you.”
When it comes to tearful voices, that Magpie person can give ’em all uh quart handicap. I’m old enough to know better, and I’ve heard them woful accents often enough to git wise, but dog-gone, what could I do when he opines thusly:
“Ol’-timer, I’m full uh grief and sorrow.
You and me been pardners fer years, sharin’ our blankets and beans, and now yuh elects to leave me forever. You know what’s best, Ike. Go if yuh must, but not in anger, ’cause I loves yuh like uh brother and I know that life is goin’ to be empty when yo’re gone. Won’t yuh stay another week, Ike? Pardner uh mine, I needs yuh like uh porkypine needs quills.”
“Well,” sez I, wipin’ the sweat off my cheek-bones, “lookin’ at it from uh sentimental standpoint I’ll go yuh oncet. What’s the idea, Magpie?”
He points down across the hills and sez:
“Ike, do yuh see that li’l bunch uh cactus-covered hills down there? Them’s mine now.”
“Well,” sez I, “they say that man wants li’l here below, but I reckon you undershoots that about six feet, Magpie. Cactus, mesquite and grasshoppers! Without wishin’ to be considered inquisitive and nosey, I’d shore admire to know why you accumulates such undesirable real estate? Uh man couldn’t raise whiskers on that plot.”
“All I asks is perfect faith,” sez he. “I aims to show yuh how to git rich without workin’, Ike.”
Me and Magpie goes on with our li’l social duties, and things is normal fer uh week, except that Magpie wails uh heap about gentle Annie. One evenin’ the stage comes in and she’s piled up high with boxes. Andy Johnson is drivin’ and he’s some peevish. He climbs down and starts jerkin’ the ropes off that load.
“Gol dang. This shore is some load!” snorts Andy. “Between them hawgs and he-hens I shore have had one hy-iu trip, if yuh asks me. First uh hawg would squeal and then uh he-hen--the same uh which ain’t familiar to my broncs--would yell, and then I has uh man-sized runaway on my hands.”
“I reckon that freight is fer me,” states Magpie.
“Ke-rect!” snaps Andy. “Help me git this danged hawg crate off. Them’s the funniest lookin’ hawgs I ever seen. Cripes! They ain’t wider’n nothin’ and about five feet long.”
“Razor-backs, Andy,” sez Magpie, grinnin’. “Them hawgs is reported to contain the sweetest meat on--hol’ onto that crate! Dog-gone!”
Andy misjudges the weight of the crate as it slides off, and down she comes onto the ground with uh smash! The crate busts wide open and there stands them hawgs, tryin’ to git their bearin’s. Magpie takes one less look than the hawgs did, and dives fer the pair.
Magpie is shore some sudden mover, but he didn’t figger on the speed uh them slender animiles, and all he gits is his hands full uh dirt, while the hawgs shoots right under the stage and under the feet uh them four broncs. Blooey!
Uh bronc is some tickled when he can find somethin’ to git good and scared at, and all four uh them buzzard-heads seems to be delighted with the situation. They yanks the stage plumb off the ground, and heads right up the main street, with them crates ridin’ high, wide, and handsome.
At the upper end of the street, in front uh Holt’s hotel, is uh tree. It’s the only one in five miles, and uh course them broncs has to head straight fer it. One uh the leaders stands on his rump on Holt’s porch and then rolls into the doorway, to the consternation uh the Holt fambly. The other goes buckin’ off across the flat with nothin’ on except his blinders and uh throat-latch. The pole uh the wagon hits the tree dead center, and the wheelers splits and burns the sand away from Piperock and razor-backs. The wagon jack-knifes, and all three uh them crates rises sudden like, hits the tree and proceeds to open up all to oncet.
Chickens? Say, when them crates busted it looks like an explosion in uh feather-bed factory. We runs up there as fast as we can, and it looks like the whole town was comin’ to the scene. When we gits there them chickens ain’t noways in evidence--jist busted wagon, busted crates and feathers.
Andy walks around the stage and looks her over and then gazes up in the tree. We natcherally all looks up, and there on uh limb stands uh he-hen with uh scared look in his eyes. Jist one left out uh them three crates full.
We don’t git more’n one good look before uh gun explodes in our midst and that chicken ain’t nothin’ but uh bunch uh soiled feathers.
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