## The Project Gutenberg eBook of "The curse of drink"

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Title: "The curse of drink"

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Illustrator: Jack Warren

Release date: January 1, 2025 [eBook #75018]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Doubleday, Doran & Company, 1929

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75018

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK "THE CURSE OF DRINK" ***

# “THE CURSE OF DRINK”

By W. C. TUTTLE
Author of “The Keeper of Red Horse Pass,” “Three On and Everybody Down,” etc.

> THE COWTOWN OF SAN PABLO AIMED TO GIVE A PLAY FOR THE BENEFIT OF PARSON JONES’ CANNIBALS. THOSE ABLE PUNCHERS, PEEWEE PARKER AND HOZIE SYKES, AIMED TO ACT IN IT. THEY DID—QUITE SOME. BUT WHEN THE LAST CURTAIN—AMONG OTHER THINGS—FELL, THE CHIEF WINNER FROM THE RIOT WAS EVELINE ANNABEL WIMPLE.

“Man,” says “Judgment” Jones, “is of few days and full of woe.”

Well, I reckon he’s right. I’m of a cheerful disposition, kinda goin’ through life with a wide grin, tryin’ to see everythin’ in the right light and do well by my feller man; but when Old Man Woe sneaks up behind and swats yuh with his loaded quirt—what’ll yuh have?

“Peewee” Parker says that as long as yuh stick to what the good Lord ordained for yuh to do, yo’re all right. He picked me and Peewee to be first-class cowpunchers, that’s a cinch, ’cause we ain’t never goin’ to be no good for anythin’ else, if for that.

And then there’s “Boll-Weevil” Potts, first name Hank. He’s about six feet six inches lengthways, and with no width to speak of; bein’ built a heap like a single-shot rifle. Hank’s all right, but nature was in a playful mood when she laid out his specifications. And he runs to ears so fluently that he has to wear a six and seven-eighths hat on a seven and a quarter head to keep it from wearin’ the top off his ears. As a distinguishin’ mark, he wears a brown derby.

I don’t hold that any man has a right to wear that kind of a war-bonnet in a cow country. It is jist a invitation to those desirin’ a legitimate target. But Hank owns the No-Limit Saloon, along with the HP cow outfit, and that kinda gives him the right to look kinda doggy, as yuh might say.

Me and Peewee runs the HP outfit for Hank. Peewee Parker weighs two hundred and fifty on the hoof, and he ain’t so awful tall. I’m “Hozie” Sykes, one of the real old Sykes family. My folks was in this country when the Mayflower came over. I’ve heard paw tell about one of his great, great grandfathers, who was livin’ down in Arizona at that time. He heard about this boatload of folks comin’ over; so the old man hitched up his oxen and headed for California. He said the damn’ country was gittin’ overrun with foreigners.

I’m merely tellin’ yuh this to prove my pedigree. Peewee don’t know much about his family further back than two generations, but that don’t hurt his chances to be a good puncher. Owners of cow outfits don’t question yuh much, when yuh apply for a saddle-slickin’ job.

Hank Boll-Weevil Potts married Susie Hightower. Sometimes I look at Hank and know dang well he wishes it was merely an unfounded rumor. Susie weighs two-twenty, and takes after her pa—and that’s takin’ quite a lot. “Zibe” Hightower is somethin’ for to take after. He ain’t very big, but if all the rest of the meanness in the world was give him, you’d never notice the difference in his actions.

Zibe wears flowin’ mustaches, two guns and a scowl. He’s been in the San Pablo range since long before they built the hills and made the cuts for water to run off in, and he says he’ll be here long after it’s all flat land again. Nobody knows how old he is, but I’ve heard him tell how he showed the cliff dwellers how to build their huts.

Everythin’ was goin’ along all right, except for an occasional fight among ourselves or with the town of Oasis, that sink-pot of iniquity to the south of San Pablo, when along comes Eveline Annabel Wimple. Now, I don’t mean any disrespect to a pretty lady. They’re necessary, I reckon. Hank showed me her card, and it says, in real pretty gold letters—Eveline Annabel Wimple, D. T.

I got a good look at her, and I says, “Well, they ain’t so bad to see.”

“What ain’t?” he asks.

“Them D. T’s. I had an idea they was more serpentine, as yuh might say.”

“That D. T. stuff means Dramatic Teacher.”

“Pertainin’ to actin’?” asks Peewee.

“With flourishes,” admits Hank. “She learns yuh stage actin’.”

“I’ve allus hankered to be a contortionist,” says Peewee. “Yuh don’t suppose she teaches yuh how to bend, do yuh?”

“Does that come under the headin’ of dramatic?”

“It shore would, if Peewee ever bent,” says I. “He lays on his back now to pull on his boots. But what in hell is a dramatic teacher doin’ in San Pablo?”

“It ain’t clear to me jist yet,” says Hank “Judgment Jones and her kinda holds several pow-wows, and it’s somethin’ to do with the church. Judgment has been tryin’ to raise money enough to buy himself some fresh pants, or a pulpit or a bell, or somethin’ needful for Christianity. He ain’t flourished yet, as yuh might say. He said he’d have some news for me in a short time.”

“That woman is pretty,” says Peewee. “You better keep away from her, Hank.”

“I’m a married man—and I’m satisfied.”

“Satisfied that yo’re married?”

“Thoroughly convinced,” said Hank sadly. “Oh, it’s all right with me, but when I see a damned old hi-ree-glyphic like Zibe Hightower shinin’ around her, grinnin’ like a Hallowe’en cat, I git hot. I said to him, ‘You ought to have more sense, you danged old shadder of a vanished age.’ And he says, ‘I’m single, ain’t I?’

“I told him he was worse than single—that he was minus one, and he got hot. Said jist because I was happily married, I was tryin’ to keep him from marriage bliss. Marriage bliss! And Mrs. Judgment Jones is kinda on the warpath, too. She thinks Judgment is showin’ this here D. T. woman too much attention. She told Mrs. Zeke Hardy that she knowed Judgment was smitten, ’cause for the first time in years and years he washed the back of his neck. She said the only reason Judgment faces the devil is ’cause he’s ashamed to turn around on account of his neck. Oh, I dunno. The whole town is kinda stirred up.”

“Susie stirred up?” I asks.

“Most always is. She’s learnin’ to shoot a six-gun. Hurt her arm the last time she throwed a flat-iron at me. Them things kinda keep a man active, I s’pose. Some married men kinda git in a rut, but if I ever do I’m a goner. Well, I took her for better or worse, and I shore got it.”

We left Hank to his reveries of a squirshed love, and has a few drinks at the No-Limit, after which we’re unfortunate in runnin’ into Zibe Hightower. He’s wearin’ a clean shirt and he shore smells of perfume.

“Heel-yuh-tripe?” asks Peewee. “Zibe, yuh shore smell tainted. Mebbe it’s ’cause yo’re so old—kept too long, as yuh might say.”

“I smell to suit m’self!” snaps Zibe.

“Exclusive of everybody else. Why all the odor?”

“Ain’t this a free country?”

“With certain limits. You ain’t learnin’ dramatics, are yuh, Zibe?”

“Why not? All the world’s a stage.”

“And that makes us all stage drivers,” says I.

“Yo’re funny,” says Zibe. “Yuh ought to study comedy. Pers’nally, I’ve got the physical assets to make a tragedian—voice, carriage—”

“Squeak and a buckboard,” interrupts Peewee. “Tragedian!”

“I have so. I could do Shakespeare.”

“Shore—in a horse-trade. As far as that’s concerned, I ain’t never seen anybody yuh couldn’t do, Zibe. Yo’re in love.”

“No such a damn thing!”

“How old is she?”

“I ain’t askin’ no lady her age. Anyway, age don’t make no difference; so—sa-a-a-ay, what lady are yuh talkin’ about?”

“The one Judgment Jones is nutty about.”

“That old Scriptural scorpion!”

“He’s here to save yore soul. Said so last Sunday.”

“Well, he don’t need to worry about my soul. I don’t.”

“Yuh would, if yuh had any. Right now all yuh need is one of them little bird whistles to make yuh imitate a flower garden. Man, yuh shore smell like a bed of Sweet Williams.”

“Some day, Peewee Parker, I’m goin’ to hang yore hide on a bobwire fence.”

“Pick yore day, feller, and bring the lady along.”

Not bein’ interested in dramatic teachin’ nor the troubles of married folks, me and Peewee goes back to the HP ranch. We’re dependable and as honest as the average run of cowpunchers. Of course, we don’t cut down no cherry trees, and then run our legs off to tell folks about it, but we git along. As long as the law keeps away from us, we’ll keep away from the law.

That night at supper time, Peewee gits to tellin’ me about one time he acts in a play. I figure he’s lyin’, of course, but a good lie is interestin’. Accordin’ to Peewee, he’s a pretty good actor. He shot six men in this play—two at one shot. He’s one of them pyramid liars—keeps pilin’ one on top of the other. I stopped him before he got too good. I ain’t never done no actin’, but I never seen anythin’ a Sykes couldn’t do; that is, anythin’ that’s honest.

“It took me a long time to git as good as I was,” says Peewee. “I’ll bet I was good enough to git a job in New York actin’ on a stage.”

“You wasn’t a good actor—you was a good shot. All the good actors I ever seen killed ’em with knives.”

“Well,” says Peewee, “I was a good actor. I wanted to kill ’em with knives, but the boss said, ‘You go ahead and shoot ’em, Peewee—knives is too messy.’”

“You never played in Shakespeare, didja?” I asks.

“Nope, only in Dry Lake. This was a home talent show. But I’m good. The stage shore got robbed when I turned my talents to punchin’ cows.”

“Yeah, and for turnin’ yore talents yuh ought to be arrested for cruelty to dumb animals,” says I.

The next day Hank Potts showed up, unfolded from his bronc, and sat down with us on the porch of the adobe ranchhouse. Hank looks kinda shopworn, as yuh might say.

“I came out to rest m’ nerves,” says he. “I’m a actor.”

“What kind of a actor?” queried Peewee.

“Good. I’m the leadin’ man—hee-roo—gits the fair damsel in the end.”

“Who is the fair damsel—Miss Eveline Annabel Wimple, D. T?” I asks.

“Don’t be comical, Horde,” says Hank kinda sad-like.

“Speak—yo’re among friends,” says Peewee.

“It’s thisaway,” sighs Hank. “We held a meetin’ last night. Miss Wimple aims to put on a show for the benefit of the church.”

“And the meetin’ busted up in a fight,” says Peewee, bein’ somewhat of a prophet.

“A discussion,” says Hank. “Miss Wimple has a play of her own, which she desires us to play. Bein’ as she is to furnish the play, train the actors, et cettery, and all that, she’s to receive seventy-five percent of the profits, the other twenty-five percent goin’ to Judgment Jones and his church.

“That started a argument among us. Miss Wimple argues that her play is a dinger, and the only available play in this county, when my wife―”

“She would,” agrees Peewee.

“I never knowed Susie wrote a play,” confesses Hank. “I never knowed a thing about it, until she steps out and says we can have her play free.”

“It would be worth at least that,” says Peewee.

“She calls it—” Hank stops to sigh deeplike—“The Curse of Drink. And me runnin’ a first-class rum shop.”

“Mebbe,” says Peewee, “she meant sody water or some soft drink.”

Hank shakes his head. “I read it, Peewee.”

“What’s it all about, anyway?”

“Gawd forgive me for sayin’ anythin’ against my wife, but I don’t know what it’s all about. Miss Wimple read it. Judgin’ from the expression of her face, as she read it, it’s a comedy. Even if Susie don’t think so. I’m goin’ to be Howard Chesterfield, a jockey. I’m the jigger,” says Hank sad-like, jambin’ his derby down over one eye, “what wins the race, saves the mortgage and wins the girl.”

“That’d be worth goin’ a long ways to see,” says I.

“That’s what Miss Wimple said. But we’re short of actors. Susie suggests that we git you two fellers to play with us. But I said neither of yuh knowed the first thing about actin’, and Miss Wimple said that mebbe I was right, ’cause, as she read the play, it needed somebody with more brains than an ordinary cowpuncher has to play them parts.”

“Lemme tell you somethin’!” says Peewee. “I’ve done more actin’ than you ever seen. I was a actor before you ever knowed there was anythin’ but a four-wheel stage on earth; and I never seen any part I can’t play.”

“I ditto all that and sign my name,” says I. “When it comes to play actin’, a Sykes jist falls naturally into the part.”

“This is a hard play to act,” says Hank.

“That’s my meat,” declares Peewee. “I’ve shore bit off some hard ones.”

“Didja ever see a horse on the stage?” asks Hank.

“Well,” says Peewee, “I kinda have, but I never favored ’em.”

“This’n has got to have a racehorse for me to ride. Susie said we ort to have a lot of horses to make up the race, but—I dunno.”

“Yuh might use Tequila,” says I, and Hank kinda shudders. Tequila was a racehorse. I say “was,” meanin’ the present time. Hank bought him off a horse-trader for a hundred dollars. Fastest horse on earth for a hundred yards, and then crossed his front feet. Always crossed his front feet. Worked himself into a lather, looked like a racehorse, ran like a scared coyote for a hundred yards and then—well, Hank kept him.

“Might use him,” admitted Hank. “Got a lotta sense.”

Hank wouldn’t commit himself further, and went back to San Pablo. We don’t hear nothin’ more about it for a couple days, when cometh “Dog-Rib” Davidson, of Oasis. Dog-Rib almost runs Zibe Hightower a dead-heat, when it comes to bein’ mean, and if all the hate in his carcass was laid end to end, yuh could use it for a trail marker from New York to Honolulu.

“I’ve been laughin’ m’self hoarse for two days,” says Dog-Rib. “Them there San Pabloers are goin’ to put on a play-actin’ show, with Hank Boll-Weevil Potts as the big he buzzard of the flock. Calls it The Curse of Drink. Haw, haw, haw! Can yuh imagine it? I can’t. I’ve seen shows in my life, I have.”

“You look like yuh had seen plenty, but never had none,” says Peewee. “You shore look to me like a man who never had a show from the start.”

“I’ve allus got along,” says Dog-Rib.

“I reckon all of Oasis will be at the show,” says I.

“Oh, shore. Accordin’ to their epitaphs, every ticket will have a number on it, and the lucky ticket will win Hank Potts’s racehorse. The tickets are one dollar per each, and no questions asked. Alkali and Oasis has shore invested heavy in them tickets. But it’ll be a awful show.”

“It’s about time they asked us in to learn our parts,” says Peewee, after Dog-Rib goes away. “We’ve got to have a little time.”

But by that time the next day there hadn’t nobody showed up to tell us; so we saddled up and went to San Pablo. The bartender at Hank’s place tells us that the actors and actresses are all over at the San Pablo Hall, where the Curse of Drink is to make its showin’, and then he gave us a couple of handbills which read:

WORLD PREEMEER
“THE CURSE OF DRINK”
By
SUSIE H. POTTS
A PLAY IN SEVEN ACTS & SOME SEENS
THE CAST:

Eveline Annabel Wimple, D. T. | Gwendolyn Witherspoon
Hennery Potts | Howard Chesterfield Zibe
Hightower | Simon Legree
Limpy Lucas | Lord Worthington
Mrs. Thursday Noon | Lady Worthington
Zeke Hardy | Uncle Tom
Olaf Swenson | Jason
SUSIE HIGHTOWER POTTS as | LITTLE EVA

> Presented by Eveline Annabel Wimple, D. T. under the auspices of the San Pablo Church and Susie Hightower Potts.
> Tickets are one dollar including a chance on winning the racehorse used in this production.
> Don’t miss this chance to see Howard Chesterfield win the big DERBY RACE and see LITTLE EVA go to heaven. Either one will be worth the price of admission.

“When is this here show to transpire?” asked Peewee.

“Tomorrow night,” says the bartender. “Eight o’clock sharp. She’s goin’ to be a dinger, gents. I’ve seen some of it, but from now on, she’s private. I tell yuh, they had a hell of a time gettin’ Tequila up there. Took him up this mornin’. Built a platform plumb across one end of the hall, and they’ve been carpenterin’ and paintin’ up there for three days. If it ain’t worth seein’, I never seen anythin’. Every danged seat in the house is sold.”

“We ain’t got none,” says Peewee.

“Well, yuh won’t git none. They’re all gone. Alkali and Oasis shore bought ’em in quantities.”

Wasn’t that a nice thing to do—sell ’em all out thataway? I shore intended to speak to Hank Potts about it, but he never showed up; so me and Peewee got a gallon of hard liquor and went back to the ranch, brewin’ up a hate against San Pablo. We left word with the bartender to tell Hank Potts what we thought of him and his show.

“Two of the best actors in the country—and they left us out,” mourns Peewee. “Tha’s great. And me, who made Bill Shakespeare turn over in his grave twice in one evenin’ in Dry Lake.”

I’m kinda hazy about things after that. A gallon of Hank’s liquor would make a jackrabbit waylay a lobo wolf. Time don’t mean anythin’ to yuh, and I thought it was the night before, when I realize that Hank Potts is among us, and with him is a beautiful lady. I remember tryin’ to shake hands with her and got Hank’s nose in my hand.

“I’m layin’ my cards on the table,” says Hank. “You fellers said yuh knew how to act, didn’t yuh? In two hours we’re due to lift the curtain, and we’re shy two actors. Zibe Hightower and Zeke Hardy got into a fight, and Olaf Swenson tried to help Zeke, until Susie bent a two-by-four over Olaf’s head. Zeke is plumb out of order, too. For the honor and glory of San Pablo, I ask you to help us out. Hozie, you’ll be Uncle Tom, and Peewee will be Jason.”

“Please, gentlemen,” says the lady. “I am Miss Wimple.”

“I’ll bezzer wife don’ know yo’re out here with thish woman,” says Peewee.

“The curse of drink,” says the lady soft-like.

“If you think I’m drunk now,” says Peewee, “you ought to shee me, when I’m right.”

“Yo’re both too drunk to act,” says Hank.

“Zasso? Who is? Me and Hozie? Say! Feller, I could play all the parts in yore show, includin’ the racehorsh, without any rehearshal—tha’s me. Go and git the horshes, Hozie, ’f yuh please.”

Peewee bowed to me, hit his head on the corner of the table, and wanted to fight Hank for hittin’ him when he wasn’t lookin’. Anyway, we got to town an hour before the show is due to commence. I got me a couple more drinks, which I didn’t actually need, and then they took me up into the hall. The back of that stage is full of actors and actresses, and I remember Judgment Jones shakin’ hands with me and God blessin’ me for helpin’ ’em out.

“The Sykes fambly never ignores a call for help,” I says. “Bring on yore crowd and lemme act.”

I ain’t never played in a show before, but I thought I had. That’s what jiggle juice will do for yuh. I kinda relaxed for a few moments, and when I realized things again, I finds Hank Boll-Weevil Potts and Zibe Hightower workin’ over me with somethin’ that smells a heap like turpentine.

“Keep yore eyes open, Hozie,” says Hank, “they might stick.”

Bein’ in a happy state of mind, I let ’em go ahead, not realizin’ that they was paintin’ me black as the ace of spades. It don’t hurt none, except kinda makin’ me stiff around the eyes. They left me in the chair and went about their business, and pretty soon I finds I ain’t got no shoes on, and my feet are so black they shine. And by that time my face is so stiff I can’t spit and I can’t blink my eyes. All I can do is stare at things.

“In the first act, yuh ain’t got to say a word,” says Hank, “except at the end, where you and Zibe walk out, you say to Susie, ‘God bless yore kind heart, Miss Eva.’ Can yuh remember that, Hozie?”

I kinda nods. Remember? Shore I can remember. If somebody would crack the paint around my mouth, I might say somethin’.

I can hear Judgment Jones out in front of the curtain, explainin’ things, and I hear him tell that me and Peewee has been added to the show. Miss Eveline Annabel Wimple finds me, and she says in a voice what is kinda choked, “Uncle Tom, yo’re goin’ to be a knockout.”

Then along comes Zibe Hightower. He’s wearin’ an old plug hat, long, black coat, which Judgment Jones uses on Sunday, a pair of striped pants and boots. He’s got some big black eyebrows painted up above his scrawny ones and his mustache is as black as ink. In one hand he’s packin’ a blacksnake whip, and he’s seven-eighths drunk.

There’s Susie Hightower Potts, wearin’ a knee-length white dress, and she’s wearin’ more paint than a warpath Apache. Susie weighs two-twenty on the hoof, and she ain’t over five feet tall. Cometh Hank Potts, ready for the fray, wearin’ one of his wife’s polka-dot waists, a pair of tight pants made out of a sheet, and a pair of boots, which he has painted with black enamel. On his head is a little speckled jockey cap, with a long beak.

“Limpy” Lucas is almost in-cog-neeto in a boiled shirt, glasses and Hank’s old brown derby. Mrs. Thursday Noon is wearin’ a necklace of them cut-glass dinguses off a chandelier, a feather fan, and a dress so danged tight that she couldn’t set down without havin’ a accident.

Then cometh a interruption in the shape of Dog-Rib Davidson, Roarin’ Lyons and “Nebrasky” Smith. The two former are from Oasis, and the latter is from Alkali.

“We’ve been appointed a committee,” states Dog-Rib. “We bought tickets in good faith, expectin’ to see a show, but we finds that you’ve done fired two of yore best actors—Zeke Hardy and Olaf Swenson—and we know why yuh ditched ’em. It’s ’cause Zeke used to live in Oasis, and Olaf used to hibernate in Alkali. We hereby demand our money back.”

“No, yuh can’t do that,” says Hank. “We’re ready to start the show.”

“Money or scalps,” says Roarin’.

“Let us arbitrate,” suggests Judgment Jones. “We’ve got two better actors to take their places, and the show will be much better.”

“That’s what you say,” grunts Dog-Rib. “Where’s the proof?”

“How’s it better, I’d crave to know, that’s what I’d crave,” says Roarin’ Lyons.

“Brother, you’ve got a cravin’,” agrees Nebrasky, “and so have I.”

“Well,” says Hank sad-like, “the only way to prove it is to go ahead and play her out, boys.”

“I’ll tell yuh what we’ll do,” says Dog-Rib. “I’m a fair man and I’ll allus do the right thing. Us, as a committee, will judge. We’ll watch yuh do this here play-actin’, and if we decided it ain’t as good as Zeke and Olaf could have played her, you give us back our money.”

“My Gawd!” groans Hank. “In yore opinion! Well, I reckon it’ll be all right, Dog-Rib.”

“We’ll be on the front row,” warns Dog-Rib, “and yuh better give us plenty show for our money. We’ll be especially watchin’ Peewee and Hozie.”

And me without a voice in the matter. I’d quit right now, if I could talk enough to resign. The rest of the outfit gits around me, and they shore told me a lot I didn’t know about actin’.

“You two jiggers ain’t the leadin’ parts in this here drammer of the Sunny South,” says Hank, “but right now yo’re prominent as hell. On you depends about five hundred dollars; so act. San Pablo is watchin’ yuh.”

“I’ll do my bes’,” declares Peewee, “and if it comes to the worsht, I can lick about three of that committee. How about you, Hozie?”

I don’t say nothin’. Peewee takes hold of my face and squeezes it a little. It left my nose out of line and my lips open, as though I was goin’ to whistle.

“Hank, that paint hardened on Hozie,” says Peewee. “He can’t talk.”

“All right. Mebbe it’ll be better. There goes the openin’ music.”

It’s the three-piece orchestra—bull fiddle, accordion and drum, playin’ “My Old Kentucky Home,” with variations.

After that, the show started, and Hank led me and Peewee around to where we can see what’s goin’ on.

“This first act is the drawin’-room of the Witherspoon mansion,” whispers Hank. “Watch Susie and Miss Wimple; they do this well.”

I reckon I got some paint in my ears, ’cause I don’t hear so awful good, but I hears Susie sayin’, “—since my darlin’ pappy died―”

And then Dog-Rib stands up and says, “Wait a minute, will yuh. Lemme git this straight. Is Zibe Hightower dead?”

“That’s worth the price of admission,” says “Kansas” McGill, “if she gives the right answer.”

Old Judgment Jones steps out and says, “This here is all actin’, and Zibe ain’t dead. Now, we don’t want no more interruptin’ from nobody. Amen.”

“You shore act cheerful while givin’ bad news,” says Kansas, and the show starts in ag’in.

I can’t git head nor tail to any of it. Mrs. Thursday Noon comes on, and the audience gives a big whoop. She shore sparkles, but forget what she came out there for, and proceeds to knock over a table and hit her chin on the edge of the sofy, where Miss Wimple is settin’. Her necklace got up around her ears and the dress busted between the shoulders, but they got her propped up on the sofy. The thing seems kinda deadlocked out there, so Hank Potts goes on. They gave Hank three cheers, but he don’t mind. He’s got somethin’ to say, and he’s sayin’ it.

“When yore daddy died he called me to his bedside and he says to me, ‘Howard Chesterfield, everythin’ I own has been swept away, except my two daughters and my racehorse, and I—I―’”

Hank goes bug-eyed and forgets the rest.

“The horse was too fast and one daughter was too heavy, eh?” suggests somebody from Oasis.

“Go on, Howard; go on,” begs Miss Wimple, and Hank mumbles for a minute.

“You are goin’ to ride Thunderbolt in the big race?” asks Miss Wimple.

“That’s it,” grins Hank. “Thunderbolt will win, and you’ll all git back yore fortune.”

“But we haven’t money enough left to enter the horse.”

“I—I’ve saved my salary,” says Hank. “I’ll enter the horse.”

“But we can’t afford to hire a jockey.”

“I’ll ride him,” says Hank, hammerin’ himself on the chest. “I’ll wear the glue and bold of the Witherspoon stables. I—I mean the bold and glue.”

“Oh, you hero!” explodes Susie. “I knew you’d be loyal.”

Old Zibe has come around where we are, and now he hammers on a loose board with the butt of his whip. From the other side comes Peewee Parker, all dressed up in a funny lookin’ blue suit.

“Someone at the door, Jason,” says Miss Wimple. Peewee goggles around, and Zibe motions him over to us. When he’s out of sight of the audience, Zibe grabs me by the wrist, and the next thing I know I’m out there in the middle of the stage, with Zibe bangin’ onto me. He takes off his hat, bows to the ladies and then takes a look at Hank.

“So yo’re the jockey who is goin’ to ride Thunderbolt, eh?” says Zibe. “Well, go on back to the stable—I want to talk with highgrade folks.”

Hank hops his arms like he was sad all over, but goes out. Zeke grins at Susie and Miss Wimple.

“I’m Simon Legree,” says he, “and I want to sell yuh a nigger.”

Susie takes one look at me, jumps up and throws up both hands.

“Uncle Tom!” she yells. “Uncle Tom! What have they done to you?”

Jist then my mouth busts loose, and I says, “They got me drunk and painted me with black enamel, and I can lick any damn’ man ―”

Zibe kicked me on the bare ankle and hisses in my ears, “Shut up, you danged fool!”

“Haw, haw, haw, haw, haw!” roars Dog-Rib. “That’s actin’!”

“O-o-o-o-oh!” wails Susie. “They sold you, Uncle Tom.”

“Somebody got gypped,” says Nebrasky Smith.

“I got him in that boatload of niggers down at Nashville,” says Zibe. “I recognized him right away, and I knowed you’d like to buy him back.”

“Oh, I’d love to buy him back,” says Susie, “but we ain’t got no money, Mister Legree.”

“Lotta good work left in that nigger,” says Zibe. “How about tradin’ me yore racehorse for him?”

Zibe kicks me in the ankle and whispers, “Beg her not to. Go ahead and beg.”

“Ma’am,” says I, tryin’ to work my face into shape for talkin’, “don’t let this jigger make any trades with yuh. He’s a ―”

Whap! Old Zibe steps back and wraps that bullwhip around my legs.

“Git back, nigger!” he roars. “Git back, or I’ll cut yore legs off!”

I ask yuh if that wasn’t a dirty trick. I didn’t like Zibe, anyway; so I took a wild swing at his jaw, knocked him silly with one punch, took him to my bosom and pitched him headfirst into the committee on the first row.

“The nigger wins by a knockout!” yells “Greasy” Easton, and somebody cut the curtain loose, with the Curse of Drink outfit haulin’ me back by the slack of my overalls.

Well, I got told all about myself, while old Zibe manages to get around to the back, where he got his gun and wanted to assassinate me, but they took his gun away. The committee comes up and says that the show begins to look like it was worth the money, but they’ve got to see it all first.

While they’re tryin’ to fix the stage for the next act, Hank explains the show to me.

“In that first act, the father of them two girls has just died, leavin’ ’em nothin’ but that racehorse. I was their father’s jockey, and this horse is to win a big race. That’s the climax. Legree owns a horse in that race, but he knows it can’t beat our horse; so he schemes to git our horse. Legree is the villain, yuh see. Yo’re an old nigger, which was owned by the old man, who went broke and had to sell yuh, along with other slaves. Legree buys yuh. He knows Susie is crazy about yuh, and he figures to trade you to her for this racehorse. She won’t trade the first time; so he beats yuh up—”

“He tries to, yuh mean,” says I.

“That was all in the play, Hozie. You ruined it. There won’t nobody know what it’s all about now. We’ve got to go ahead with the second act. This act―”

Comes a lot of racket, and I thought the audience was goin’ to assault the stage, but it was merely female against female. Judgment Jones comes back and kinda tearfully explains that Susie Hightower Potts and Eveline Annabel Wimple has had a battle, and Susie swears that Eveline and Hank ain’t goin’ to do no love scenes, except over her dead body.

Hank said he’d talk with her, but he came back pretty soon, nursin’ a black eye. The audience is plumb impatient, and the committee comes back to see what’s keepin’ us.

“We’ll give yuh five minutes more,” says Dog-Rib, “and if yuh ain’t actin’, we declares this here show null and void. We come here to see actin’, and we’ll see it to our fullest capacity or take our money back.”

Then they single-files out again. Judgment Jones flops his arms and his face registers ashes-to-ashes, even unto the last ash. Hank rubs his black eye and ponders deeplike. Pretty soon he says, “There’s jist one thing to do and that is to jump this show to where them snake-hunters will see plenty action. We’ll put on the last act and them three scenes—the kidnappin’, the death of Little Eva and the finish of the race.”

“But they won’t know what the show is all about, unless we act it all.”

“Let ’em guess at it—that’s what I’ve been doin’. C’mon.”

I’ve decided that I’ve had about enough and starts to walk across the stage to where I can get out, but all to once I starts walkin’ faster and faster, but don’t get nowhere. The floor is goin’ out behind me, and all to once I lands on my chin and rolled over against the wall.

I fans a few stars out of my eyes and looked at Peewee, who humps down beside me.

“I was wonderin’ if that thing worked,” says he, “and I see it does.”

“What works?”

“That treadmill jigger they made for the horse race. They explains it to me that we’re all in there, playin’ we’re watchin’ the race, and at the finish Hank rides Tequila onto that treadmill and the audience can see everythin’, except the horse’s feet. Then they drop the curtain.”

Oscar Tubbs, “Burlap” Benson and “Fetlock” Feeney, the blacksmith, show up, and I wonder what they’re the committee for. They talk with Hank, and then climb up on a two-by-six, which extends across above the stage. I don’t sabe their idea, unless they want to git above all trouble. Hank comes to me and takes me up front again.

They’ve got the same room fixed up a little different, and there is Limpy Lucas settin’ at a table, with a bottle of liquor.

“You go in there,” says Hank. “All you’ve got to do is fool around. In a little while Zibe will come in with me as his prisoner. You won’t have a thing to do, until Susie asks yuh to rope both Limpy and Zibe. There’s ropes back there on the floor. This will be easy for you. Now, go ahead and we’ll lift the curtain.”

Well, all fools ain’t dead yet; so I went ahead. The curtain went up and I said, “Limpy, I’m as dry as a lost match in Death Valley.”

“Nigger,” says he, “don’t speak to me. I am Lord Worthington, a scion of British aristocracy.”

“I dunno what a scion is, but the rest of it’s a lie. You was born down in Cochise County and yore father was a squawman. Gimme a drink.”

“That’s the stuff!” yells Dog-Rib.

“That’s real actin’.”

Jist then in comes Hank and old Zibe.

Hank’s hands are tied behind him, there’s a handkerchief around his eyes, and Zibe is proddin’ him with a gun. He makes Hank set down in a chair, and then he turns to Limpy.

“So yo’re here, eh? Playin’ the game my way, eh?”

Limpy begins to wipe his eyes and beller.

“I have been a proud man,” he states emphatic, “but likker brought me to this. I have bited the hand that fed me. I sold my soul for gin, Simon Legree. Yes, I will go in with you, even to the depths of hell.”

“Ah, ha-a-a-a-a!” sneers Zibe. “Well, we win, Lord Worthington. Without Howard Chesterfield that horse never can win—and there sets Howard Chesterfield. We hold him until after the race. He will be disgraced in the eyes of his sweetheart, who will marry me. Ah, ha-a-a-a-a!”

I swear I never did see Susie, until there she was on the stage, with a two-barrel shotgun in her hands, pointin’ it at Zibe.

“Hands up, you foul beast,” says she, and Zibe puts up his hands.

“You think his sweetheart will marry you, Simon Legree? Bah! If you was the last man in the world, I wouldn’t marry you. Uncle Tom, will you take ropes and bind these foul vultures?”

Well, I shore tied ’em up tight. Susie took the ropes off Hank and he stood up straight and looked down at her.

“Thank yuh, Little Eva,” says he. “I heard what yuh said to Legree, and I hate to disappoint yuh. I’m a fair man, and no falsehood ever passed my lips. I don’t love you—I love Gwendolyn.”

Susie takes a deep breath, points her nose toward the ceilin’ and says, “Oh, woe is me, I am undone!”

And then she let loose all holts and went down so hard that she busted two boards in that floor. Hank puts one hand over his eyes and kinda staggers around sayin’ “I’ve broken her heart, I’ve broken her heart!”

“Yo’re right!” yells somebody in the audience. “I heard it break, Hank.”

Hank flops his arms and turns to me.

“Uncle Tom, I believe I have killed her. I’ll have to carry her home.”

Hank tried three different holts and they all slipped.

“Damn it, Susie, help yourself a little, can’tcha?” he whispers.

“I’m supposed to be swooned,” she whispers. “Pick me up, you idiot.”

“Git her by the legs, Hozie,” whispers Hank.

“You touch my legs, and I’ll kick yuh loose from the surroundin’ country,” hisses Susie.

Hank straightens up and turns toward the audience.

“Ah, I cannot touch her,” says he. “She looks so peaceful in death.”

Susie took a kick at me and I got away fast. She turned over and got to her feet, as Hank lifts up both hands and says real loud, “I’ll leave her here for the angels, while I go to ride for love.”

But he didn’t. Susie socked him one on the back of the neck with a right swing and he went off the stage into the three-piece orchestra, with both legs in the air, while the committee stood up and whistled through their fingers, and somebody had sense enough to yank down the curtain.

The committee brought Hank back with them. He was smiling sweetly, but as an actor he’s a total loss.

“This here show,” says Dog-Rib, “is kinda jumpy, it seems to me. We’ve been tryin’ all along to find out what it’s all about. That there last act was plenty actful, as yuh might say, but we dunno what it was about.”

I didn’t wait to listen to the argument. Peewee got that bottle they used in the last act, and we emptied it together. We’re leanin’ up against a black curtain at the back of the stage, and all to once somethin’ hit Peewee and knocked him plumb up past the treadmill, where he landed on his hands and knees.

“Yuh better git away from there, Hozie,” says Limpy. “That racehorse is behind the curtain.”

We stretched Peewee out on the floor in a corner, and the rest of us are asked to come out on the stage. They’re all inquirin’ for Miss Wimple.

“She’s gone down to the hotel to git the money,” says Judgment. “She said, bein’ as the play turned out like it did, she wanted the money out of her hands; so I told her to bring it up here for a settlement. Her and Susie had a fight over them love scenes, and she was through up here.”

“We don’t need her,” says Susie. “If she was actin’ for saw mills, she wouldn’t git a sliver in her finger. Is everythin’ all set?”

Susie laid down on the floor and Zibe fastened a belt around her. She’s all dressed in white, with a couple things that might be mistaken for wings. We all squats down around her. They’ve got a heavy wire ownin’ up from that belt. Somebody pulled the curtain, and the three-piece orchestry begins playin’ “Nearer My God to Thee,” kinda soft.

“Uncle Tom,” says Susie, her voice kinda cracked, “I’m goin’ to leave yuh. I’m goin’ to my place beyond the skies.”

Mrs. Noon begins to blubber.

“Don’t cry,” says Susie. “It’s better this way. Tell Howard that I forgive him for everythin’. Ah. I hear the angels callin’. Can’t you hear ’em, Uncle Tom?”

“She’s dyin’,” wails Mrs. Noon.

“Git yore feet braced, Burlap,” says Oscar Tubbs, up there, on that two-by-six.

“Angel voices,” says Susie. “They’re callin’ me home.”

“Pull, you damn’ fools!” yelps Oscar.

And Little Eva starts on her long trip, as yuh might say. Up and up she goes, head and feet down, them spangled wings straight up. I’ve allus had my own idea of an angel, and Susie didn’t fit that idea.

Then the angel stopped and kinda hung there, swingin’ around.

“Keep her goin’!” hisses old Zibe from the side of the stage.

“The angels are takin’ her away,” wails Mrs. Noon.

Cra-a-a-ack!

That two-by-six snapped by too much weight, and down comes the handmade heaven. Susie lit on her head, and here comes Oscar Tubbs, Burlap Benson and Fetlock Feeney, follered by that busted two-by-six. Oscar lit on his feet, busted plumb through where Susie had already cracked the boards, and stopped with only his head in sight.

It shook the whole stage and also the whole danged house. One of Burlap’s boots hit me in the head, but as my lights went dim, I heard somebody yellin’, “Three angels gone to hell a’ready, and the fourth one dropped for reasons knowed to all of us!”

I woke up with Zibe and Zeke Hardy moppin’ me head with cold water, and I can hear Dog-Rib arguin’ at the top of his voice, “I don’t care a dang if Hank is still knocked out—we’ll have that there hoss race, or our money back. You’ve done advertised a race, and we crave a race.”

“But there ain’t no jockey to ride that race,” pleads Judgment. “You can see for yourself that Hank Potts ain’t fit to ride nothin’.”

“Suit yourself. I’ve done sent a couple men down to the hotel to set on that safe, where yuh keep the money. Oasis and Alkali towns crave that horse race; so it’s shore up to you.”

They go stompin’ out, while the crowd out in front makes all kinds of noise. I sabes them people, and if we don’t give ’em what they want, they’ll take the hall apart.

“Are you loyal to San Pablo, Hozie?” asks Zeke.

“Look at me and answer yore own question.”

“You’re a good rider. Hozie: ride for the honor of San Pablo. Never let Oasis say that we didn’t make good. Yo’re the man of the hour—the best rider in the San Pablo range. Think of poor old Judgment Jones and the starvin’ cannibals he aims to help with that money. Will yuh, Hozie?”

I said I wouldn’t—and swooned. When I woke up. I’ve got on Hank’s jockey clothes, and they’re helpin’ me on Tequila, that big, cold-jawed, leg-crossin’ sorrel. The horse is blindfolded, and it takes three men to hold his head down. The boards are crackin’ under his feet, and the blamed brute is scared stiff.

To the right of me is a thing like a big window, and in that window is Susie, Zeke, Zibe, Mrs. Noon, Oscar Tubbs, Burlap Benson and Fetlock Feeney, and they’re all yelpin’ their heads off, as though they’re lookin’ at a race, yellin’, “C’mon, Thunderbolt! Come on, Thunderbolt!”

“Let go!” yelps somebody, and they turned Tequila loose.

“Spur him straight ahead, Hozie!” snorts somebody else.

Spur nothin’. The next thing I knowed I was back on his rump, and he was climbin’ through that window affair, and the next thing I knowed I was out on his head, with both legs wrapped around his neck, and we’re on the edge of the stage, facin’ the stampede. The air is full of sombreros, all sailin’ at us, men are yelpin’, “Whoa! Whoa!”

I got one flash of the committee goin’ out the door on the heels of that stampedin’ mob, when somebody threw a chair, which landed on my head like a crown. It shore made me see a lot of stars, but I kept my presence of mind, as Tequila whirled around and went buck-jumpin’ straight to the back of the stage, knockin’ down everythin’ in sight, with me still out over his ears—and then we hit that treadmill.

Did we go? Man, that Tequila horse never ran so fast in his life. Why, he never had time to cross his legs. We wasn’t goin’ no place, but we was sure goin’ fast. Out from a pile of busted lumber I sees Peewee raise up, his eyes wide at what he sees.

“Can’tcha stop this?” I yells at him. He picks up a busted two-by-four, staggers over and shoves it down in the treadmill. They told me afterward that it throwed Peewee plumb against the back of the buildin’, but it shore stopped the machine.

I’m only about ten feet from the rear of the stage, which is covered with a black cloth, and this rear of the stage is the front of the room.

Wham-blam! We went off that treadmill like a skyrocket. I hears the crash of glass, the rippin’ of a cloth, and there I am out over the main street of San Pablo, two stories high, with nothin’ but air above, below and on all sides.

I spread my arms like the wings of a turkey buzzard, turned over once and landed settin’ down on a buckboard seat, which smashed like a egg under the impact. It also knocked me a little colder than I was, but I knowed the team busted loose and was runnin’ away. But I didn’t care. What was one little runaway beside what I’d been through? The rush of night air was coolin’ to my fevered brow.

And all of a sudden we went high-wide and handsome. Rippety-bing-bang-boom! There’s a bell ringin’, somethin’ roarin’, and then I landed on the seat of my pants on the depot platform and almost skidded into the train, which was ready to move. The team and buckboard was just leavin’ the other end of the platform.

I’m knocked kinda silly, but I heard a woman scream, as she ran past me and onto that train. The depot agent’s boots are stickin’ up from behind a trunk, where the runaway knocked him. I sets there and watches the train go out of sight. Beside me is a lady’s handbag, jist a little one with a white handkerchief stickin’ out of it. I put the thing in my pocket and got to my feet. I say “my feet” merely because they was hooked onto me. I didn’t have no feelin’ in ’em.

Then I wandered back down the street, stoppin’ now and then to get my toes pointed right, and finally got to the No-Limit Saloon. For a while I ain’t recognized, even if I have got most of the enamel knocked off my face. There’s Judgment Jones, talkin’ with Dog-Rib, and they come over to look me over.

“It’s all right, Hozie,” says Judgment. “Oasis and Alkali are satisfied we done our best. Dog-Rib says they expected more action, but I been tellin’ him it was jist a little rural play. Next time we’ll do better—I hope. But, take it all in all, we got our money’s worth—but no money.

“No money,” says he sadly. “Miss Eveline Annabel Wimple, D. T., took it all and pulled out durin’ the play—we think. Anyway, she ain’t here, and the money was given to her in the hotel. The hotel keeper said she was in a big hurry, and she put the money in her handbag. Now, we’re goin’ to raffle the racehorse—if he’s still alive.”

I found Peewee settin’ on the sidewalk, and we went home. He’s so bent out of shape that his saddle don’t fit him, but we got back to the HP ranch and found the horse liniment. After the first or second deluge, I said to him, “Peewee, that Wimple woman got away with the money.”

“Did she? Good for her.”

“You don’t believe in stealin’, do yuh, Peewee?”

“Not stealin’—takin’.”

“If somebody happened to find her handbag and kept the money, would that be stealin’?”

“Finder’s keepers.”

I tosses the handbag on the table, and Peewee goggles at it. He don’t ask no questions. That’s what I like about Peewee. After while he blinks one of his purple eyes, the other one bein’ shut tight, and says, “Thinkin’ it over, Hozie. I’m wonderin’.”

He opens the bag and there’s a envelope, folded in the middle; and we can feel the money inside—paper money. On it is written: Funds of The Curse of Drink. It’s Judgment Jones’s writin’. Peewee shakes his head.

“We can’t do it, Hozie. Old Judgment is the most honest man on earth. He needs that money for the heathen. I could never look him in the face again. He wouldn’t do wrong to anybody, and he needs that money. He trusted that woman, jist like he trusts everybody. Why, he’d even trust me and you.”

“That’s right,” says I. “We’ll give it back.”

But I wanted to see how much money they took in for that show; so I steamed the envelope open and dumped it out. I looked at Peewee and he looked at me. Money? Nothin’ but a lot of old newspaper, cut to the size of bills. We sets there and does a lot of thinkin’, and after while Peewee dumps the whole works into the stove.

And as far as we know, the heathen are in jist the same shape they were before we put on this show. Peewee wanted to be a contortionist, and for once in his life he got tied in a knot. Peewee’s satisfied. Hank’s satisfied, but Susie ain’t; she wanted to go all the way to heaven. I’m satisfied—that a cowpuncher ought to keep off every kind of a stage, except one with four wheels.

Susie says it’s too bad we were obliged to miss the moral of her play, but I said I didn’t.

“What was the moral?” she asks.

“Don’t kill yore jockey before the race starts,” says I.

And I’m right, too.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the April 10, 1929 issue of Short Stories magazine.

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