## The Project Gutenberg eBook of Derelicts of the hills

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Title: Derelicts of the hills

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: May 27, 2025 [eBook #76171]
Most recently updated: July 1, 2025

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Ridgway Company, 1916

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76171

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DERELICTS OF THE HILLS ***

# DERELICTS OF THE HILLS

By W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Magpie’s Nightbear”

Now, I reckon yuh had to come clear up here to tell me that th’ grub is on th’ table, eh? Of all th’ gol dinged⸺”

The grumbler turned from his inspection of the three split fuses in the gopher hole and cast a baleful glance in my direction. He spat against the side of the cut and smiled after looking me over from new sombrero to riding boots.

“Ex—cuse me, stranger,” he grunted, climbing out of the hole and wiping the day off his hands on his weather-beaten overalls. “I shore thought yuh was Magpie. Yuh see we ain’t used to havin’ strangers hereabouts. Magpie’s my pardner and he’s supposed to be down at th’ cabin gittin’ dinner.”

“I saw a man sitting on a log down the trail a ways as I rode up,” I remarked. “Seemed like a curious kind of a person. Wouldn’t talk at all. Just sat there and gazed off across the hills.”

“’Bout six feet long and ten inches wide—sort of uh roan with sparsely settled whiskers?” asked the prospector.

“Exactly,” I agreed. “I noticed particularly the moth-eaten hirsute gathering and also the immense distance from the lobe of his right ear to his rear suspender buttons.”

“Haw, haw!” exploded the prospector. “Suspender buttons! Haw, haw! Dog-gone good thing yuh didn’t mention suspender buttons to him, ’cause he’s sort a sensitive over such trifles. Uh-hu,” he grunted reflectively, “that was Magpie Simpkins, shore was. Did yuh say he didn’t seem to be lookin’ at anything particular—jist sorta lookin’?”

I assured him that as far as I was able to discern there was nothing about those mesquite-covered hills to cause a man to focus on one certain spot for an indefinite period of time, oblivious to all material matters.

“There’s one or two words in th’ American langwidge I ain’t never been introduced to,” he replied, “and jist now yuh used ’em all in uh heap, but I gits th’ drift. Magpie’s trancin’.”

“He’s what?” I asked.

“Trancin’,” he repeated, with a wide smile. “Anyway, I reckon that’s what it’s called. Yuh see, this pardner uh mine yuh gazes on down there has got th’ idea he can commune with th’ speerits, and I reckon he’s down there tryin’ to raise uh ghost.”

“Go ahead and laugh,” he continued, when I smiled. “Mebby it sounds funny to you, but, dog-gone it, you ain’t never been partners to uh scientific loco human or yuh would jist shed uh tear and wish me well. Jist lemme tell yuh something now. I been— Say, I plumb forgot to ask yuh if yuh was lookin’ fer some one up here, stranger. My name is Harper—christened when I was young and plumb helpless with th’ appellation of Wellington Alexander, which same ain’t no title fer uh sourdough. Th’ first pardner I had rubbed it all out and called me Ike.”

“My name is Frederick Norwood,” I replied, and smiled with Harper. “My family are of the old English stock, and believed in saddling a child with all the names in the family record, and as names were dirt cheap at the time of my christening they never stopped at one little old middle name.”

“Jist lookin’ over th’ mineral wealth of this great and glorious country, eh?” reflected Harper, as if I had made that statement but corrected his presumption by adding, “That’s all there is to ever bring uh feller north uh Piperock.”

“I’m looking for a fellow by the name of Woods,” I stated.

“Tellurium Woods?” asked Harper.

“I believe that is what he’s called. I stopped at the Empire Hotel at Piperock and the proprietor, a Mr. Jones, directed me up here. It’s a queer thing, but the description he gave me seems to cover the man I saw down the trail—your partner, Mr. Simpkins.”

“Uh-ha,” he agreed. “I reckon it would. Yuh see, this Cobalt Jones thinks he’s funny. He expected yuh to spring it on Magpie. Mebby you’d have got past with it, bein’ as Magpie’s in uh trance, but I’d shore hate to try it. Yes, sir, I reckon it would have laid the ghost.”

“Would you mind explaining?” I asked. “I come up here to look over a copper prospect for some Eastern parties—property belonging to one Tellurium Woods, whose description fully covers the party you assure me is Magpie Simpkins, an embryo spiritualist. Also, that he’s sensitive to suspender buttons.”

“Mister Norwood,” said Harper, biting off a fresh chew, “I sent Magpie down to th’ cabin to cook uh pot uh beans about two hours ago, and knowin’ th’ animile as I do I’ll bet uh dobie dollar that he’ll start that fire in about two hours more. Also, bein’ as I ain’t in no hurry to shoot them three measly blasts, which won’t uncover nothin’ but shovel work, I’ll tell yuh what and why fore.

“Yore time ain’t worth no more than mine, I figure cause yuh won’t find Tellurium Woods in this country no ways, so lets me and you mosey over under that big mesquite and I’ll wau-wau yuh th’ hull thing.”

We reached the comfortable spot indicated, and he began:

Uh course Magpie ain’t his right name. He got that name ’cause one time he gits lost in th’ Bitter Roots and near starves to death. Shot all his ca’tridges away tryin’ to kill uh magpie—th’ same bein’ classed with coyotes and buzzards as eatables—in uh country where blue grouse is thicker than fleas on uh pet coon.

I been pardners with Magpie for ten years now and I knows that jasper jist like I knows astronomy. Th’ milk uh human kindness jist plumb bogs him down at times, and as a pardner he assays big; but when it comes to doin’ useful things he don’t show uh trace.

First he tries hypnotism. Tried it on uh wildcat in uh spruce-tree, but somehow th’ cat didn’t sabe th’ play. If yuh ask him he’ll show yuh where he was boloed down in th’ Philippines. That was ten year ago that I met him in th’ hospital in Helena and we went to Nome together.

Man, that human string-bean has dabbled in all kinds of scientific stuff. He took up Christian Science and played her four ways from th’ jack, but one time he gits an ulcerated tooth and shifts his affections to psychology.

That shore was an affliction. He suffered from that fer uh year. Psychology goes bust when he salts uh feller’s mine with copper to make said miner work harder, and some sucker come along and buys th’ mine on th’ strength of th’ “salt” for five thousand—said mine-owner bein’ that same Tellurium Woods yuh pilgrims up here to see. I know this is stringin’ th’ what and whyfore out pretty long, but I wants yuh to git an idea of this pardner uh mine.

I’m sittin’ in front of our cabin uh couple uh months ago and watchin’ th’ sun set behind th’ Medicine Men peaks and keepin’ one eye on th’ trail. Magpie’s been down to Piperock fer seven days—which same trip after grub don’t take more than two days. I’m down to greasin’ th’ fry-pan with uh ragged bacon rind, and th’ coffee has been boiled so darn much it tastes like stewed gunnysack. In other words there ain’t enough grub in th’ shack to feed uh hummin’bird’s offspring.

Long about that time I hears uh jackass brayin’ down th’ trail and ’long comes Magpie and them three pack-jacks and all four uh them animiles is singin’. Th’ jacks is singin’ ’cause they knows th’ packs is soon to come off, but I ain’t hep to what makes Magpie so care-free—him usually bein’ too deep in thought to sing above a whisper.

“Top uh th’ evenin’ to yuh!” yells Magpie, as they gits in range of th’ wickiup.

I jist grumbles somethin’ about starvin’ to death and workin’ my fool head off while others take singin’ lessons, but Magpie jist sighs deep and helps take th’ packs off. I don’t see no new books in th’ packs, and I’m uh heap relieved.

“Feels sort a lonesome like up here,” states Magpie, while I’m busy linin’ my spare-ribs with good bacon and beans.

“Uh-ha,” I agrees between mouthfuls, “especially after sojournin’ in th’ city fer quite uh spell.” Piperock bein’ all of uh hundred souls, six Chinks and uh small Greaser settlement.

“Ike,” sez he, after uh long spell uh silence, “did yuh ever think what uh lot uh life we miss livin’ thisaway?”

I’m too busy eatin’, so he continues!

“Sort a shut off from th’ society uh wimmen, and all that. Th’ more I think about it th’ more it appals me. No place to go, nothin’ to do. Dog-gone it, Ike, we’re jist uh pair uh deerylicks on th’ hills uh life, you and me. Jist driftin’ and driftin’⸺”

“Well, gol dang it, Magpie,” sez I, “that’s th’ only reasonable way fer uh poor man to git depth. Uh course if yuh think we’ll hit it any sooner by sinkin’ uh shaft, why⸺”

“Ike Harper,” states Magpie, sort uh lofty like, “yuh got uh soul like uh packburrow. All yuh knows is to eat and work. Yore thoughts don’t soar higher than th’ top of th’ table. I’m sorry fer yuh, Ike, ’cause uh feller uh yore plebian tastes can’t appreciate life. This life we’re follerin’ leads but to an unmarked grave. Don’t yuh ever git th’ soul hunger a-tall, Ike?”

“Mebby not soul hunger,” I replies, “but I’ve been out of beans and bacon fer two days now.”

Magpie plumb ignores this last, and ruminates deep.

“Ike,” sez he after while, “there ain’t much use askin’, but did yuh ever figger any on th’ wimmen question?”

I replies sort a offhand-like that I oncet knowed uh squaw down Yuma way, but I never finished th’ romantic discourse ’cause Magpie looks me over with th’ same look in his eyes that he had jist before I starts wearin’ fresh meat on my right eye once.

“Mr. Harper, I asked yuh that question thinkin’ that perhaps yuh had uh tiny spark uh mentality on top of yore neck, but I finds that I’m all wrong. I grieves for yuh, Ike.”

I swallers my chew tryin’ to make uh snigger sound like uh yawn, but Magpie don’t notice and keeps on ramblin’ in th’ same vein.

“Ike, didn’t yuh ever think about comin’ home at night and find uh pretty wife waitin’ supper for yuh. One with eyes th’ color of th’ deep places in Sawtooth Lake and hair like th’ sunset on th’ Medicine peaks. Some one to love yuh, Ike, and clean up th’ cabin and make yuh quit wearin’ nails to connect yore suspenders to yore pants.”

Magpie sighs clear down to th’ bottoms of his boots and fumbles fer th’ makin’s after deliverin’ this oration.

I takes uh fresh chew and asks friendly-like—

“When did she come to Piperock, Magpie?”

“Week ago last—say, who yuh talkin about?”

“That new blue-eyed, yaller-haired waitress at Cobalt Jones’ hashery.”

“Yuh danged old sourdough sleuth!” yells Magpie, but seems tickled uh heap to think I done guessed it. “How did yuh ever figger it out, Ike?”

“Magpie,” sez I, sort uh patronizin’ly like, “I may be of uh low order of intelligence and never suffer none from th’ soul hunger, but by golly, I’m kumtux on this here love stuff. Th’ little jasper with his bow and arrer shore beat yuh on th’ draw, old-timer.”

Magpie don’t deny it none. Jist set there and grins and rubs his hands over his boots like they hurt his feet.

“Bein’ as there ain’t much to do around here,” he opines after while, “I reckon I’d sort a like to go down to Piperock in th’ mornin’. Yuh can make out uh list uh what yuh wants and—”

“Say, what’s th’ idea?” I cuts in. “Yuh jist gits in with enough to last uh month or more.”

Magpie gits up sorta weary like and as he shuffles into th’ cabin he makes th’ following statement:

“I reckon that’s right, pardner, but I gotta go back right away. Yuh see I’m goin’ to marry her, and I plumb forgot to ask her—sorta forgot it, I reckon.”

The next mornin’ Ike lights out down th’ trail with th’ rest of th’ pack-jacks and I don’t see him for four days. When he comes driftin’ in about sundown on th’ fourth day he’s smilin’ all over his face as he comes up th’ trail to th’ cabin. He shakes my hand sorta excited-like and tells me I’m lookin’ skookum.

“Ike,” sez he, “I went and done it.”

“Got married?” I asks.

“Not yet, but soon. I’m goin’ to enter th’ solemn and holy bonds uh matrimony and wedlock next Tuesday.”

“Uh course,” sez I, “not havin’ been uh pardner uh yours fer more than ten years and not havin’ saved yore worthless life more than once uh year, it would be presumptuous I suppose to inquire what name this unsuspectin’ female person answers to.”

“Her name is Minnie,” he replies.

“I read about uh female named Minne Haha oncet,” I states, sorta offhand-like.

“This one answers to Summers,” he tells me, “and she’s some girl! Uh danged old sourdough like me ain’t noways fit fer her, Ike, but dog-goned if she didn’t tell me she loved me.”

He does uh portion of th’ Piegan wardance on th’ wood-pile and then chases th’ burrows clear down to th’ crick. I reckon love must be worse than loco weed, ’cause he’s already pilgrimed over twenty-five miles uh rough trail that day.

“Git uh ring?” I asks when he comes back.

“Did I!” he yells. “Well, yuh better believe I did. Paid uh hundred and fifty fer uh diamond as big as uh pants button and she’s set in uh gold ring she can’t wear out in uh lifetime. Bought it off Slim Jackson, th’ faro dealer at th’ Mint.

“I wanted to tie up right away, Ike, but she said next Tuesday. Yuh see she wanted to buy uh troosoo and all that kinda stuff. She was uh little shy on money, so I lends her uh couple a hundred—gives it to her, I mean. By golly, Ike, she can have all I got! Why don’t you git married, too, and then we’ll all live in th’ same wickiup, Ike?”

“See anybody else down there?” I asks, ignorin’ his foolish question.

“Let’s see—uh-ha, I seen that danged ol’ woodchuck, Tellurium Woods. He’s back again and was all dressed up like uh plush horse. Even had them cloth things over his shoes and smokin’ uh seegar. Darn old misfit’s sailin’ high with th’ money I made for him by saltin’ his old copper prospect. I meets him on th’ street, but him and me don’t wau-wau none a-tall. Honest, Ike, I gotta plumb sit on my gun hand every time I sees his onery ol’ face.”

Well, sir, from that time Magpie don’t exhibit no more brains than uh fool-hen. When he ain’t sighin’ way down in his boots he’s singin’—that is, he’s yellin’ th’ words uh two songs and th’ tune uh neither. And when he ain’t doin’ that he’s oratin’ about bungaloos, geeraniums and chiny dishes. I’m plumb disgusted with him. When uh feller uh Magpie’s type gits in love it’s worse than uh floatin’ kidney—yuh kin anchor th’ kidney.

On Sunday night he can’t seem to sleep none, and finally gits up and leaves th’ cabin, and don’t come back until I’m jist about finished eatin’ breakfast.

“Beautiful night, Ike,” sez he. “Finest moonlight I ever seen.”

“Magpie Simpkins,” sez I, “yore as crazy as uh shepherd, and if yuh don’t shake yourself it will only be uh few moons until yuh will be drillin’ fer soap in th’ asylum at Warm Springs. Far be it from me to laugh at love, pardner, but I’ll be hanged if I’ll stand fer yuh kissin’ that old he burrow. He’s half mine and⸺”

“Ike,” sez he, reachin’ absent-mindedly fer th’ ax, “that’s uh danged lie. I never kissed uh jackass in my life.”

“Then yuh shore got th’ edge on Minnie,” I returns, and beat th’ ax to th’ corner of th’ cabin by uh hair.

One nice thing about Magpie is th’ fact that he don’t hold uh grudge and I’m safe to come back in an hour.

Uh course I’m elected to be th’ best man at this weddin’, which means I’ll have to git my boots greased, buy uh new necktie and keep reasonably sober. Also, I’ve got to stand in front of th’ Gospel Peddler alongside uh Mrs. Cobalt Jones—th’ same bein’ several degrees worse to look at than th’ squaw I knowed down at Yuma.

The day before th’ happenin’, that bein’ uh Monday, me and Magpie packs th’ burrows and hits th’ trail fer Piperock. Magpie drills along uh mile or two in front until we gits almost in sight uh town and then he drops back and sits down on uh boulder.

“Ike,” sez he, wipin’ his face on his sleeve, “I’m gittin’ plumb nervous. Sorta gun-shy, I reckon. Th’ more I thinks about it th’ worse it seems. I wants to git married, Ike, but every time I thinks about me bein’ up there in front uh that preacher feller and sayin’ ‘I do,’ dog-gone it, I gits buck fever.”

“Well, old-timer,” I remarks, “here’s uh good place to turn th’ outfit around and make uh getaway.”

“Not any a-tall!” sez he. “I don’t buy diamonds and loosen up my roll fer uh troosoo and then stampede. Lead on, McDuffy, and danged be he who first yells I gotta plenty!” Which is uh favorite sayin’ of Magpie’s.

I prods th’ leadin’ jack and we pilgrims on down th’ trail toward town.

We’re almost into Piperock when we sees uh little feller comin’ ploddin’ up th’ trail toward us. He’s sort of uh runty little party with rusty whiskers and most awfully bowlegged, and when he gits closer we sees that he’s packin’ uh sawed-off ten gage shotgun.

He stops uh few feet in front of us and shifts th’ hardware to cover our hull outfit.

“Say,” sez he, “which one uh you specimans is Tellurium Woods?”

“Yuh danged little imitation of uh crokay wicket!” yells Magpie, droppin’ th’ lead rope and startin’ forward, but th’ riot gun covers him and he stops sudden like. “What do yuh mean by that question?” he roars.

“Hurry up and answer!” roars bowlegs right back at him.

“Neither of us is that polecat!” snaps Magpie. “And what is more and conclusive, I kin lick you and th’ funny party or parties that sent yuh out here to ask it.”

I sees that th’ little feller is sorta overcome like, and not knowin’ how easy that scatter gun is on th’ trigger, I steps in sorta soothin’ like and tells him who we are.

“What do yuh want of Tellurium?” I asks.

“Dang his measly hide!” wails th’ feller. “I aims to shoot his old hide into shoestrings. I’m plannin’ to pulverize his system with buckshot and I’m hopin’ this here gun don’t scatter so much that he will miss any of th’ contents.”

“And th’ reason fer his demise?” I asks.

“Dang him, he done stole my wife!” yells th’ little feller.

“Tellurium Woods stoled yore wife?” parroted Magpie, reachin’ over and appropriatin’ th’ hardware. “Well, well, don’t cry, little feller. Any danged woman that would run away with that old hedgehog ain’t worth cryin’ over a-tall. Come on back and have uh drink. Uh drink uh hooch will make th’ world seem brighter.”

“I know I’m foolish,” he agrees, “but it ain’t a square deal. We been married over five year now and she’s been uh kind, lovin’, thoughtful wife until now. We was in business down to Curlew, and when th’ mines shut down our business went busted and so did we. She gits uh job up here and I stays there to settle up th’ business, and when I comes up here she’s gone. Dang it all,’ I sez to her when she was leavin’, ‘Minnie,’ sez I. ‘when yuh gits⸺’”

“What name?” interrupts Magpie.

“Minnie,” sez th’ little one. “My name is Summers, Gus Summers, and I sez to her⸺”

Magpie shoves th’ gun back into th’ little feller’s hands and pats him on top of his rusty old derby hat.

“Good huntin’ and good luck to you, Summers, old scout,” sez Magpie, who is jist uh little white around th’ gills. And then he kicks th’ lead burrow in th’ wind and turns him around toward th’ back trail.

We gits about half-way back to th’ cabin when Magpie stops to fill his pipe.

“Ike,” sez he, “that Tellurium Woods is uh⸺”

“Friend in need,” sez I. “Fifteen buckshot to uh shell, and two shells, make thirty holes.”

Magpie is silent fer quite some spell and then he sticks out his hand with uh smile.

“Ike, old pardner, shake. We may be deerylicks uh th’ hills, me and you, but—say, did yuh notice her husband was wearin’ bailin’ wire instead uh pants buttons?”

“Say, I been noticin’ smoke comin’ out of th’ stovepipe for quite uh spell, Mister Norwood, so I reckon Magpie’s normal once more. Come on down and taste beans cooked scientifically.”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June, 1916 issue of Adventure magazine.
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