Chuck Warner never got drunk like a gentleman. As far as the intoxication was concerned, I reckon he felt the effects the same as a gentleman does, but what I mean is this: he always got into bad company.

Give Chuck a quart of hooch and he could find more horsethieves, burglars, outlaws, et cettery in fifteen minutes than all the officers in Montana could find in a whole term of office.

Me and “Muley” Bowles and “Telescope” Tolliver usually rode herd on him when his ears begins to twitch, but sometimes he’d manage to wobble away and find some reward-dodger to share his bottle and troubles.

Chuck was and is the biggest liar unhung, and just as soon as he gets three drinks under his belt he hunts for some stranger to listen to him prevaricate. Everybody believes Chuck—once. He’s got the eyes of a saint, the ears of a jassack, and his conscience is plumb elusive.

Me and Telescope and Muley are riding down Paradise way, when we meets Chuck and a stranger. We didn’t exactly meet ’em—we found ’em. They’re setting in the dust in the middle of the road, and Chuck is trying to teach the stranger to sing “Just Tell Them That You Saw Me.”

The stranger is sort of fat around the waist and collar, and has a little stubby mustache. He’s got a derby hat, shoved down over his head until it makes sails of his ears. They don’t even see us ride up.

“She goes like thish,” says Chuck, making up an awful face, “Jush whisper if you get a chance to mo-o-o-ther de-e-ar and shay——”

“Thasall ri’,” says the feller. “You’ve tol’ me that sheven times. Is tha’ all ’v it? How’s thish?” He twists his face all out of shape, and lets out a few notes, but Chuck slaps him on top of his hard hat, and begs him to desist.

“What’s the idea, Chuck?” asks Telescope, and Chuck squints up at us.

“The idea,” says Chuck, dignified-like, “is to get the tune and the words to fit each other. I would I were a bird.”

“I would you were,” says Muley, “and then I would I had a shotgun. Get out of that dust. You’re drunk.”

Chuck grins and puts his arms around his friend.

“Misser Brady, meet Muley Bowles. He’s inshultin’ us, Brady.”

“Wrong diagnoshis,” says Brady. “This is shock—induced pri—primar’ly by havin’ horsh walk from under us.”

“Who is Brady?” asks Telescope.

“Take off your hat, Misser Brady,” says Chuck. Brady tries, but the hat is anchored too tight.

“Never mind,” says Chuck. “Misser Brady’s a detective, ain’t yuh? Remember Sherlock Holmes, Muley? He used to work for Misser Brady. Fact. Used to carry Misser Brady’s spyglass. Wonnerful man. Oh, my! Nose like bloodhound. Fact. Tell’m how you tracked grasshoppers across the ice, Misser Brady. How many drinks did you have with me?”

“Fi’teen,” says Brady, after thinking a while.

“Wonnerful mem’ry,” applauds Chuck. “Want drink?”

“Um-m-m-m-m,” says Brady.

“Meanin’ ‘yesh’,” says Chuck. “Well educated. Speaks lots of languages, such as United States, English, profane——”

“What’s he detectin’ around here?” asks Telescope.

“Sh-h-h-h,” cautions Chuck. “Never ask detective questions. I showed him lot of cow tracks in the shand, but he didn’t know what they was, which shows he ain’t cattle-detective. He’s from Chicago. I tol’ him I was born there an——”

“You wasn’t born there, Chuck,” says Muley.

“He don’t know it. I don’t know for sure that he’s from Chicago; so I’ve got as much right to lie as he has. Can you find our horsh, Muley?”

We did. It was some job getting ’em both on one horse, but we hoisted them up, and took ’em back to Paradise.

Anyway, Chuck didn’t want to go to the Cross J ranch, because he heard “Jay Bird” Whittaker say something about digging postholes for a new corral. Chuck won’t dig. Neither will any of the rest of us, for that matter. We missed Chuck and Brady right away, but we don’t care, as Brady’s too drunk for Chuck’s lies to hurt him any.

Telescope Tolliver is a tall, tenor-singing puncher from the Lapover country where Kentucky laps over into Tennessee. Seems that every sheriff in every county in a straight line between here and that spot in Kentucky runs sort of a relay race with Telescope, and he beat ’em all, and hit Yaller Rock county when the sheriff was hiding out from the Vigilance Committee. So he was safe.

Muley weighs two hundred and fifty, tangles his feet in his own rope, and recites his own poetry. Me, I’m Henry Clay Peck, a clean-minded cowboy, big-hearted, industrious, and I do well on a banjo. I can sing when the spirit moves me, but it takes about three inches in a wash-tub, and some one to start the tune.

Chuck didn’t show up at the ranch until the next day, and he’s painfully sober. We sniffs him over and feels of his pulse, knowing that everything ain’t right.

“Got tonsilitis?” asks Telescope. “Can’t swaller?”

“Brady reformed him,” says Muley.

“Gather around me, cowboys,” says Chuck. “I’ve got it.”

“You shoot him, Henry,” begs Telescope. “I’ve got a sore finger.”

“Listen, you comedy coyotes,” wails Chuck.

“Use the white of a aig,” advises Muley. “Draw it to a head.”

“I told you I’ve got the biggest idea in the world,” says Chuck.

“Now, go and lay down, Chuckie,” begs Telescope. “I know. In about a hour you’ll begin to see all kinds of things, but they ain’t really there. What you been drinkin’—mescal?”

“Oh, all right,” says Chuck. “Go ahead and punch cows for forty a month, and see if I care. Live and die unhonored and unsung, get drunk on the last of the month, and then punch cows for thirty days more. I’m goin’ to rise above it—me. I know Opportunity when I see it.”

“Why not rent a hall and put on a revival?” asks Muley. “You sure see the sweet side of life, Mister Warner.”

“I don’t ask for no help,” says Chuck, sad-like. “I can do it all alone, but I thinks of our friendship, and——”

“I’m goin’ to forget that sore finger in a minute,” says Telescope. “Remember, Chuck, you’re talkin’ to folks who know your re-motest ancestors.”

“Aw, let him tell it,” says I. “It must be an awful lie, ’cause I never seen him so sad in my life.”

“It’s no lie,” says Chuck. “It’s Gospel truth—unless Brady lied, and he was too drunk to do that. Seems that a rich man named Jonathan Perkins up and died. Somewhere in the West is his brother, whose name’s Archibald. Said Jonathan knowed not of his brother’s whereabouts, but he not only mentioned him in the will, but spoke plumb out loud. He had tried to find Archie, but failed. He also had detectives huntin’, and they had the same luck.

“Then brother Jonathan says, says he—‘I hereby sets aside a reward of ten thousand dollars for information leadin’ to the conviction of brother Archibald,’ or words to them effects. They hankers for poor old Archie. This here bunch of money awaits his comin’, in the town called Beverley, the same of which is a place near Chicago. That’s why Mister Brady came here, but he’s returnin’ home without any chance to lift the reward. He says that Archibald must be dead.”

“Do we cry now?” asks Telescope.

“Cheer, you danged snake-hunters,” grins Chuck.

“Who do we cheer? Archibald, Jonathan or Brady?” asks Muley.

“Me,” says Chuck. “We’re going to get that reward.”

“I know why he came home sober—he’s lost his mind,” says Telescope.

“We’re goin’ to get that ten thousand,” declares Chuck, “and then we’re going to make Mister Perkins, whose first name is Archibald, double the ante. Sabe?”

“Oh, well, there’s no hopes now,” groans Muley. “When they gets violent—hope is gone.”

“Hen, make ’em believe me,” wails Chuck.

“I’ll do what I can for them if they’ll turn around and do the same for me. Where in —— are you going to find this here Perkins person, Chuck?”

“Polecat!”

Muley’s foot slipped, and he fell off the bunk, where he sets and blinks like a fat owl. “Polecat” Perkins is a scrawny, watery-eyed hombre, who lives in a dugout and raises skunks for their hides. He don’t even know that Cleveland ain’t President any more. His mustache hangs almost to his shoulders, and he wears a pair of chaps that only comes to his knees.

“I do wish that somebody would hog-tie Chuck,” wails Telescope, “Next thing yuh know he’ll be foamin’ at the mouth. Ten thousand dollars for Polecat Perkins!”

“His name is Perkins,” argues Chuck, “and this other Perkins is dead; so there ain’t nobody to say him nay.”

“My gosh!” says Muley, soft-like. “I wonder if it could be done? But we ain’t got money enough to finance it.”

“I’ve got a hundred and sixty,” says Chuck, “and I’ve got two broncs and a sixty-dollar saddle.”

“Telescope’s got over two hundred in the bank,” says Muley, “and Henry’s got somethin’ besides his slicker for a rainy day.”

“And Polecat will have to agree to give us ten thousand more or we won’t promote him,” says Chuck. “Now, you can see why I stayed sober.”

“Chuck, are you tellin’ us the truth?” asks Telescope.

“So help me God. I’m puttin’ in my own money, ain’t I?”

“I’ve never been East,” says Muley. “I don’t know a darn thing about it, only what I’ve heard, and most of that was from Chuck.”

“I’ll buy a stack in the game,” nods Telescope, “and I know Henry’s game, ’cause he’s kept his mouth open ever since Chuck sprung the scheme, and he’s swallered three innocent little flies.”

Polecat is setting in front of his dugout, perusing a almanac, when we rides up.

“Howdy, Polecat,” says Telescope. “How’s everything?”

“Ticklish,” says Polecat. “The stars are inclined to be frisky. Capricorn is ridin’ sign on the Big Dipper, and the Dog Star is chasin’ his tail. It says there’s apt to be a tidal wave in Tasmania. Come up to buy some pets?”

“No sale,” says Telescope. “We’re here to talk business. How’d yuh like to get your hands on a lot of money?”

Polecat deliberates a while, and then—

“Gittin’ my hands on it ain’t much inducement, but if I can keep my hands on it—shoot.”

We climbs off our broncs, and gathers around Polecat, while Chuck tells him all about it. Polecat chaws slow-like and listens closely.

“All you’ve to do is to be Archibald,” says Chuck.

“I ain’t kickin’ about the name, but I sure hates to part with ten thousand good dollars fer nothin’.”

“You stingy old whangdoodle!” explodes Telescope. “We’re goin’ to make a million for you, and you hollers about a measly ten thousand. You’re about as grateful as a sidewinder.”

“I could go alone and get it all,” grins Polecat.

“You could start, you mean,” says Chuck, “but you’d die about three miles from Paradise. You’ve lived with skunks so long that your morals are plumb furred.”

“I’ll go if it don’t cost me nothin’,” says Polecat. “I won’t spend a cent. Sabe? Do we go on a steam train?”

“It’s near Chicago,” says Muley.

“Chicago? Seems like I’ve heard of that place. When do we go?”

“Tomorrow,” says Chuck. “You’ve got to get some clothes, ’cause they won’t let you on a train thataway. Take a bath, too. Take several baths. Be there before noon.”

“What fer do I take a bath?”

“Go and have the horse-doctor examine your nose,” says Muley.

“My nose is all right,” declares Polecat. “I sure smell.”

“Let’s go before we say something mean,” says Muley.

“Vacation?” gasps Jay Bird. “Va—uh—my gosh!”

“Yes’m,” says Chuck, “we need one—bad.”

“Will we get our jobs back when we return?” asks Muley.

“I suppose so. I’ve got to have cowpunchers to make this look like a cow-ranch, and you fellers are no worse than the rest.”

“We may not come back,” states Telescope.

“Well,” says Jay Bird, “I won’t cheer until I know for sure.”

Them tickets cost us seventy-five dollars per each. We dug up three hundred and seventy-five good dollars. And that wasn’t round-trip tickets, either.

Man, I’d say that Polecat was a changed man. He comes out of the general store, as we walks up. His old dog, Shylock, which has been waiting outside, takes one look at Polecat and then went kihooting off up the street. Polecat looks at us and grins. He’s got on a new black suit, which was built for a man about as tall as Telescope. The sleeves comes to the ends of his fingers, and the pants wrinkle all the way down to where they drag around the soles of his boots.

He’s got a pink shirt, a green vest and no collar nor tie, and on his head is a gray derby hat, which is about seven and five-eighths, while Polecat’s head is about a six and three-eighths.

“I feel like a danged dude,” says he, foolish-like. “Spelled f—o—o—l,” said Telescope. “Where in —— did you get that bunch of misfits?”

“They’re jist comfortable,” says Polecat. “He, he, he! You fellers owe me forty-seven dollars and six bits.”

“Owe you?” says I. “What for?”

“Clothes. I ain’t spendin’ my own money, y’betcha.”

“What was the six bits for?” asks Muley, looking at Polecat from a rear view.

“Three baths.”

“Well, we ain’t dressin’ yuh, Polecat,” declares Telescope.

“Then I don’t go. Anyway, I don’t like trains.”

“If—if we pays for the clothes, will you pay for the baths?” asks Chuck.

“Never! I won’t pay fer nothin’ I don’t need. I’ll take these clothes right back. Sabe? This ain’t no funeral of mine, gents. Do I get my money back?”

He did. Then we went to the train. Four of us has our war-sacks along, but Polecat brought two big sacks and one small one.

“You need a pack-horse, Polecat,” says Telescope. “What in —— have you got in all them sacks?”

“I’ve got my blankets, some grub, a fry-pan and a coffee-pot, and in this here sack I’ve got some danged fancy samples of galena ore. I’m hooked up fer a stay.”

“Abo-o-o-o-a-rd!” yells the conductor, and we climbs on.

The conductor looks us over and sort of blocks us from the door.

“You’ll have to get rid of them guns,” says he. “We don’t allow nobody to pack guns on the train.”

“Man,” wails Polecat, “I’d feel plumb naked without mine.”

“Don’t you pack one?” asks Telescope of the conductor.

“I do not.”

“Then you hadn’t ought to talk like that to men what does. Move over.”

“I’ll stop the train and have you put off!” he yelps.

“We’ve got tickets,” says Telescope, “and if you put us off this train you’ll never see it start again.” And we files inside, with Polecat in the lead, draggin’ his outfit. We staggers down that car, and into another, and are almost through that one when Polecat yelps:

“Whoa! We’re on the back porch.”

Just then we hit a curve and almost lost Polecat. He fell over a little camp-stool and pitched plumb over the porch, but Telescope got him by the slack of his pants and hauled him back.

“Hellity blip!” gasps Polecat. “Do yuh reckon this here thing is safe?”

Rur-r-rip! we roars across a bridge. Polecat grabs his sacks and pitched ’em back through the door, and then makes a grab for the door.

“I’m goin’ back!” he yelps.

Just then a man in a blue uniform staggers out of the door, and stands there rubbing his forehead.

“Who threw that sack of rocks?” he wails.

“Rocks, ——!” croaks Polecat. “Them is samples of galena ore, you tenderfoot.”

The feller stands there a while, caressing his face, and then he says, “Tickets.”

Chuck hands him all five of ’em.

“Pullman tickets,” he demands sort of mean-like.

“We ain’t goin’ to Pullman,” says Chuck.

“These the only tickets you’ve got?”

“My gosh, ain’t them enough?” asks Telescope. “Can you see more than five of us?”

“You’ll have to pay extra to ride here.”

“Where are these tickets good for—in the engine?” asks Muley.

“Day coach—six cars ahead!” he snaps.

“Day coach?” asks Muley.

“Smoker, too.”

“Cigarets,” admits Muley. “Any law against it?”

“You just can’t ride here, that’s all,” says he.

“We’re havin’ a lovely walk,” murmurs Chuck.

“You don’t understand me,” says he. “These are sleepers.”

“You know what he means, Muley?” asks Telescope.

“He just said we didn’t; why dispute the gent?”

The feller turns around and goes back inside, talking to himself.

“Boss,” says a voice, and here is a colored feller, with a white coat on, leaning out of the door. “Boss, is you-all connected in any way with de li’l feller whut wears de fancy vest?”

“Why?” asks Telescope.

“You-all betta come and git him, dasall. He’s sort of jammed in the corrido’ ’tween his sacks, and he says he’s gwine scalp anybody whut teches him. Nobody kin go in no’ out.”

We picks up our sacks and weaves down that car. Polecat is in that narrow chute at the end of the car, and he’s plumb mad. Muley gets against him and manages to shove him to where the car gets wider.

“Too much speed,” complains Polecat. “Got surrounded with my plunder and couldn’t get loose. If this danged thing ever slows down I’m goin’ to camp. How much further do we have to go?”

“About two days and nights,” says Chuck.

“My Gawd! We’ll be in Yurrup or our graves! Gimme a burro, man! Gimme a burro! I ain’t in no hurry a-tall.”

Then we starts out to find the car where our tickets are honored. Polecat has a sack under each arm and his hat in one hand. The conductor gets in front of Polecat, and Polecat, like a danged fool, pulled his gun. The conductor ducked into a little room at the end of the car, and let the pe-rade past. We went through some more cars and after while we comes to a place where some men are smoking.

“Looky!” gasps Polecat, holding out his hat.

“Where’d yuh get the watch?” asks Muley.

“Feller put it in my hat. He tried to put some money in it, too, but Telescope shoved me ahead and it fell on the floor. Never seen him before in my life.”

“He—he seen the gun in your hand, you danged fool!” wails Chuck.

“Telescope shoved me,” complains Polecat. “It was real money.”

“You held him up,” croaks Telescope. “You had that gun in your hand, Polecat.”

“I didn’t hold him up,” whines Polecat. “Gun in my hand don’t make me a robber. I’ve got warts on my hands, but that don’t make me a frog, does it?”

“Tickets.”

It’s the conductor again. He punches our ticket, and looks kinda funny at us.

“If you fellers wasn’t so darned ignorant I’d put you off,” says he.

“If we wasn’t so darned ignorant we wouldn’t be on here,” replies Muley.

I takes the watch out of Polecat’s hand, and gives it to the conductor.

“Man in the next car gave it to him,” says I, “but we don’t want it. Time ain’t no object to us.”

He looks at the watch, looks at us kinda queer-like, and went away.

“If Telescope hadn’t shoved me—” complains Polecat.

“Where do we stop tonight?”

“We don’t stop,” says Chuck. “We keep right on goin’.”

“At night? On this rickety-bang thing? Not me. I’m goin’ to make camp the first time she slows up. Sabe? I’m gettin’ hungry.”

“We’ve got a chuck-car right on this train,” says Chuck.

“Don’t lie to me,” warns Polecat, “I’m older ’n you.”

“First call fo’ dinnah!” yells a colored feller.

“Whoa,” says Chuck, grabbing him by the sleeve. “Where is the feed-car?”

“Three cars to’ards the reah, boss. We picked up the dinah at Belmore.”

We has one awful time making Polecat understand, but after while he announces that he’s willing to prove us liars. We got back to the car and looks her over. Polecat says to a feller who acts like he owned the place—

“Where’s the pump?”

“What kind of a pump?”

“Water-pump,” says Polecat. “I want to wash my face.”

“Don’t be a danged dude,” says Telescope, and makes Polecat set down beside him.

The owner puts a slip of paper and a pencil in front of each of us. We looks at the layout, and the feller says—

“Write your orders, please.”

“Waiter deaf?” asks Muley.

The feller grins, and then offers to write ’em for us. Polecat said “yes” to everything the feller said, and he had to get a extra slip of paper before Polecat got through agreeing with him. The rest of us confined our wants to one slip. It was good to eat, I’d tell a man. When we got through we gave the waiter two bits per each, and went back to our car to have a smoke. We aint no more than got to rolling our smokes, when that owner of the feed-car shows up and hands us them little slips of paper.

“You forgot to pay for your meal,” says he. “You tipped the waiter, but forgot to pay me.”

“I never ordered no bill of goods like this,” says Polecat. “Six dollars? You made a mistake, pardner.”

Mine was four dollars and eighty cents.

“You ate six dollars’ worth,” says the feller.

“Not me,” declares Polecat. “I’d die if I et that much.”

“The total of the five checks is $23.50,” says the man.

We paid. Then we all shook hands with Jesse James, and told him we hoped to be a posse on his trail some day.

“Next time,” says Polecat, “I’m goin’ to take my hat in one hand and my gun in the other. Maybe I can pay expenses.”

“You ain’t goin’ up there no more,” declares Muley. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re hibernated like a bear.”

“Archibald eats or Archibald quits,” proclaims Polecat.

“Listen, for the sake of your future, Polecat,” says Chuck. “The next time you talks about quittin’ I’m goin’ to hit you so hard that you’ll be grub-shy the rest of your days. Quit us? You little, blink-eyed buzzard, you try it.”

“Let’s throw him off the train and go back home,” suggests Muley. “All in favor of——”

“Wait a minute,” begs Polecat. “You can’t expect to git somethin’ fer nothin’, can yuh? You ain’t doin’ much to earn twenty thousand dollars.”

“Twenty thousand and twenty-three dollars and four bits,” corrects Muley.

“Danged burglars! Next thing you’ll want me to pay fer them three baths, I suppose.”

That night we slept settin’ up in a seat, and I woke up the next morning with curvature of the spine and a broken neck. We got off at a station and rustled grub enough for the day, and had to listen all day to Polecat’s wails about a sandwich which had the bread all warped.

Polecat tried to spread his blankets in the aisle the next night, but the brakeman comes along and raises his voice in objections.

“There must be a place on the train,” wails Polecat. “It must be that there is room to bed down. Let’s see if we can’t locate a roost.”

We took our blankets and went ahead through a couple of cars, and then we gets into a car where there ain’t no seats. There’s a lot of trunks, et cettery, but plenty of room to lay down.

“This must be the warehouse,” opines Muley, “but I don’t mind.

“Don’t hang your gun on that trunk, Polecat,” says Chuck. “It might fall off on your head.”

Polecat is standing there in the aisle with his gun in his hand, when all to once a feller rises up from behind a pile of stuff. He’s got a bunch of papers in his hand and a pencil behind his ear. He stares at us for a second, and then ducks like a rabbit. Then the lights go out.

“Turn on that glim!” yelps Polecat.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Six times that car roared with mighty explosions, and death and destruction seems to be among us. After the last explosion I ducked for the door, and me and Polecat fought for first place out of there.

“My ——!” wails Polecat, “Ran into a bunch of blasts!” We untangles ourselves and went hippety-hop back to our own car, and finds Telescope, Muley and Chuck ahead of us.

We’ve got the car to ourselves, being as everybody has gone home to bed, I reckon.

“What was it?” I asks.

“—— poor shootin’,” croaks Muley. “Did he think we was tryin’ to swipe a trunk, I wonder?”

“I’m goin’ to sleep in the aisle,” declares Polecat. “I’m goin’ to take off my boots, and—uh—say, where can I hang these boots where the pack-rats won’t eat the tops off?”

“Hang ’em over that clothes-line,” says Telescope, pointing at the cord which runs the length of the car.

Polecat fastens the tops together and tosses ’em over the line.

Bow!

I was standing in the aisle, with my right boot-heel hooked over the arm of a seat, trying to pull the boot off, and I never quit going until I hit the front seat of the car, where I turned over and shoved both feet out of a window. I unhooked myself and got up. I notices that Polecat’s boots have left the line, which shows that there must ’a’ been some shock. Then I sees Muley’s face come up from behind a seat, and he’s got a lot of excelsior in his hair, and his face looks like it had shoved something awful hard.

Then Polecat comes creeping out from under a seat, looking like he had lost everything except his eyesight.

“Where’s Telescope?” I asks.

“Comin’ back,” says Telescope, behind me. “I went plumb into the next car. What did we do—hit a cow?”

Just then the conductor comes busting in.

“Who pulled the air?” he yells. “Who done that?”

“Locoed as a loon,” says Muley. “How could anybody pull air?”

“Held up!” squeaks a voice, and here comes the feller who yanked the lights out in the storeroom. He’s waving one arm and rubbing his shoulder with the other.

“Tried to rob the express car!” he yelps. “I shot ’em six times, and then they pulled the air to make a getaway.”

Him and the conductor beats it out of there, and we all sets down and looks at each other.

“Set still,” advises Telescope. “Act indifferent.”

Pretty soon the conductor comes back through the car.

“Did he kill any of ’em?” asks Muley.

“Not unless they was on the roof. He shot the roof out of his car with six loads of buckshot.”

“I thought he was holdin’ high,” observes Polecat.

“You—uh—eh?”

The conductor stares at Polecat.

“He means that the man must ’a’ held high,” explains Muley. “If he’d ’a’ held low the shot would have went into the floor, don’t yuh see?”

“Oh, yes. Any danged fool would know that.”

“I wasn’t sure,” says Muley.

“You —— fool!” hisses Muley, after the conductor leaves. “You thought he was holdin’ high, eh? You’ll have us all in jail pretty soon.”

“They can’t jail a man fer just thinkin’, can they?”

“I hope not, Polecat,” says Muley, “’cause if they could I’d be hung for what I’m thinkin’ right now.”

A little while after that a feller comes in and sets down with us.

“Just to find out what you know about the attempted robbery of the express car,” says he.

“He, he, he!” cackles Polecat. “What you want to know?”

“Ask me,” says Muley.

The feller looks at Polecat, and then says to Muley—

“Who is this feller?”

“Archibald Perkins, who is going to Beverley.”

“That so? Know anybody there?”

“Brother,” says Polecat. “But he’s dead.”

“What was his name?”

“Jonathan.”

“The millionaire shoe-man?”

“That’s him,” says Polecat.

The feller sets there quite a while, and then he says—

“I guess that’s all,” and then he went away.

“Detective,” declares Muley. “I seen his star.”

“Well,” observes Telescope, “he sure got a lot of information about the robbery.”

The next morning, just before noon, we hit Beverley. She’s a humdinger of a village, for outside looks. The feller who asks us the questions on the train comes up to Polecat and says—

“You will come with me, please,” and he shoves Polecat into a automobile before we can stop him.

“There goes exhibit A,” wails Chuck. “Arrested before he got his feet on the ground.”

We walked all around the depot, but don’t see a soul that we know. Then we picks up our war-sacks and starts down the street. A feller steps in front of us and says—

“Hotel Beverley?”

“Take a chance,” advises Telescope, and we all climbs into one of them covered automobiles. We ain’t no more than set down when here comes Polecat. He climbs in, pantin’ like a winded coyote.

“I bub-bent a gun over his huh-head,” says Polecat. “The driver tried to stop me, and we tusseled, but I left him and his danged machine half-inside a female’s hat-store. Everybody got excited and I got away. Where we goin’ now?”

Just then we stopped in front of a big building, and a man opened the door. We went inside and looked around.

“We’ve made a mistake,” says Muley. “This is where the king lives.”

We sets down on a sofy and puts our feet on our sacks. A feller who looks like a mounted policeman comes up to us and says—

“Can I assist you?”

“You might show us where we can find a hotel,” says Chuck, and the feller grins and says—

“This is a hotel.”

“Deal in rooms?”

“Certainly.”

“Deal us one with three beds, will yuh. Polecat’s got to sleep alone.”

“Will you come and register, please?”

“You’re —— well right we will,” says Telescope. “This is one time that we don’t bite off more than we can chew.”

“I can give you a suite,” says the feller at the desk. “I’ll take her,” says Polecat, but Muley hits him on the hat and shoves him away.

“You’ll take nothin’. Mister, you just give us a place to sleep, and if this snake-hunter asks for anything extra you jist kick his feet out from under him. Sabe?”

A feller gathers up our war-sacks and takes us over to a little room, which we seems to fill up full. There’s a feller setting in there.

“My gosh!” wails Polecat, “What does they think we are—hummin’-birds?”

“Ten,” says the feller, and something yanked up like a load of ore. Then we stopped. Polecat has his gun in one hand and his belt-buckle in the other.

“Lemme out!” he wails. “Daw—w—gone yuh, lemme out!”

Muley put his hand over Polecat’s mouth, and we went on up, while Polecat hung to his stummick and kept his eyes shut.

We looks around the place and then looks at each other. There’s three rooms and a fireplace, and a lot of pictures on the wall.

“What do you reckon they holds us up for this place?” wonders Chuck.

“About thirty dollars a day,” says the feller.

“You jokin’?” asks Muley, but the feller shakes his head.

“No, but it may be more now.”

“Much obliged,” says Telescope. “It looks nice, but we’ve got our own blankets.”

We walked right out of there and Polecat led us right into that hoist without looking. The man yanked the lever and—say, I seen Polecat grab his stummick, and then we hit bottom. The door opens, and we’re back where we started from.

“Get out,” whispers Telescope. “We’re down.”

“I—I know it,” croaks Polecat. “But I—I wasn’t nowhere near ready.”

We went right out of there as fast as we can go, and stops at the edge of the sidewalk. A feller says to us—

“Can I take you somewhere?”

“You’re the first friendly person we’ve met,” says Muley. “You know where Jonathan Perkins’ layout is?”

“Yes.”

“We’re headed that way,” says Chuck.

“Get right in,” says he, and the five of us climbs into his automobile. We rode for about three miles, and the feller stops outside of a high stone wall.

“Is this where he lives?” I asks.

“Well,” says he, “I can’t go so far as to say that. This is the Beverley cemetery. I usually take my customers where they want to go, and no questions asked.”

“Customer?” I asks.

“Sure. Did you think I was doing this for my health? You owe me four dollars and twenty cents.”

“To come to a graveyard?” whispers Muley hoarsely.

“Archibald Perkins, it’s no wonder your brother Jonathan died. This town would kill anybody.”

“Are you—uh—Jonathan Perkins’ brother?”

“The same,” says Polecat.

“Does anybody know you’re here?”

“Nobody’s danged business.”

“Certainly not,” says he. “Certainly not. I was joking about the four dollars and twenty cents. Don’t you want to see the cemetery? Beautiful place. I’ll tell you what we’ll do: You fellows go in and look the place over, and I’ll take Mister Perkins around to the entrance in my machine, show him his brother’s grave and then come on through and pick you up.”

That was fair enough. They drove away, but Telescope objected about going into a graveyard.

“Not me,” says he. “That’s the last place I ever want to go into. To me there ain’t nothin’ beautiful about a graveyard. I’m goin’ to set right here until they come back.”

None of us are very strong for graveyards; so we sets down there in the shade. We ain’t been there very long, when along comes a machine just like the one we came in. It sails past us, and Telescope lets out a yelp—

“My —— Didja see him? Didja? Polecat was drivin’ that machine.”

“You’re crazy!” declares Chuck.

“I tell yuh it was,” insists Telescope. “Polecat Perkins was drivin’ that machine.”

“Don’t yell so loud,” says Muley. “We can hear yuh. Yelpin’ at the top of your voice ain’t goin’ to make us believe any more than a whisper would.”

We stands there in the road, arguing about it, when all to once here comes another machine of the same kind, only this one is eating up space like a telegram.

Polecat is there, hanging onto the steering-device, with his mouth wide open, looking straight ahead.

“He’s circling the graveyard!” yelps Muley. “Good night, Polecat Perkins.”

We hears a crash. Telescope takes off his hat.

“There goes twenty thousand dollars, gents.”

“Look!” whoops Muley, and out of the gate comes that machine, or what is left of it. It wobbles over and pokes its nose against a pole, gives a wheeze and quits. Out of the gate comes Polecat. The crown is gone from his derby hat, and one pant leg is torn off at the knee. In his hands he’s still got the steering-wheel.

“I—I cut—cut—cut—cut——” he stammers.

“Thinks he’s a hen,” gasps Muley.

“Cut across,” finishes Polecat weak-like. “I—I went around twice but I can’t hit the gate; so I jumped the fence.”

“Where is the feller who drives it?” I asks.

“Oh, him?” Polecat thinks back that far, and then grins. “He wanted to take me to the Perkins home. Said it would be a good joke on your fellers to make you walk back. I told him to get a laugh out of it, and then I dumped him off the seat. The danged machine was running, and I didn’t know how to stop it.”

“Let’s go,” says Chuck. “I don’t want to get arrested for hurdle-racin’ in a graveyard. Let’s get our war-sacks out of the wreck.”

“I hope folks sabe their own graves,” says Polecat, “’cause I sure changed the location of a lot of tombstones.”

It didn’t take us long to get tired of walking. It was hot along that road, and when we comes to some bushes Muley suggests that we wait until dark. We cooked some feed with Polecat’s camp-outfit, and it sure tasted good. As soon as it gets dark we starts on again. We ain’t gone far when we sees the lights of a automobile coming up the road.

“Here’s where we ride,” says Telescope.

We did. It’s a gosh-awful big machine—one of them kind all closed in like a house, with the driver out on the front porch. The feller inside is a skinny little pelican, with a awful sharp face. He’s got the slickest clothes I ever seen—even got them cloth things over the top of his shoes.

“May I ask what you stopped me for?” asks he, mean-like.

“We’ll ride with yuh,” says Telescope. “You’ve got plenty of room,” and we all piled in with our sacks.

“I really don’t understand,” says he, nervous-like.

“Just go ahead and we’ll take care of us,” says Chuck. “We just want to get to town.”

“But I’m not going to town,” says he.

“We don’t care where you go,” says Telescope. “We’re tired of walkin’. All we want is a place where we can buy a drink.”

He picks up a thing what looks like a hose, and says into it, “Go on, Peters.”

“You’ve got a nice graveyard out here,” says Polecat. “I’ve been all around and through it.”

The feller just glances at Polecat, but don’t say a word.

“Does them things keep your ankles warm?” asks Muley.

“I’d sweat in ’em,” says Polecat. “Your feet sweat easy?”

The feller sort of gargles and looks up at the light in the ceiling of the car.

“Reminds me of a sheepherder I knowed oncet,” says Polecat. “He’d set all day and never say a word. One time—” but just then we drove up to a house and stopped. A man opened the door, and we all follered the little feller inside and up the stairs.

Man, there’s something going on in there. Men and women, all drinkin’ and playing on gambling-devices. She’s wilder than Dawson City in the old days, but dressed different.

A chinless hombre is trying to sing a song, but nobody seems to enjoy him. He sees the feller with us, and he weaves over where we are.

“I came to take you home, Reginald,” says our guide. “This place is to be raided tonight. Understand?”

“Go home yourshelf,” says Reginald. “Thish is no place for respectable lawyer. Go home, Geoffrey, and tell your wife she wants you,” and then he weaves back to the tables.

“The drunken fool!” squeaks the little feller.

“Let’s have a drink,” says Telescope.

“I do not drink,” declares Geoffrey. “You’ll enjoy it,” says Muley. “I wish it was my first experience.”

I’ll draw a veil over the next fifteen minutes. Geoffrey drank a small glass of beer—with two drinks of hooch in it—and inside of five minutes he’s telling us all his past life. He tells us that he is Andrew Geoffrey, the greatest corporation-lawyer in the State. He has another shot of temptation, and then he confides that he’s likely the biggest corporation-lawyer on earth. That hombre sure covered a lot of ground.

“Who is the drunk you’re tryin’ to save?” asks Muley. “Tha’s Reginald Harrison Perkins, son of the late Jonathan Perkins. I’m retained by the estate.”

“Jonathan was my brother,” says Polecat, tearful-like.

Andy shuts one eye tight and grins at Polecat. Then he shakes his head.

“Sh-h-h-h,” says he. “Woods ’r full of ’m. You’re number sheven.”

“That’s too bad,” says Chuck, wiggling his ears. “I didn’t know they run in flocks. Do we imbibe over our disappointment?”

“In wine,” says Andy. “Waiter, bring us fi’ quarts.”

We got it. That waiter gives us a wash-tub full of ice and bottles, and we elects Telescope bartender. He grabs a bottle and starts to take the bailing-wire off the top.

Bam!

Something hit Polecat between the eyes, and he went over backward and came up with a gun in his hand. Telescope stands there sprinkling everybody, and just then somebody yelps:

“Police! Police!” and into the door comes a million of ’em.

“Shave me!” weeps Andy! “Shave me! I forgot ’em.”

“This is no barber-shop,” yelps Telescope, and sails that wine-bottle straight at the law-and-order mob.

Then some wise hombre cut off the lights, and —— takes a recess. Man, it was some stampede!

“Save Andy!” yells Telescope. “Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.”

I dove across the table and got Andy around the waist with one arm, and with my other hand I got a bottle of wine. We went some. I took him across a defunct roulette-table, under another table, and then we hit the door. Lucky? Well, I reckon we was. I yanks Andy outside, slammed my bottle back into the whirlpool, and then me and Andy took one step and went into space.

Comes a awful jolt, the smashing of wood and glass, and when I gets my eyes straight again I finds myself setting in a automobile beside a policeman, and I can look right up through the roof where we came in. I’ve got my arms around this officer, but he’s been hit so hard he don’t care.

“Did I get you by mistake?” I asks, but all he does is to open his lips and say:

“Move on. You can’t loaf here.”

I got out and looked around. I can see where we came out. Part of that verandy rail is hanging down, and there’s a lot of house-plants scattered over the grass. There is plenty of things going on upstairs. I hears Telescope’s voice yelping for Muley to hang on to Andy, and then a whole bunch of ’em surges out of the same door.

“Drop him and then jump,” grunts Chuck, but that weak little verandy saved ’em the trouble. They all lit in a heap on the grass, where they untangles slow-like.

“My gosh, that was some battle!” gasps Muley. “Where is Andy’s automobile?”

“Take this one,” says I, and we manages to get everybody inside. The seats are built along the sides in this one.

“Who can drive?” asks Telescope. “Hurry before the police get down here. Can you drive, Andy?”

Andy is too stewed to talk, but he nods. We shoves him onto the seat, and away we go.

“Where did you get the policeman?” asks Muley.

“I got him by mistake,” I yells. “Drop him on to a soft place.”

Telescope picked him up and eased him into the brush along the road, but the policeman didn’t mind. He just grinned.

We went some, with chances pretty big that we’d go faster.

“Where’s Polecat?” yells Muley. “Have we lost him again?”

“Stop!” yelps Chuck. “We’ve got to go back after Polecat.”

“Stop it yourself,” yelps Polecat’s voice. “I don’t know how.”

“Where’s Andy?” I yells.

“Under my feet. He was too drunk to drive anything. Where’s the thing you stop her with?”

I reckon he finds out. They’ve been sprinkling the street along there, and Polecat manages to lock our wheels.

“Pardners for a waltz!” howls Muley, and I’m betting that we turned around ten times.

“Kick off that brake!” yelps Telescope.

Bang! We goes ahead like a shot, and that engine sounds like forty shotguns all going off to once.

“Where you goin’?” whoops Muley, as Polecat comes clawing over the top of us. “Where you goin’, feller?”

“I’m goin’ to jump off the hind end,” yells Polecat. “The front end is goin’ too fast.”

Just then we seems to elevate our front end, and then the hind end kicks up just in time to land us against the ceiling, and then we starts over the ocean waves.

“Pow-w-w-der River!” yelps Polecat. I got Muley around the waist, thinking that maybe he’d sort of anchor me, but the fat son of a gun has got more bounce in him than I have.

Then we turned a handspring.

Muley swore that the police found me and him in the top of a tree, but I don’t believe it. Trees don’t grow that high. Anyway, I woke up, hearing Telescope’s voice telling me to quit singing.

“The jailer said he’d put you under the pump if you didn’t quit,” says he.

I looks around—with one eye; the other is swelled shut. Chuck and Muley are setting against the wall, and Telescope is standing, leaning on the bars.

“Did we drive right into jail?” I asks.

“Might as well,” groans Telescope. “Did you just wake up? You’ve been singin’ for seven hours.”

“What are we in jail for?” I asks.

“Stealing a taxicab, assaulting the driver, refusin’ to pay fare, assaultin’ policemen, and last but not least—absconding with the police-patrol,” enumerates Muley, sad-like.

“Amen,” says Chuck. “Paradise was saddle-marked before this village ever felt a rope. Reckon they’ll hang us?”

“I don’t care what they do, just so they don’t make me set down,” says Telescope. “I slid two hundred yards on the seat of my pants, and when them policemen found me I was on fire.”

“Polecat—where is he?” I asks.

“Among the missin’,” says Telescope. “Him and Andy was so light they never came down, I reckon. I can’t say that I give a dang.”

Just then a couple of officers comes to the door and unlocks it.

“Do we get our choice between shootin’ and hangin’?” asks Chuck.

“Not quite that bad,” grins one of ’em. “You feel like leavin’ town? There’s a train out in an hour. Know what I mean?”

“I hope it goes fast,” says Telescope. “Is there any law that says we can’t walk down the track and pick it up when it comes along?”

“Use your own judgment.”

“Not me,” grins Chuck. “I tried it once, and look where we are. Who got us loose?”

“Don’t argue!” snaps Telescope. “Andy’s a big lawyer. Him and the law must stand together.”

Them two fellers grins at each other, and watches us hit for the open country. A kid asks us to buy a paper, and Muley took one. We humped up in a corner of the depot and waited for the train.

“Look at this!” snorts Muley. “Polecat! Look at it!” There she is, in big, black letters:

SAYS HE IS ARCHIBALD PERKINS

Westerner Claims to Be the Brother of Late Millionaire. Detective Brady May Win Big Reward.

And then it goes on to say that this detective has been searching all over the West for Archibald, and trailed him from the hills of Montana to a road-house near Beverley. Brady is to produce his proofs today. It also says that the alleged Archibald Perkins seems to be suffering from some kind of shock, and has tried to escape. Refuses to talk.

“Boys,” says Muley, “we’re goin’ to get Polecat and take him back to his dugout.”

A feller showed us where the Perkins house was, and we sure went up there real fast. The beauty of it don’t appeal to us, and we don’t ask no questions. Telescope just opened the front door, and we all went in. A fat feller, with a swaller-tailed coat seen us coming, and he almost throwed a fit.

“I—I beg your pardon,” says he.

“You’re excused,” says Telescope. “Lead us to the owner of the place, and do it quick.”

He sure hurried fast. We went upstairs and stops in front of a big door.

There sets Polecat beside a table, and beside him is Brady. Across the table sets Andy and another hombre of the same breed. There’s a old lady, with her glasses on a handle, and in another chair sets Reginald, looking like he’d rather have a drink than anything else.

There ain’t a word spoken for a moment, and then Polecat says—

“They—they want me to take my shirt off.”

“Now, I asks yuh to all set still,” says Telescope, patting his old six-gun on his hip, and then he turns to Brady and says—

“You danged crook!”

“Ahem-m-m-m!” says Andy. “Crook, did you say?”

“Yes. He’s tryin’ to pry you loose from ten thousand dollars. This feller’s name is Perkins, but that lets him out. I’ve knowed him for ten years.”

“They wanted me to take off my shirt,” complains Polecat.

“Then,” says Andy, “you know positively that this is not Archibald Perkins.”

“Cinch,” says Telescope. “Come on, Polecat, we’ve got to catch a train.”

“Wait a minute,” says Brady. “I want to tell you——”

“You and your effete East can go to ——” says Polecat. “I’m goin’ back West where a man can get killed without gettin’ all bunged up. Adios.”

We caught that train. After deducting our fare, we’ve still got enough to eat on. We got into the smoking-car, and eased our carcasses onto the cushions.

“No more dishonesty for mine,” sighs Chuck.

“I’m just goin’ on bein’ a plain cowpuncher, with no ambitions beyond pay-day. It don’t pay to promote wild-cats.”

“Nor Polecats,” grins Muley.

“I thanks you for rescuin’ me,” says Polecat. “I shudders to think what might ’a’ happened if you hadn’t showed up. Why, I wouldn’t live there for all the money in the world. Accordin’ to what that feller read, I’d ’a’ had to live in that house and in that —— killem-quick town. Live there? Not me. I’m too happy in my little, old dugout. What’s money?”

“She ain’t much with us,” agrees Muley.

“You didn’t need to worry, Polecat,” says Telescope. “They’d never accepted you, anyway.”

“The real Archibald Perkins had a birthmark on his back,” says Polecat, slow-like. “It looks like a raspberry. That’s why they wanted me to take off my shirt.”

“Well, they’d ’a’ found out their mistake,” grunts Muley.

“Like —— they would!”

We all stares at Polecat and then at each other.

“You mean——?” gasps Chuck.

“I couldn’t stand the conditions,” says Polecat, “so I kept my danged shirt on.”