The Project Gutenberg eBook of A tin cup trophy

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Title: A tin cup trophy

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: July 1, 2026 [eBook #78987]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1918

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78987

Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TIN CUP TROPHY ***

A Tin Cup Trophy

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “A Bull Movement in Yellow Horse,” “Nerves of Iron,” etc.

“I hope that we have perpetual hot weather, and that the old man has to cook bread all the rest of his danged life,” pronounces Telescope Tolliver, drawing up his long legs so as to get all of his long carcass out of the sun. Me and Muley Bowles nods agreeable like.

We’re setting in the only shady place around the Paradise depot, cussing the heat, the train and the old man Whittaker, owner of the Cross-J cow outfit.

The old man has been expecting uh new cook-stove every train for the last seventeen days. Expecting that stove is getting to be uh mania with him. He elects the three of us as pall-bearers for that blasted stove, and we been waiting at the depot every day since two days after the old man sent the order to Chicago. The only times he didn’t send us was the day he sent the order and the day after. Hauling cookstoves in uh lumber-wagon ain’t what I’d designate as the height uh bliss, when the thermometer is sticking around the one double o in the shade.

Telescope Tolliver orates that he’s uh direct descendant of uh noted tribe uh that name, which are believed to have infested Kentucky at one time. According to his opinion, there ain’t nothing on earth nor the waters under the earth to compare with the Tollivers.

In one respect he’s right. If they’re all like him they’re sure entitled to uh separate cage in any zoo. Telescope sings. Any way, he says he does. I ain’t no judge uh music, except as she’s played on uh banjo. I sure can twang that round-headed instrument to the queen’s taste, and when the occasion demands it I can raise my voice in song. I can state that the demand never did exceed the supply.

Muley is uh poet. He can’t no more help writing poetry than I can eating. Muley ain’t no long-haired, moth-eaten thing that generally opines to make words rhyme. Not any! Muley is uh lumpy individual, with uh face like uh milk cheese, and he rides the biggest saddle-tree in the State. You can tell Muley’s string by their sprung knees and general worn appearance.

Telescope looks just like what Muley would if Muley was put under pressure and then rolled out. Telescope sure is uh long ways from his spurs. For that reason most uh his songs goes over our heads. He specializes on “Sweet Marie” and “Break the News to Mother.” I plays parts of ’em on my banjo.

“Well,” says Muley, “there’s the danged thing whistling. I wonder why uh train has to whistle for uh depot like this for?”

“What do yuh think it ought to do—recite poetry?” asks Telescope. “Uh train whistles cause it can’t sing.”

“I’d admire to hear you cultivating uh whistle, then,” retorts Muley, and we all stands to welcome that stove.

The train groans into Paradise. I reckon uh train groans into Paradise, ’cause they takes water there. The conductor hops off and Telescope asks him if there’s uh stove come for us.

“Stove!” says he, gasping for breath. “Did you say stove?”

“It’s going to be painful for both of us if I has to repeat that name again,” states Telescope. “But, as you seems hard uh hearing I’ll repeat her once more. Stove. S-t-o-v-e. Sabe?”

“For you?” asks the conductor, fanning himself with his cap.

Now, wasn’t that uh brilliant remark to make out there on that blistering board platform, with the thermometer one hundred in the shade? It really was Telescope’s argument, but Muley takes it off his hands and chases the conductor the full length uh that train. Said conductor barely escapes by climbing into the engine and throwing chunks uh coal at Muley. We’re laughing uh heap at Muley who is returning the coal, when we hears the voice of uh medder lark behind us—

“I beg your pardon.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” says Telescope, turning and bowing like uh willow in the wind.

There’s three of them. Maybe beauty is only skin deep, but, by the whispering wolves, the one that begs our pardon has got anything skinned I ever seen. All I can think of is peaches and cream and strawberries, and her eyes—huh! Did yuh ever get real thirsty, and then look through uh glass uh cold beer, just below the foam? That’s the color I mean. Sort of uh cool, thirsty brown, with specks floating in the lighter spots.

The other two are uh heap practical-looking. One was quite uh good-sized girl in 1880, and the other—well, she was too old to eat pie with uh spoon at that time, too.

“Is there any game near here?” asks one of the older ones, after Telescope gets back to his normal position.

“Yes’m,” says I. “But I’d advise yuh to pass ’em up. There’s uh faro and uh chuck-luck game over in Dug Chaffin’s, and over in Mike Pelly’s place yuh can set into uh jack-pot game or lose your substance on the wheel. We ain’t trying to knock Dug or Mike, yuh understand, but we sure don’t want to see yuh go up against uh brace game and not know it.”

“Elks?” she asks, sort uh undecided like.

“Mike is,” says I. “Dug’s uh—say, Telescope, what’s Dug?”

“Dug’s uh—uh—Woman uh Woodcraft, I reckon,” stutters Telescope, and just then Muley comes back, panting like uh winded pup, from throwing rocks at the rear end of the train.

He horns down the platform with his head down and don’t see our company.

“Gol-danged bunch uh rattler-riding rummies!” he puffs. “Uh conductor what don’t know the word ‘stove’ when it’s spelled ought to be tutored by uh turnip! By the gods, some day I’ll hit that conductor with uh—uh—zziguzz!”

That last is the correct spelling of the word Muley utters when he looks up and sees them females.

They looks at him sort of reproving like. Muley tries to remove his hat by grabbing it by the top, and he gets his hands full uh hair at the same time. He just simply lifts hair and all until his face looks like he had the measles.

“Pleased to meet yuh,” he states, with his hair standing up like the roach on uh grizzly. “So yuh came, did yuh?”

“Was yuh looking for us?” asks the lovely one, and Muley has to swaller three times before he is able to nod.

“Uh-huh,” says he. “We certainly am.”

“Well, isn’t that queer, auntie?” says she to the oldest-looking female.

“Yes’m, it sure is,” admits Muley. “You see, it’s like this; I figgered that if we came here often enough——”

“He has visions, ma’am,” explains Telescope. “He’s known for seventeen days something was coming to us on uh train, and we been here every day to welcome it when it did come. We has perfect faith in Muley thataway.”

“Lemuel Allender Bowles, ma’am,” states Muley. “I am your obedient servant.”

“I’m yours respectfully, John Quincy Tolliver,” bows Telescope. “I am of the Kentucky Tollivers. This here bashful person on my right is Hen Peck. Whenever I introduces him it gives me the feeling that I’m trying to induce uh barnyard fowl to foller its natural intentions.”

“Henry Clay Peck,” I pronounces, sort uh peevish like. “The Peck family never was mixed up in no feud nor suckled uh bottle uh moonshine whiskey, but they’re honest. My paw was uh poor but honest Missouri farmer, and all he left to me when he left this vale uh suffering was his first and last names. Our farm was in Clay County, so they had no trouble in picking out uh middle name. I’m sincerely yours.”

“I am Violet Middleton,” states the beautiful person. “This is my aunt, Miss Matilda Flanders and this other lady is Miss Olive Annibel Anderson.”

We all bows and perspires fluently.

“Now, about this here game,” remarks Telescope. “If I was in——”

“I greatly fear that you misunderstood us,” states the one designated as Miss Matilda. “We meant wild animal hunting. We were informed that wild game abounds in these hills. Such as elk, deer, cariboo, moose, antelope and bison.”

“We can’t deny the allegation, ma’am,” grins Telescope. “We been gunning for uh stove for so long that we ain’t had uh chance to look into the game situation. Do you aim to hunt?”

“We came here with that intention,” orates Miss Olive. “We were informed in Chicago that we could likely secure guides and so forth at Paradise.”

“And so forth,” agrees Muley. “Yes, I reckon you could.”

“They threw all our baggage off the other side of the train,” states Miss Matilda, pointing at uh pile uh plunder on the cinders.

“Yes’m,” agrees Muley. “They was afraid to open the door on this side,” and then Muley surprises ’em pleasantly by reciting sort uh offhand like:

Down in the lovely valley, where the milk cows play,

There grows uh shrinking flower by the wall.

They calls this flower Violet.

The name becomes her well.

She’s the sweetest little blossom of them all.

This here Violet person looks so pleased that she has to bite her lips to keep from crying, but just the same her eyes fills with tears. It affects Miss Matilda so much that she has uh fit uh coughing, and Telescope has to pound her between the shoulders. Telescope ain’t no weakling, and Miss Matilda recovers immediate.

“That was—er—simply beautiful,” states Miss Violet. “Did you make that up out of your head?”

“He sure did, ma’am,” says Telescope. “Muley’s uh wonder. Recite her that one yuh made about——”

I’ve heard the one that Telescope is about to refer to, so I busts the request in its infancy by asking—

“Do you like music?”

“Immensely,” says Miss Violet. “Do you sing?”

“Telescope does,” I states. “I exhibits my talents on uh banjo.”

“Auntie,” says Miss Violet, “we seem to have run into a talented trio in the wilds.” And me and Muley and Telescope bows and scrapes uh little more.

“Now, about this hunting venture?” says Miss Matilda. “Would you advise us to stop here?”

“Well, I’d tell uh man,” observes Telescope. “Do yuh wish to specialize on any certain kind uh game?”

“Perhaps it may look funny for three women to be out for a hunt, but it’s a fact,” states Miss Matilda. “We have been planning on a Western outing for a long time, and we want to rough it. We have steeped ourselves in all the literature procurable on the subject, and we long for the free untrammeled life, away from the conventions of society. We have what you would probably call ‘tender feet,’ and we desire to procure competent guides and so forth. Heretofore we have spent our vacations in fashionable watering-places, and we long for a change.”

“Ma’am,” says Telescope, “you’ve come to all that. We’ll harden your feet and keep yuh away from the water-holes.”

“Do you mean to say that you are guides?” asks Miss Matilda, and the three of us bows once more.

“Probably the best on earth,” says I.

“Then we had better give them entire charge,” opines Miss Olive. “They can take charge of our baggage and arrange for our transportation to the woods.”

We takes ’em over to Hammond’s hotel and stacks ’em up against uh feed uh ham and eggs, and then retires for uh council uh war.

“What are we going to do now?” asks Telescope. “We ain’t guides.”

“That ain’t no reason why we can’t be, is it?” asks Muley.

“There ain’t uh danged thing to do at the ranch, and won’t be for uh couple uh weeks. I figures that this will be uh happy holiday, if yuh asks me. We can pilot that bunch around the hills to uh fare-thee-well, can’t we? That little Violet person——”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Telescope. “She sure is. How about you, Hen?”

“What about the old man’s cook-stove?” I asks. “Somebody’s sure to go to the ranch and tell him where we’re going.”

“Gosh A’mighty!” snorts Telescope. “I plumb forgot such mundane things as stoves. You go on up and tell him, Muley. Me and Hen will stay here and arrange for transportation.”

“Like ——!” howls Muley. “If there’s any dirty work to be done it’s shoved off on me. How yuh going to arrange for transportation? Let’s all go up and see the old man. We got to have some broncs. We ain’t got nothing for them ladies to ride, and we ain’t got no pack-saddle nor nothing. We’re in fine shape to take an outfit out for hunting.”

“Muley’s right,” says Telescope. “We sure can’t pack that bunch uh plunder on our backs, and the ladies orate that they got tender feet. You and Muley go back, and I’ll stay here in the interests of our fair clients. That’s fair.”

“We’ll let the cards decide,” says Muley. “Low man stays.”

For once in my life I’m lucky and cuts uh five-spot against uh ten and uh queen. They gets into the wagon and drifts out uh town in the dust, after making me hold up my right hand and swear that I’ll confine myself to business.

I goes up to the hotel and gets uh list uh groceries from Miss Matilda that would fill uh box-car. I takes the list over to “Smoky” Sellers, the storekeeper. Smoky looks at the list for uh minute or two, and then hands me the key.

“Take the house, Hen,” says he. “Maybe you will find some of everything inside these four walls, but not that amount. Old Whittaker must uh sold his herd.”

“Smoky,” says I, “you don’t appreciate the gastronomical powers of humanity. This is uh meager grub stake for uh hunting trip. Sabe?”

“Hunting trip!” he snorts. “What does anybody want to hunt for when they got that much money to spend for grub?”

“We wishes to live the untrammeled life, Smoky,” says I. “We wishes to rough it and harden our feet. We desires to avoid the fashionable water-holes, and—it’s none uh your danged business, anyway.”

I moves most uh Smoky’s stock out in the street and mounts guard over it so that the itinerant Piegans can’t pack it home with them. Paradise comes down in uh body and groups around my purchases, but I refuses to answer questions. Them three females strolls around town after the sun goes down, but Muley and Telescope don’t show up until the next noon. When they does show up they got the finest bunch uh mixed stock and saddles yuh ever saw. I walks around the bunch and looks ’em over.

“Don’t be critical, Hen,” advises Telescope, when I grins at the layout.

“Not critical—careful,” says I. “I’d say thet these didn’t all come from the Cross-J.”

“Well,” drawls Muley, “yuh can draw your own conclusions. The old man wouldn’t let us have uh danged head of his stock. He orates the Constitution of the United States to us, and Telescope replies with the Declaration of Independence. She’s some conversation for to hear, believe me. All we was able to get away with was our own property. We leaves the old man setting on the front porch with uh rifle in his hands and sorrow in his heart. He sure mourns that stove uh heap.”

“Can’t he come down and get it himself?” I asks.

“Got uh boil,” explains Telescope. “One uh them blind boils—he can’t see it. Sabe?”

“Flying-H, Bridle-Bit, Figure-Eight, Bar-X and Lazy-Y,” I enumerates aloud, and they both grins.

“Sort of uh mulligan, eh, Hen?” laughs Muley. “I wanted to take all Lazy-Y stuff, but Telescope was cautious. We takes what is handy from each place, swipes the pack-saddles from the Bar-X and them three riding rigs from Doughgod Smith. Since Doughgod was disappointed at the altar his rigs has just hung there and gathered moss. He won’t miss ’em.”

“Well,” says I, “I ain’t as pure as the beautiful snow, but I states right here and now that I protests your actions at the top uh my voice, but so long as the play comes the way she does I’ll—did yuh think to bring my banjo?”

They both shakes their heads, sad like.

“No, we didn’t, Hen,” replies Telescope. “With the old man feeling the way he did, I feel that I was plumb lucky to get away with my voice.”

“I always did argue that uh mechanical genius was handicapped,” states Muley. “No matter what happens, me and Telescope is always packing our abilities and talents.”

“To the utter exclusion of others,” I replies. “I suppose you figures that by handicapping me it will give you and Telescope uh clearer track, eh? Not by uh danged sight it don’t! I’ll sing!”

They both looks at me, sort uh sad like, and Telescope says—

“Muley, I’ll cut the cards with yuh to see who goes after his blasted banjo.”

But Muley shakes his head.

“Not any,” says Muley. “It’s two to one, Telescope, and after them females hears him sing it will be five to one. Five to one ain’t exactly what I’d call the survival of the fittest. Do yuh still feel like singing, Henry?”

“Under them circumstances I got uh frog in my throat,” says I. “Here comes the females.”

“Oh, what a lovely lot of ponies, auntie!” exclaims Miss Violet. “Isn’t that rose-colored one a dear!”

“Yes’m,” says I. “He runs like a deer and pitches like the devil.”

“May I pat him?” she asks, and that voice almost makes me forget to be cautious.

“You may, and you may not,” says I. “He’s uh thing uh beauty, but he’ll kick all the joy out uh your life if he gets uh chance. If you can pat him from here—go to it, but don’t get any closer.”

Being as she’s about twenty feet from that roan the play is plumb safe and sane.

We manages to rope most uh that plunder on six uh them broncs, and picks three tame ones for the women to ride. They happens to have skirts which were made for riding uh man’s saddle, and the dangdest collection uh guns you ever seen.

One uh them guns attracts us uh heap. It weighs about fifteen pounds, and is double-barreled. Miss Matilda sees us looking at it, so she explains:

“That gun came from Africa,” says she. “It was found to be highly effective on big game.”

She produces uh couple uh ca’tridges. They’re about the size of uh twelve-gage shotgun shell, only these are loaded with uh bullet, and in the end of the bullet is an explosive.

“I have only these two,” says Miss Matilda. “Don’t you suppose I could get some more here?”

“Ma’am,” replies Telescope, handing them back to her, “two is uh plenty.”

We helps Miss Violet and Miss Olive on to uh pair uh broncs, and then essays to boost Miss Matilda into uh saddle. She sticks out uh foot, but steps back and looks serious.

“This one is plumb gentle, ma’am,” says Telescope.

“Without a doubt,” agrees Miss Matilda.

“Well, what’s the matter, auntie?” asks Miss Violet, impatient like.

“Are either of you guides married?” asks Miss Matilda.

“Not uh bit,” replies Telescope. “We’re heart and fancy free and past twenty-one.”

“Well,” says she, “that spoils everything. Pshaw! Isn’t it queer that I never thought of it before. We simply can’t go.”

“Would you mind explaining why we can’t?” asks Miss Olive.

“Not at all, my dear. How would it look for three unmarried ladies to go into the wilds with three single men?”

“My Gawd!” says Muley, solemn like. “Ain’t that prepossessing!”

“Wouldn’t that put uh rabbit hors de combat?” snorts Telescope.

“Well, this seems to end it,” snaps Miss Olive. “I never started any place with you yet, Matilda, that you didn’t pick a flaw some place.”

“No use hurling recriminations, Olive,” chides Miss Matilda.

“We must have a chaperon, that’s all there is to it.”

“I wonder where we could get one?” says Miss Olive.

We all thinks for uh few minutes, and then Telescope seems to rope an idea.

“Ma’am,” says he, “is there any restrictions connected with uh chaperon’s position? If yuh just hanker for married folks maybe we can fill the bill. Uh course maybe you’ll have to pay ’em uh little.”

“That will be agreeable,” she nods. “All I ask is that they’re respectable and congenial.”

Telescope calls me off to one side and gets confidential.

“Hen,” says he, “do you know where we could get uh couple uh congenial chaperons what are respectable?”

“Mister Tolliver, I don’t,” says I.

“Ma’am,” states Telescope, walking over to Miss Matilda, “Mister Peck and me has got an idea that we knows just where to put our hands on the couple yuh wants. Mister Bowles will pilot the caravan out to Roaring Lion Crick, while we fulfils the obligation concerning chaperons.”

Muley grins, and hazes that outfit away through the dust, while me and Telescope pilgrims over to Mike Pelly’s place.

“How,” says Telescope, while Mike rings up the money.

“How is right,” says I. “How?”

Telescope looks over the assembled bunch uh suckers, who try forever to hit the lucky spot on the wheel, and shakes his head.

“Hen,” says he, “I never knowed uh place where there was fewer married folks than in Paradise, so I can’t answer your question. There’s old Doughgod Smith. He’s about the most nearly married of any one I know—being as he was disappointed at the preacher’s house. He might like to go.”

“I’ll get Doughgod if you’ll rustle the female,” I states.

Telescope thinks deep for uh while and then grins.

“Hennery Peck, you said something. Get your half and foller the caravan. I got uh hy-iu idea.”

Telescope ducks out, and I goes over and sets down beside of Doughgod.

“Hello, Hen,” says he. “Going to help Mike pay the rent?”

“Not me, Doughgod,” I replies. “Busting wheels ain’t never been no desire uh mine. The only system I ever had was eating—three times uh day. How would yuh like to be a chaperon?”

“I’m satisfied to be the way I am,” says he, filling up that vile old pipe he carries. “I’m what I am, Hen, and I don’t believe in wishing I was something I ain’t and never can be.”

“Solomon never had nothing on you except antiquity, Doughgod,” says I. “I got uh chance for you to be uh chaperon for three swell females.”

“My gorge ariseth at the mention of the sex,” he states. “I’ll nevermore be nothing to the calico-clad race, Hen. Not me! I been left at the preacher’s.”

“Listen, Doughgod!” says I, poking uh finger into his knee-cap, and speaking in uh whisper. “Listen to this and then dare to refuse. Did you ever hear of the Lost Cabin mine?”

Doughgod nods and sucks hard on his pipe.

“Listen. These three females inherited uh map uh that mine, and they’re out here to locate it. Sabe? They orates that they’re out here to hunt, so folks won’t beat ’em to it. I saw that map, so I know what I’m talking about.

“What we wants you to do is to come along as uh chaperon, and claim that mine as soon as we finds it. Me and Muley and Telescope can’t do it, ’cause everybody around here knows we never done no prospecting. We’ll split the profits.”

Doughgod studies the proposition for uh while and scratches his head.

“Why not steal that map and locate it ourselves?” he asks. “You know where she keeps it, don’t yuh?”

“Uh-huh,” I agrees. “But I can’t steal it, Doughgod.”

“Locked up?”

“In her stocking.”

“Complicates things,” states Doughgod. “Yes, sir, I reckon that certainly complicates things, but I’ll go with yuh. I been looking for uh chance to get even with the species, and maybe this is the chance. They don’t play square, Hen.”

“Born to deceive honest men,” I replies.

“Gosh, that mine’s richer than Illinoy mud, too,” whispers Doughgod, as we goes out, and I agrees.

There’s one peculiar thing about Lost Cabin mines. No, I reckon I’d better say, two peculiar things. One is the richness of the ore and the other is the quantity of them. Every mining locality from Nome to Mexico and west to Butte is proud of at least three of ’em. Uh district without at least one Lost Cabin mine is no fit place for uh prospector, and should be viewed with distrust. I didn’t know that there was one in our part of the State, but Doughgod has prospected uh long time, and he ought to know.

“You can’t carry that demijohn, Doughgod,” I states, when he arrives with his trusty steed.

“Hen,” says he, “I’m uh disappointed person—love, war and politics—and I sure don’t aim to include drouth in my repertoire.”

It is almost dark when we spots the outfit camped on the bank of Roaring Lion Crick. There’s two hosses what ain’t been unsaddled, so I admits to myself that Telescope has beat me to camp with his half. We rides in and are greeted by Telescope and Muley.

Muley’s got uh flour sack tied around his waist, and has got dough from his hair to his heels. He rolls his hands together to get rid of some of it, and then shakes hands with Doughgod.

“Doughgod, you’re uh jewel,” states Muley. “Without you, old-timer, we couldn’t get along. Can yuh cook?”

“You’re welcome, and I can’t,” says Doughgod, filling his old pipe, and looking the outfit over. “How long do yuh reckon it will take for this trip?”

“Maybe uh couple uh weeks,” says Telescope. “You ain’t in no hurry, are yuh?”

“Two weeks, eh? I got an idea that beats that. Listen!”

The three of us gets up close and listens.

“Two weeks is too long. Some night we’ll throw uh scare into her, and while she’s out of ’em we’ll steal it. How does that scheme sound to you, eh?”

Muley and Telescope looks at each other, mysterious like, and eases up close to Doughgod.

“Great!” whispers Telescope. “Great idea, eh, Muley?”

“Cleverest thing I ever heard of. Shake, Doughgod. I didn’t think yuh had it in yuh.”

Then Muley and Telescope gets me to one side, and Muley says—

“Hen, we got to get rid of Doughgod—he’s crazy!”

“Uh-huh,” I admits. “He ain’t bad, though. Yuh see, he’s only loco on one subject. When he got left at the church it put uh half-hitch on his brain, and ever since he’s been laboring under the delusion that this fair but false one has got her feet in the stirrups of his favorite saddle and won’t get out. Outside uh that he ain’t no crazier than you two fellers. Humor him uh little and he won’t bother none. Did yuh get the female, Telescope?”

“I got the best there was, Hen. Snow-shoe Annie.”

Just then Annie waddles out of the tent and pokes around to where we are.

“Mamook piah,” says Telescope, pointing at the fire and then at the grub-box. Annie looks at him and shakes her head.

“Anah!” says she, the same uh which clinches the argument.

“Now,” says I, “you’ve gone and done yourself proud, Telescope. Here we got the prize possession of the Piegans on our hands, and it won’t cook. Them females specified uh respectable married woman, and you brings Snow-shoe Annie.”

“How do you know whether she’s respectable or not?” he argues. “Also, I didn’t steal her. I slips her uh shot uh painkiller and made marks in the sand to show her that I know where there is more of the same, and I has to quirt my bronc every step of the way to keep up with her.”

“But she ain’t married,” I insists.

“How do you know she ain’t? I wouldn’t be surprised if she was married to Captain John Smith before he met Pocahontas.”

“I thought maybe yuh was going to try and pass her off as Doughgod’s wife?”

“Me?” says he, surprised like. “Not me, Hen. Uh course I takes uh chance that my hunch is right, and introduces her as Mrs. Smith. I didn’t specify no first name nor initials, but they can’t blame me if the similarity uh names balls ’em up uh little.”

“Can’t none uh them females cook?” I asks.

“Nope. Miss Violet opines that she can make uh delicious salad dressing, but me and Muley can’t find nothing with that label on it, so that lets her out.”

I takes uh look at Annie, setting there by the fire, and sort uh wishes I was back at the Cross-J, with my feet under the long table in the cook-shack. Annie is so danged old that she can tell yuh who painted the Painted Rocks. According to her wau-wau she was the one who mixed the colors. She don’t sabe English none, but she can decipher the label on uh lemon extract bottle.

When she’s lit up she can dance every tribal hoochie-koochie from the “Planting Dance” to the “Wail of uh Wounded Warrior.” Also she can sing. She’s been practising on her Swan Song for one hundred Winters, according to her say-so, and it takes her half the night to wail the first verse.

Annie is so bow-legged that the big toes on each foot is deformed from never being in contact with the earth.

Doughgod looks Annie over, sort uh interested like, and then come over to me and asks—

“What’s the idea of the ancient klooch?”

“Don’t speak so loud!” I cautions. “She knows where it is, too.”

“The—the map?” whispers Doughgod.

“No, the mine. They hires her to help them locate it. Doughgod, we got to win Annie over to our side, so be kind to her. Miss Matilda said you was an unprepossessing looking gentleman.”

“——!” he snorts, knocking the ashes out of that pipe against his heel, and filling up again. “She can’t pull no wool over my eyes. No female will ever horn her way into my bosom again, Henry. I been left at the church—me! If this pilgrimage don’t pan out the way we figures I’m going up to the forks uh Tin Cup Crick and go into the goat business with ‘Harelip’ Hansen. I’m soured on the flesh-pots. Sabe?”

“Harelip raising goats?” I asks, surprised like.

“Uh-huh. Yuh see, Henry, the rustlers discriminated in favor of his cows, so he goes into the sheep business. When trouble comes up between the sheep and cow men, all uh Harelip’s sheep gets stampeded over uh cliff. Harelip argues that no rustler is going to steal uh goat and yuh can’t kill the blame things by herding ’em over uh cliff. Harelip’s uh wise old coot, believe me. He offers me uh partnership.”

“It’s uh mighty good business, Doughgod; take him up,” says I.

He walks over to the fire, where Muley is trying to cook some supper, when out comes Matilda, and saunters over. She’s packing uh slip uh paper in her hand, and when she arrives she orates thusly to Muley:

“Cook, we will have consommé, a rare roast of veal, shoe-string potatoes, rolls and coffee. You will open enough vegetables for a salad and bring me the necessary ingredients for the dressing. I will mix the dressing at the table. That will be about all, I guess.”

Muley looks at her, foolish like, while he tries to roll uh cigaret with doughy fingers. He lights the sticky mess and takes uh puff or two.

“Ma’am,” says he, polite like, “you finished your oration in becoming style. That sure will be about all!”

“Thank you,” says she, and struts back to her tent.

“I wouldn’t cook it for ’em,” states Doughgod. “By cripes! I just wouldn’t do it, Muley.”

Muley rolls up that bunch uh dough, tobacco and paper and casts it into the fire. He unties the flour sack and it follers suit.

“Now,” says he, “that sure is about all! I’m Lemuel Allender Bowles—puncher! I ain’t no danged Eyetalian cook, and I don’t care to listen to words uh wisdom from nobody. Sabe?”

That sure was some supper. Muley took uh can uh peaches, and sneaked off in the brush, while Telescope tries to appease the appetite of three female humans and uh Piegan squaw with uh can opener and some burned bannock. I divides uh can uh pork and beans with Doughgod.

If all the joy around our camp next morning was put in one bunch it wouldn’t make uh happy peep for uh humming bird. After we gets packed up, me and Muley and Telescope gets together, and I starts conversing thusly:

“There comes uh time in the lives of every man when he shall shed the scales off his eyes and come out into the sunlight of wisdom. I been casting about in my mind and here is what I find: Three of us elects ourselves to act as pilots for three inoffensive females to the lair of elk, deer, antelope, moose, bear and bison. Bison is extinct—wild ones. The open season for elk, deer and moose opens September first. Antelope is protected, and bear ain’t no fit target for uh woman. Now, what’s the answer?”

“Hennery Peck,” says Muley, removing his hat, and bowing low, “you’re uh —— of uh guide. Why didn’t yuh think sooner?”

“Conclusive but late,” admits Telescope. “Maybe they’d admire to shoot uh prairie-dog or uh ground-hog.”

“May I have a word with you?” asks Miss Matilda, who has come up behind us.

“Free speech is our motto, ma’am,” bows Telescope. “It can never be said that uh Tolliver didn’t give uh lady uh chance to ask questions.”

“I just wanted to state,” says she, “that our accommodations and comforts are not what we expected. We wish to secure our quota of game as soon as possible, and return to civilization. Are we nearly into the game country?”

“Yes’m,” says I. “Almost. Just what would you admire to kill first? Have yuh any choice?”

“Well,” says she, “we have been talking it over, and I believe we have a certain choice in the matter. Before we left we saw an animal mounted in a hotel lobby, and we admired it so much that we feel our efforts would be rewarded if we could secure a trophy like that.”

“The name of that animal was?” asks Telescope.

“Mountain goat,” says she, consulting a little book. “Yes, that was it. Could we secure one?”

“Uh-huh,” says Muley. “Yes’m, yuh absolutely may. Yuh see, goats are easy to get—mostly always.”

“Thank you,” says she. “Now that we are agreed we may as well go to the place where they inhabit.”

“Now,” says Telescope, “ain’t that the holy limit! Mountain goats! Why, there ain’t uh mountain goat within uh hundred miles uh here.”

“Simplifies things when we knows just what they want,” says I. “Goats are more simple than buffalo or musk-ox. I reckon she can get uh goat if she wants to. Far be it from me to keep uh lady from getting uh goat.”

“Suppose you leads her to the trophy,” says Telescope, sort uh sarcastic like. “I’d sure admire to see yuh do it, Hen.”

“Stick around,” says I, as I forks my bronc. “I’ll smell out that trophy for her.”

Doughgod gets on his bronc and rides beside me at the head of the caravan. We strings out along that trail like uh bunch uh Injuns, and I can’t help feeling sorry for them women with the tender feet. Only they ain’t walking.

“Is that mine supposed to be up Tin Cup way?” asks Doughgod, as we swings off up Lost Cow Cañon and gets into the timber.

“Up that way some place,” I agrees. “I heard Miss Violet talking about yuh last night, Doughgod. She said you looked and acted like uh barbarian.”

“Missourian,” says he. “Women make me tired, Hen. They always use snap judgment thataway. I wish I could get my hands on that map!”

“You might suggest doing the family wash,” says I. “Maybe she might forget and leave it inside some time.”

Doughgod shakes his head, and looks back at the procession.

“Snow-shoe Annie knows where it is, too, does she?” he mumbles. “Maybe I could get on the best side of her, and get her to tell where it is. Danged bad time to take her away from the reservation. Tomorrow the Piegans have uh big pow-wow, and they’ll sure be looking for her to make medicine.”

We camps for dinner on Tin Cup Crick and eats most of our meal out of tin cans. Snow-shoe Annie pulls the cork out of uh bottle uh tobasco sauce and drinks most of it before I can choke her off. Her tears of remorse ruins uh good can uh beans.

We camps near the forks of the crick that night, and there sure is one bunch uh tired females.

“I’d admire to be rolling into my little bunk at the Cross-J,” states Telescope. “Dry-nursing females ain’t no cinch job, if yuh asks me. All day long Miss Matilda has been discoursing with me on popular subjects. Who was Bernard Shaw, and where did he ever tend bar? Muley’s been hogging the attentions of Miss Violet all day—danged poetical pup! Muley, did you recite her that poem yuh wrote about Snow-shoe Annie?”

Muley is busy with uh piece uh paper and the stub of uh pencil, and he just looks up and goes on writing.

“What’s uh passion flower, Hen?” he asks, chewing the pencil.

“Commonly known as loco weed,” says I. “Why do yuh ask?”

“Aw, I had something nice written to—well, here she is:

I knowed uh little shrinking bud,

Amid the flowers so rare,

And she cheered me through the silent midnight hour.

She was the sweetest little thing,

I loved that bud for fair,

That shrinking little——

“That’s as far as I got. Passion flower sounds good, but I don’t want to mix no loco weed up in uh thing like that. I can’t say violet flower, ’cause it don’t sound classy enough.”

“Make it seltzer sour,” says I. “You been drinking from the shrine uh love for so long that your stomach needs acid. You ain’t done nothing but pour loving lies into Miss Violet’s ears since we left this morning.”

“I didn’t lie to her,” denies Muley. “Do yuh think I could look into her eyes and not be truthful?”

“Where do we go from here?” asks Telescope, the next morning.

“We don’t go no place,” says I. “Right here is where we hunt.”

“Is it near here?” whispers Doughgod, when Telescope laughs and walks over to the fire.

I give him uh wink, and he grins like he was wise. I notices that he’s acting friendly to Snow-shoe Annie. Annie was uh hardened old sinner when General Custer was playing with toy soldiers, so she don’t pay much attention to Doughgod’s softening attentions.

“I’m trying to get on the best side of her,” explains Doughgod, when Telescope chides him for paying so much attention to the old dried-apple-face.

“We all do, Doughgod,” grins Telescope. “Don’t yuh always notice how I always keep on the windward side of her. I wonder if Annie ever had uh bath?”

“She knows where it is,” states Doughgod.

Telescope looks at him for uh minute and then nods.

“Maybe. Anyway, she never gets into it.”

Miss Matilda comes to me after a while and she’s limping uh heap from the trip. She rubs herself on the spot where uh man’s hip pocket is sewed on, and says:

“Guide, I greatly fear that the trip is not what we expected. The culinary department seems limited to canned articles and a species of burned bread. Our sleeping quarters are very poor, and our chaperons are not at all what I could wish for.

“This Mrs. Smith is the most peculiar person I ever met. She don’t seem a bit companionable, and a little while ago I found her drinking the contents of an extract bottle. She attempted to bite me when I remonstrated with her. I must speak to her husband about it. Miss Violet and Olive are indisposed this morning, and agree that unless there is relief in sight we may as well abandon the outing.”

“Ma’am,” says I, “I’m uh heap sorry, but I figures that relief is in sight. Uh course if yuh wishes to hunt buffalo it will take some time, but if you just wishes to secure uh goat, we can make uh permanent camp right here and you can secure the limit.”

“How many is the limit?” she asks.

“One. One goat is the limit.”

“Well, we may as well prepare for a day in the piney woods. I will inform Violet and Olive of the fact.”

I goes over to where Muley and Telescope are trying to win Doughgod’s substance in uh three-cornered poker game, and sets down beside them.

“Sell uh goat and buy uh stack,” advises Telescope.

“If you fellers was more guides and less tin-horn gamblers, you’d be preparing for a day in the piney woods,” says I. “The eternal feminine wouldst hunt this day and date for the frisky mountain goat. What will we do—each guide one?”

“I’ll guide Miss Violet,” states Telescope.

“Over my prostrate carcass yuh will!” snaps Muley. “Being sort uh refined in my actions and talk, I feels that she’s more at home in my company than in yours.”

“The cards will decide,” says I, and they did. I got Miss Matilda, Telescope draws Miss Violet and Muley is fated to pilot Miss Olive to the lair of uh goat. Doughgod went away when we started cutting the cards, and when I went down to inform the women of their guides I meets Miss Matilda, and she looks peevish.

“Mr. Smith is crazy!” she orates, loud like.

“What’s he been doing?” I asks.

“He insulted me!” she snaps. “He wanted to help me put on my stockings!”

“Yes’m,” I agrees. “He must be crazy. Don’t let him do it.”

She looks at me for uh moment, sticks her nose in the air, and beats it for the tent. She sure is sore about something. But that’s the way with uh woman. Give them good advice and they turn it down like uh white chip.

That evening Miss Matilda comes to me with the complaint that we’re losing valuable time.

“We’ve been here all day and haven’t hunted a bit,” she complains.

“Ma’am,” says I, “the wind ain’t been right today. Yuh always got to hunt goats by the smell. Sabe?”

“Would you please explain the smell?”

“It can’t be done,” I tells her. “It’s like trying to describe the itch of uh woodtick bite. You got it, and you know how it feels, but you could spend the rest uh your life trying to tell how it feels and nobody would get the sensation.

“Maybe tomorrow the smell will come along and you’ll be surprised how easy it is to smell of. It can’t be classified under no heading, ma’am. It’s just uh heathenish stink. If yuh like the smell of uh goat yuh can——”

“I understand,” says she, and beats it for her tent.

“I suppose yuh was going to tell her another lie, eh?” says Muley.

“I was not. I was just going to tell her that in case she got stuck on the smell she could probably buy the socks you’re wearing, Muley.”

We don’t no more than get to sleep that night before we’re awakened some sudden like.

“Hi-yah, Hi-yah, Hi-yah, ah-e, ah-e, ah-e, ah-e! E-e-e-c-c-e! Hi-yah, Hi-yah, Hi-yah, ah-e, ah-e, ah-c-c-e-e-e-e!”

We unrolls from our blankets, and sets up.

“Hi-yah, Hi-yah, ah-e, ah-e-e-e-e-e!” it goes again, running from a squeaky tenor to uh choking sort of uh bass, and then into uh wail like the last sob of uh wounded fish.

“Whispering wolves!” snorts Telescope. “What’s going on here? Sounds like uh Digger funeral.”

“Hi-yah, Hi-yah,” it goes again, and we hears running feet, and into our midst comes them three females. They never stopped to dress. They looked like three suffering spirits looking for something to throw uh scare into. Over our recumbent forms they spills, and yells loud and plentiful.

“Boof.” One of them gets her foot under my neck and grabs my carcass like she was going down for the third time and I was the only straw in sight.

I manages to get uh strangle hold on her long enough to strike uh match, and looks into the features of Miss Matilda.

“Woman,” says I, dropping the match, “you’re uh fright!”

“Hi-yah, Hi-yah, Hi-yah, ah-e, ah-e, ah-e-e-e-e-e!”

Comes uh moment of suspense, and then Miss Matilda yells like uh cougar, and scratches me from eyebrow to chin with her toenails, and spins over to where Muley and Telescope is engaging the other two in deadly combat.

Suddenly the battle lulls, and I hears uh weak small voice, sort of appealing like:

“Help! Hel—p!”

“Help yourself,” I hears Telescope grunt. “God helps them what helps themselves. Who took my drawers? No, Muley, for Gawd’s sake don’t scratch that match! Stop it, yuh danged fool! Ain’t there no decency left on earth?”

The match is scratched—a whole handful of ’em, but it wasn’t Muley, it was Doughgod.

He stands there peering at us from under that bunch uh flaming matches and waves some pieces uh cloth in his other hand.

“Hen,” says he, holding them things toward me. “It wasn’t there. I burglarized six pair and all I found was uh worn-out bunion plaster. She must uh hid it.”

“Let go uh me!” yelps Muley. “Telescope Tolliver, let go uh me! Set on your own lap, yuh skinny devil! I ain’t got no pants on either!”

The matches mercifully went out and left us in darkness.

“Well!” exclaims Miss Matilda.

“It is now,” agrees Telescope. “You ladies better go back to bed. You ain’t exactly dressed for cool weather.”

“But that—er—noise,” stutters Miss Olive.

“That noise was—” begins Muley, and it starts again.

“Hi-yah, Hi-yah, ah-e-e-e-e-e-e!”

It’s coming closer all the time, and we sees uh dumpy figure weaving our way in the dark.

I reckon all four of us men lights matches at the same time, and into the illumination waddles Snow-shoe Annie. Her hair is all sailing loose in the wind and her head is thrown back like she was studying astronomy. At every step she cuts loose uh hi-yah, and then flops her head forward to deliver the ah-e, ah-e-e-e.

She’s so danged bow-legged that she waddles like uh duck, and in one hand she’s swinging Doughgod’s demijohn. She’s so much interested in herself that she don’t notice us. Them three females groups like uh statue uh “Fright in Nightgowns,” and shivers and stares some industrious.

Annie weaves straight through our crowd and points for uh low-cut stump.

“Hi-yah, Hi-yah!” yelps Annie, in uh mournful wail, and just as she switches to the ah-e’s, she gets both feet under the stump and stands on her head. The demijohn describes uh gurgling circle and lights on her neck.

The picture sort uh fades away, showing two pigeon-toed moccasins as uh last view. Comes the hearty snore, and the matches went out.

We herds them scared females back to bed, and as we moves back to our trampled beds I hears Miss Olive exclaim—

“I wonder what next?” and I puts in with her.

“I beg your pardon,” we hears Miss Matilda yelp, and we turns back.

She’s inside her tent, but is holding something on the outside.

Telescope sneaks up like uh bob-cat on uh cotton-tail, grabs the object and ducks back.

“There!” he snorts, after uh few seconds. “If I had my pants I’d be totally dressed. Never again do I sleep in my underclothes without nailing ’em on. I don’t know how she got ’em, but she did.”

“You never can tell anything about uh woman,” remarks Doughgod. “I got on the best side uh Annie, lost all my hooch, and all I found was uh bunion plaster.”

“Doughgod,” says Muley, “if I was you I’d take that plaster and strap it on my head. You’re uh elegant chaperon, you are! Lighting matches thataway! What did yuh expect to see?”

“Nothing,” replies Doughgod. “I looked and looked and all I found was that plaster—dang the luck!”

“I’ve heard of ranges being sheeped out, but you’re the first person I ever knowed that was in that fix,” states Telescope. “But I reckon he’s on uh par with the rest of the outfit. Hunting mountain goats on uh cow range, and being chaperoned by uh locoed shepherd and uh hooch-swilling Piegan squaw. By the gods of all the Tollivers, if I ever gets back to civilization and sane people, there will I make my bed.”

“And lie on it just like you’ve always lied,” states Doughgod, as he waddles off to his blanket.

“Hen!” whispers Muley, after a while. “Hen, I wish you had your banjo here.”

“What for?” I asks.

“Them females are afraid uh funny noises, and maybe yuh could stampede ’em with it. I got Telescope’s pants.”

The next morning Miss Violet calls me to one side.

“I—I don’t suppose you know where they are,” she states, “but last night somebody took my—er——”

“Yes’m,” says I. “I think I know what yuh mean. I’ll ask Muley about ’em.”

“Mr. Bowles?” she asks, surprised like. “Why, he don’t——”

“No, he don’t wear ’em, ma’am. He’s uh souvenir hunter.”

I went right to Muley and asked him to give Miss Violet’s stockings right back to her.

“Her stockings!” snorts Muley. “My gosh! Where’d yuh get that idea?”

“She thanked me for going to ask yuh,” says I. “That lets me out. I told her I would.”

“Well, where in —— would I get her stockings?” he demands.

“Where’d Miss Matilda get Telescope’s drawers?” I shoots right back at him, and he nods.

“You better tell her that you didn’t get ’em,” I advises, and Muley drifts over to their rag boodwah.

I finds Doughgod setting there by the fire and he sure is thinking deep-like. I sets down beside him and opens fire.

“You certainly done things up to the queen’s taste last night, Doughgod. You got Miss Violet’s stockings instead of Miss Matilda’s. Why didn’t yuh look what yuh was doing?”

“Aw ——!” he snorts, disgusted like. “How’d I know? Them things don’t show no brands and they all looks alike. All I do know is this, Hen; I’m tired uh this locoed pilgrimage. It ain’t getting no place. Annie lapped up all the joy uh life. Here comes the old mahogany-colored pelican now.”

Annie waddles up to the fire and rubs her throat. She looks us over and croaks—

“Sick la-tet.”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Doughgod. “I should think your head would ache. You blasted old leather-faced daughter of uh coyote!”

“I’ve often heard of the boasted chivalry of the West, but I think it is a myth,” states Miss Matilda, who has come up behind us. “That’s a horrid way to speak to a lady.”

“Ma’am,” says Doughgod, “Annie ain’t no lady. She might have been about uh hundred years ago, but right now she’s just uh rotting sign-post of uh vanishing race.”

“Goodness!” squeaks Miss Matilda. “That’s a pleasant way of speaking of one’s wife.”

She strides back to her tent, with her nose in the air, and Doughgod stares at her until she’s inside.

“Hen Peck, who did she mean?” he demands. “What person was that spectacled old hen talking about when she said one’s wife?”

“How do I know?” I asks. “I ain’t no mind reader.”

Me and Doughgod sets there and smokes uh while, and pretty soon Miss Violet comes over to us and says:

“I wish you would come with me, Mr. Smith. Perhaps you could help us a little.”

“Ma’am, I’m the original little helper,” says I, before Doughgod has uh chance to speak.

“Thank you, but Mr. Smith is the one in a case like this. His wife just drank a large bottle of toilet water—actually drank every drop, and we don’t know what to do. It might kill her!”

“Ma’am,” states Doughgod, “if it does, tell me what it is and where I can get it, and I’ll make yuh uh present of uh barrel.”

“You’re uh horrid old man!” exclaims Miss Violet. “Have you no feelings for your own?”

“I’m all the own I got,” states Doughgod. “If that danged old shriveled-up piece uh animated whang-leather and thirst opines to drink concentrated essence uh nitric acid I’ll chuckle with glee. Sabe?”

Miss Violet looks at us sort uh queer like, and then ambles back to her tent.

“I’m sick uh this layout,” states Doughgod. “I been insulted seventeen times uh day, and I’m getting peevish. If something don’t burst pretty soon I’m going to leave yuh in the lurch.”

“I’m with yuh, Doughgod,” says I. “We got to change our tactics. I overhears uh conversation the other day that kind uh puts uh different light on things. Miss Matilda can’t find that map. Somewhere that piece of paper is waiting for the lucky man to come along and land uh million. It sure must be somewhere in their clothes.”

Doughgod smokes, serious like for uh while, and then grins.

“Hen,” says he, “some time ago you made uh suggestion that sounded foolish, but right now she looks like the goods. I’m going to see if she’ll work out.”

He wanders over toward the females’ section of the camp. I sees Muley and Telescope setting under uh tree up on the side of the hill, so I wanders up there and sets down with them. Muley is busy with uh piece uh paper and the stub of uh pencil, and Telescope has got his shoulder blades wrapped around the shady side of the tree.

“Hennery,” says Telescope, “did yuh ever stop to consider?”

“I never did. That’d make any man crazy. Why do yuh ask?”

“I been thinking. Here’s you and me and Muley guiding three females from Paradise to nowhere after nothing. They don’t know what they want and we ain’t giving it to them. We had to steal an outfit, hand the hooch lure to the chaperon and lie like ——. We left the bed and board of the Cross-J for what? Again I asks in stentorian tones: What do we profit?”

“After splitting nothing three ways I don’t see where the profit is, myself,” I states. “We’ll have to share with Doughgod and Snow-shoe Annie, too, I reckon.”

“If they was all like Miss Violet it would be different,” says Telescope. “Miss Matilda must uh been created out of uh spare rib.”

Muley mumbles uh prospector’s cussword, and we eases around to see him.

“What yuh doing, Muley? Writing an ode to uh goat?” I asks.

“Wish I had uh proper kind of word to rhyme with dell,” complains Muley.

“Let’s hear it and maybe we can help yuh,” suggest Telescope, and Muley recites:

The flower of the mountain-side smells sweet,

When you crush ’em all to thunder with your feet.

Sweeter than these words can e’er be wrote.

But the violets of the dell——

“That’s as far as I can get,” wails Muley. “Dang the luck, I don’t seem to grasp the right word somehow.”

“That’s easy,” I replies. “I ain’t nothing but uh banjo-playing guide, but I sees at uh glance what yuh needs. She appears to me that this is the stuff:

But the violets o’ the dell

Smell much sweeter, sure as ——,

When your nose is used to smelling of uh goat.

Muley looks at me with sad eyes and reaches for uh rock, but Telescope blocks the throw.

“Spare the child, Muley!” commands Telescope. “You’re the most unappreciative hombre I ever met. Hen gave yuh the right word, didn’t he?”

Telescope lets go of Muley’s arm and stares at the camp.

“Well,” says he. “I reckon the hunt is about to start.”

Out of the tent comes them females and they’re organized. I know from the looks uh things that Miss Matilda is packing that cross between uh mountain-howitzer and uh shotgun; Miss Violet has uh .22 and Miss Olive mishandles uh single-barrel shotgun.

They’re milling around in front of their tent, when out comes Doughgod, loaded down with plunder, and weaves off down to the crick bank, where he proceeds to get busy. Annie waddles along with him and sets down on the bank.

“For the love of Luther!” howls Telescope. “Look at Doughgod, would yuh!”

“My gosh!” yelps Muley. “Doughgod’s opened uh laundry!”

He sure had. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s sorting clothes some industrious. He talks with Snow-shoe Annie for uh minute, and then she waddles back to the fire and carries uh can of hot water out to him.

Miss Matilda watches Doughgod, at uh distance for uh while, and then tucks her gun under her arm and walks over to him. She leans over and sizes up Doughgod’s work, while them other two appears busy reading out of that little note-book.

The three of us rolls on the ground and gets out uh breath.

“Ain’t that the limit!” howls Telescope. “‘Doughgod and Snow-Shoe Annie, Washing Done!’ Wait ’till Paradise hears—my ——!”

“Goat!” says Muley, sort uh foolish like. “Goat!”

“Add an ’s’ to make it plural, Muley,” replies Telescope. “It’s two goats.”

“Mountain goats,” states Muley.

“Goats in the mountains,” I corrects, and they nods.

Them two white goats have wandered up between the tents and are standing there looking the place over. One of them is uh heap interested in uh empty can, but the other don’t see nothing but the trio on the crick bank. The other two females are still busy with that book, but the goats don’t pay no attention to them.

“Look who has came,” exclaims Telescope, pointing beyond camp, and we sees uh man coming on hossback. He rides near the tents and slides off his hoss.

“Looks like Al Sullivan,” says I.

“Yes, that’s Al,” agrees Telescope. “He’s Injun agent. Wonder if he came to see where Annie was?”

We don’t have time to wonder much, ’cause them goats get busy. Seems to me that uh goat has uh deductive mind. Now, that goat could have hit Doughgod, personally, at most any time since it came to camp, ’cause he’s been in the proper position all along, but it just seemed to wait until Miss Matilda leaned over Doughgod to see how he’s handling the wash.

“Ba-a-a.” That goat takes three little buck jumps, to sort uh get uh good start, and then he covered the intervening space like uh white streak.

“Boof.”

All we saw of Doughgod was one boot, as he went into Tin Cup Crick, but we got more of uh view of Miss Matilda than any of us will ever get again.

The goat just bowed his neck and danced around Snow-shoe Annie, sparring for uh chance to sell her uh bath ticket.

We hears uh whoop, and there goes Al Sullivan over after that goat. Uh man can’t run very fast with high-heeled boots on, and Al wasn’t exactly built for speed, but he sure seemed bent on saving that antiquated aborigine.

He makes uh dive for the goat, gets it around the neck, and then tries to set down and hold it in his arms. I don’t reckon that Al ever saw that other goat or he wouldn’t have got in uh stooping position.

Anyway, it’s a question which got to him first—the goat or the charge uh shot that Miss Olive cut loose. Comes uh yell, loud and long, and uh dull thud, and we sees Al Sullivan, Snow-shoe Annie and two goats go to swell the majority from Tin Cup.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” howls Telescope, bending over at the waist, and holding on to his ribs to keep from busting. “Mountain goats! Oh, my grandmother’s cat’s ——!”

Imitation is one of the worst things a man can do. Usually I’m original in thought and deed, but once in uh while I forgets myself and imitates others—so does Muley.

We doubles over, just like Telescope did, to ease our lungs. More goats!

Something hits me so hard in the seat of the pants that I reaches for the second limb of uh tall tree, but misses and falls among more goats. Say, there was more ‘but’ around there than ever was used in pessimistic conversation since the English language was adopted. I got my share.

One old gray-whiskered feller comes along and snorts in my face and it makes me sore. Uh man ought to hold onto his temper. I’m of uh usually calm and collected nature, but that made me mad, and I got right up and reached for uh rock. Do yuh understand? I—reached—for—uh—rock!

Absolutely and irrevocably leaned over to pry loose uh rock, thereby issuing invitations to all goats. They came to my party.

As I gave that goat-party uh chance to set ’em up on the other alley I saw uh bunch uh riders coming into camp, and I recognizes it as a sheriff’s posse.

I remembers them borrowed Flying-H, Bridle-Bit, Figure-Eight, Bar-X and Lazy-Y horses, and gets sick under my belt. I felt like Patrick Henry did when he said, “Give me liberty or give me death!” only I didn’t specify no substitute.

I prys myself loose from uh goat which seemed inclined to eat my ear off, and hobbles and limps off up the gulch away from camp.

I knew that our broncs were feeding up that way, and I don’t even hanker for uh bridle or saddle. I just wants to lie on my belly on uh hoss, and drift away from females with the call of the red gods in their veins—and goats.

Muley and Telescope has the same ideas and I finds them trying to coax their broncs to ride in uh comfortable position. Telescope turns to me, as I swings my bronc close to him, and stutters—

“Did—did she get her tut-tut-trophy?”

“I think so,” I yells back at him. “She’ll have to dry it out before she can stuff it.”

There ain’t no more conversation. We manage to get them unbridled broncs headed up the hill, when we hears uh voice behind us—

“Hey!”

We turns and sees Doughgod Smith. He looks like he had been run through uh sluice and then curried with uh rake. He stands there holding onto his floating ribs, and the dirty water runs off his scraggly hair and drip off his mustache.

“Don’t hey us!” yells Telescope. “Go back to your goat, you—laundress!”

“The—the Injun agent came for Annie,” he informs us, foolish like. “The—the sheriff asked for you, Hen.”

I don’t argue in a case like that. I just hammered my bronc with my hat, and the three of us hit straight up the ridge, and runs square into Harelip Hansen. He’s standing there on the ridge, uh little decrepid hombre, with uh face that resembles uh moth-eaten mattress.

“Looking for goaths,” he states. “Theen any goaths?”

He spat copiously at uh lizard and squints at us from under his bushy eyebrows.

“Goaths. Theen um?”

We looks at each other and then back at Harelip.

“Goats?” asks Telescope. “Goats?”

Harelip takes another shot at the lizard and squints at us some more.

“I thaid goaths!” he snaps. “Gee-o-ah-ths! You’re uh lot uh danged foolths!”

“Boys,” says Telescope, “take off your hats to uh man what knows what he’s talking about. He’s uh novelty. Let’s git uh going.”

“Where we going?” asks Muley, painful like.

“We’ll go—uh—where’ll we go?” asks Telescope. “We might go down to see if that stove has come in yet, but ——”

“Don’t!” says Muley, easing himself back on that bronc’s hips. “Don’t use that word, Telescope! Let the goats do it.”

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, January 18, 1918. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.

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A Tin Cup Trophy

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