Brains—but scrambled
Date: 2026-09-29T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short stories; Western stories; Sheriffs -- Fiction; McKay; Shorty (Fictitious character) -- Fiction

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Title: Brains—but scrambled

Author: Ray Humphreys

Illustrator: Stockton Mulford

Release date: September 29, 2026 [eBook #79685]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: Street & Smith Corporation, 1928

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79685

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

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRAINS—BUT SCRAMBLED ***

Brains—But Scrambled

By Ray Humphreys

Author of “One Fighting Cock,” etc.

When Sheriff Joe Cook burst into his office, hot, dusty and weary, and found his deputy, “Shorty” McKay, holding the soft, delicate hands of the beautiful Señorita Dorothe and lisping to her in halting Spanish, the sheriff was not pleased, to say the least. Astounded at first at Shorty’s audacity, the sheriff’s amazement gradually gave way to anger, and eventually, when he could master his tongue, he let out a roar like a peeved bull.

“Shorty, what are yuh doin’ now?” he demanded.

“Studyin’ Spanish, o’ course!” explained the flushing Shorty, releasing the señorita’s little hands with evident reluctance. “I—I’m gettin’ along fine, too, boss. I—I don’t suppose yuh found no trace o’ them four stage robbers, eh?”

The sheriff flung his hat on the desk and a small cloud of alkali dust floated ceilingward in a lazy spiral. The sheriff slapped the sleeves of his khaki shirt, and the señorita sneezed, and Shorty coughed. The sheriff shoved a fat black cigar into his mouth and bit the end of it off savagely—then he was ready, it seemed, to answer Shorty’s question.

“No—we didn’t find no trace o’ them four stage robbers, yuh Spanish onion!” snapped the sheriff, with a withering glare at Shorty. “But neither did we set in the shade an’ exchange lovin’ words in Eyetalian or Yiddish or Chink with a gal, either! We rode all over the Smoky Creek territory—rode until our hosses liked to give out from under us—that’s what we did, ef yuh want to know!”

Shorty smiled—but it was a wary, forced smile.

“Jus’ as I tol’ yuh, boss,” he remarked quietly, “lookin’ fer them stage robbers in the Smoky Creek district is like lookin’ fer a haystack in a needle—er, that is, I mean——”

The sheriff banged the table with a clenched fist.

“Yuh don’t know what yuh mean, yuh half-baked, would-be Don Juan, settin’ here learnin’ Spanish while I’m out with a posse bakin’ in the sun!” whooped the sheriff. “It’s a good thing that young woman is here or I’d lose my temper! Lissen to me, cuckoo! I’m goin’ right out ag’in—me an’ the boys. I want yuh to go rustle me up a fresh hoss an’ about three good pack mules; git t’gether enough grub from the Diamond Hitch Grocery to last ten men three days; pack it on the mules and——”

“Yes, sir!” said Shorty promptly, and a peculiar light danced in his eyes. Then he turned to the gasping Señorita Dorothe, who had sat spellbound in her chair all through the scene, and he spoke to her—in rather lame Spanish, it seemed. She leaped to her feet quickly, however, took Shorty’s offered arm, and the pair left the sheriff’s office with more haste than grace. The sheriff snorted.

“Learnin’ Spanish—huh!” said the sheriff wrathfully. “He’s just gone an’ tumbled inter love with that black-eyed gal, an’ he doesn’t care ef the whole world goes to the bow-wows! Waal, let the pore sap suffer on! I kin git along without him this trip, an’ when I’m back, with them stage robbers in tow, an’ kin afford to hang around the office fer a while, I’ll break in a new deputy—ef I kin find one with enough sense to know he’s alive!”

The sheriff was very angry; there was no doubt about that. He had more or less of a right to be wrathy, however. Things had gone wrong the past week in Monte Vista. Four reckless, devil-may-care bandits had waylaid the Monte Vista-Coyote Wells stage, stuck it up, and escaped with four thousand dollars consigned to the Monte Vista bank, a lot of valuable mail, and all the cash and jewelry the five passengers on the stage happened to have along.

When the report of the robbery reached town, Sheriff Cook had shown more bravery than brains. The moment he heard the story he vaulted to saddle and rode down the Coyote Wells road like a mounted demon. He overtook the bandits at a bridge, but they had rifles and they held him at a distance until he had exhausted his six-gun ammunition. Then they had gone on, while the sheriff had been forced to return to town, gather up a rifle-armed posse, and lose valuable time.

The bandits were not overtaken again, however. They seemed to have vanished into thin air, leaving no clues behind them. Although all roads leading out of the Smoky Creek region were soon guarded by armed men, the fleeing bandits did not appear. Then Sheriff Cook and his posse had plunged straight into the Smoky Creek bad-land country, determined to ferret out the outlaws at all costs. But that had failed. The country was cut up by arroyos, draws, deep-etched ravines, and shifting sands soon obliterated tracks. Despite hard days in the saddle the posses found nothing. The four daring bandits had dropped out of sight completely.

At first Shorty had ridden with Sheriff Cook, but after the hectic excitement of the chase had cooled, Shorty remained behind in Monte Vista, while Cook led the posse. The sheriff had decided that he had better leave his deputy in charge in town to handle whatever matters might come up while he himself was in the field. The sheriff had anticipated a protest from Shorty to this plan, but Shorty was strangely agreeable. It was only a day or so later that the sheriff learned that Shorty had enrolled as a Spanish pupil with the beautiful Señorita Dorothe Battelo, who had come to Monte Vista to open a school of languages. The sheriff figured he knew, then, why Shorty had quit the bandit chase so willingly.

“He’s daffy over that raven-haired woman,” said the sheriff, when he heard that Shorty was studying Spanish, but that had been merely a shrewd guess on Sheriff Cook’s part. It wasn’t until now, when he had caught Shorty in the act of squeezing the beautiful Dorothe’s hands, that the sheriff was sure his first guess had been right. The realization that Shorty had been engaged in no more strenuous pursuit than making love to the señorita while he and his posse had worn themselves thin chasing the elusive stage robbers had not particularly amused Sheriff Cook. He thumped the desk again and again now as he waited for Shorty to come back with the things he had ordered Shorty to fetch—a fresh horse, and three pack mules with packed grub enough to last ten men three days.

The sheriff was impatient to be off. This time he meant to stay in the Smoky Creek field long enough to comb it all over again, camping on the trail by night. He was sure—just as every one else in Monte Vista was sure—that the bandits must still be in that district. They hadn’t gone out by any of the roads. That meant they were laying low—in the bad lands, of course. The sheriff buckled on fresh ammunition and oiled up his guns as he waited. He studied a few maps, too. But it seemed an age to him before he heard outside the thud of hoofs that might herald the approach of Shorty. The sheriff went to the door and flung it open to see a Mexican youth dismounting from a horse. Three heavily laden pack mules were there, too.

“Ef the Señor Sheriff please,” said the youth, bowing, “the Señor Shorty say I should make haste to bring the hoss an’ the mules up here. He say best he could get in town.”

“Whar is Shorty?” asked the sheriff abruptly.

“I do know not,” said the Mexican boy, shrugging. “He go away, I guess; but I hurry here with these as he say.”

“Gone off sparkin’ with the señorita, like as not!” grunted Sheriff Cook, as he flipped a quarter to the waiting Mexican youth. “All right, hombre, beat it! Danged ef I don’t make an example o’ that nincompoop Shorty soon as this business is over! He used to have a little hoss sense, but, by golly, he is sure gone loco now—an’ I reckon he’s just been crazed by Cupid hisself! Waal, I’ll straighten him out soon as I git around to it—the nitwit boob!”

And if the sheriff could have laid eyes on Shorty at that moment he would have been quite sure that Shorty was bereft of his senses. The sheriff might have been surprised to see that Shorty was not strolling somewhere, arm in arm with the pretty señorita. But the sheriff would have been dumfounded, anyway. Shorty, at the moment the sheriff was cursing him for a fool, was bent low over the neck of a galloping, sweating horse. Yes, it was Shorty—but what a changed Shorty! No longer the dapper, smartly dressed young deputy. Gone now the fawn-colored Stetson that was the envy of all the cowhands in the San Luis Valley. Gone, too, the gay yellow silk shirt, with the glittering deputy’s badge upon it. Gone the fancy riding breeches and the high-heeled boots—gone even the curly straw-colored hair that was Shorty’s crowning distinction. It was a ragged, grimy Shorty that rode rapidly toward the Smoky Creek district, urging a fast pony to its top speed.

Yes, the perplexed sheriff would have thought Shorty was certainly crazy had he been able to watch him on his ride. The deputy seemed to have flung all caution to the four winds. He still bent low over the running horse and he plied a quirt with nervous haste. Up grade and down, thundering across bridges, gliding around sharp turns on the alpine trails, straight into the heart of the Smoky Creek region went Shorty. He did not spare the paint pony he rode. In an hour he had put plenty of distance behind him. In two hours he was well along on his way. In three hours he had splashed across the crystal-clear Bear River and was headed into the deeper recesses of the bad lands. At the end of five hours he had slowed up, and a few minutes later he swung the weary pinto into an aspen grove and quickly dismounted. Then he unloosed the saddle girth, switched off the saddle, slipped the bridle from the pony, hid both saddle and bridle in the brush, and slapped the pinto on one hot flank.

“Take yuhr time gettin’ home, boy,” he said soothingly. “You’ve sure earned a good rest; loaf—an’ it’ll be O. K. with me!”

And then Shorty did a strange thing. He flopped down and rolled in the trail, just as the tired pinto might have done. When he got to his feet he was dustier and dirtier than before, if such a thing were possible. He waved jauntily at the watching pony and then he struck out alone, on foot. The pony whinnied inquisitively, but as Shorty paid no attention the horse finally went to grazing.

Shorty stalked on with rapid strides. When he came out on top of the mesa, however, he began to show signs of fatigue. He started across the grassy table-land at a staggering run. He fell headlong several times, but he got up and pushed ahead. He was panting with exertion. He was perspiring. His heart was pounding against his ribs. And when he finally came up to the long adobe house that crowned the ridge where the lofty pine trees stood sentinel, he was breathless. He seemed about ready to faint when a shrill, suspicious voice hailed him from the adobe.

“Hello there, señor!”

Shorty threw up his tired head. An old man stood in the door of the adobe house—an old man, swarthy, but still tall and muscular. A Mexican, plainly. Shorty tried to smile as he slumped down on a log near the house. The old man came out to look at him.

“You are tired, señor!”

“Si,” said Shorty, and put his head in his hands.

“Where you from, señor?” asked the inquisitive Mexican.

“A great distance,” said Shorty in Spanish, and then, as he caught his breath, he began to speak rapidly in that tongue. Yes, he had come a long way, he said. His horse had given out on him down the trail. It was necessary that he have another horse quickly. The Mexican must procure him one—speedily. He would pay well for it. He must hurry on, to Grousemont—but first he must have a horse. The old Mexican listened with interest but he spoke with great caution when at length he answered Shorty’s pleadings.

“How you know I live here?” he demanded softly.

“I didn’t know—I stumbled upon this place,” said Shorty.

“Ah, what you pay for a good horse, eh?”

“Plenty—whatever yuh ask, in reason!”

So at last the deal was made. A refreshed Shorty mounted a well-built sorrel. A handful of crisp bills changed hands. The old Mexican waved Shorty off, and again Shorty rode like a veritable demon. Straight across the mesa, down the far trail, through another maze of canyons and ravines, over sand dunes, and across miniature deserts, until at length he came to Grousemont, a straggling village on Bear River. Here Shorty lost no time in looking up a smart Mexican youth. He had a short conversation with the boy, and then he sauntered into the first refreshment parlor he saw. Here, as he quenched his thirst, he boasted—and shortly a self-appointed committee of citizens clustered around the horse Shorty had ridden into town. They examined it. Soon after the town marshal had lodged the protesting Shorty in jail—and had Sheriff Cook been able to look across the miles and see his deputy laughing after the iron door had clanged upon him, the sheriff would have been more convinced than ever that Shorty was indeed loco.

Shorty’s sojourn in the Grousemont jail was not of long duration, however. In a comparatively short time a visitor came posthaste to the jail and was admitted to see Shorty. It was the old Mexican from up on the mesa. There was a brief conversation in Spanish, a few choice expressions—not of good will—and then the Grousemont marshal was made a party to the conference. There was more talk, more gestures, and very soon after three men rode out of Grousemont under the cover of darkness. The first was the old Mexican from the mesa, perspiring despite the fact that the evening was cool; the second was the marshal of Grousemont, who was so excited he could hardly speak; and the third man was Shorty—still dusty, still grimy, but with a satisfied grin on his boyish face. The three took the steep trails back to the Smoky Creek bad lands.

It was dawn when the three riders halted in a grove of trees far to the west. The old Mexican pointed toward the edge of an arroyo. The three, abandoning their horses, crept forward. Shorty, peering over, saw four men about a smoldering fire in the ravine. One, wrapped in a blanket and holding a rifle, seemed to be awake. The others were asleep. It was the old Mexican, at a prodding from Shorty, who cupped his hands and whispered into the draw.

“It is me—Juan Quijano!”

“Come on down then,” said the man with the rifle.

The old Mexican went down cautiously. He did as he had been instructed to do. He seized the rifle of the watcher, and at that moment two other heads appeared above the rim of the arroyo. The startled watcher saw that four six-guns were pointed at him and he relinquished his rifle silently. While he held his hands up, as ordered, Quijano, the old Mexican, went around the three sleeping men and gathered up their rifles. Then he woke them, gently enough, and they stretched their hands high as they found themselves looking into gun muzzles. Later they were bound, horses were caught up, black coffee was brewed and gulped down, and a cavalcade rode out of the arroyo and started at a lively gallop along the trail to the west.

When the sun came up that morning, Sheriff Joe Cook and the nine men of his posse, partaking of breakfast along the creek bottom, saw the approaching cavalcade swinging down the trail and hastily caught up their rifles. Seven men were coming along at a brisk trot. The sheriff and his men sought refuge behind trees and big rocks and waited breathlessly for the expected battle.

“Seven of ’em!” gasped the startled sheriff. “They must be a reg’lar army. It couldn’t be nobody else but the bandits. We know they ain’t no other posse out. It’s a dog-gone cinch they’ve seen us, gents—best things we kin do is to hold our fire until we see what’s comin’ off. I don’t quite git it yit, fellers!”

One of the posse men sang out suddenly.

“Looky, sheriff, thar’s one o’ them hombres drappin’ out o’ line! Look, he’s turnin’ back—yep, thar he goes, high-tailin’ it back up the trail! What the heck! Shall we take a crack at him, sheriff, afore he gits out o’ range, eh?”

The sheriff shook his head.

“No, leave him go—we kin round him up later, I reckon. He must be a coward, or else he’s goin’ fer reënforcements, ef such a thing is possible! Stand steady, fellers, they’re gettin’ close. We’re ten to six now an’ we oughta be able to——”

“Say,” exclaimed another posse man excitedly, “four o’ them hombres ain’t carryin’ no rifles! Say, four o’ ’em is tied to their saddles—an’—an’ that leadin’ guy thar is—yes—that’s Shorty! By golly, sheriff, it’s Shorty—Shorty hisself!”

The sheriff stepped out from behind his tree. He put up a hand to shield his eyes from the morning sun. Yes, it was Shorty—a stained, travel-worn Shorty, but Shorty just the same! And at about that moment Shorty let out a whoop that reassured the waiting posse men. There was no mistaking that voice! The posse men surged out on the trail as Shorty rode up. Shorty grinned.

“Shorty, yuh’re stained like a Piute Injun!” gasped the old sheriff. “I wouldn’t ’a’ knowed yuh! An’—an’—who——”

Shorty jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“This tall gent,” he said, “is Bud Stewart, marshal of Grousemont! These other four are the gents that held up the Monte Vista-Coyote Wells stage the other day. We grabbed ’em up in a arroyo a while back—nicely hidden, too—an’ now we’re headin’ inter Monte. Reckon yuh’ll come along, boss, with yuhr men?”

Sheriff Cook was almost speechless.

“That—that feller that got away,” he demanded, “who was he? The bird as rode back up the trail a minnit ago?”

“Him?” echoed Shorty. “Oh, he was jus ’a friend o’ mine, sheriff, an’ I promised not to say who he was. Yuh see, it was like this. After the first few days yuh an’ me rode this Smoky Creek country lookin’ fer these outlaws I realized that a whole army might hide out in this country for a year without us stumblin’ on ’em in a blind search. I made up my mind to go at it another way, although I knowed yud’d stick to the old way. I found out that thar was a ol’ Mexican—a rustler o’ hosses—who lived in the Smoky Creek region an’ who knew it like a book. I figgered that ef the outlaws was hidin’ anywhar in the district he would know it. He might be furnishin’ them with a hideout an’ grub. An’ then I learned that Señorita Dorothe, in town, was a granddaughter o’ the ol’ Mex rustler. So I began to study Spanish——”

Shorty looked around the circle of perplexed faces and laughed. Everyone, including the four bandits, looked mystified.

“O’ course, I knew Spanish before, but I took the lessons jus’ fer a alibi to get chummy with the señorita. When I did, I let her know that I suspected her grandfather o’ bein’ a rustler in the Smoky Creek district. I knew he was too crafty to admit anything voluntarily, but I assured her I would help him instead o’ harmin’ him. In that way, I got out o’ her jus’ whar he lived, in an isolated spot. Then I stained up like a Mex, put on old clothes, an’ headed for the old Mexican’s place. I let my hoss go afore I got thar. I bought another hoss off him, the best he had, an’ one on which I could see the brand was recently altered. I blew fer Grousemont, hired a Mex kid thar to go back an’ tell the old Mex I had been arrested as a hoss thief an’ wanted him to help get me out, an’ then I started to brag so that the marshal here did pick me up as a hoss thief. I went to jail.

“When the old Mex arrived he readily admitted that the hoss he had sold me was stole, as I swore I knew, an’ then he offered me money not to tell whar I got it an’ involve him. That was enough. I had him hooked, an’ I showed him my badge an’ got a promise out o’ him to lead me to the lair of the outlaws. He admitted he had been sellin’ ’em food an’ that they was layin’ low until the excitement blew over. My badge convinced the marshal here that I spoke the truth, an’ he came along to help me ketch the outlaws. Ain’t that right, marshal?”

“It sure is!” agreed the marshal loudly.

“An’ as a further price o’ bein’ led to the bandits I promised the old Mex he could beat it an’ not be prosecuted fer his past sins, provided he quit rustlin’,” went on Shorty. “So yuh see, boss, everythin’ is plumb rosy! I’ve got the bandits, recovered the loot, put a rustler on the straight an’ narrow path, done a pretty señorita a favor, an’ ain’t half the fool yuh figgered I was just about twenty-four hours ago!”

Sheriff Cook nodded his head in agreement at that.

“Shorty,” he said, “yuh sure has got brains—but they’re scrambled! Yuh make a long detour to accomplish a thing, but as long as yuh succeeds I guess I has no kick comin’. Shake, Shorty!”

And the sheriff reached out a big hand.

Notes on the Text

This story appeared in Western Story Magazine, September 29, 1928. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.

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