*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79236 ***


                            WEAVED BY WARNER

                            by W. C. Tuttle
      Author of “Local Color in Loco Land,” “Sun Dog Trails,” etc.


    A good lie is a thing of beauty,
    But she busteth like a bubble
    And raiseth —— with the innocent
    And causeth plenty trouble.

    —Muley Bowles.

    And them is true words.

    —Scenery Sims.

    We rise to applaud them sentiments.

    —Magpie, Ike, Jay Bird and Mighty.

It has been said that I, “Chuck” Warner, am the worst liar in Yaller
Rock County. That’s a lie—I’m the best. I could tell the truth, but
what’s the use? Nobody’d believe me.

It has been said that I’ve got the eyes of a angel, the face of a horse
and the ears of a jassack. Maybe I have. I reckon I’ve got complete
control of my ear muscles, but the face and eyes of me are none of my
doing.

Pa could wiggle his ear—he only had one, having lost the other one on an
election bet in Oklahoma—but I know I never got my lying ability from
him. Pa couldn’t lie at all—and get away with it. He swore he didn’t
steal calves, but nobody believed him. In fact, I don’t think they took
time even to consider his statement.

I never try to prove anything. I just tell ’em to take it or leave it.
It sure is hard sledding for a liar in this cold, cold world; but I’ve
knowed preachers who had a hard time getting along, as far as that’s
concerned.

This introduction don’t figure much in this tale, neither is it an
apology; it’s just to show you that I’m not trying to crawfish out of
any responsibility. I don’t shoot from ambush and I’m too honest to try
and walk straight when I’m blundering drunk.

“Jay Bird” Whittaker is a God-fearing man, and pays me a monthly insult
for punching his cows. Jay Bird is a human failure in lots of ways, but
you’ve got to give him credit for using judgment in picking a good crew
of cow-punchers.

There ain’t nothing common about me, and Henry Peck and Muley Bowles and
Telescope Tolliver are above the average. We’re ornamental, musical, and
sometimes poetical. We don’t go blindly into things. When Jay Bird gives
us an order we holds a session over it, and don’t accept the order
unless in our judgment it’s best for the Cross J outfit.

A word or two against the other punchers won’t hurt nothing. “Muley” is
too fat to be anything but a nuisance, but he can write poems.
“Telescope” hails from the land of “cawn-juice,” and he fights most of
his feuds in his sleep. His folks raised him to be honest, but he growed
so fast it never took. His head is so far from his feet that he has to
look down to see if he’s walking, and he’s so thin that you can tell how
many olives he’s had for dinner.

Jay Bird comes to me and says:

“Chuck, I’m going to be gone a couple of days. There ain’t much to be
done around here, so don’t exert yourselves. You fellers might build
that new corral, but I don’t know where I could hire anybody to dig the
post-holes and set the posts.”

“I hope you have a good time,” says I. “Set on your pocketbook, or
somebody will sell you something.”

“I might hire some civil cowboys,” says he.

“You won’t,” says I, “’cause they wouldn’t work for you.”

I went as far as Paradise with Jay Bird, and there I runs into “Mighty”
Jones. Poor Mighty lives out in the hills and raises goats. He never
gets any fun out of life except when he scalds his insides with
wabble-water, and then he gets too sad to enjoy it. I feels awful sorry
for him—honest.

I finds Mighty crying into his glass. I spends several pieces of silver
trying to brace his feelings and dam his tears, but it’s no use.
Something is bearing down upon his nervous system. The more he drinks
the more he weeps. I leads him outside and plants him in a shady spot.

“Now,” says I, “open your soul, Mighty. Ain’t I your friend?”

“Tha’s right,” says he. “I—I hate a liar.”

“Somebody lied to you?”

He wipes away some tears and shakes his head.

“Nope. I’m the thing I hate, Chuck.”

“Leave out something?”

“Leave ——! I put in too much.”

Right then Mighty Jones opens his heart and tells me why he’s mixing his
tears with alkali dust.

                   *       *       *       *       *

It appears that Mighty left home early in life. He’s got a sister, who
ain’t seen him since he was ten years old. About a year ago she finds
out where he lives, and she writes him a letter. Seems that she married
a doctor, who has oodles of money.

Mighty answers her letter, and then she writes some more. Seems that
Amandy is some hand to brag about things, and it makes Mighty peeved.
Then he sets down and raises the ante.

According to what Mighty tells her he’s the _hombre_ that the U. S.
Treasury depends upon for supplies. Mighty don’t stop at written words.
Somebody sends Mike Pelly some pictures of a millionaire’s rancho in
California, and Mighty, like a danged fool, steals them photographs and
sends ’em to Amandy. That rung the bell.

“Now, they’re comin’ here,” weeps Mighty. “Right here!”

“Well,” says I, “you’ll have to face the music.”

“I can’t! I ain’t got the nerve. Oh ——”

“Too bad,” says I. “You lied too much, that’s all.”

“Can’t you help me?” he begs. “Can’t you meet ’em and tell ’em I’ve got
smallpox or somethin’? I ain’t got no wife nor family.”

“Did you tell her you had a family?”

“Two boys,” he sobs. “Fine children. Help me out, Chuck. They’re on
their way and will be here Monday.”

“Monday? This is Saturday, ain’t it?”

“You will help me?” he sobs. “You will? What do you want me to do?”

“Learn to tell the truth, Mighty. A lie is an abomination in the sight
of the Lord.”

“In mine too,” he sobs. “Let’s go have a drink.”

This is all I’m going to tell of this here tale. I ain’t no hand to talk
about things, anyway, so I’ll let Hen Peck give you the information. Hen
has more education than the rest of us, and anyway, he’d want to cut in
and correct me every little while. He’ll likely lie to you about what
happened, and I hope for your sakes you ain’t prejudiced against liars
like Jay Bird Whittaker.

Meet Henry Clay Peck.

                   *       *       *       *       *

I hereby swear that the above introduction to this tale is as true as
anything Chuck Warner ever told. I’m down in Paradise trying to beat
Mike Pelly’s roulette-wheel when Chuck comes in.

“Magpie” Simpkins is in the same game. Magpie is one of them
long-complected, do-or-die looking _hombres_ with tired-looking
whiskers. Chuck sets down on the table and considers Magpie.

After while me and Magpie quits playing, and then we meets Chuck
outside.

“Did Jay Bird see you, Magpie?” asks Chuck.

“I dunno,” says Magpie, caressing his mustache. “If he did he ducked,
’cause I ain’t seen him today. What did he want?”

“Well,” says Chuck sad-like, wiggling his ears, “I’d be the last person
on earth to mention it—if he hadn’t told me. I don’t mind lettin’ Hen in
on it, but I sure don’t want Muley or Telescope to suspicion it for a
minute.

“He told me to see if Magpie would do him a favor, but I reckon he
didn’t like to come out and tell it himself. Of course he ain’t dead
sure, but he thinks he’s crazy.”

Me and Magpie looks at each other and then back at Chuck.

“Not ravin’ crazy, but somewhat loco,” says Chuck, “the same of which is
a —— of a condition to get into.”

“What does he want—a keeper?” asks Magpie.

“Kinda,” nods Chuck. “A keeper for the Cross J ranch.”

“Hm-m-m-m,” says Magpie, dubious-like.

“Tell us about it, Chuck.”

“I don’t know how true it is,” says Chuck serious-like, “but this is how
she appears to me. Jay Bird’s mind dwelleth upon matrimony. Somehow he
gets to correspondin’ with a female person who has a grown daughter.

“Of course that ain’t no test of a man’s sanity. Any man has a right to
get heart-hungry and go calling for a mate like a bull moose.

“I reckon Jay Bird opened his heart too wide, and it appears that he
told the widder woman more than was right. Jay Bird says it was lapses
of memory or somethin’, but anyway he finds himself writin’ the
dangedest bunch of stuff you ever seen.

“As soon as he assays himself mentally he finds that he don’t assay
much, and he gets a heap fussed. He don’t want that woman. Why, Hen, you
know how Jay Bird hates females.”

“Yes,” says I; “he ain’t got much time for the calico-clad.”

“Everybody knows that,” says Magpie. “Then what did he do?”

“Well, he writes to her and tells her that he’s mentally deficient and
that he didn’t mean all the things he wrote to her. I reckon he’d made a
lot of promises, ’cause she writes right back and says something like
this:

“‘I am a poor widder woman who is just tryin’ to get along, and it ain’t
noways fair for you to trifle with my feelings. Maybe you has found some
one else and are just trying to renege out of your promises. I have all
your tender letters, which I can show in court, unless you have told me
the truth about bein’ crazy.

“‘I don’t like to have everybody know I’ve loved a loco, so I am coming
to Paradise to find out, and am going to bring a doctor to look you
over. If he says you’re loco it’s all right, but if he says you’re
not—you’ve got to marry me.’”

“She’s got a good case,” says Magpie, “’cause I don’t think he’s loco.”

“Never can tell,” says Chuck sad-like. “I’d hate like —— to see poor old
Jay Bird get sent to the loco-lodge.”

“What did he want to see me for?” asks Magpie.

“Well, he said that this was a chance to test friendship, Magpie. Jay
Bird is too easy to hang something on to. He can’t act a-tall. He
figures out that you’re the only person in Yaller Rock County who could
impersonate him and get away with it.

“You ain’t got nothin’ to lose, Magpie. You’d have a lot of fun with
that doctor. Right now Jay Bird is as sane as anybody, and he can’t act
crazy. He’s afraid the doctor would find him sane and then he’d either
have to marry the widder or get sued.”

“Hm-m-m-m,” says Magpie. “I hope Jay Bird appreciates what I’m going to
do for him, Chuck.”

“Well, if he don’t he’s crazy as ——, that’s all I can say for him.
Better go out to the ranch today, Magpie, and get used to Jay Bird
Whittaker.”

Then I manages to get Chuck cornered, takes his gun away from him and
demands the truth. I got it—because he needed me in his business. I asks
him how it’s going to end and he shakes his head.

“I don’t know, Henry. They say that truth is stranger than fiction, and
maybe we’ll get a chance to prove it.”

“Danged sight better chance to get killed,” says I, “Magpie will kill
you as sure as thunder,” and just then Ike Harper, Magpie’s pardner,
shows up.

He comes over to us, looks us over superior-like and says—

“Seen anything of Magpie around here?”

“Don’t try to josh me,” grins Chuck. “We’re wise, Ike. You can’t keep
things like that under cover. Murder will out.”

“Murder?” says Ike awed-like, “Magpie killed somebody?”

“Not yet,” says I.

Ike stands there and chews on the ends of his mustache for a while.

“What’s the joke?” he asks. “What am I keepin’ under cover?”

“Aw, ——!” grunts Chuck. “Of course we appreciate the fact that you tries
to protect your pardner, but this little old town will be there with all
the tin cans in sight. _Sabe?_”

“Tin—cans?” says Ike soft-like, “Tin cans, Chuck? Why, Magpie——”

“Yeah. Why didn’t he take some local female to be his wife?” asks Chuck.

“Of course a feller has a right to pick his life pardner where he
listeth, but it ain’t square on local folks. There’s just as good
girls——”

“Ho-o-o-ld fast,” grunts Ike. “Magpie ain’t married.”

“‘Ain’t’ don’t mean ‘not goin’ to,’” says Chuck kinda mad-like. “It
ain’t none of my business what he does, but I hate like —— to see a
feller sneak away like that. What does he want to spend a honeymoon on a
ranch for? Is he scared to face folks?”

“Ranch?” whispers Ike. “What ranch?”

“The Cross J. Old man Whittaker just moves out and says to Magpie:

“‘Here’s the ranch, Magpie. I’m goin’ to take a little trip, so yuh
might as well spend your honeymoon out here in my house.’

“Now I reckon we’ve got to associate with a couple of love-sick loafers
for a week.”

“My ——!” gasps Ike, “I—I think I’ll—uh—get a drink,” and he walks toward
the saloon like his feet are asleep.

“Where’s Muley and Telescope?” I asks.

“Went to Silver Bend to the circus. Won’t be back before tomorrow. I
gave Sing Wah a vacation, Henry. He’ll likely go to Silver Bend and
smoke hop with his cousin.”

“Who’s goin’ to do the cookin’?”

“‘Potlatch’ Fanny.”

“That fat Injun? Jay Bird won’t allow her on the ranch, Chuck.”

“Who’s runnin’ this ranch? Potlatch can cook—when she’s sober.”

“Yes,” says I, “when she’s sober, but she ain’t been sober since the
battle of the Big Horn.”

“Far be it from me to question the morals of a true American,” says
Chuck. “Fanny’s all right, Henry, even if she does weigh ten pounds for
every year of her life. She was willin’ to take the job.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Me and Chuck rides home and Magpie comes down to the bunkhouse to see
us.

“Chuck, I had my doubts about Jay Bird bein’ crazy, but after seein’
what he hired to do the cookin’—all doubts is dispelled,” states Magpie.

“Fanny can cook,” says Chuck.

“——, yes!” grunts Magpie, “Sure she can, Chuck; but nobody could eat
it.”

“You’ve got to humor a crazy man,” argues Chuck.

“I ain’t crazy,” says Magpie, “so yuh don’t need to humor me, I reckon.
I’ll be —— if I’m goin’ crazy either. Fanny and her ptomaine pizen can
act plumb rampant, but little Magpie eats canned stuff, believe me.”

“It won’t be for long,” says I.

“Not if I can prove my state of mind,” grins Magpie. “I wish Jay Bird
could see it. He’ll never appreciate what I’m doing for him.”

“No,” says Chuck, “I don’t suppose he will. You’ll get your reward in
heaven.”

“Hm-m-m-m,” says Magpie, serious-like, “Feller like me is takin’ a long
chance on ever gettin’ close enough to collect.”

The next day me and Chuck went to the depot and met the folks.

Honest to grandma, they’re assorted. The doctor is one of them
cadaverous-lookin’ _hombres_ with a “as good as can be expected”
expression on his long face. He suffers in his feet from bunions.

The lady is built just the opposite. She’s almost as wide as she is
tall, and so fat in the face that her nose don’t show in a side view.

The daughter takes after the old man. She’s tall and gaunt and
innocent-lookin’.

They climbs off the train and looks around. Me and Chuck walks up to ’em
and Chuck says—

“Howdy, folks.”

“Ah,” says the doctor, “I am looking for——”

“I know,” says Chuck. “He sent us after you. We’re the hired help.”

“Chauffeur?” puffs the fat lady.

“Warner,” states Chuck. “Got any plunder?”

“Plunder?” asks the doctor.

“Baggage, handbag, war-sack, te-runk.”

“Oh—er—yes. Our trunks. Exactly. Yes indeed. We will likely sojourn here
for some time. Where is the car?”

“Car?” asks Chuck.

“Automobile.”

“Oh—yeah. Automobile. Gettin’ fixed. We brought the buckboard.”

Mama waddled all around that vehicle, looks at them half-broke roans and
then shook her head.

“It would be all my life is worth.”

“More,” admits Chuck solemn-like. “Lots more. But you can’t walk four
miles.”

The Lord only knows how we got ’em all into that buckboard, but we did.
We put one trunk in the back, and left six more at the depot. Chuck, the
doctor and the daughter sets in the seat, while me and mama sets on the
trunk. The load is so heavy that the springs of the equipage are null
and void.

Chuck’s a good driver when his mind is on his work, but a brake to him
is just a ornament or something put on there to rattle. We went through
Wind River Crossing so fast that the wheels hardly got damp. It’s a
steep pitch on each side, but Chuck was like—wasn’t it Napoleon who
said, “There ain’t no Alps?” Well, Chuck must ’a’ said to himself,
“There ain’t no Wind River Crossin’.”

Them broncs just skidded across, hit the steep pitch with slacked tugs
and then jerked out. Chuck should have known that me and mama didn’t
have nothin’ behind our backs except the river. I know I turned over
twice and went into that beautiful streamlet like a kingfisher.

I can’t remember of feeling remorse, but something seems to depress me.
In fact, it depressed me until I felt the boulders at the bottom of the
river digging into my spine. Then I turned over, hooked my toes behind a
boulder and lifted.

I managed to get my head out of water just in time to see a bulky object
turn over in the water, and up comes the head of mama. She explodes a
lot of water out of her nose and mouth, and then she starts right across
the river, twisting and staggering like a barrel in a flood.

“Hey!” I yelps. “You’re going the wrong way!”

She turned around to see who yelled, and she sets right down in the
middle of the river. She went plumb out of sight for a moment, and when
she shows up again she’s coming my way.

It took her a long time to get her breath. She stands there puffing and
panting, with the water dripping off her nose. She tries to talk, but
her vocal cords are too moist. The buckboard is out of sight.

After while she says—

“I’m going to make it warm for that driver!”

“I envy him,” says I, “’cause I’m danged near froze.”

“Never missed us,” she wails. “None of them.”

“Except the horses,” says I. “They likely do.”

Just then the buckboard shows up again, with everybody looking for us.
Chuck is almost overcome with emotion. Mama sets in the seat this time,
and the doctor joins me in the rear. I can’t see Chuck’s face, but I can
see his ears wiggling.

“This is terrible,” says the doctor. “Wet all over.”

“We were stunned,” wails daughter, “but the driver felt sure he knew
where to find you, mama.”

“I never lost anybody yet,” says Chuck, and then we drove into the yard
of the Cross J ranch house.

                   *       *       *       *       *

“I feel sure that you have made a mistake,” declares the doctor. “This
is not the place at all.”

“Not the remotest possibility,” adds the daughter, whose name is Violet.
“Uncle sent us the pictures of his estate and——”

Just then Magpie comes out of the front door. I takes one look at him,
and I almost falls off that trunk. He’s got his shirt on backwards, one
shoe and one boot on his feet, and on his head he’s got a little green
derby hat which Weinie Lopp stole from a pin-headed gambler three years
before.

It sets right on the top of Magpie’s head, sort of balancing-like.
Magpie grins like a danged fool, and comes down the steps, stiff as a
board, tryin’ to balance that fool hat. He turns his whole body when he
turns his head, and he sort of holds his hands like a dancin’ bear holds
its paws.

The doctor takes off his glasses and squints at Magpie, breathes on the
glasses, rubs ’em on his handkerchief and puts ’em on again, and all the
while that long, crazy-looking puncher stands there and just grins.

“Well, we got ’em,” says Chuck, choking-like.

“Can this be he?” gasps mama.

“How absolutely impossible,” whispers Violet.

“I am glad to see you, sir,” says the doctor, climbing down. “You—uh——”

“He, he, he!” chuckles Magpie. “You’re just in time for the May-pole.”

“Well,” says the doctor weak-like, “well—uh—that’s very nice. We may as
well go into the house.”

“But this isn’t the place,” protests Violet. “Those photographs——”

“Exaggerated maybe,” says Chuck.

“Exaggerated?” puffs mama, looking around. “Heavens, I wonder what kind
of a camera took them?”

“Let us go inside,” says the doctor. “My dear, perhaps we can get you
some dry clothes, at least.”

The three of them files up the steps, and right behind them goes Magpie,
stiff as a peeved grizzly, trying to balance that dog-goned derby on his
head.

We takes the team down to the corral, and then both of us went down to
the bunkhouse and cried on each other’s shoulders. We’re almost sick
from internal combustion, when the door opens and in comes the doctor.
He shuts the door soft-like, and peers at us.

“What can we do for you?” asks Chuck.

“I—I just don’t know how to—er—express it,” says he foolish-like.
“I—er—have you noticed anything queer about my brother-in-law?”

“Oh, him,” says Chuck, glancing at me. “He’s always that way. He’s
grieving.”

“Grieving? What about, pray tell?”

“Pray tell?” asks Chuck solemn-like. “Well, if you puts it thataway I
don’t mind. Ordinarily I wouldn’t breathe a word of it, but you bein’
one of the family I don’t mind telling you about it. He’s grieving about
his sons.”

“Oh, I see. What about them, if I may ask?”

Chuck sneaks over to the door and peers outside. Then he comes back and
whispers to the doctor—

“They’re in jail for stealing sheep!”

“Heavens! You don’t mean it!”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, I—I—don’t know what to say or do.”

“Nice boys, too,” says Chuck sad-like. “Poor fellers!”

Just then we hears voices outside, and Chuck slips to the door. He takes
one look and closes the door softly.

“They’ve come back,” he whispers, “both of ’em. They must have broke
jail.”

We stands there sort of silent for a while, and pretty soon the door
opens and Muley Bowles’ fat carcass comes in. He’s dragging a saddle
which he hangs on a peg, and then he sees the doctor.

“Howdy, Lemuel,” says Chuck solemn-like. “How are yuh?”

“Never felt better nor had less,” grins Muley. “Had the best time I ever
had in my life.”

“You—er—really ought to be ashamed of yourself,” states the doctor.

Muley stares at him, then at us.

“Yeah,” grunts Muley. “Ought to be.”

“You should!” snaps the doctor, drawing himself up like he expected a
fight. “Have you no consideration for your poor father? Have you no
sense of right or wrong, young man? Your wild escapades have disturbed
his mental balance, and I fear for his sanity.

“Now you further aggravate the situation by defying the law. I have no
time for such as you,” and he walks to the door.

Muley watches him go and then looks at us with his mouth open and his
eyes staring.

“Well—well, I’m a —— liar if I—uh—”

and then he sets down on a bunk.

“Gents,” says he slow-like, “I went to a circus. I seen the animiles and
the clowns and the freaks. I had a few drinks, and then I thought I came
home, but by the pins on a porkypine, I ain’t sure of the last. Who in ——
was that preacher—if it was?”

“Ha, ha, ha!” whoops Chuck. “He—he made a mistake, Muley. He thought you
was Telescope. We told him that Telescope just came in, and he thought
you was him.”

“But who in —— is he?”

“He was sent up here from Telescope’s home town,” explains Chuck.
“Telescope’s paw is losing his mind, and they think Telescope is to
blame. Seems that Telescope got mixed up in some trouble down there and
broke jail. It has preyed on his paw’s mind until——”

“Telescope did? Why, he told me his paw was dead.”

“Ashamed to tell the truth maybe.”

“Maybe,” nods Muley. “Seems funny though, Chuck. Telescope tells me that
there’s seventeen children in their family, and if that’s a fact, how in ——
can his paw’s mind dwell on any certain one of ’em?”

“Ask the investigator,” advises Chuck. “I’m no encyclopedia, Muley.”

“None of my business,” says Muley. “Any man whose brains can get
affected over the misdeeds of a _hombre_ like Telescope ought to be
given a sheep and plenty of range to roam over. I’m going to sleep—me.”

Muley piles into a bunk and me and Chuck goes outside.

“My——!” grunts Chuck. “Take a look!”

Telescope is standing near the corner of the porch watching Magpie, who
is out in the front yard doing a war-dance and balancing that little
derby hat on his head. There ain’t nothing wild and free about that
dance, but it sure is weird. He takes one or two little teetering steps
and then a shuffle; and all the time he’s singing:

“Hiyah, hiyah, hiyah, hiyah! Hiyah, hiyah, hiyah!”

Me and Chuck sort of walk slow-like up to Telescope, who turns and looks
at us wondering-like, and then back at Magpie. Just then the doctor
comes out on the porch. Telescope glances at him, blinks his eyes and
looks at Magpie.

“Chuck,” whispers Telescope, “what’s the matter with him?”

“You can ask that?” says the doctor. “You can ask that?”

Telescope stares at the doctor and then at Magpie.

“I—I th-think I can,” stutters Telescope.

“You ungrateful son,” says the doctor pious-like. “Look upon your
handiwork.”

“Mine?” croaks Telescope.

“Yes—yours! Your greed for your neighbors’ sheep.”

“Hiyah, hiyah, hiyah, hiyah!” chants Magpie, shuffling past us, with his
neck held stiff to balance that hat.

Telescope blinks his eyes and starts away. He acts like a dazed man. He
looks sad-like at me and Chuck, and says:

“Any man is a —— fool to mix circuses and whisky. I’m through with
both,” and he weaves toward the bunk-house.

Magpie shuffles past us again and then climbs on the fence-post, where
he humps up like a buzzard, flaps his arms a few times and then appears
to go to sleep.

The doctor stares at Magpie for quite a while, and then goes back into
the house. Magpie watches him go, and then hisses at us—

“Betcha forty dollars he decides I’m crazy.”

“Betcha forty dollars he ought to be examined if he don’t,” says Chuck.

“I’m doing my dangdest,” states Magpie. “But after seeing that fat
female and her offspring I’m sure as —— going to keep away from Jay
Bird—he’s loco as a shepherd.”

“Keep up the good work,” says Chuck. “You’re doing fine.”

Magpie nods, and me and Chuck walks down to the corral, where we humps
up on the top pole and sobs on each other’s shoulder. We can hear
Magpie’s voice chanting, “Hiyah, hiyah, hiyah, hiyah!” again, so we
figures he’s got another audience. We sees Telescope saddle his bronc,
swing into the saddle and hit off across the hills toward Piperock.

“Wonder where he’s going?” says Chuck as Telescope fades out of sight.

“_Ps-s-s-s-st!_”

We turns and looks down into the face of Mighty Jones. His whiskers
twitch a heap, and then he climbs up beside us.

“Did—did they come?” he asks.

“Uh-huh,” grunts Chuck. “They did, Mighty, and you’ve sure got a chance
to feel sorry for yourself.”

“Huh? Feel sorry for me?”

“Yeah. This brother-in-law of yours comes out here to invest money.
_Sabe?_ He’s anxious to get a herd of goats—and you own all the visible
supply. If you hadn’t ’a’ lied to him you might ’a’ sold him your herd
for a danged good price. He don’t know goats.”

“Does he know?” gasps Mighty. “Does he?”

“He don’t know much,” admits Chuck.

“Does Amandy have any suspicions, Chuck?”

“No, but I reckon she’s got everything else, Mighty.”

“What did yuh tell ’em? Are they here now?”

“What could I tell ’em? You can’t lie in a case like this. Your sister
said she was sorry you lied, and wished you hadn’t. The doctor says
he’ll never forgive yuh, Mighty. He wants to raise goats for scientific
purposes.”

“Well, won’t he buy my goats, Chuck? I’ve got eighty-seven as fine goats
as ever—uh—as yuh ever need. I won’t lie about them goats, will I?”

“Goats ain’t nothin’ to lie about, Mighty,” says Chuck. “Innocent little
goaties.”

Mighty climbs down off the fence and hitches up his belt.

“I wish to gosh I’d ’a’ jist faced ’em out on it.”

“Uh-huh,” says Chuck sad-like. “I wish you had, Mighty. You’d sure ’a’
saved me a lot of annoyance. Better go up to the house and confess your
sins.”

“No-o-o-o, I ain’t prepared—yet.”

He walks over to his horse and fogs away.

“Chuck,” says I, “will you ever tell the truth?”

“The truth is stranger than fiction, Henry.”

“To you—yes,” says I. “An absolute stranger.”

“I’d like to tell the truth,” says he sad-like, “but nobody’d believe
me. Would you, Henry?”

“Not by a —— sight; I know you too well. If you had different kind of
eyes, maybe a feller could tell.”

“From the complications, Henry—I may have very soon.”

We climbs down and wanders toward the bunk-house when mama shows up. She
waddles down to us and we wait for her. She glares at Chuck, and says—

“You are discharged, young man.”

“I’m awful danged sorry,” says Chuck, wiggling his ears. “What for and
who fires me?”

“I do! I will not have my brother imposed upon any longer. I told him
what you done to me; told him all about you leaving me in the river, and
he, even with his enfeebled mind, grew hysterical over it. I think it is
a lucky thing for him that the doctor and I arrived when we did.

“Do you know where his wife is? We haven’t seen her since we came, and
he only stares at us when we question him.”

“My——!” gasps Chuck. “You don’t reckon he’s done away with her, do yuh?”

“Bet a dollar he has,” says I. “Wasn’t he dancing the Death-Dance a
while ago?”

“Heavens!” gasps mama hoarsely. “I must tell the doctor,” and she
waddles back toward the house as fast as she can waddle.

“Henry,” says Chuck, “shake. You do get an idea once in a while.”

“I’ve got the idea that I’m hungry,” says I. “Let’s go up to the house
and see what’s the chances of a feed.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Night has settled down upon the Cross J, and we ain’t eaten since
breakfast. There ain’t a danged soul in the kitchen, but we can hear
voices in the other room. Magpie is saying:

    “Mary had a little lamb;
    Its hide was black and blue.
    It wandered on a railroad track,
    And the brakie had a stew.”

There is silence for a minute and then the doctor says—

“There’s no question but what sheep has deranged his mind.”

“Sheep?” asks Magpie. “Did you say ‘sheep’?”

“Yes, of course; but never mind, you are among friends at last.”

“Sheep,” says Magpie, sort of soft-like. “Sheep?”

“Your children are to blame,” says the doctor soothing-like. “They stole
sheep; don’t you remember?”

“Oh,” says Magpie, and then after a long silence. “They did, eh?”

“And got put in jail, but they broke out,” explains the doctor.

“My——!” chokes Magpie. “Your mind is in a—— of a shape, old-timer. You
ain’t fit to judge your feller men. I ain’t got no children. I ain’t
even got a wife.”

“Try and be calm,” says the doctor. “Don’t try to think—please. Just
leave it all to me and your sister and we’ll see that nothing harms
you.”

Comes the sound of footsteps and Magpie staggers into the kitchen. He
looks at me and Chuck and then back at the door.

“——’s delight!” he whispers. “Somebody’s loco and—and——”

Comes a noise in front and somebody tramps into the front door.

“I’m the sheriff,” squeaks a voice, and we recognizes “Scenery” Sims,
the sheriff. He’s a little periwinkle with a voice like a rusty hinge.

“I see,” says the doctor. “I—er—Perhaps you—uh—are needed. Did they
break out of jail?”

“Who?” squeaks Scenery.

“The sheep-thieves. They deserve incarceration, I assure you.”

“The —— they do,” shrills Scenery. “What are you talkin’ about anyway?”

“Don’t you understand?” wails the doctor. “They——”

“There are more imbeciles to the square inch around here than any other
place in the world,” states mama, cuttin’ in on the conversation.

“Imbeciles?” squeaks Scenery. “Never heard of any. Telescope told me——”

“There is one of them sheep-thieves!” explodes the doctor.

There ain’t a word spoken for a full minute, and then Scenery’s voice—

“Muley, when did you steal sheep?”

_Crash!_

                   *       *       *       *       *

I opens the door and right into us walks Scenery Sims. Over his right
ear is hanging a hunk of Jay Bird’s pottery tobacco-jar, and in his eyes
is a most curious look. He circles the kitchen, hits the back door the
second time around, walks right out of the door, and to our ears comes
sad and low—

    “Swing low, Sweet Chariot, comin’ fer to carry me ho-o-o-o-me.”

“My gosh!” grunts Chuck. “He fell into the woodshed!”

“I’m goin’ out,” proclaims Magpie. “I need air,” and he staggers out of
the door.

“You have no sense of shame,” we hears the doctor say. “You most likely
killed the officer.”

“I hope so,” says Muley. “The —— fool said I stole sheep. Who told him I
stole sheep?”

“I did, because I thought he ought to know it.”

“Who in the —— are you?” gasps Muley.

“I—I am your uncle. This lady is your father’s sister.”

“And—and I st-stole sheep?” gasps Muley.

“And deranged your poor father’s mind,” adds the doctor.

“Oh!” grunts Muley. “Oh, very well. I’m—who am I?”

“Mister Jones’ son.”

“Oh—sure,” says Muley awed-like. “Paw’s name is Jones and I stole sheep.
I—I give you good afternoon.”

We hears Muley walk out on to the porch, and then comes a crash.

Chuck runs to the window, and then turns with the tears running off his
nose.

“Muley walked right off the railing,” he chokes, “My ——, what next?”

The doctor steps out of the door and looks at us.

“My man, will you please bring the car to the door? We are leaving at
once.”

Chuck nods—he can’t speak—and we single-files out of the door.

Magpie is setting on a saw-buck in the yard.

“They’ve decided to go,” says Chuck hoarse-like. “I’m going to hitch up
the team.”

“Thank ——,” says Magpie, pious-like. “I’ll help you. No, I won’t either.
I’m going to get a decision from the doctor before he leaves. He’s just
as crazy as I am; do yuh know it?”

“I reckon everybody is a little crazy,” says Chuck.

“Except me and you,” says I, “and I’m beginning to suspicion us.”

We hitched up that ornery team of roans and tied them to the corner post
of the porch. Then we went inside.

The doctor and his family are ready to go, I reckon, but Magpie sort of
stands blocking the door.

“It is really no concern of mine,” says the doctor. “It is a case for an
alienist.”

“I don’t give a dang,” says Magpie. “You’re going to examine me right
now.”

“But, my dear fellow, I am not qualified to judge. To outward
appearances you are mentally deficient, and I might say, ‘I think you
are deranged,’ but I can not make a definite statement.”

“I won’t marry the woman,” says Magpie. “She can sue and be danged, but
I won’t marry her. Now you examine me, will yuh? You’re a doctor, ain’t
yuh?”

“But not an M.D., my dear man. I am a doctor of divinity.”

“Divinity?” says Magpie. “Divinity? What kind of a disease is that?”

Before the doctor can answer Magpie’s question there comes a racket on
the porch, and Jay Bird Whittaker’s voice is raised in anger:

“Gol dingle-danged if you do! Get to —— out of here with that thing.”

“Aw-w-w-w-w!” wails a voice. “Gotta take it in where it’s light, ain’t
I? You got to see him to appreciate him, Jay Bird.”

“Not in my house,” yells Jay Bird. “Get out!”

The door jerks open and there stands Jay Bird in the doorway.

He stares at us for a while, and then Magpie says:

“It didn’t work, Jay Bird. This _hombre_ is a doctor of divinity.”

Jay Bird stares at Magpie and then all around the room.

“I done my dangdest,” says Magpie. “I’ve been crazier for you than I’ve
ever been for anybody, Jay Bird, and I hope you appreciate it.”

Jay Bird scratches his chin and looks blank-like, and just then Mighty
Jones crowds in beside him, hanging on to a rope.

“I could only bring one,” says Mighty, taking off his hat. “But he’s——”

_Zowie!_

Between Jay Bird’s legs comes a streak of gray, and lands right in our
midst.

I seen Jay Bird’s right leg go skyward, when that rope tightened, and he
lands on the back of his neck. That streak of gray wasn’t house-broke,
and it likely got stage-fright.

It hit Magpie below the knees and he played a billiard off the doctor.
Me and the gray streak got the same idea at the same time, I reckon. I
meant to catch it and it meant to catch me.

I reckon I meant well, but the gray streak beat me to it. I landed with
my arms around mama’s waist, and like a danged fool I hung on long
enough to make her lose her balance. I hit my head on the floor, the
same of which acted as an anesthetic and I didn’t feel the pain of
having three hundred pounds on my carcass.

I don’t know how long afterward I regained the sense of seeing, taste
and smell. I sat up and looked around. Magpie is behind the sofy,
peeking over the back, and on the floor with his back against the sofy
is Jay Bird.

Mama and Violet are backed into a corner, hanging on to each other.
Standing on a chair in a prayerful attitude stands the doctor, while in
the middle of the floor sets Mighty, hanging on to the horns of that
danged gray goat. Everything is very still for a moment after I arrives
on earth again, and then Mighty croaks—

“I’m willin’ to admit that I lied—willin’ as ——; do yuh hear me? I could
have brought the whole herd, but I thought you could tell something
about the stock if I just brought a sample. This is a cross between a
angory and a mountain goat.”

The doctor still rolls his eyes to the ceiling and don’t say a word.

“Gosh dang it, make up your mind,” wails Mighty. “This animile ain’t no
statoo. Do yuh buy or don’t yuh? Whoa, you —— fool!”

I sees Jay Bird twist his neck and look at Magpie, and then he wets his
lips. Magpie does look funny with his shirt on backward.

“——!” gasps Jay Bird. “You’ve either got a flexible neck, Magpie, or you
ain’t going to be worth much after tonight.”

“I done my best,” says Magpie. “Nobody could ’a’ done more for you than
I have, Jay Bird.”

“Everybody’s crazy,” croaks mama. “Everybody.”

“Amen,” says the doctor.

Just then we hears a lot of racket out in front, and the door opens and
Ike Harper steps inside. He looks around the room foolish-like.

“What’s the idea of the goat?” he asks. “Goats don’t figure in
honeymoons, do they?”

Then he sees Magpie. He steps closer and looks at him. Magpie stares at
Ike and tries to grin, but it looks painful.

“Holee sufferin’ sunfish!” whispers Ike. “Magpie, you’re badly twisted.
Where is the bride?”

“Bride?” croaks Magpie. “Bride?”

“Lemme loose, daw-w-w-gone yuh!” squeaks a voice in the kitchen. “Fanny,
you aboriginal scavenger, let go!”

“Here she comes,” says Chuck, and into the room comes Potlatch Fanny,
and she’s got Scenery Sims by the back of the neck.

“Whew!”

I got one whiff as she comes in. Horse-liniment and vanilla!

Into the room she comes, and stands there blinking. She’s a sight.
Horse-liniment don’t make a sweet-smelling jag, but I reckon it’s
effective.

“Here—she—comes?” croaks Ike. “I thought—Scenery, did you marry her?”

“Marry——!” squeals Scenery, “I found her in the woodshed!”

“Where is your wife?” yelps Ike wild-like at Magpie.

“Wait,” says mama. “He can’t admit anything because his mind is gone,
but perhaps his child will know. There he is—ask him.”

Muley is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He looks like he had
been soaking his head in water to try and wash out the cobwebs. He seems
to try to speak, but his voice won’t work.

“We can go now if you’re ready,” states Chuck to the doctor. “The wagon
is outside.”

Ready? Say, them three people almost cut the door off the hinges getting
out and into the wagon, and Chuck went right behind them. I reckon they
wasn’t in no bigger hurry than he was.

“Gosh dang it, make her let loose!” wails Scenery. “I came up here to
get a crazy man, and——”

“Bring the sweet things out, Ike!” yells a voice outside, and Potlatch
Fanny staggers out of the door, dragging the protesting Scenery with
her. Just as they hit the porch, —— busts loose for noon. I reckon that
Ike had brought half the population of Yaller Rock County up to that
shivaree, and had managed to sneak them all up in the dark without
anybody hearing their approach, and they’ve got every kind of a
noise-producer from sleigh-bells to shotguns.

I ducked out of the kitchen door, cut around the corner and hopped into
the back of that wagon just as the parade reached the steps. Chuck is a
good driver as I’ve said before, but no half-broke bronc will “drive” in
a case of that kind—they just move, that’s all.

I reckon Chuck forgot that they were tied to that corner post, but being
tied wasn’t nothing in their young lives. They surged back and took out
that post, root and branch, and then went ahead. The right front wheel
climbed the porch, and we went regardless. There’s five more posts under
that porch. I stayed for three more, and then I got pitched high and
handsome, and went into a front window backward.

I seemed to drop into something, and we went across the room together,
where I caressed the wall with the top of my head. Then this unknown
power seems to jerk me across the floor, and I finds myself being yanked
over that busted porch, down the steps and into a circle of light.

I looks at my motive power and finds that danged goat standing on my
lap, with its horns hooked under my cartridge-belt. That poor goat
wanted to get loose awful bad. It would pull back real hard and then
forward quick to take up the slack.

Man, it was some sensation. Every time it came forward it hit me under
the point of my wishbone. Why didn’t it let loose? You don’t “let” goats
loose—you force ’em loose, and I was all out of force. My belt-buckle
was in the back.

But the goat solved the problem. It hit me extra hard, knocked me flat
on my back, the same of which also upset the goat, and its horns comes
out from under that belt like unhooking one of them wire puzzle things.

I gets to my feet and started to walk. I just wanted to get away from
there. I’ve got one leg which don’t work right, but I done the best I
could, and after I’ve walked about six miles I reached the door of the
bunk-house. It wasn’t six miles as the crow flies, unless the crow was
lost.

I fell in across the doorstep and joins company with Magpie, Mighty, Jay
Bird, Ike and Muley. They sure are a bunch of casualties. They don’t
welcome me—neither do they kick me out; so I hauls myself to a bunk and
sets down.

There is silence for a while, and then Magpie says—

“Then you wasn’t crazy a-tall, Jay Bird?”

“I dunno,” says Jay Bird foolish-like.

“I knowed Magpie was,” croaks Muley. “If he wasn’t I was. Which was it?”

“I believed what I heard,” says Ike, “which is a sign of locoism.”

“What in —— was Mighty doin’ there with a billy-goat?”

“Tut-tryin’ to make a sus-sale,” stutters Mighty, “I—I—I lied to my
sister, and when she said she was comin’ to visit me I lost my nerve and
Chuck offered to take care of it for me, and——”

“Chuck!” gasps Jay Bird. “I knowed it! I knowed it!”

“And I made a danged fool of myself!” wails Magpie. “I’m——”

Just then the door opens and Scenery Sims, minus his shirt, a few teeth
and one leg of his pants, staggers into the door. He squints at us, and
then squeaks hoarse-like:

“My ——, what a trip I’ve had! But I lived through it. Now, I’m going to
do my solemn duty. I comes up here to arrest a crazy man, and Scenery
Sims never fails. I’ve gone through —— and high water, but I ain’t never
faltered, gents. It ain’t exactly clear in my mind who it was, but I’ll
leave it to you. Who is the crazy man I came after?”

Scenery leans against the foot of a bunk and makes funny noises deep in
his throat. The assembled company looks around at each other and then
Magpie slowly raises his right hand. Then up goes Muley’s hand. After a
moment Jay Bird and Ike reaches up in solemn oath.

Scenery stares at them hands, and then looks at me. I put up both of
mine. Then Scenery runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth, sort
of feeling of his vacancies, and then looks down at his missing pant-leg
and then at the shirt he ain’t got on.

Then he sways away from the bunk and grabs the door-knob in his left
hand, where he teeters on his heels and stares at us. He spits
disgusted-like, and holds up his right hand. “Gents,” he squeaks, “let’s
make it unanimous. I’ve only got one empty cell, and nobody needs
solitude more than me. _Adios_.”

“Do you think Chuck will ever come back?” asks Magpie.

“If he does he’s crazy as ——!” howls Jay Bird.

“Do you think he will, Henry?” asks Muley.

“Takes brains to think,” says I. “Time alone will tell.”

“I hope it tells the truth,” says Jay Bird.


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
October 20, 1921. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79236 ***