Injuneered
Date: 2025-05-30T00:00:00+00:00

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Title: Injuneered

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: May 31, 2025 [eBook #76207]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Butterick Publishing Company, 1929

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK INJUNEERED ***

INJUNEERED

Here’s another screamingly funny Piperock story by W. C. Tuttle

Old Runnin’ Wolf claims that he’s the son of a chief. Most Injuns do, as far as that’s concerned; but Runnin’ Wolf covers too many tribes in his claim to greatness. On one bottle of kidney cure he can become a son of Sittin’ Bull. Give him a couple shots extra of hair tonic, and he claims Chief Joseph, of the Nez Perce tribe, as his father. A pint of corn liquor drives him plumb back to Pontiac; and I’ve knowed him to mourn a heap over the death of his sister, Pocahontas.

Runnin’ Wolf is six feet six inches tall, and if it wasn’t for the size of his nose he could dive out of sight in a shotgun barrel. Nobody knows how old he is, and nobody cares. He’s jist a mean lookin’ old war whoop, who lives in a teepee outside the town of Piperock, schemin’ all the time to get money enough to buy alcohol, and a little left over for a poker game. Can he play that pastime? Give him two deuces, and he’ll win more jackpots than any livin’ aborigine.

At one time in his distant past, Runnin’ Wolf traveled with a medicine show. The owner was one of them sleight-of-hand fellers, crooked as a snake in a cactus patch, and he taught Runnin’ Wolf how to play winnin’ poker. And that war whoop, comin’ straight from a long line of horsethieves, et cettery, shore absorbed knowledge. I wouldn’t play him for a two-bit piece, if he’d let me do the dealin’. Yaller Rock County knows him so well that he’s in the sere and yaller leaf, as far as winnin’ anythin’ goes.

Me and Dirty Shirt Jones are settin’ on the hitch rack in front of Buck Masterson’s saloon one mornin’, like a couple old buzzards, lookin’ for something to happen. Dirty Shirt ain’t very big, but he’s got a man sized capacity for anythin’ you might mention. His left eye is his predominatin’ feature, bein’ as it ain’t noways fixed like a regular eye, but kinda darts hither and yon, finally comin’ to rest in the northwest section of his eye socket, peerin’ up at the angle between his crooked nose and his eyebrow. All of which gives Dirty a cockeyed expression.

We’re settin’ there, tryin’ to elect a Democrat President, when here comes old Burnin’ Wolf, headin’ across from the post office, trailin’ his blanket.

“I ain’t goin’ t’ lend that old marrowgut a cent more,” declares Dirty.

But Burnin’ Wolf merely scratches his shoulders against the rack post, picks up the butt of the cigaret I’ve jist dropped and asks me for a match.

“Gittum letta,” he says.

“Who got a letter?” asks Dirty.

“Me gittum letta.”

“Who from?”

The old boy fishes out a dirty envelope from inside his shirt and hands it to me. In one corner of the envelope it says, “Barker Brothers Great Consolidated Shows”.

“Dirty Dora prob’ly died and they’re askin’ Wolf to take his place,” says Dirty Shirt. “Open it up—the war whoop can’t read.”

Inside was a single sheet of paper; on it was written, kinda sprawly—

I em cum to veesit yu sunn.    —CHEEF AXILGRISS

“What say?” asked the chief.

I reads it to him. He scratched his left knee with the toe of his right moccasin, and then he laughs kinda foolish.

“Who’s Chief Axlegrease?” I asks.

“Long time ago I be with him in medicine show. Him Osage or Cherokee or somethin’.”

“He’s a hell of a lot like you, eh?” grunted Dirty.

“I’m a Sioux.”

“Yeah—when you’re sober.”

“Pretty damn dry now.”

“Yeah,” says Dirty, “and if you don’t quit drinkin’ hair tonic, you’ll have to eat moths to keep down the fur. So this here Axlegrease Injun is comin’ to visit you, eh?”

“Um-m-m-m. Play damn bad poker.”

“I suppose you’ll skin him out of his moccasins, eh?”

“Um-m-m-m. Me no got money. Mus’ have money for play poker.”

“Yeah, we all found that out a long time ago, Mister Vanishin’ Race.”

It might be well to tell you somethin’ about our town of Piperock and of the rest of Yaller Rock County. Piperock, Yaller Horse and Paradise are set in a sort of triangle. Yaller Horse grew up from a one shack horsethieves’ hangout. I mean she growed up in size, but her morals remained dormant. The town is kinda mismanaged by Tombstone Todd, Yuma Yates, Hardpan Hawkins and Smoky Potts, knowed by us Piperockers as Murderer’s Row. Whenever folks enumerate the poisonous reptiles, they mention them four in connection with rattlers and copperheads.

Paradise is only of more consequence, because of a larger population. A horsethief got run out of Piperock, hid in a hole down the country, and out of spite he started a town, which they called Paradise. Bein’ of the same minds and dispositions, Yaller Horse and Paradise buried the ax against each other, in order to concentrate against Piperock.

Piperock is a lovable old place, full of memories, tryin’ to get along in a peaceable way and amount to something. If it wasn’t for the folks in Piperock it would be a great old town. But even with our failin’s, we’re united. We don’t need no outside help. We stand for a certain principle, and we back our own—right or wrong—and there ain’t been an innocent bystander killed in years. We shoot straight. We go on the idea that if the law leaves us alone, we’ll leave the law alone. Reciprocity, Magpie Simpkins calls it.

Magpie is built a whole lot like Runnin’ Wolf, has sad, droopin’ eyes, like a disappointed bloodhound, and a long mustache. And nature didn’t cheat him, when it comes to noses. He’s full of quaint ideas, all of which suffer a heap from missin’ parts, and his main idea in life is to keep Piperock on the map.

Well, me and Dirty Shirt proceeds to forget all about Chief Axlegrease, and he ain’t brought to our attention until the next day when a runaway bronc, bearin’ Mighty Jones in the saddle, comes down through our main street like Paul Revere spreadin’ his anti-English propaganda. Mighty ain’t very big, but his hair is long and his voice is plenty resonant, as you might say.

When he’s about in the middle of the town, wingin’ along on that locoed animal, which is jist touchin’ here and there, we hears him yelp—

“Ho-o-o-o-old your ho-o-o-orses!”

Jist one more clickety-clack, and he’s faded out complete.

“That,” says Dirty Shirt, “is damn’ queer advice, under the circumstances. But mebbe he’s like Old Testament Tilton, allus preachin’ advice that he won’t foller hisself.”

“I’m pure in heart,” replied Old Testament, who is also built awful high above his corns.

“Lotta bum watches have plenty good main springs.”

“I’m meek and lowly,” says Testament, pious-like.

“Yea-a-ah—right now.”

“Well, f’r Gawd’s sake!” snorts Magpie. “Will you tell me what this cavalcade is? Will you tell me—crip-puled crawlers!”

I didn’t blame Magpie for his remarks. This here cavalcade turns into the main street from the south, and if it ain’t a circus, I’m a hairy tarantaler. In front is one of them big decorated wagons, with four horses, and on the driver’s seat is a big fat Injun, all dressed up in a shiny plug hat, cutaway coat and a high white collar.

Tied behind that wagon is a scrawny lookin’ elephant, behind which comes another big wagon—one of them Queen of Sheba float wagons—hauled by two pinto horses and driven by a fat squaw; and in that float is at least sixteen Injun kids, from one year to sixteen. Towin’ behind that comes one of them steam pipe pianos, and a tow headed jigger in a red uniform is playin’ “Sweet Adeline” as loud as he can.

The big Injun drives up along the old sidewalk and stops his team, while we stands there and gawps at him, until “Sweet Adeline” fades away to a hoarse whistle. The fat Injun takes off his hat, polishes it on his arm, puts it on his head and looks us over kinda dignified-like.

“I like see Runnin’ Wolf,” says he.

Dirty Shirt’s eye circles and circles, finally stoppin’ abruptly.

“That,” says he, “must be Chief Axlegrease.”

“Big Chief,” says the fat aborigine.

“Ex-cuse me,” grunts Dirty Shirt.

Them Injun kids sees some candy in Wick Smith’s store window, and they all puts up a yelp for it. The old boy picked up a rock from the seat beside him, and the yelpin’ stops. That buck shore knows family control, ’cause even the fat squaw ducked quick.

About that time Runnin’ Wolf comes lopin’ up the street. He heard that music, I reckon. He stopped and looked at the steam organ, stopped and looked over the family wagon, and finally arrived among us. Him and the fat buck looks each other over. The fat one cocks his plug hat over one eye and looked down at Runnin’ Wolf.

“Hyah?” he snorts, kinda like an explosion.

“Purty damn’ good!” explodes Runnin’ Wolf.

“You git letter?”

“Got.”

“I come visit.”

“Hm-m-m-m-m-m-m!”

The big chief waved a fat arm to encompass his equipage.

“Purty good, eh? Belong me. Oil well gusher. Too damn’ much money. Where you live?”

It kinda dawned on us that the old chief had made a pile in oil, and this was his idea of travelin’ in state. I moved down and takes a look at the greasy faced jigger at the piano. He ain’t very big and he looks tired.

“What kind of an outfit is this?” I asks him. He shakes his head, spits out in the dust and blinks considerable.

“Ay am de calli-yupe player,” says he. “My name is Yergens. Das out feet belongs to de Inchun. Ay am jus’ de calli-yupe player.”

“Rich Injun?” I asks.

“Ay am get pay for dis yob—you bet. Dis damn’ road make me mees notes.”

“Where are you from?” I asks.

“Ay am from Copenhagen.”

“Play!” yells Axlegrease, and the Swede almost blew the tops off them pipes, and scared every bronc in the county.

Away they went, with Runnin’ Wolf walkin’ in the lead, and the parade follerin’ him down to his little teepee, while the rest of us sets down on the sidewalk and laughs ourselves so dry that Buck Masterson does a rushin’ business in a few minutes.

Some of the boys follered down to the teepee, and they comes back to tell us that inside the chief’s wagon is a lion and a tiger.

“One of them big Affreecan lions,” says Slim Hawkins. “Cross m’ heart, if he ain’t. And in the other end is one of them penitentiary pumas—with the stripes. Take a whole horse to feed them two f’r one day, not to mention that elephant. I’ve seen a lot of elephants in m’ time, but I never seen one with a worse fittin’ skin. He shore needs ironin’ out. They got him staked to a tree and he’s eatin’ all the branches off; while them two buck Injuns are settin’ there in Runnin’ Wolf’s wickiup, smokin’ a pipe. The squaw and all the kids are cuttin’ wood for the whoopee organ, and the Swede is actin’ as horse wrangler and bull-cook. If that ain’t a outfit, I’m a cow’s nephew!”

About an hour later Yuma Yates, Tombstone Todd, Hardpan Hawkins and Smoky Potts rides in from Yaller Horse. They stands out there in the street for a while, lookin’ around, before they invades Buck’s place. It wouldn’t take no Saint Peter to tell where them four will go when they die. Them four gents is hard for to get along with. Tombstone is the ringleader; him and his big buffalo horn mustache. In fact, they all kinda runs strong to hair, as far as that’s concerned. They has a drink together, and we can see that they’ve been drinkin’ on the way to town.

“Did it stop here?” asks Tombstone.

“What?” asks Buck.

“That red skinned war whoop and his circus.”

“Oh, yea-a-ah—they’re here. That’s Chief Axlegrease, a wealthy Nincopoop Injun, who struck oil. Him and Runnin’ Wolf was in a medicine show together, and he’s come to show off. He’s the first Injun to ever git fancier than a hearse, when it comes to puttin’ on the dog. He’s got a whistle wagon, elephant, lions and taggers too numerous to mention—and a Swede.”

“We seen it all,” says Yuma, yawnin’ wide and lettin’ a full glass of red liquor drop down his throat. “Every hitch rack in Paradise is in ruins. Two horses went plumb into Hank Padden’s saloon, and only one came out. They think the other one is under the bar, but they won’t know until they git things cleared out. Half-Mile Smith wanted to telegraph for the militia, but Zeke Whittaker’s wagon team ran straddle of a telegraph pole and the wires are all down. The last we seen of Hank he was loadin’ a riot gun, swearin’ that Custer would be avenged at last.”

“You fellers ain’t up here to mop up on the war whoop, are you?” asks Dirty.

“Not if he’ll listen to reason,” says Tombstone.

“Reason or no reason,” says Magpie, “that Injun is bein’ p’tected by Piperock, if anybody stops to ask you, Tombstone. He’s a guest of our fair city, and as such, we stands behind him. If Paradise animiles are so danged ignorant that they stampedes regardless at sight of a few chariots and a misfit elephant, they ought to stand their loss.”

“Oh, we don’t mean no bodily harm to the Injun, Magpie. That ain’t in our thoughts a-tall. But you don’t need to get runty about it, as fer as that goes. We comes in peace, you understand—but p’pared for war.”

“We shore do love peace,” sighs Dirty, who is achin’ for a crack at one of them Yaller Horsers, “but if there’s any choosin’ to be done, I’ve done made my selection.”

“I’ll shake dice with you t’ see which one of us takes two,” suggests Slim Hawkins to Dirty. “There’s times when I kinda throw back to m’ aboriginal ancestors, and at such times I hankers for hair.”

“Peace,” says Testament Tilton. “Peace, brothers. There’s a time and a place for all things.”

“Yeah, and I jist mopped this floor,” said Buck kinda sad-like. “C’mon and everybody have a little drink on the house. No use goin’ to war, unless we know what the shootin’ is all about.”

That buried the hatchet for the time bein’, and them three thieves from Yaller Horse starts a poker game with Magpie, Testament and Slim Hawkins. Me and Dirty Shirt drifts down to Runnin’ Wolf’s teepee, kinda wishful to see what the layout looks like, and we meets Runnin’ Wolf. The old buck looks kinda down in the mouth, but he stops and looks back.

“How’re you and the circus comin’?” asks Dirty.

“Big mouth!” snorts Wolf. “Much money. Huh! Like play poker.”

Dirty cocks his hat over one eye and looks at the old buck. Dirty knows how good the old boy is at poker, and he wonders how much Chief Axlegrease knows about the great American pastime.

“Likes poker, eh? Good player?”

“Hm-m-m-m-m! Talk too damn’ much. Say I’m poor Injun. Huh! Needum fifty dolla.”

“Will ten dollars set you up in business?” asks Dirty.

“Plenty. I go buy cards.”

“What do I get out of it?” asks Dirty.

“Runnin’ Wolf honest Injun.”

“You git the ten, old-timer—and may your fingers never cramp. Soak this fat war whoop plenty.”

“Plenty,” agrees Runnin’ Wolf, almost grinnin’.

Me and Dirty went on down to the teepee, and Chief Axlegrease looks us over as though we’re poor relations. Them sixteen assorted kids sets on the edge of that float, like a lot of little mahogany faced mummies, while the fat old squaw fusses around the stew pot on a fire.

The Swede is busy with a rag, polishin’ his steam piano, and every once in a while that lean-lookin’ lion almost choked to death over his own noises. The big striped cat has got his nose against the bars, sleepin’ out loud. The elephant is roped to a tree near the Swede’s musical wagon, and he seems a lot interested in what the Swede is doin’.

Dirty looks the fat Injun over, and says—

“Pretty swell outfit you got, Chief.”

“Belong me. I got too damn’ much money. Strike oil.”

“Paid a lot for her, eh?”

“Sixty-fi’ hundred dolla.”

“Sixty-five hundred!”

“Um-m-m-m-m. Two wagon, one thousand. Six horse, twelve hundred; elephant, ten hundred; smoke organ, two thousand; lion, five hundred; tiger, five hundred. Plenty damn’ good outfit, you bet.”

“Buy out a circus?”

“Um-m-m-m-m-m. Plenty money. What’s matter your eye?”

“That,” said Dirty, “is none of your damn’ business.”

The fat Injun looks sad, and don’t say anythin’. Dirty rubs the palm of his right hand on the leg of his chaps, and I know he’s wonderin’ just where to shoot that Injun to hit a vital spot under all that fat. The Swede in the red uniform ain’t payin’ no attention to us. He steps back and squints at all them metal pipes on his instrument, his cap cocked on one side of his bushy head.

The elephant leans forward on his ropes, and the slack jist gives him room to reach the Swede, who lets out a yelp you could hear in the next county, and begins waving his arms and legs; but the elephant took up the slack in that uniform so quick that it cut off the yelps. He kinda dangles the Swede in his trunk, like a baseball pitcher gettin’ ready to throw, and all to once he heaves him up sideways, lets out a mighty woosh! and here comes the Swede, floatin’ horizontal through the air, preceded by the soles of two of the biggest feet I ever seen.

That Swede never lost an inch of elevation nor did he change his horizontal position until them two big feet landed square on the chest of Chief Axlegrease and knocked him backwards through Runnin’ Wolf’s teepee. The Swede landed on the back of his neck, rolled over and sat up, blinkin’ his eyes.

“My name is Yergens,” says he. “Ay am de calli-yupe player, da’s all.”

“You ought to stick to it,” says Dirty. “Didja have a nice trip?”

The Swede didn’t say; he jist sets there blinkin’, one eye on the elephant. The fat squaw comes over and looks inside the teepee, while the kids all set there, grinnin’. The show was jist built for them. It kinda strikes me that the old buck must run his family with an iron hand, ’cause the fat squaw turns around and waddles over to the line up of kids, and says—

“Make no noise—papa sleep.”

She’s either dumb as hell or she’s got a sense of humor. The Swede gets to his feet and twists his clothes around to kinda fit his body.

“Some day,” says he, “Ay am going to keek hal from that brute.”

“Yeah,” says Dirty, “that’s great. But if you’re wise, you’ll stick to your calli-yupe, Jergens.”

“Ay am mad, by yinks! Das har yob no goot. Work for Inchun! Ay am free man, pas’ twanty-two, and dis Inchun business mak’ me seek. Ay don’ like Inchun.”

Clank! A can of beans hits the Swede in the back of the head and knocks his cap over his nose. The squaw threw it, and she’s got another can, in case this one didn’t register. But it did. Jergens straightens up, puts his cap on backwards and strikes a dignified pose and points his nose to the sky.

“O-o-o-o-o-oo lee-e-e-e oh layee-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e,” he yodels. “O-o-o-oh lee-e-e-e oh layee-e-e-e, oh lay-hee-e-e-e-e, hoo-o-o-o-o-o-o.”

“Sing good,” grins the squaw.

The Swede stops, rubs his head kinda hard and goes back to his steam organ, where he leans and looks at the elephant. I don’t reckon the Swede remembers jist what happened, but he’s got a suspicion. One of the Injun kids hops off the wagon, picks up the can of beans and gives it back to the squaw.

“Do it ag’in, mamma,” says he.

“Mamma busy.”

Me and Dirty wanders back to town. Chief Axlegrease was still asleep, I reckon. We finds Runnin’ Wolf at the end of the street, talkin’ with Tombstone Todd, and we wonders what they’re holdin’ a council over. Ordinarily Tombstone wouldn’t speak to the old war whoop.

But we found out, after them Yaller Horsers had gone home. Magpie got it from Smoky Potts, who can’t stand much liquor. It seems that them four crippled crawlers have been figurin’ on startin’ a Wild West Show. Smoky was a horse wrangler with the outfit from the 101 Ranch for a while, and when they saw Chief Axlegrease go through Paradise they decides to annex his outfit and start their show.

“They ain’t got money enough to even hire the Swede,” says Dirty. “That old Injun paid sixty-five hundred for the outfit, and he wouldn’t sell for a million. Them Yaller Horsers make me laugh. Start a show!”

“Goin’ to call it ‘The Yaller Horse Wild West’,” says Magpie. “Huh! Why, Piperock could start one a lot bigger n’ better. I’d be willin’ to head the aggregation.”

“You would,” says Dirty.

“I would—and guarantee a success. Piperock is jist as well able to buy that Injun out as Yaller Horse is.”

“Yaller Horse ain’t bought it out yet. I seen Tombstone Todd talkin’ to old Runnin’ Wolf, and I’ll betcha they’re framin’ up somethin’ on Axlegrease.”

“Runnin’ Wolf must be,” grins Buck Masterson. “He bought two new decks of red backed playin’ cards.”

Me and Dirty and Magpie left Buck’s place about midnight, and decided to go down to Runnin’ Wolf’s wickiup and see what’s goin’ on. There’s a lantern in the teepee, and we hears voices. Goin’ kinda careful like, we gets close to the teepee. That float wagon is covered with dark humps, where the squaw and their sixteen offsprings are wrapped in blankets and plenty slumber.

Them two buck Injuns don’t hear nothin’, ’cause they’re playin’ poker in the teepee. The Swede is propped up against a roll of blankets, snorin’ plenty, while Chief Axlegrease and Chief Runnin’ Wolf play poker on a blanket, with the lantern danglin’ from a pole. The flap of the tent is wide open.

“Money all gone,” states Axlegrease. “Plenty money in bank—no money here.”

“Bet horse,” suggested Runnin’ Wolf. “How much you pay?”

“Two hundred dolla.”

“Too damn’ much; I bet hundred dolla.”

“Deal.”

Runnin’ Wolf took plenty time dealin’. He got up, grunted a few times and sat down again—with the deck in his hands. Then he dealt slow.

“Bet one horse.”

“Good! Raise hundred dolla.”

“Bet two mo’ horse.”

“Raise two hundred. No more money. I got fo’ aces.”

Chief Axlegrease grunted and threw down his cards.

“You lose six horse,” said Runnin’ Wolf.

“My deal.”

Both men passed. On the next deal Chief Axlegrease lost his elephant on a six horse bet. This time Runnin’ Wolf had four kings. They passed on Axlegrease’s deal—as usual—and on the next hand Runnin’ Wolf won the lion, tiger and four sets of harness. He had four queens. On his own deal Chief Axlegrease wanted to bet, but Runnin’ Wolf passed.

This time old Runnin’ Wolf got up again, turned around once for luck and sat down again—holdin’ the cards. We watched the deal, and I distinctly saw Chief Axlegrease look at his cards and slide them under the blanket. But he still had cards in his hand.

“How many?” asked Runnin’ Wolf.

“No cards.”

“No draw, dealer,” grunted Runnin’ Wolf.

“Pass,” said Axlegrease.

“Bet one five hundred dolla wagon?” queried Runnin’ Wolf. “I ante one lion.”

“Good! I bet two five hundred dolla wagon.”

“I raise one lion.”

Chief Axlegrease thought it over.

“I got smoke organ, two thousand dolla. I call one lion and raise smoke organ.”

“Fifteen hundred dolla, eh?” said Runnin’ Wolf. “I call with one elephant and three hundred dolla cash, and raise one hundred dolla cash.”

“Good! I call two set harness. What you got?”

“Plenty,” grunted Runnin’ Wolf, and spreads his hand.

Chief Axlegrease didn’t say a word. He leaned forward, grabbed Runnin’ Wolf by his thin neck and lifted him off the blanket. Old Wolf pasted him one in the belly and they went down together, landin’ on top of the Swede, who let out a yell, like one pipe of his calli-yupe—the high pitched one. Somebody kicked the lantern out.

There’s plenty moonlight outside, but it’s shore dark in that teepee. Out comes the Swede, turns over twice and lands under the float wagon. Then out comes Runnin’ Wolf and Chief Axlegrease. They fall in a heap, and Runnin’ Wolf breaks loose, gits to his feet and lopes away in the night, makin’ plenty good on his nickname. Chief Axlegrease lets out a weak war whoop, crawls to his feet and takes out after Runnin’ Wolf.

The Swede must have hit the runnin’ gears of that wagon, ’cause he’s under there, singin’ at the top of his voice:

Ay vas born in Minnie-sota,
Den Ay came to Nort’ Da-a-akota;
Ride on Yim Hill’s beeg red vagon,
Yeeminy, I feel for fight!

“What’s the matter, mamma?” pipes up one of the papooses. “I hear papa yell.”

“Sh-h-h-h-h,” grunts the fat squaw. “Papa restless.”

We sneaked inside the teepee and lit a match. There’s both hands on the blanket, right where they laid ’em down. Runnin’ Wolf had four aces and the joker, and Chief Axlegrease had four aces. The deck is still there, and with one of them hands, it’s a full deck. There’s cards scattered all over the place, and we follered Runnin’ Wolf’s trail half way to town and he’s still sheddin’ red backed cards.

“Well,” says Dirty Shirt, “I reckon Runnin’ Wolf wins the circus. I seen Chief Axlegrease hide the hand Wolf dealt him, and ring in a cold one from under his leg.”

“All I seen was Runnin’ Wolf sneak a cold deck from inside his shirt,” laughed Magpie. “They had one regular deck. Runnin’ Wolf had sets of four aces, four kings, four queens planted where he could get ’em for each bet, and he had one whole deck frozen for the grand climax; but Axlegrease stole them four aces and played ’em against the four aces and a joker Runnin’ Wolf dealt himself from the cold deck.”

“Well,” said Dirty Shirt, “you got to give Runnin’ Wolf a lot of credit for runnin’ less ’n ten dollars up to a sixty-five hundred dollar circus and all the loose money the oil well Injun had with him. That war whoop knows a lot about poker—and he can outrun Axlegrease, that’s a cinch.”

The next mornin’ we finds the Swede in front of Buck’s saloon, settin’ on the sidewalk. His uniform is split down the back and he’s shy one cap. One eye is all purple, and he’s lost a couple front teeth.

“Ay am t’rough,” says he, sad-like. “Dat Inchun got no money now. Never since Ay come from Copenhagen do Ay get so many hurts. Ay am queet dis yob. De beeg Inchun seet on de vagon, with two barrel gon in hees hand, and hees say, ‘Ay shoot hal from somebody pretty queek. Ay have been rob.’ De lion and tiger not been feed for two day. Ay tal heem so, and hees say she feed pretty queek, when other Inchun comes back. Ay no git pay for de yob, an A’m bruck. Das is no place for calli-yupe player, by yimminy.”

“How about a little drink?” I asks.

“Val, Ay take drink alcohol, please.”

That calliope player’s insides must have been made of rubber. He took a big scoop of raw alcohol and never grunted. Buck bought him another, jist to see him drink, and then Magpie bought one.

“My name is Yergens,” says he. “Olaf Yergens, from Copenhagen.”

“Write it down, Buck,” says Magpie. “We’ll have to put somethin’ on his tombstone. This here Swedish jigger is embalmed right now.”

While we’re talkin’, Smoky Potts, of Valier Horse, comes in. He offers to buy a drink, and we’re so astonished that we accepts. Jergens takes another scoop of raw alcohol, and Smoky looks him over curious-like.

“Ain’t that the jigger who plays the hot water accordion?” asks Smoky.

“Ay am de calli-yupe player,” says Olaf, kinda bat eyed. “Ay queet de yob. You see, de Inchun played poker and loses de calli-yupe and everyt’ing. He can’t pay my vages, so Ay queet de yob. Ay am Olaf Yergens, from Copenhagen.”

“In alcohol,” adds Magpie, “a few yards of bandages, and you’re a first class mummy, Olaf.”

“Who won all them there things?” asks Smoky.

“Runnin’ Wolf,” grins Dirty Shirt. “He cold decked the fat war whoop, and the last we seen, Runnin’ Wolf was leadin’ by a shirt tail.”

“You mean Runnin’ Wolf owns the whole danged circus?”

“From the neck yoke to the elephant.”

“I’ll be danged! Well, I’ve got t’ be joggin’ along.”

After Smoky pulled out we put Olaf in a chair and folded his hands. Four big glasses of raw alcohol is enough to pickle a rattlesnake. We started a game of seven-up and are goin’ along nicely, when Dirty Shirt gits a sudden idea.

“By golly, I’ve got it!” he snorts. “Runnin’ Wolf is down at Yaller Horse, tryin’ to sell that outfit. Smoky Potts comes up to find out if Runnin’ Wolf did win that outfit, and now he’s beatin’ back there to make the deal.”

“That’s a cinch!” snorts Magpie.

“What’s to be done?”

“Morally,” says Dirty Shirt, “I own half of it, ’cause I staked Runnin’ Wolf to ten dollars, and he’d have to split the profit with me.”

Magpie almost dragged Dirty Shirt out of his chair.

“C’mon!” he yelps. “We’ll spike their pants to the floor.”

We didn’t know what it was all about, but we seen ’em headin’ for Judge Steele’s little office. Scenery Sims, the sheriff, comes in and sets down with us. Scenery is about as big as a quart bottle, and he talks with a queer, squeaky voice. He knows the world ain’t none too good, and it worries him a heap to think he can’t find out how to make it better.

Scenery wasn’t in town yesterday, so he don’t know a thing about the Injun circus. Magpie and Dirty comes back, and Dirty hands Scenery a legal paper. It’s an attachment on one-half the circus, demanding one-half of the outfit, or the sum of three thousand two hundred and fifty dollars, bein’ as the valuation is claimed to be sixty-five hundred dollars.

“What damn’ circus is this?” squeaks Scenery.

“It’s down at Runnin’ Wolf’s teepee,” explains Magpie. “You can’t miss it. We’ll go down with you, Scenery.”

“S’pose I’ve got t’ serve it. Well, c’mon. Looks funny t’ me. How did Dirty Shirt ever git to ownin’ half a circus?”

“Lotta things you don’t know,” says Dirty Shirt.

We leads Scenery down there, and his eyes kinda bug out when he sees all that aggregation. On top of the animal wagon sets Chief Axlegrease, with a double barrel shotgun across his lap. The squaw and the kids are all under the other wagon, sleepin’ in the shade. The elephant is backed against the tree and he’s tore off every branch in reach. I reckon that’s all the food he’s had since they arrived. The lion acts as sore as a boil, and I’ll bet he’s hungry enough to eat hay.

“What you want?” asks the chief.

Scenery climbs up on a wheel and hands him the attachment. Axlegrease opens it up, upside down and looks it over.

“What say?” he asks, and Dirty takes it back and reads it out loud.

“Um-m-m-m-m! Man own half, eh? How he get half?”

“I’m sheriff,” states Dirty Shirt, pointin’ at himself. “That paper says a man owns half this damn’ circus, sabe? I take half this circus for him.”

“You take?” Axlegrease opens his mouth wide and stares at Scenery. “You take?”

“I take.”

“You git!” Axlegrease shoves both barrels of that shotgun down in Scenery’s face. “You git fast!”

Scenery is kinda hypnotized by them twin tunnels, and he backs plumb into that elephant, which kinda takes him to his bosom, as you might say. Scenery don’t say a word, but his lips move in prayer. The elephant kinda makes a little squealin’ noise, as though he was tickled stiff, and then he spins Scenery around, like one of the band leaders whirls his stick, and tossed him plumb up into that tree.

Scenery turned over, caught the open seat of his chaps on a snag limb, and hung there upside down, ten feet above the elephant’s reach.

“Kill the dirty brute!” yells Scenery. “Kill him before he kills me!”

“They don’t climb trees,” says Magpie. “Stay where you are, Scenery.”

The limb kinda cracks a little, and Scenery says:

“Now I lay me down to sleep; I—I pray—I—I pray—”

“I dunno who you’re prayin’ to,” says Dirty Shirt, “but you don’t need to lie about your position.”

“This limb is gittin’ weak!” wails Scenery. “Can’tcha help a feller? The blood is all rushin’ to m’ head.”

“It can’t leak out,” says Dirty, “so don’t let that worry you. Anyway, you seen your duty and you done it, Scenery. You’re high and dry in the matter.”

“If this limb ever breaks, I’m a goner—and if it don’t break, I’ll die, anyway.”

“Either way we lose a sheriff,” says Magpie. “Well, them is things we have to face in this life. I always said you was born to be hung, but I didn’t never suppose it would be upside down. If you quit jigglin’, you might die natural.”

“I ain’t jigglin’; it’s that dang Injy rubber ox doin’ it. Somebody cut him loose, won’t you, before he uproots the tree?”

Magpie walks a little closer to Axlegrease, who seems to be enjoyin’ it.

“Who takes care of the elephant?” asks Magpie.

Axlegrease shrugs his fat shoulders and sighs real deep.

“Damn’ Swede!” he says. “He go way.”

“Can he handle the elephant?”

“Um-m-m-m-m.”

Pop! That limb busted up close to the tree, and poor Scenery turns over once, lands all spraddled out on the elephant’s back, like a flyin’ squirrel. I reckon the shock was too much for the elephant, ’cause he jist made a noise like one of them slip horns, swayed his whole weight on that big rope around his hind leg, and the rope busted like a twine string.

Mebbe the elephant wasn’t expectin’ to break loose, and when he did it was too late to miss the big animal wagon. He hit jist above the right front wheel, and the shock sent Chief Axlegrease up in the air, from whence he descended on top of Scenery Sims, and away went that runaway elephant, headin’ for the open country, blastin’ away like a trumpet at every stride, while Scenery and Chief Axlegrease, arms wrapped around each other’s necks, suspendin’ out from each side like a pair of pack sacks, went along with the elephant.

I took a look around, and there goes mamma and her sixteen copper colored offsprings, headin’ for Piperock like a flock of scared quail.

“Dirty,” says I, “I reckon your attachment took.”

“Looks thataway, Ike.”

“We’ll do the proper thing, under the circumstances,” says Magpie. “Git the harness on them horses and we’ll move this outfit up to the livery stable, where they’ll be safe from all harm.”

“Meanin’ Yaller Horse, eh?” grins Dirty.

“Well, yea-a-ah. C’mon.”

We had quite a parade among us. I drove the animal wagon, Magpie drove the big float, while Dirty Shirt rode on the musical boiler, towin’ behind Magpie’s outfit. Pete Gonyer, who runs the stable, yelped like a peevish wolf. He didn’t want no danged circus in his stable. Wasn’t nobody goin’ to stable lions and tigers in his stable—not if he was alive to see it.

“Where’s the elephant?” he asks, after we’ve stabled the outfit.

“Scenery Sims went out for a ride,” says Dirty Shirt.

“On the elephant?”

“Right on to him, Pete.”

“Took nerve, didn’t it?”

“All he had. You better feed them lions and tigers.”

“Feed ’em—what with?”

“Listenin’ to ’em right now, I don’t reckon they’d be particular. Mostly they eat dead horses.”

“I ain’t got no dead horses.”

“Well,” says Magpie, “if them two cats git loose, you will have. Them things are attached by the law, and it’s up to you to guard ’em with your life.”

“Thasso? Huh! This place gits locked up right now. I’ll move out every danged bronc in the place—and let nature take her course. Guard ’em with my life? Who the hell is takin’ liberties like that with my life? If Scenery Sims wants these here animiles guarded, let him quit lopin’ around on a elephant and take care of ’em hisself. Them is my sentiments.”

“He’ll prob’ly be mad at you, Pete,” says Dirty Shirt. “You better be here and let him stable the elephant.”

“I’ll put them broncs out in the corral, and I’ll wait a reasonable length of time. If he ain’t here by that time—well, I’m runnin’ a livery stable—not a damn’ jungle, I’ll tell you that.”

Them two cats smell horse, and they’re clawin’ at the bars and makin’ all kinds of noises. The horses ain’t noways meek and mild themselves, and Pete has a man sized job in gettin’ ’em out past that cage.

We went back to Buck’s place and had a drink. We shore needed one, after what had happened. Somebody suggests that we go huntin’ for the remains of Scenery and Chief Axlegrease, but we don’t go. Scenery wouldn’t be the first sheriff of Yaller Rock County to pass out with his boots on. Mrs. Axlegrease and her sixteen offsprings are perched on the sidewalk across the street, waitin’ for papa to come back. I reckon they’ve got plenty faith in his ability to take punishment, ’cause they’re eatin’ candy while they wait.

The Swede is still a little woozy, but willin’ to imbibe, if we’ll buy. We gave him a slug of alcohol, and he grows reminiscent in Swedish. We gave him another shot, and he tried to start a war with all of us.

“Ay am strong man,” he declares. “Ay feel for fight.”

And then he turns Swedish agin.

“The elephant busted loose,” Magpie tells him. It took Olaf a long time to get this idea.

“You say das bull bruck de rup?”

“Shore—broke the rope. He’s gone away.”

“Yeeminy! Das bull is bad. He teep ofer house. Where he goes?”

“Nobody knows. Do you reckon he’d hurt anybody?”

“Das bull like to play. Ay tal you something—” and then he makes us a long speech in Swedish, his eyes jist poppin’ when he finishes.

“That’s different,” says Magpie, solemn-like. “You get all our votes. What’ll you have to drink?”

“Ay tak’ scoop from alcohol, t’anks. You good faller.”

About fifteen minutes later Scenery Sims comes staggering in through the back door. If Scenery ain’t a first class wreck, he’ll do, until we do get one.

He staggers up to the bar and looks us over, kinda pop-eyed.

“Fall off?” asks Dirty.

Scenery nods and fingers his throat.

“Fuf-fuf-five tut-tut-times. And every tut-time that dud-damn’ elephant pup-put me back. The la-last tut-time, he pup-put me too fuf-far.”

Scenery’s voice went up so high it broke off, and his chin quivers from the tension.

“Where’s the elephant?” I asks.

“Huh-huntin’ for me, I s’pose. Can I have a drink?”

“Where’s Chief Axlegrease?”

“He fell off in a cactus patch. Gimme liquor, can’tcha?”

We got Scenery quieted down after six or eight drinks, and he starts braggin’ about what a rider he is. About that time Tombstone Todd, Yuma Yates, Hardpan Hawkins and Smoky Potts ride in, tie their broncs and come in. They look Scenery over.

“What happened to him?” asked Tombstone.

“I rode the Injy rubber ox to a fare-thee-well and never pulled leather,” brags Scenery. “Match that, can you?”

Tombstone cuffs his hat over one eye and considers Scenery.

“You rode what?”

“That danged elephant.”

“Our elephant?”

“Your—say, have you got one, too?”

“We’ve got the only one there is in Yaller Rock County.”

“No you ain’t—you ain’t got the one I rode. Nobody ain’t got him. He’s what you might call a independent elephant.”

“Uh-huh. You’re speakin’ of the one the Injun brought here?”

“Yeah, and the one what took the Injun away from here, too, if you want to be particular.”

Tombstone looks us over kinda meanlike.

“We’re holdin’ Piperock responsible f’r any harm done to that elephant,” says he. “You see, we own that aggregation of jungle beasts.”

“Thasso?” says Magpie. “How come you own it, Tombstone?”

“Bought out Runnin’ Wolf.”

“We’re up here to take the outfit back to Yaller Horse,” says Smoky.

“Barrin’ my legal claim, you might,” says Dirty Shirt.

“Your what?” roars Yuma. “Say that agin, feller.”

“It’s thisaway,” grins Dirty. “I staked Runnin’ Wolf with poker money to play with Axlegrease, and Runnin’ Wolf promises me half what he wins. The fat Injun says the outfit is worth sixty-five hundred dollar, so I levies my attachment on half of the circus, or asks thirty-two hundred and fifty dollar in cash.”

“You got any legal papers to prove he promised you half?” roars Tombstone.

“I’ve got Ike Harper for a witness, ain’t I, Ike?”

“You shore have,” says I. “I heard every word of it.”

“Anyway,” says Dirty, “my paper has been served, and we’ve got the whole works, except the elephant, locked up in the livery stable, until this here modest claim of mine has been satisfied at one hundred cents on every dolla.”

“But we bought the whole works from Runnin’ Wolf!” yowls Yuma. “We’ve got his mark on a bill-of-sale.”

“Arrest him f’r obtainin’ money under false pretense,” suggests Buck.

“Now, listen t’ me,” says Yuma. “We expected Piperock to do us dirt. It ain’t no surprise. But we’re here to git them animiles—and git ’em we will. All the legal papers in the world won’t stop us. Ain’t that right, boys?”

“Right,” says Tombstone.

“What the hell’s this comin’ in?” grunts Magpie.

We all runs to the doorway. Here comes Eph Whittaker, standin’ up on a big load of hay, drivin’ like a Roman chariot driver, and his pinto team on the dead run. They go through town so danged fast that you can hear Eph’s whiskers poppin’ in the wind; and as far as you can see ’em, they’re still goin’ high and handsome, and about two hundred yards behind ’em is that danged elephant, trunk stretched out, tail stretched out, chasin’ that load of hay. He don’t pay no attention to the town, but when them three broncs from Yaller Horse see that apparition goin’ past, they take the hitch rack with ’em, and starts off across country, buckin’ and bawlin’.

Tombstone, Yuma, Hardpan and Smoky take out after their horses, runnin’ and swearin’, while the rest of us sets down on the sidewalk and has a good laugh. Even Olaf Jergens from Copenhagen got a laugh out of it.

“Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho!” he whoops. “Das elephant hungry, by yimminy. I buy drink, if I have money.”

It was worth a lot to see them four sinners from Yaller Horse chasin’ their runaway broncs; so we treated the Swede liberally. About fifteen minutes later Chief Axlegrease limps in from the lower end of town, stoppin’ now and then to pick out some cactus. He sets down on the sidewalk with his family, but they don’t pay any attention to him. After while me and Dirty go over to see him.

“You take circus?” he asks.

“Shore did,” grins Dirty. “Runnin’ Wolf won it from you, and he’s supposed to give me half, because I staked him to play poker with you; but he went down to Yaller Horse and sold it to four men down there. I locked her up ’cause I own half of it, sabe?”

“Mm-m-m-m-m-m. Where’s Runnin’ Wolf?”

“He’s down at Yaller Horse or Paradise, prob’ly spendin’ the money he got.”

“Um-m-m-m-m.”

He gits up, picks out a few more cactus spines, speaks to his family, and away they go, travelin’ in single file, headin’ down the road toward Paradise.

“Well, there’s one objector out of it,” grins Dirty. “If we can send Yaller Horse down the road, talkin’ to themselves, we’ve got a circus.”

Yaller Horse didn’t show up that afternoon, but we wasn’t fooled by that. We sabe that bunch pretty good. Eph Whittaker was intendin’ to unload that hay at the livery stable, but he ain’t never come back yet. Magpie wanted to take a posse and go after that elephant, but none of us had any desire to hunt elephants.

“That’s Runnin’ Wolf’s share he sold to Yaller Horse,” said Dirty. “Let ’em worry about that hay burnin’ quadruped—we’ll keep the lion and tiger.”

Well, we had a few more drinks, and Dirty Shirt made me a present of the lion. I took him. It was the first lion I ever owned. It was almost dark when we went down to look at our animals. The stable was locked, but we busted open the back door and went in, takin’ Olaf Jergens with us. Olaf is sufferin’ from acute alcoholism and a desire for music. The calli-yupe is in the stable, but there ain’t no steam in her.

“Ay am de calli-yupe player,” declares Olaf. “Ay vant moosic.”

“That’s fine,” says Dirty, who is so cockeyed that he can’t even see Olaf. “We’ve got to have a musician, Ike; so we better take the Swede in partnership. Olaf, you are now an owner in a circus. What do you think of that?”

“Ay am de calli-yupe player. My name is Yergens and Ay am from Copenhagen.” Dirty tried to bow to him, and hit his head on the lion cage.

“What do you think you are, a woodpecker?” I asks, holdin’ the lantern up. “Instead of knockin’ your head against wood, you better figure out some way to save this outfit. If Yaller Horse comes back, we’ve got a fight on our hands.”

We went into executive session right there.

“You can’t hide an outfit like thish,” declares Dirty, owlish-like. “There’s sixsh horshes in the corral, b’longin’ to us, but they ain’t worth mush. Our visible assets are the lion and tagger. They’re worth money. Wonner what their names are? Olaf, what’s the names of lion and tagger?”

“De lion,” says Olaf, “iss Chudas, unt der tiger iss Chessie Chames.”

“That’s a swell name for that pet of mine,” says I.

“He kill seex men,” says Olaf.

“And,” says Dirty, “everybody says seven is a lucky number. If we could only hide them animals somewhere.”

Dirty produced a bottle, and we all had a drink.

“I’ve got a swell idea,” says Dirty. “We’ll hide them animals in the grain room, and if Yaller Horse overpowers us, they’ll take away an empty cage.”

“Ay tank das been goot yoke,” says Olaf.

“You know how to get ’em out of the cage?”

“Sure, Ay know how.”

I dunno yet how we done it, but the three of us managed to wheel that wagon around and against the door of the grain room, which is a place about fifteen feet square, built inside the stable. There’s a end door to the cage, and a way of liftin’ the bars in between the two cages. The door of the grain room opens in; so Dirty tied a rope to the handle. Olaf let the lion into the tiger’s cage, before he opened the end door, and they shore told each other a few things in jungle talk. There’s fur flyin’ out through the bars of the cage when Olaf opened the end door, and both of them animals went crashin’ into that grain room. Dirty yanked the door shut behind ’em, and we wheeled the wagon away from the room.

I reckon them two cats stopped fightin’ to examine their new quarters, ’cause everythin’ is quiet again. We had another drink, and then we heard somebody fussin’ with the lock on the front door. Dirty sneaked down there, but comes back in a minute, and tells us that Yaller Horse is back.

“Das goot yoke,” chuckles Olaf.

“Let’s git up in the loft,” suggests Dirty, which was a good idea.

Yaller Horse would never look up there, and none of us were capable of stoppin’ ’em from taking the rest of the outfit. It was quite a job to get Olaf into the loft, ’cause he wasn’t in no climbin’ mood, but we got him there.

At the street end of the loft is a hay hole, about five feet square, where the moonlight shines through. We’re above the level of the hills, and all we can see is a lot of stars. We crawls toward that hay hole, and we’re only about fifteen feet from it when Dirty grabs me by the arm and I came down on my chin.

“My Gawd!” wails Dirty. “There’s a stairway up from the grain room, and we never locked it!”

Right in the middle of that hay hole stands Judas, the man eatin’ lion, with the moonlight makin’ a light streak all around him.

“Where de hal iss dat hole we come oop?” wails Olaf, tryin’ to back up.

“You—you know lions, Olaf,” whispers Dirty. “Say somethin’ to him, can’tcha?”

“Ay don’t unnerstand,” complains Olaf. “Ay vant to git out from dis place.” Judas turns his head and looks at us.

Wham! The report of Dirty’s six-shooter almost blew my hat off. I dunno where that bullet hit Judas, but he let out a squawl you could hear for a mile, and he went back past so fast that he missed the stairway door to the grain room, and hit the wall.

I got to my feet and headed for the hay hole as fast as I could run, and Dirty Shirt was right behind me. We never stopped to see what was below, but sailed out of there like a couple of birds. It’s fifteen feet to the ground, as the crow flies, but I reckon Ike Harper made a runnin’ broad jump record, ’cause I came down flat on my back in a waterin’ trough full of cold water.

It knocked all the wind out of me, and the vacancy was immediate and soon filled with water. I reckon I was goin’ down for the third time, when somebody pulled me out.

Everythin’ was kinda confused for a while. Instead of rollin’ me over a barrel, they seemed to be rollin’ me up in a rope. I coughed out about a gallon of water and hayseed mixed, and then begins to find out that things ain’t so cozy after all. I’ve been all roped up by Yaller Horse, it seems. Dirty Shirt lit so hard that he’s recitin’ the Lord’s Prayer in Chinook. They only had one rope, as far as I can understand, and I’m tied up with one end, while Dirty is tied up with the other. There’s about fifteen feet of slack between us.

“Well, we’ve got the ones we needed,” says Yuma. “It’s a cinch now.”

“We can git in the back door,” says Tombstone. “C’mon.”

“What’ll we do with these two snake hunters?” asks Smoky Potts.

“Better gag ’em,” suggests Hardpan; and that’s what they done.

“Lock ’em in the grain room,” says Tombstone. “Somebody’ll find ’em in the mornin’.”

I tried to yell, but it wasn’t any use. I wanted to tell ’em that the grain room was full of wild animals, but all I could do was glub a little. I knowed dam’ well nobody would find us in the mornin’, unless they performed an attopsy on a lion and a tiger. My gun was gone, my hands tied and my voice cut off just behind my tonsils.

Dirty was makin’ a lot of funny noises, but ’nobody paid any attention to him. They shoved us around to the back door, which they had opened. The lantern was still lighted. Smoky comes in, leadin’ several of them circus horses.

“Better unhook that front door,” says Tombstone. “It locks from this side. We want to be all set to git out of here. P’session is nine points in the law, and we p’sesses right now. Git them harnesses on and let’s git goin’.”

We hears one of ’em slidin’ that front door open kinda easy-like.

“Unfasten that grain room door,” says Yuma, “and let’s git these two jiggers off our hands. No use of me holdin’ ’em, when there’s more important work to be done.”

I look at Dirty in the lantern light. His hair is standin’ up on end, and his one loose eye is doin’ a war dance. He’s tryin’ to tell ’em why we don’t want to go in that grain room, and it sounds like a hawg diggin’ for roots.

“Oof gloogl oof oof glug mff glug oogle,” says he.

“Shut up, you damn’ Eskimo!” snorts Tombstone. “Open the door, Yuma, and I’ll see how far inside I can kick these two Piperockers.”

And he kicked me so far inside that my vertebrae knocked a chunk off my solar plexus. Me and Dirty landed on our hands and knees jist inside the door, when a cross between a yaller streak and a locomotive went between us. That is, he went between us as far as the rope would let him, and then he took up the slack. I went upward and backward and my spinal column rattled like a handful of poker chips when my back hit the wall beside the door.

It’s my opinion that the rope broke, but I won’t swear to anythin’, except that I bounced off that wall and landed with my nose against the side of the big grain bin. I see a lot of stars that ain’t never been seen by any telescope, but I didn’t lose my presence of mind. Somethin’ seemed to be sayin’, “Ike Harper, esquire, don’t forget that even with the lion out there somewhere, eatin’ up Yaller Horse and Piperock, you are still among the tiger; and while the lion is the king of beasts, the tiger is the minister of war.”

And that still, small voice made me forget my sore nose and unjointed vertebrae. But the Harper fambly are fighters from the belt both ways. The door is shut, but I can hear sounds of conflict outside. The rope comes loose from my hands, and I gathers m’ muscles—what’s left to gather—and gits ready for anythin’.

It’s awful dark in there, and I’ve lost all track of direction, but m’ ears are tuned plenty. Then I hears that tiger—Jessie James. He’s goin’ soft, kinda sniffin’, sniffin’ along. I’ve fought all kinds of things in one way or another, but I don’t sabe the proper attack on tigers; so this is kinda new to me, and jist about the time I’m tryin’ to figure out a plan of battle, as they say, Jessie James rubs agin me.

As I said before, I’m plumb lackin’ in feelin’s, but the fightin’ instinct is strong within me, and I took to that tiger like he was m’ long lost brother. Did we have conflict? Ask the man who has took to a tiger. There wasn’t no furniture in that grain room to hamper us—jist four walls and some big grain bins—plenty room to show the superiority of the white race agin’ the striped.

We went around and around that place in the dark, kickin’, bitin’, scratchin’, bumpin’ into the walls. Sometimes the tiger is on top, and agin Ike Harper rises above all obstacles and whangs that man eater from above. We’re both active, as you might say, but I hit m’ head on the wall a few times, and I’ve got inside information that unless the tiger has had about enough, the fight is goin’ agin the white race. And about that time I gits my hand on what feels like a loaded quirt, and the next time I gits on top, I socks Mr. Tiger over the head with all my remainin’ strength. It was plenty. The tiger sighs kinda deep, relaxes, and Ike Harper rolls off on his back, weak but triumphant. Barrin’ that one wallop with the quirt, I’ve whipped a man eater with m’ bare hands. I’m takin’ a lot of deep breaths and wonderin’ how much of this is goin’ to be believed, when I hears a weak voice sayin’—

“Ay don’t like dis haar t’ing.”

“Olaf, is that you?” I asks

“Ay am de calli-yupe player,” says he. “My name is Yergens, from Copenhagen.”

“C’mon down, Olaf. Everythin’ is all right—I’ve whipped the tiger.”

“Ay am down.”

With a hand that feels like it belonged to somebody else, I finds a match and managed to scratch it on the floor. Beside me lays Olaf Jergens, minus most of his clothes, both eyes blacked and a long scratch across his nose. We stare at each other until the match goes out.

“Where’s the tiger?” I asks.

“Ay don’t know,” says Olaf painful-like, “Ay have whip heem, Ay t’ink. Yeeminy gosh, we have fight!”

“And you let him git away from you?”

“Ay t’ink de ruff fall in on me.”

I tried the door, but it was locked. Olaf wasn’t very steady, but he followed me up the stairs to the loft. I’ve lost all fear of that tiger, but my legs don’t track good; so I gets down on my hands and knees and starts crawlin’ toward that hay hole agin, with Olaf crawlin’ behind me. He don’t know what it’s all about, but he’s too dumb to ask questions.

We reached the hay hole, when I happens to turn my head, and there’s the two shiny eyes of that tiger behind us. He must have been hidin’ in the loft. I sat up with my back toward the hay hole. I wanted to save my life as much as ever, but I didn’t want to take that fifteen foot jump agin. Mebbe the tiger had an idea that we had him cornered.

Jist then the floor seems to kinda raise under me, and the stable begins to shake.

“Yo-o-o-o-o-owr-r-r-r-r-rr!” yowls Jessie James, and he came between me and Olaf Jergens like an arrer from a bow.

I made one grab with both hands, got me a flyin’ tackle on some part of that tiger, and went out through that hay hole with such a jerk that I yanked my backbone into place agin. I let loose in midair and landed with a splat right on the broad back of that elephant, which is half-way through the door of the livery stable and don’t seem to be able to go either way. That was what was givin’ us an earthquake feelin’ up there.

There’s horses and people runnin’ everyway, yellin’, givin’ advice.

“Shoot him!” yells Pete Gonyer.

“Shoot him.”

I reckon they meant me, ’cause the first bullet nicked a chunk off the bridge of my nose. The elephant is surgin’ and gruntin’, and the old stable is loosenin’ in all her joints. And then there comes another sound. The only thing I ever heard make a noise like that was the old automobile Tombstone Todd won at the Piperock raffle. It had a horn on it that sounded like the wail of a lost soul. Yaller Rock County forbid Tombstone from runnin’ it, and he stored it in a blacksmith shop in Paradise.

Nearer and nearer she comes, wailin’ plenty. Even the elephant stops his house wreckin’ and tries to pull loose. And then we see it in the moonlight, and it’s an automobile, runnin’ like a comet, with fire shootin’ out the rear end. It hit a little culvert at the end of the street, about a hundred feet from the stable, whirled around on one wheel, and in less time than it takes to tell it, the danged thing hit the elephant square in the rear end.

The front end was jist high enough to knock the elephant loose from his hind legs, and he came backwards with the whole front of the livery stable, and we all crashed down in a shudderin’ heap. My light went out then. It had been flickerin’ badly, anyway.

When I woke up, I’m settin’ in a chair in Buck’s saloon. There’s Yuma Yates, Hardpan Hawkins and Smoky Potts. All three of ’em look like the climax of a nightmare. It seems as though all of Piperock is there. Propped up in a chair is a stranger. He’s wearin’ what’s left of a checked suit, a white collar sticks straight up the back of his neck, and around his neck is the brim of a derby hat. Both of his eyes are black and his nose looks like a peeled beet.

“Here’s another one,” says Magpie.

Runnin’ Wolf comes in through the doorway, and he’s shore a downtrodden lookin’ aborigine. He’s been hit so hard that he’s more bow-legged than ever, and all he’s wearin’ is about half of a boiled shirt and a twisted eagle feather.

“Set down,” orders Magpie. Runnin’ Wolf tries to, but he can’t bend.

“What happened?” asks the stranger, plenty hoarse. “I don’t remember much. I was in that town they call Paradise and I wanted to come up here. That Indian had an automobile and offered to take me up here with him. We missed the road and knocked down a lot of little trees, I think, and some of them must have hit me in the head.”

“The Injun was drivin’ it, eh?”

“I drive,” nodded Runnin’ Wolf. “Go like hell.”

“Where did you git that horseless carriage?” asks Magpie.

“Tombstone traded it to him for the circus,” groans Yuma.

“Traded for what circus?” asks the stranger.

“Oh, the one an Injun brought in here.”

“Traded? Say, that outfit belongs to me! I rented it to that Injun. He wanted to put on style, and I needed the money. Where are my animals?”

I’ve been listenin’ to all this, but my eyes have been on the back door, where Dirty Shirt is standin’ with his back toward us, pullin’ on a rope which extends around the corner. He turns his head and says:

“I dunno where the rest of your damn’ mee-nagerie is, mister—but I’ve got the lion. Gimme a hand, will you?”

“You—you got the lion on that rope?” yelps Magpie.

“Yea-a-a-ah—and he’s balkin’ on me. Gimme a hand, will you?”

In less than three seconds there’s only me and Dirty Shirt left in the place. I managed to git to my feet and go wobblin’ down to Dirty, who is bracin’ his feet, pullin’ awful hard. I slips out my knife and cut the rope, and Dirty went over backwards against the wall.

I helped Dirty to his feet and we went wobblin’ down to the front door. He thought the rope broke. We went outside, hangin’ on to each other, and almost run into Tombstone Todd. He’s got a rope tangled around his neck and one arm, and he ain’t got enough clothes on to build a handkerchief.

“Wh-where’s the lul-lion go?” he asks.

We didn’t know.

“It dragged me all over the damn’ town,” he wails. “Tried to drag me into the saloon, but the rope busted. I’m through. I traded Runnin’ Wolf my horseless carriage for his damn’ circus, but I take my loss cheerfully.”

An apparition limps in out of the dark. It is Olaf.

“Ay am de calli-yupe player,” says he. “My name is Yergens, from Copenhagen.”

“Did you know Chief Axlegrease only rented that circus outfit?” I asks.

“He tal me, ‘You say Ay buy dis outfit, and Ay pay you ten doolar.’ Ay don’t get no pay. Ay am what you call socker.”

“And,” sighs Dirty Shirt, “when Barnum said that he didn’t jist mean that they had to be born thataway. Lotsa grown folks git that way. I lose ten dollars, too.”

“I’ll make that damn’ Injun give me back my gas buggy,” groans Tombstone.

“If I’m any judge,” says I, “you’ll have to take it out of the elephant’s hide.”

Next mornin’ they found the lion and tiger sleepin’ together in their cage, and the elephant eatin’ up all of Pete Gonyer’s haystack; so the owner paid Pete for his loss and took ’em away. I was glad to see ’em leavin’. I’ve always been a great lover of animals—but I owned a lion onct. His name was Judas.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 15, 1929 issue of Adventure Magazine.

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