Part 1

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.