Part 2

“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.”