Part 1

THE CATSPAW OF PIPEROCK

By W. C. Tuttle

Ike Harper and Dirty Shirt Jones return in a hilarious story of the Christmas Season

Dirty Shirt Jones and Scenery Sims got religion. That in itself ain’t of much interest, unless you knew these two. I’ve knowed lots of men who got religion jist like Dirty Shirt and Scenery got it. Remorse, that’s what she was--not religion. Too much liquor on an empty stummick. I’ve felt the error of my ways from the same cause.

Dirty Shirt Jones wasn’t very big. His face was kinda antegodlin’, and one eye sorta roamed around indefinite-like, usually comin’ to rest with the pupil lookin’ down the length of his nose, as though amazed at the crookedness of said organ. Dirty Shirt had some quaint ideas of humor, and as far back as I can remember, he’s harbored a deadly hatred against the towns of Yaller Horse and Paradise. Bein’ a loyal Piperocker he couldn’t do otherwise.

Scenery Sims is smaller than Dirty Shirt. He’s a hard little devil, this here Scenery Sims, almost bald, square above the ears, with eyes like a pair of faded shoe buttons, one flarin’ ear--and a sense of loyalty to Piperock.

It’s December in Piperock. There’s only one tree between Piperock and the North Pole, which don’t noways temper the wind to the shorn lamb. Piperock ain’t no metropolis--but, gentlemen, she’s a town. We sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish together. As Magpie Simpkins says, “We’re one and indigestible.”

Me and Dirty Shirt have been tryin’ to wrest some wealth from the bosom of Mother Nature on the headwaters of Plenty Stone Creek, but the weather drove us back to the fleshpots, where we’re doomed to spend the rest of the winter. I’ve been spendin’ two days against a stove, tryin’ to git some heat inside my frozen carcass. When I does pilgrim uptown, I finds old Dirty Shirt settin’ on the sidewalk in front of Buck Masterson’s saloon. He’s humped up there, with his old mackinaw collar above his ears, hands shoved down inside his old yaller angora chaps, settin’ there in the snow, the thermometer below zero--and right behind him is the saloon, where boot heels are sizzlin’ against the old base burner, and water gittin’ hot for the next round of drinks.

* * * * *

Magpie had told me that Dirty and Scenery were paralyzed drunk the day before, and I had a hunch that Dirty had froze to death. But he wasn’t dead. His active eye does a few loops, steadies down to a strained contemplation of that crooked nose, and he says to me--

“The way of the transgressor is pretty damn’ tough, Ike Harper.”

“All depends on how heavy your underclothes are,” says I. “How about a shot of hot liquor?”

“Strong drink is ragin’, Ike.”

“So’s the thermometer.”

“I’m repentin’ of my sins.”

“Well, you’ve shore got a long hard season ahead of you, Dirty Shirt. Where does it hurt you worst? You ain’t done got religion, have you?”

“My sins are heavy among me, Ike. I’ve shot and slashed and cut and cussed pretty much all m’ life.”

“Not countin’ horse and cattle stealin’, card markin’ and other forms of malignant sins,” I reminds him. “But freezin’ to death ain’t goin’ to wipe ’em out none to speak about. Why not try goin’ to the penitentiary for life?”

“Wouldn’t pay me out, Ike; I’m half through livin’ right now. Me and Scenery got it together. He’s repentin’ in sackcloth and ashes right now.”

“Yea-a-ah--but I’ll bet he ain’t sucker enough to freeze along with ’em.”

“Old Testament Tilton told us--”

“You ain’t takin’ his word for it, are you, Dirty?”

“He’s our preacher, ain’t he? Me and Scenery went to church.”

“How in hell did anybody ever git you two in church?”

Dirty’s eye wobbles a lot, but pretty soon she jerks back to attention.

“They ain’t got no bell,” he says kinda sad-like. “No bell on the church. Don’tcha know it’s a shame--no bell on the church. Fact of the matter is, it don’t look like no church. It’s a shame for a place to not even look like a church. I tell you I’m goin’ to do somethin’ for that church. I’m goin’ to fix her up so she’ll look and sound like a church.”

“What’ll you use for money?” I asks.

“I’ll sell my horseless carriage to the highest bidder.”

I laughs through my chatterin’ teeth.

“Scenery might sell his camel,” says I, merely as a suggestion.

That camel was always a sore spot with Dirty Shirt. Him and Scenery owned a placer mine back on Dog Town Creek, and they cleaned up about fifteen hundred dollars, before the little pay streak played out. Durin’ that time, Dirty discovered a stretch of pretty good lookin’ quartz, and him and Scenery decides to work it. They needed machinery; so Scenery takes his share of the money and heads for Butte to buy the machinery.

In about a week he shows up, half drunk, leadin’ a moth-eaten camel. It seems that he got drunk in Butte, got in an argument with a feller over how long a camel could go without drinkin’, bought a camel from a travelin’ carnival and came back to prove he was right.

Naturally, Dirty Shirt got awful mad. He busted up his partnership with poor Scenery, bought Scenery out for fifty dollars, and went to Butte himself to get the machinery. And then he came back, trailin’ an old automobile behind a pair of misbegotten mules. He had got drunk, bought six hundred dollars’ worth of chances on a raffle--and won the danged thing.

It was the second automobile to ever come to Piperock, and a vigilance committee waited on Dirty Shirt right away; so Dirty stored it in the Piperock Livery Stable, where it couldn’t scare anythin’. Scenery kept his camel out at his shack, and put a warnin’ on the gate, which read:

BEWAIR THE CAMUEL THE DAMN THING BIGHTS.

Scenery called it Araby. The danged thing smelt like a street in Frisco Chinatown, and it would bite. Acted most of the time as though it had a bad bellyache. The vigilance committee also warned Scenery to keep his menagerie off the main roads, ’cause every bronc that saw it throwed a fit and its rider at the same time.

Anyway, Dirty Shirt wouldn’t come in out of the cold; so I left him there and went into Buck’s place, where I finds Magpie Simpkins, Buck Masterson, Wick Smith and Old Testament Tilton, all settin’ around the old stove. While Old Testament is our minister, he’s broad minded, six feet six inches tall, and no man ever had a more “if I die right now you won’t hear a squawk out of me” expression on his face. Accordin’ to him, there ain’t no livin’ man knows more about hell. Magpie says Old Testament will prob’ly git a job as a guide down there, after he’s dead.

* * * * *

Magpie Simpkins is and has been my pardner for years. He’s as tall as Testament, wears a flowin’ mustache, and is a livin’ example of a man who never did mind his own business. He thinks his mission in life is to elevate humanity. His brain is filled with wonderful ideas, but each and every one is shy some sort of a dingus that makes ’em tick. But he’ll back any of his ideas with a six-gun or a neck yoke, when all else fails.

Wick Smith is a retired killer. He still retains the disposition, plus a walrus mustache and some bunions. He runs the Piperock Merchandise Company, and agrees with his wife, who scales two hundred and sixty. Buck Masterson was suspected of many things, before he settled down to runnin’ a saloon. He ain’t so tall, but he’s got plenty waist, big shoulders and skinny legs. On the Fourth of July he wears a collar, and on Christmas he adds a necktie to same.

Them four pelicans is plannin’ somethin’, I can see that right away; so I backed out and went home. I’m scared of them fellers, and when they git to plannin’ anythin’ I want to be outside their plans. Magpie didn’t say nothin’ when he came home, but he’s got somethin’ on his mind, and I seen him sneakin’ a few peeks at a little black book.

“Whatcha got there?” I asks, but he don’t answer.

But I sneaked it out of his overalls pocket that night, and it’s a Bible. I’ve knowed Magpie to have most everything else, but this is his first time to pack a Bible. I didn’t say anythin’, but I got all set to listen to mornin’ prayers. Mebbe he wasn’t that far gone, ’cause he didn’t pray, but he did mention that fact that Dirty Shirt Jones had turned over a new leaf and bid fair to become a valuable citizen of Piperock.

It was the followin’ mornin’ after that, when I went up to Buck’s place. I knowed I had twenty dollars in my pocket; so I invited those present to partake with me, which they did with cold weather alacrity, as you might say. Magpie was one of the elect. But when I dug deep for my twenty, my gropin’ hand encounters a lot of hunks of cardboard.

I took out a handful and looked ’em over. They’re about two inches square, with a pen and ink number on one side, and on the other is written:

Good for one chance.

I dug once more, but there ain’t no money in my pocket. Buck looks at me kinda dumb-like, and I says softly--

“Charge this up to me, Buck--until after the funeral.”

“No hurry,” says he.

I counted them tickets, and I’ve got twenty. Magpie smoothes his mustache and watches me in the back bar mirror. Then he clears his throat and says--

“It’ll be somethin’ we’ll all date time from, gents.”

“To me,” says I, “it’ll be jist a justified killin’, you long geared pickpocket. You took that twenty out of my pocket and put in them numbered cards.”

“Blessed be the meek,” says Old Testament.

“Meek be damned! I want my money. What are these chances on, anyway?”

“Scenery Sims’ autymobile,” says Buck. “It cost a thousand, new. If you can win it for twenty dollars--”

I blowed right up, but Wick Smith cramped my gun hand and tried to explain:

“It’s to build a new church and buy a bell. It means advancement for Piperock. Here’s Old Testament, grown as gray as a jackrabbit, tryin’ to chase the devil away from us. He’s been a long laborer in the vineyard of the Lord, and we’ve got to show our appreciation. Our church don’t look like a church. There ain’t no bell. Your twenty will do more good where it is right now than over Buck’s bar.”

“You don’t need to git so damn’ enthusiastic,” growled Buck. “I’ve gotta live, ain’t I?”

“That’s all fine,” says I, “but I don’t never go to church. I’m master of my own soul, and I don’t need no sky pilotin’. I wouldn’t give twenty dollars to that church, even if they’d give me Testament’s hide and taller as a bonus. And that was the only twenty dollars I had left.”

“It is better to give than to receive,” says Testament. “Just remember that Dirty Shirt is donatin’ that autymobile, free gratis for nothin’. There’s a lot of tickets bein’ sold in Paradise and Yaller Horse, and the grand drawin’ is to be held at the Mint Hall on Christmas Eve. We’re goin’ to give the best entertainment that’s ever been given in this country.”

“I don’t care,” says I. “I won’t be here.”

“You’ll be here,” says Magpie. “As one of the local donators, you’ll be here to see that it’s a success.”

* * * * *

I walked out of there and went down to Dirty’s shack, where I found Dirty and Scenery. They’ve got a bottle and a warm fire.

“How’s religion?” I asks, as I imbibes about the full of a mule’s ear.

“To’able,” says Scenery. “Day after t’morrow is Christmas, usually spelled with an X. Know why they spell it thataway, Ike? The X marks where the body fell. Me and Dirty Shirt are gettin’ organized.”

“I thought you fellers had religion.”

“We did have,” nods Dirty.

“Oh, we need a reg’lar church,” says Scenery. “We need one that you can see and recognize. That danged church we’ve got now looks like a saloon. I’ll leave it to you, if it don’t. We need one with a belfry.”

“We do,” agrees Dirty. “Oh, we shore do. The present one is a shame and a disgrace. I’m doin’ my part, ain’t I? They’re rafflin’ off my autymobile.”

“Will the danged thing run?” I asks.

“Shore will. It’s got gas’line in her, and all you’ve got to do is twist the crank. Run? My Gawd, that thing’ll rear right up and paw the sky. Stands me five hundred on the hoof right now. They’re goin’ to put planks on the Mint Hall stairs and run her into the hall, where all may gaze upon same.”

“And I’ve donated Araby,” says Scenery, grabbin’ for the bottle.

“They ain’t goin’ to raffle that thing, are they?”

“They shore ain’t! Raffle Araby? Huh! Nossir, they ain’t. I dunno what they want Araby for, but I’ve done made the loan to Magpie and Testament. I reckon the camule is part of the entertainment. I hope he don’t eat an arm off somebody--unless they’re from Yaller Horse or Paradise.”

* * * * *

I stayed all night with them two public spirited men, and the next day I’m so filled with remorse that I almost got religion. Along about midnight Dirty went out to git some wood, forgot to shut the door, when he came back, and when I woke up in the mornin’ I had one frozen ear.

I asked Magpie what the performance was to be, and he asked me if I knew what Christmas was all about. I said it was a time when folks traded shirts, as far as I could understand. He said for me to attend, and I’d learn what it was about. I told him I thought I would, bein’ as it had already cost me twenty dollars. I went down to Paradise that afternoon, and almost froze my other ear. Paradise town is about the same size as Piperock, but if all their morals were laid end to end you’d have to use calipers and a magnifyin’ glass to measure ’em.

I finds Tombstone Todd, Hair Oil Heppner and Hip Shot Harris over from Yaller Horse, and if there ever was an unholy trinity, these are it. Tombstone tries to question me a lot about our festivities, but I don’t respond very much, ’cause I don’t know enough about it myself.

“Peace on earth!” snorts Hip Shot. “Good will toward men! Does that mean men from Piperock? I’d crave to know about it, that’s what I’d crave?”

“It means _men_,” says Hair Oil. “That natcherally cuts out critters from Piperock. I heard the same thing, Hip Shot. Magpie Simpkins and his misguided cohorts aim to kinda soft soap us fellers. I know him of old. His dove of peace usually turns out to be a chicken hawk. I won’t go up there at no danged Christmas time.”

“Piperock will be glad about that,” says I. “They sent me down here to find out how many of you ain’t comin’. I’ll mark Hair Oil off my list.”

“Mark me off, too,” says Hip Shot.

“You’re off. How about you, Tombstone?”

“I’m comin’. Like a danged fool I bought ten tickets on that raffle, and I attends to see that no skulduggery is practiced.”

“If you ain’t there, your tickets ain’t legal.”

“Mark me back on,” says Hair Oil and Hip Shot together.

“There’s bound to be skulduggery,” adds Hair Oil. “I p’tects my dollar.”

Over at Hank Padden’s saloon I finds ’em playin’ poker, usin’ tickets as legal tender, and only bein’ discounted fifty per cent. I got into that game and lost nineteen tickets on the first jackpot. I’d have lost twenty, but I’d misplaced one of ’em, and didn’t find it until I was halfway home. Old Tombstone Todd won ’em all from me.

Paradise has always wanted that autymobile, and as far as I can see, most of the town are comin’ up to our shindig. Paradise can’t get along together well enough to ever pull off a celebration; so they’ve got to git outside their own limits, if they ever want entertainment.

* * * * *

I didn’t go uptown that evenin’, but stayed at our shack. Magpie wasn’t at home, and I knew he was as busy as a rat-tail bronc in fly time. He’s always the movin’ spirit in Piperock, and up to the present time, I’m the sacrificial goat that you read about in the Bible. But not this time. For once in his life Ike Harper, Esquire, is goin’ to set back and let somebody else be the burnt offerin’.

About nine o’clock that night Dirty Shirt comes down to my cabin.

“Do you want to re’lize on them tickets you got, Ike?” he asks. “We’ve plumb run out of cardboard, and the market is good in Paradise. I can git you jist what you paid.”

“I’ll ride on what I’ve got,” says I, kickin’ myself for that poker game. “I may win that machine myself.”

“Don’t be a danged fool, Ike. It ain’t got no brakes. Why, the whole thing is loose. Anyway, you can’t run it around here. Let Paradise or Yaller Horse have it. They won’t live long enough to enjoy it much.”

Then I told him about the poker game. I’d found the other ticket, but one ticket wasn’t worth botherin’ about.

“You’re the only person in Piperock who has a ticket; so I reckon the town is safe for democracy. We’ve done collected enough to build the new church, and the admission fees will hang a bell on her.”

“Why are you and Scenery Sims so interested in havin’ a new church?”

“The other one is a disgrace, Ike; it looks like a saloon. Well, I’ve got to go back and rehearse.”

“Rehearse?”

“Shore. I’m one of the Three Wise Men.”

“Who’r the other two?”

“Magpie and Tellurium Woods.”

“Yeah, you better go back and rehearse, Dirty Shirt. You three jiggers will shore need a lot of rehearsin’ for a job like that.”

“The Cross J quartette will sing. And Bill Thatcher’s orchestry will render plenty.”

“Well, that isn’t anythin’ to git excited about. There’s a lot of things I’d rather hear than Telescope Tolliver, Muley Bowles, Chuck Warner and Henry Clay Peck singin’. They’re awful, but they ain’t as bad as Thatcher’s orchestra, accordion, bull fiddle and a jew’s-harp, playin’ ‘Sweet Marie’. I ain’t finicky about m’ music either.”

“The rest of it’ll be good, Ike. It’s a specktickle. Livin’ pitchers, as you might say. Well, I’ve got to go back. We’re puttin’ the autymobile up into the Mint Hall, and we’ve got to cut out the side of the wall at the top of the stairs. We’ll elevate the machine up on a couple saw horses, where everybody can look her over. Goin’ to run her up on planks, with a block and fall.”

It shore was a good lookin’ machine, all fancy with shiny paint and brass dinguses. We never had but one other machine in Piperock, and somebody put dynamite under that one. Yaller Rock County is a horse country.

I don’t reckon that machine would do very well in Paradise. But them Paradise and Yaller Horse folks will buy raffle chances on anythin’. They are so danged crooked themselves that they think Piperock is goin’ to pull a crooked deal on the raffle. And me with the only ticket in Piperock! I don’t know what the odds are against me, but if they’ve already got enough money to build the new church, them Paradisers and Yaller Horses has shore dug deep in the old sock. But it’s all right with me--I’m lookin’ for competition. I don’t want the danged machine. I’ve got a horse and a burro, and that’s plenty rollin’ stock for one man in my position. I ain’t even goin’ to the entertainment. I’m goin’ to stand Buck off for a couple quarts and spend a quiet evenin’ beside my own fire.

* * * * *

Well, I got the couple quarts all right, and I packed plenty wood into the old shack for the evenin’. Then I put my gun on the table beside me, declared plenty peace on earth, good will toward all men, and settled down to enjoy life. Once in a while I can hear a few shots fired uptown, but nothin’ to speak about. Christmas is usually quiet thataway, and mostly always it’s so danged bitter cold that it freezes up the grease in a six-gun so badly that you can’t shoot it outdoors. Most of our killin’s are done indoors durin’ the winter months.

I’m setting there by the fire, kinda dreamin’, when all to once the door flies open and there is Magpie and Tellurium.

“Merry Christmas,” says Tellurium. “Git on your hat, Ike.”

“I don’t wear no hat in the house,” says I, reachin’ for my gun, but Magpie beat me to it. Without that gun, I’m outnumbered.

“Here’s the whole thing in a nutshell, Ike,” says Magpie. “Wick Smith fell down the chimbley durin’ rehearsal a while ago, and he busted his collarbone. You’re the only man who can take his place on short notice. Git your hat.”

“Nothin’ less than murder will git me up in that hall,” says I. “Right now I’m filled with the milk of human kindness, but don’t agitate me. All I crave is to be left alone.”

Well, they both talked with me plenty, and like a fool I let ’em lead me uptown. I don’t know what they want of me, but what chance have I got against two men, both bigger ’n I am, and three guns? If Wick Smith, sober, fell down and busted his collarbone, what’ll happen to me? Gravity is somethin’ I ain’t never found out how to defy, and if there’s any rubber in my system, it shore crawls to the upper side every time I fall off anythin’. I pleads a plenty, but it falls on deaf ears; so I resigns myself to fate, reservin’ the right to kill both of ’em as soon as I git around to an even break.

They leads me up to the Mint Hall, where everybody in the world is congregated, and takes me around to the rear of the big platform, across the front of which is stretched a big black curtain. They’ve shore cut a big hole in the side of the wall to git that autymobile through, and there she sets on a couple saw horses and some heavy planks. They’ve got the old hall decorated with green branches, and the orchestra is already murderin’ “Sweet Marie”, playin’ it in jig time. After while they’ll play it for a march, play it for the openin’ hymn, and then change the time for the first waltz. I looks over the assemblage with fear and tremblin’. There ain’t a paid murderer in the whole gang-- They do their stuff for nothin’.

“Thank Gawd, there ain’t no Piperocker ownin’ any tickets on that raffle,” says Magpie. “If Paradise or Yaller Horse don’t win that autymobile, it’s ’cause they’ve lost the right ticket.”