Part 2

I reckon Dirty Shirt has told Magpie about me losin’ mine in that poker game--that is, all except one. I’m wonderin’ if they know the money is to be used to uplift Piperock. Prob’ly not. There ain’t no church in Paradise or Yaller Horse, and if they thought for a minute that Piperock was goin’ to have somethin’ they ain’t got, they’d never bought them chances.

* * * * *

We climbed in at the back of that big platform, and I fell over a ladder. There was more danged carpenter stuff around, and it seemed as though most everybody in Piperock was in there.

“Oh, I’m glad you came, Ike,” says Mrs. Smith. “Poor Wickie had a ter’ble fall.”

“You’ll do fine in his place,” says Mrs. Dugout Dulin, who is six feet six inches tall, and will weigh about a hundred and ten. They ain’t got no bathtub in their house--they use a shotgun barrel.

I’m too full of Christmas cheer to pay much attention, and like a fool I let ’em dress me in a buffalo robe coat, string me with sleigh bells, and try to tell me all about it at the same time.

“No time to rehearse,” pants Magpie, cinchin’ up my belt. “Anyway, you’ll know what to do, Ike. That’s fine! Where’s the whiskers?”

There’s an apparition holdin’ the lantern, and it gradually dawns on me that this is Dirty Shirt. He’s got a white cloth wound around his head, and his figure is draped with one of Mrs. Smith’s front room curtains. And there’s old Tellurium Woods, naked to the waist, with a homemade horsehair wig on his bald head. From his waistline to his boot tops he’s wearin’ a Navaho rug. I begin to see things a little plainer, and my eyes focus on somethin’ that’s hangin’ from the ceilin’.

“Whazzat?” I asks.

“That,” says Dirty Shirt, “is the star of--of--where was it, Tellurium?”

“I dunno the exact location. Pete Gonyer made it for us. Iron star, with a glass front. Put a candle in her, and she looks like somethin’.”

They started to tell me more about it, but jist about that time Magpie and Scenery hooks some sort of a doodad around my chin, ties it off tight in a few places, and I looks down at about three feet of chin whiskers. They kinda shoot out from jist below my lower lip like a waterfall, and they shore smell awful horsey.

“There!” says Magpie. “You look more like Santa Claus than Wick did.”

I try to say somethin’, but I’m whisker bound. I talk through my nose, but I can’t even understand what I’m sayin’. Magpie explains what I’ve got to do. They’ve got a chimbley all built. It’s about ten feet tall, and about three feet square. At the bottom is what looks kinda like a fireplace.

“Here’s your chore,” says Magpie. “You climb that ladder to the top of the chimbley. There’s a ladder built inside for you to come down. Your act is the last on the bill. Up to that time, your chimbley is part of the stable. When we git everythin’ cleared after the next to the last act, we make this up to look like a room in the house. Mrs. Smith will recite a poem entitled ‘It Was The Night Before Christmas’, and while she’s recitin’, you come down the chimbley. There’ll be a Christmas tree, and you’ll have some doojinguses to hang on it, while she speaks. And that’s about all. We aims to show the folks jist why Christmas started; sabe? Kinda show the modern way of celebratin’, jist as a--a extra act, as you might say. Mebbe you better git up there jist before the show starts; so as to be all set. Now, I’ve got to see that the raffle is all pulled off right.”

I got up out of that chair, kinda gropin’ in the dark. I wanted to git that horse’s tail off my chin, so I could talk a little, but that heavy coat and all them sets of sleigh bells prevents me from liftin’ my arms. I’m jinglin’ around, grabbin’ for somethin’ or somebody to support me, when all to once, somethin’ grabbed me by the whiskers and gave an awful yank.

It knocked my feet from under me, but I didn’t fall down, ’cause I was still suspended by the whiskers, and I looked up at the flarin’ nose of Araby, the Scenery Sims camel. The damn’ thing has got me by the whiskers, kinda holdin’ me up at arm’s length, as it were. And then the blamed thing began to swing me around. My neck is jist about to break, when all to once the toggle busts, and I went end over end out through the black curtain, hit the edge of the platform on the seat of my pants, where I ricocheted straight out and landed with both legs around Bill Thatcher’s neck.

There’s a lot of yellin’, but it don’t mean much to me and Bill and his bull fiddle. Willin’ hands separated us, and somebody hauled me back onto the platform, where they yanked me back behind the curtain.

“I’m through Santa Clausin’,” says I. “No damn’ camel is goin’ to use me for a sling shot.”

“Swaller your gorge,” says Magpie. “You ain’t hurt.”

“You take that camel home, or I won’t play with you.”

“We’ve got to have that camel, Ike.”

There’s so much yellin’ out in front that you can’t hear anythin’.

“C’mon with that raffle!”

“Throw Ike out again!”

“Start your show, before we freeze to death!”

Old Judge Steele and Old Testament Tilton went out on the platform. The judge has a sawed off shotgun and Testament has a Bible.

“Peace!” says Testament, holdin’ up his right hand.

“Or-r-rder in the house!” snaps the judge, and cocks both barrels.

“We’ll open with a prayer,” says Testament.

“Show your openers,” snorts Tombstone Todd. “And what’s a lot more, we never came up here to listen to prayers. If you’ve got any prayers to offer, go behind that curtain and offer ’em to Piperock. Ain’t that right, folks?”

“Yea verily,” says Dog Rib Davidson, of Yaller Horse, standin’ up. “I’d like to say a few words. I’ve got ten tickets on that raffle--”

“I’ve got eighty!” snaps Tombstone. “Set down, Dog Rib. I’ve done promised Mrs. Todd that autymobile.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” growls Hank Padden. “Better wait’ll you win it.”

* * * * *

Magpie went out on the platform. He’s got a basket with all the numbers in it.

“We’ll pull off the raffle, Testament,” he says. “No use prayin’ to or for that bunch of horsethieves. No use wastin’ your breath, ’cause the Lord would discount anythin’ you could say good about ’em, anyway.

“I’ve got all the numbers in this basket, folks. I’ll select somebody to draw a number, which will designate the winner. Judge, will you do the drawin’?”

“Not for mine, he don’t!” yelps Tombstone. “Not for mine. You’ve got to deal off the top of the deck to us this time, Magpie. I suggests that my wife draw the number.”

That seemed to suit everybody; so Mrs. Todd waddled up and drew out a number.

It was number eighteen, and you never seen such a scramble to look over tickets. One after another, I hear ’em cussin’ their luck. Tombstone and his wife are talkin’ their numbers out loud, and they ain’t hittin’ nowhere near the right number. The room is kinda still after the countin’ is all done, and when Testament clears his throat, it sounds like somebody tearin’ a horse blanket.

“Who has the lucky number?” he asks. “Who has eighteen?”

Nobody speaks, and I suddenly realize that I’ve got that number in my pocket. It’s the one I couldn’t find when I was in that poker game. I manage to unhook that big coat, and I got the ticket out. It’s number eighteen.

I stepped out on the platform and handed it to Testament, who squints at it over his glasses.

“Ike Harper wins,” he says.

The crowd is kinda dumb over it all. Magpie grabs me by the arm and hustles me back through the curtain.

“I’ve won me a horseless carriage,” says I. “One ticket was all I had.”

“Jist enough to start a killin’,” says Magpie. “Why didn’t you keep that ticket out of sight. Now, they’ll swear it was a brace game, and instead of peace on earth, it’ll be pieces of Piperock scattered over the earth. Scenery, git Testament off the platform, and let’s start the show before they git time to start anythin’. Ike, you danged fool, we swore to Paradise that there wasn’t a ticket held in Piperock. That’s why they spent all their money. Somebody git that quartette to sing. Dirty Shirt, you do it. Tell Muley Bowles to start it. Where’s your whiskers, Ike?”

“The camel done et ’em.”

“Hell! Well, you’ll have to be Santa Claus without the whiskers. No way out of it now. Somebody light the star, will you, Scenery. Will you git Araby set for this scene? Everybody clear off the stage, except Araby and the Three Wise Men. There they go!”

“Ho-oh-lee-e-e-e ni-i-i-i-ight,” wails the quartette.

_Blunk!_

“Si-eye-lent ni-i-i-i-ight,” wails the trio.

_Whap!_

“In the good old sum-mer-r-r-r ti-i-ime,” sings the duet, and then quits.

“Who hit Telescope and Henry Peck?” asks Muley, who sings tenor.

Comes the click of a gun, and then Tombstone Todd’s voice:

“I did! Whatcha goin’ to do about it, you hunk of leaf lard?”

“I’m goin’ to do the best I can without ’em, Tombstone.”

“That’s the spirit,” says Judge Steele. “And I want to warn all of you; this gun scatters pretty bad at fifty feet, but as far as that’s concerned, I don’t expect to hit any _innocent_ folks, no matter who I shoot at.”

“We’ve been lied to,” wails Dog Rib. “They told me that nobody in Piperock owned any chances. I tell you, we’ve been gypped. It don’t stand to reason that one lone ticket--”

“Don’tcha worry, Dog Rib,” says Tombstone. “This ain’t over yet. The Todd fambly never quits! I had eighty tickets, and any old time I spend eighty dollars, I hang around pretty close.”

“You ain’t got no more right to it than I have. Numbers don’t--”

* * * * *

“Ladies and gentlemen, the show is about to begin,” says the judge. “As far as Piperock is concerned, the raffle was on the square, and Ike Harper wins.”

Old Testament steps outside the curtain.

“The first scene,” says he, “is the Three Wise Men in the desert. They see the star of Bethlehem, which is brighter than all the stars. It is so bright that it leads them on. And so they arise and foller the star.”

“Do they ever ketch it?” asks somebody.

But jist then the curtain is drawed back, showing Magpie Simpkins, Tellurium Woods and Dirty Shirt Jones standin’ in single file, with Araby back of ’em. And there’s the iron star, with the candle inside it, hanging up in front of a black cloth.

“And the Wise Men saw the star,” says Old Testament piously. “And they--”

“Um-m-m-m-m--a-a-a-a-ahhhh-oo-o-o-o--o-a-a-a-ah!” grunts Araby.

“And they looked and were much amazed, and they--”

“Hoo-o-o-o-o-a-a-a-a-aw-w-w-w-oo-o-o-o-o-a-a-a-ah!”

“Shut up, you moth-eaten, hump-backed old bum!” snorts Dirty Shirt.

“A-a-a-a-a-a-ah-a-a-a-a-a-aw-hoo-o-o-o-o-oah!”

Araby’s voice was almost a wail now. I feel shore that he ate and swallered my whiskers, and it’s done give him a bellyache.

“And they were much amazed,” repeated Testament, tryin’ to make himself heard.

“Wah-hoo-o-o-o-o-o!” wails Araby.

“They shore sound amazed!” yells somebody in the audience.

“Who in hell said I didn’t win?” yells Tombstone. “That wasn’t eighteen at all--it was eighty-one. I’ve got her right here, boys. My wife’s drawed my number! Here she is! By grab, I win that prize! Yah-hoo-o-o-o-o-o! Ike Harper never won nothin’, the bow-legged sheepherder!”

Well, I never let none of that gang call me names, even when I’m sober; so I steps right out on that platform, with all my bells ringin’, and I grabbed the shotgun out of the judge’s hands.

“Who’s a bow-legged sheepherder, you cross between a tarantler and a polecat?” I yelps.

The only light in the place is that big iron star; and that’s behind me, so I didn’t know where to shoot--but they did.

_Wham!_ A bullet fanned my ear, and down came the star--_ker-plank_!

I ducked down and rolled in behind a corner of the curtain.

“My Gawd!” says an awed voice in the audience. “You shot his head off, Tombstone; I heard it hit the floor!”

Somebody yanked the curtains, and they began turnin’ on the lamps. Magpie took the shotgun away from me and shoved me into a corner.

“This is one of the best shows I ever did see,” declares Hair Oil Heppner. “Two singers done got knocked out, one bull fiddle busted, and a Piperocker minus his head--and this is only the first act.”

“I’ve won that prize,” declared Tombstone. “Jist somebody try to stop me from claimin’ it. Eighty-one wins.”

“I’ve got ten tickets,” says Dog Rib. “If eighteen was the number, I’ve got as much right to have it as you have, Tombstone. I’m from Yaller Horse the same as you and I--”

“You’re _from_ Yaller Horse,” admits Tombstone, “but if you don’t shut up, you won’t never go back there, Dog Rib.”

Dog Rib is settin’ right behind Tombstone. Comes a dull thud, a sort of a scramblin’ noise, and then Mrs. Todd’s voice:

“Git up and take to him, Tombstone. Git up, can’tcha? He hit you with a boot. Did he hurt you, honey?”

“Honey’s in the comb,” says Hair Oil. “You shore do lift and drop a wicked boot, Dog Rib. But you ort to have removed the spur. Common etikette will tell you that it ain’t ethical to pet a man over the head with a loose boot and not remove the spur first. I’ll betcha he’ll part his hair in the middle for a long time to come. Well, the show gits better as we go along, don’t it, folks?”

“The danged murderer’s got some of Tombstone’s tickets!” wails Mrs. Todd.

“You had that boot off all the time, didn’t you?” asked Hank Padden.

“Shore did. How’d you know it?”

“You wouldn’t appreciate my reply, ’cause you live with ’em all the time. Well, let’s go on with the show. What’s holdin’ us back? I paid four bits to see a show, and all I’ve seen yet is small arguments. If all we’re goin’ to do is fight--let’s build up a good one, and then go home.” Magpie hauled me off the floor and led me back, where they’re fixin’ up that stable scene.

“They’re about to do battle out there,” says I.

“That’s fine. If they fight among themselves, they won’t have time to start trouble with us. Climb right up the ladder, Ike. I’ll tell you when to come down, but it won’t be until the next act.”

* * * * *

I started to climb up the ladder, when all at once I seen the rear end of an old red steer below me. The lower part of my chimbley is fixed up like a stall, and they’ve got a mean lookin’ old steer, with jist his head showin’. The rear end is in the clear, but his head is locked tight. On the other side of the scene is that danged whisker eatin’ camel, also caught by the head. They’ve got lanterns to light this scene. I’m pretty sore and stiff, but I climbs up my ladder and sets down on the edge of my chimbley. Anyway, I’m too high up for anybody to bother me, which ain’t such a bad position, but I didn’t realize that I stuck up above the top of the curtain.

Out in front, they’re still quarrelin’, but I ain’t interested. I’ve made up my mind to buy Dog Rib a drink for hittin’ Tombstone Todd. That old steer kinda starts weavin’ back and forth, tryin’ to git his head out, and I’m doin’ a balancin’ act on the top of that chimbley.

“You better calm that cow down there,” says I. “I’m no damn’ canary.”

“So-o-o-o, boss,” says Magpie. “Somebody git behind that damn’ steer with a hunk of two-by-four, will you? Go out and explain this part of the show to them ignorant sheepherders, will you, Testament. They won’t know what it’s all about, unless you diagram it for ’em.”

“Go ahead with your prep’rations,” says Dugout Dulin. “I’ll calm this steer. Whoa, you bald-faced hunk of rawhide. Stop weavin’ or I’ll knock your rear end out of line with your ears. How’re you comin’, Ike?”

“Feet first, if I have m’ choice,” says I, hangin’ on tight.

Testament Tilton’s voice comes to my ears, and he’s shore exortin’ somethin’ about somebody bein’ born in a manger, and the wise men bringin’ gifts.

“That part of it’s all right,” says Mrs. Todd, “but that don’t help Tombstone none. He’s done recited all his mul-pi-cation tables, and that damn’ Dog Rib Davidson done stole over half of his tickets. Ain’t there no law in this place? I’ve been a lady all through these proceeding, but I’m shore goin’ to forget m’ bringin’ up. Git up, honey, and poke him in the nose.”

“Little mul-pi-cation won’t hurt him none,” says Dog Rib. “He don’t know eighteen from eighty-one. He may be honey to you, but he’s shore horseradish to me, ma’am.”

“There ain’t no law against hittin’ a man with a boot, is there, Judge?” asks Hair Oil.

“Not specific, Hair Oil. It may be a breach of etikette.”

“When he wakes up, he’ll kill somebody,” says Mrs. Todd.

“Not with his own gun,” chuckles Dog Rib, “ ’cause I’ve got it.”

“He’ll run you out of Yaller Horse, you sneakin’ thief.”

“Tootms two is eight,” says Tombstone. “Tootms three is--is--”

“Eighteen,” says Dog Rib. “Let’s go ahead with the show.”

“I came out here to explain the scene to you,” says Testament. “Unless you understand what it all means, you won’t know what it’s about. In this scene, we aim to depict and duplicate a scene--”

“What happened to me?” chirps Tombstone, holdin’ his head in both hands. “Where’d all this blood come from? I crave to know who hit me, that’s what I’d crave?”

“Dog Rib hit you, honey,” says Mrs. Todd. “He stole your tickets and your gun.”

“I’ll git your ears for this, Dog Rib!”

“You’ll need ’em to replace the ones I got from you. While you’re at it, you might as well stock up on other parts of m’ anatomy, ’cause when I’m through with you, you’ll need plenty fixin’, Tombstone.”

“Did he git number eighty-one?” asks Tombstone of his wife.

“If I didn’t, I’m shore cockeyed,” laughs Dog Rib. “Folks, I’ve shore pulled the fangs out of this old sidewinder. He’s bossed Yaller Horse jist as long as he’s goin’ to. From now on, Dog Rib Davidson is--

Dog Rib is standin’ up to make his proclamation, when Telescope Tolliver, barytone of the Cross J quartette, flung a chair halfway across the room at Tombstone, and hit Dog Rib right on the head. Dog Rib shudders, folds up like a hat rack and disappears behind Tombstone Todd’s chair.

“Si-eye-lent ni-i-i-i-ight,” sings Telescope, startin’ in where he left off when Tombstone knocked him out.

“Set down!” snorts Muley Bowles. “We’re three murders and a homicide past that song, Telescope. Set down, before somebody kills you. This here peace on earth stuff means to keep down and protect your own head.”

“And Tombstone Todd still bosses Yaller Horse,” grunts Tombstone, as he helps himself to Dog Rib’s gun and his own, while Mrs. Todd recovers most of the tickets.

I can see and hear all this from my perch on top of the chimbley, where I’m swayin’ like a jaybird on a limb.

“Git ready to yank the curtain,” says Magpie. “Put all them lanterns inside the manger. Makes it look better. Somebody blow out the lights out in front.”

“Somebody calm this here bo-veen, will you?” I asks. “I’m gittin’ seasick.”

* * * * *

I see the lights go out over the audience, and then I hears the curtain go rattlin’ back. Every bit of light from all them lanterns is reflected upward, and there I set on that swayin’ chimbley top, like an illuminated buffalo coat, decorated with brass sleigh bells, which are jinglin’ every time that restless steer weaves back and forth.

I’m gittin’ so dizzy I can’t look down, and the rest of the world is all black to me.

“It’s Ike Harper,” says a voice out in the crowd. “The catspaw of Piperock!”

“Don’t shoot, Tombstone! You might be mistaken!”

“I’d know him among a million. Don’t jiggle m’ arm.”

“Stand still, you bald-faced oreano!” yelps Dugout Dulin, and then I hears the splat of that two-by-four across the rear end of the old steer. _Wham!_

That bullet picked off one of my numerous sleigh bells and sent her jinglin’ up among the rafters, and I let loose with both hands. It wasn’t quite the longest fall I ever had, and I lit sittin’ down, for the simple reason that the chimbley kept me from turnin’ over.

But I didn’t reach the floor. That old steer’s withers was between me and terry firmy, as you might say, and I lit a-straddle of ’em. I reckon I lit jist ahead of Dugout’s next attempt to pacify the steer from behind, and we was both goin’ ahead at the impact.

My nose and chin knocked the front out of that fireplace, and we came right out into that manger. I seen one horn of that steer hook into Dirty Shirt’s curtain, and he seemed to kinda open up, like a newspaper in the wind. It must have scared Araby, ’cause in what short time I had, I seen that old camel’s shoulders and hump comin’ out through the wall, and the camel’s mouth was wide open in a perfect “O”, like somebody tryin’ to blow smoke rings.

“Hook’m, cow!” screams somebody out in that dark audience, and that steer starts sunfishin’ right across that platform, headin’ for the audience, head down, tail up, and foghorn blowin’, while behind us comes Araby, kickin’ at everythin’ in sight, but follerin’ me and the bald-faced steer.

It’s about eight feet drop to the floor off that platform, and I’ve got both knees locked right behind that steer’s horns, when the fall started. I gets a flash of Paradise and Yaller Horse and Piperock, goin’ backwards over their seats in the dark, and then we landed.

It shore was one awful jolt, but you can’t discount the Harper fambly, when it comes to bulldoggin’ a steer. I took that animile to the floor in one blaze of glory, as you might say. There’s only a few shots fired. There was two fired close to the ceilin’, and I think it’s Judge Steele up there with his shotgun, judgin’ from the sound of it. He was right in the path of Araby the last I seen of him.

I’m pretty much shook to pieces, but I still retain my fightin’ instinct, and I got that steer by the horns, holdin’ his head close to the floor. We knocked over all the chairs in reach, both of us growin’ weaker and weaker as the battle progressed.

Finally the steer said--

“Well, damn you, hold my arms, but git your hair out of my mouth!”