Part 3

There’s a light comin’ from somewhere, and I lifts my head to look down at the face of Dog Rib Davidson. One end of his mustache points up and the other points down, one eye swellin’ shut and there’s hair between his teeth.

The light stops beside us, and I look up at Dirty Shirt Jones, packin’ a lantern. Behind him trails that colored curtain, and that’s about all the raiment he’s got. He looks us over by the light of the lantern.

“Who’re you?” asks Dog Rib.

Dirty opens his mouth several times before he says:

“I’m one of the Wise Men who follered a star--but I lost the damn’ thing.”

“Huntin’ for it with a lantern?” I asks.

“I ’member you,” says he, his left eye doin’ a few loops. “You’re the feller who had ticket number eighteen, but I don’t ’member your name, feller.”

“I’m Sandy Claus.”

“Oh, yea-a-a-a-ah!” snorts a voice, and I set up to see Tombstone and his wife. He’s got both arms braced against her to keep her upright. She’s got the seat of a chair balanced on her head, and her mouth is all puckered up in a silly smile.

“Look out for that steer!” yelps somebody, and here comes the danged animal, wild eyed, with a chair hangin’ to one horn. I reckon he got hung up on somethin’ around behind the platform, and jist got loose.

But that steer ain’t mad; he’s scared stiff. He throws up his head like a deer, bawls like a slide trombone, and comes right straight for me, kickin’ busted chairs every direction. Tombstone Todd let loose of his wife and jumped out of the way, and the steer hurdled her. I fell sidewise, as the steer surged past, and grabbed holt of its long tail.

Never do that. I went up in the air, sheddin’ busted chairs, got a flash of that shiny autymobile in the lantern light, and then my head hit somethin’ so hard that all the big and little stars clustered around me. It shore was worth seein’, but it got monotonous after awhile.

Suddenly I hears voices, and all them stars went zippin’ away.

“Put her feet in, dang you! No, I want her all in. I tell you I’m goin’ to take away what I own. Now, you show me how to start her, Dirty Shirt.”

I raised up and looked around. I’m in the back seat of that danged machine, along with Mrs. Tombstone Todd, and in the front seat is Tombstone, with a six-gun in his right hand. I can’t see Dirty Shirt Jones, but I can see the light of his lantern. Mrs. Todd is sprawled out, snoring lustily.

“Y--you--tut--turn that dud-dingus on that dashboard,” sayd Dirty weak-like.

Zee-e-e-e-e! Somethin’ kinda hummed a little.

Mrs. Todd jerked upright, surged ahead and grabbed the back of the front seat.

“My Gawd, I’ve had a nightmare!” says she.

Well, that sudden surge shoved that machine ahead, and it headed right down them two planks. It hit the floor and headed right for the openin’ at the head of the stairs, with Tombstone Todd kickin’ at every pedal with his feet and yankin’ at every lever with both hands.

“Whoa, you locoed son of a tin-can!” he yelped.

Wham! Bam! Rer-r-r-r-r-r-ro-o-o-o-o-o-w!

I felt that machine jerk ahead like a buckin’ horse, and that dark room was filled with lightnin’ flashes, a cloud of smoke and the noise of a machine gun. I tried to jump out at the head of the stairs, but I hit against the side of the opening, and got knocked back on top of Mrs. Todd, who is yellin’ for Tombstone to let her out.

We shot off the top of them stairs in the dark and I don’t reckon we ever touched again until we shot out through that doorway, over the board sidewalk, bounced a couple times in that icy street, made a slight right hand turn jist in time to take every post out from under Buck Masterson’s porch. The street is full of screamin’ people, horses runnin’ away, porch posts goin’ up and comin’ down.

That’s when I lost Tombstone and his wife. The machine whirled around, kinda actin’ bowlegged, righted itself, and about that time it must have hit somebody, ’cause I’m enveloped in a suit of clothes that’s got somebody inside ’em, and all them little stars came back to play with little Ikie Harper.

I’m conscious of a dull crash, and then perfect peace. I open my eyes, but all is darkness. I can hear somebody movin’ around, but I’m not much interested. Then a lamp is lit and I look around. I’m settin’ in what’s left of that prize machine, and behind me is a wrecked doorway. I look around, and there’s Testament Tilton, standin’ beside his pulpit, without hardly enough clothes on to flag a handcar. One eye is swelled shut and his nose looks like a pickled beet.

“We’ll open services with a prayer,” says he solemn-like. “After that I shall endeavor to explain the different scenes of our entertainment. This is Christmas Eve--the evening when peace on earth, good will to men predominates; the evenin’ when all men are meek and mild, and a little child shall lead them.”

* * * * *

I dunno how I got out of there. That busted doorway wasn’t quite big enough, ’cause both of my legs had different ideas of direction. I’m still wearin’ part of that buffalo coat, and a long string of sleigh bells trail along behind me.

I didn’t go uptown. There wasn’t anythin’ up there to interest me; so I cut across to my own shack. I found Dirty Shirt, Scenery Sims and Magpie there, and they’re a fine lookin’ lot of undertaker bait.

I just comes jinglin’ in and rubs my hands over the fire. Magpie look sad-like at me, but don’t say anythin’.

“The steer broke its neck,” says Dirty Shirt. “Jumped through a winder and landed on its head.”

“Araby died in convulsions,” says Scenery.

“And the autymobile went to church,” says I.

“Anyway, we’re all alive,” remarks Magpie.

“Nobody but a damn’ optimist would say a thing like that,” says I. “I hope you’re satisfied, Magpie.”

“Oh, shore. It accomplished what we set out to do. We’ll have a new church and a bell in the steeple.”

I helped myself to their jug, bent myself in the shape of a chair and sat down by the fire.

“Dirty Shirt,” says I, “jist why did you and Scenery start this movement for a new church? It’s a cinch neither of you got religion.

“Self-p’tection,” says Dirty. “That church looked like a saloon. Me and Scenery got drunk and got in there by mistake.”

“Ter’ble,” says Scenery. “Ter’ble mishtake. Won’t happen ’gain, y’betcha. Goin’ to have a steeple and a bell; so she’ll look and shound like that she is. Well, here’s Merry Christmas to all and peace on earth.”

I didn’t have no gun, and my fists don’t seem to be mates; so I took another drink and went huntin’ for the horse liniment, as usual.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 1, 1929 issue of Adventure Magazine.]