Part 1

“THE CURSE OF DRINK”

By W. C. TUTTLE

Author of “The Keeper of Red Horse Pass,” “Three On and Everybody Down,” etc.

THE COWTOWN OF SAN PABLO AIMED TO GIVE A PLAY FOR THE BENEFIT OF PARSON JONES’ CANNIBALS. THOSE ABLE PUNCHERS, PEEWEE PARKER AND HOZIE SYKES, AIMED TO ACT IN IT. THEY DID--QUITE SOME. BUT WHEN THE LAST CURTAIN--AMONG OTHER THINGS--FELL, THE CHIEF WINNER FROM THE RIOT WAS EVELINE ANNABEL WIMPLE.

“Man,” says “Judgment” Jones, “is of few days and full of woe.”

Well, I reckon he’s right. I’m of a cheerful disposition, kinda goin’ through life with a wide grin, tryin’ to see everythin’ in the right light and do well by my feller man; but when Old Man Woe sneaks up behind and swats yuh with his loaded quirt--what’ll yuh have?

“Peewee” Parker says that as long as yuh stick to what the good Lord ordained for yuh to do, yo’re all right. He picked me and Peewee to be first-class cowpunchers, that’s a cinch, ’cause we ain’t never goin’ to be no good for anythin’ else, if for that.

And then there’s “Boll-Weevil” Potts, first name Hank. He’s about six feet six inches lengthways, and with no width to speak of; bein’ built a heap like a single-shot rifle. Hank’s all right, but nature was in a playful mood when she laid out his specifications. And he runs to ears so fluently that he has to wear a six and seven-eighths hat on a seven and a quarter head to keep it from wearin’ the top off his ears. As a distinguishin’ mark, he wears a brown derby.

I don’t hold that any man has a right to wear that kind of a war-bonnet in a cow country. It is jist a invitation to those desirin’ a legitimate target. But Hank owns the No-Limit Saloon, along with the HP cow outfit, and that kinda gives him the right to look kinda doggy, as yuh might say.

Me and Peewee runs the HP outfit for Hank. Peewee Parker weighs two hundred and fifty on the hoof, and he ain’t so awful tall. I’m “Hozie” Sykes, one of the real old Sykes family. My folks was in this country when the Mayflower came over. I’ve heard paw tell about one of his great, great grandfathers, who was livin’ down in Arizona at that time. He heard about this boatload of folks comin’ over; so the old man hitched up his oxen and headed for California. He said the damn’ country was gittin’ overrun with foreigners.

I’m merely tellin’ yuh this to prove my pedigree. Peewee don’t know much about his family further back than two generations, but that don’t hurt his chances to be a good puncher. Owners of cow outfits don’t question yuh much, when yuh apply for a saddle-slickin’ job.

Hank Boll-Weevil Potts married Susie Hightower. Sometimes I look at Hank and know dang well he wishes it was merely an unfounded rumor. Susie weighs two-twenty, and takes after her pa--and that’s takin’ quite a lot. “Zibe” Hightower is somethin’ for to take after. He ain’t very big, but if all the rest of the meanness in the world was give him, you’d never notice the difference in his actions.

Zibe wears flowin’ mustaches, two guns and a scowl. He’s been in the San Pablo range since long before they built the hills and made the cuts for water to run off in, and he says he’ll be here long after it’s all flat land again. Nobody knows how old he is, but I’ve heard him tell how he showed the cliff dwellers how to build their huts.

* * * * *

Everythin’ was goin’ along all right, except for an occasional fight among ourselves or with the town of Oasis, that sink-pot of iniquity to the south of San Pablo, when along comes Eveline Annabel Wimple. Now, I don’t mean any disrespect to a pretty lady. They’re necessary, I reckon. Hank showed me her card, and it says, in real pretty gold letters--Eveline Annabel Wimple, D. T.

I got a good look at her, and I says, “Well, they ain’t so bad to see.”

“What ain’t?” he asks.

“Them D. T’s. I had an idea they was more serpentine, as yuh might say.”

“That D. T. stuff means Dramatic Teacher.”

“Pertainin’ to actin’?” asks Peewee.

“With flourishes,” admits Hank. “She learns yuh stage actin’.”

“I’ve allus hankered to be a contortionist,” says Peewee. “Yuh don’t suppose she teaches yuh how to bend, do yuh?”

“Does that come under the headin’ of dramatic?”

“It shore would, if Peewee ever bent,” says I. “He lays on his back now to pull on his boots. But what in hell is a dramatic teacher doin’ in San Pablo?”

“It ain’t clear to me jist yet,” says Hank “Judgment Jones and her kinda holds several pow-wows, and it’s somethin’ to do with the church. Judgment has been tryin’ to raise money enough to buy himself some fresh pants, or a pulpit or a bell, or somethin’ needful for Christianity. He ain’t flourished yet, as yuh might say. He said he’d have some news for me in a short time.”

“That woman is pretty,” says Peewee. “You better keep away from her, Hank.”

“I’m a married man--and I’m satisfied.”

“Satisfied that yo’re married?”

“Thoroughly convinced,” said Hank sadly. “Oh, it’s all right with me, but when I see a damned old hi-ree-glyphic like Zibe Hightower shinin’ around her, grinnin’ like a Hallowe’en cat, I git hot. I said to him, ‘You ought to have more sense, you danged old shadder of a vanished age.’ And he says, ‘I’m single, ain’t I?’

“I told him he was worse than single--that he was minus one, and he got hot. Said jist because I was happily married, I was tryin’ to keep him from marriage bliss. Marriage bliss! And Mrs. Judgment Jones is kinda on the warpath, too. She thinks Judgment is showin’ this here D. T. woman too much attention. She told Mrs. Zeke Hardy that she knowed Judgment was smitten, ’cause for the first time in years and years he washed the back of his neck. She said the only reason Judgment faces the devil is ’cause he’s ashamed to turn around on account of his neck. Oh, I dunno. The whole town is kinda stirred up.”

“Susie stirred up?” I asks.

“Most always is. She’s learnin’ to shoot a six-gun. Hurt her arm the last time she throwed a flat-iron at me. Them things kinda keep a man active, I s’pose. Some married men kinda git in a rut, but if I ever do I’m a goner. Well, I took her for better or worse, and I shore got it.”

* * * * *

We left Hank to his reveries of a squirshed love, and has a few drinks at the No-Limit, after which we’re unfortunate in runnin’ into Zibe Hightower. He’s wearin’ a clean shirt and he shore smells of perfume.

“Heel-yuh-tripe?” asks Peewee. “Zibe, yuh shore smell tainted. Mebbe it’s ’cause yo’re so old--kept too long, as yuh might say.”

“I smell to suit m’self!” snaps Zibe.

“Exclusive of everybody else. Why all the odor?”

“Ain’t this a free country?”

“With certain limits. You ain’t learnin’ dramatics, are yuh, Zibe?”

“Why not? All the world’s a stage.”

“And that makes us all stage drivers,” says I.

“Yo’re funny,” says Zibe. “Yuh ought to study comedy. Pers’nally, I’ve got the physical assets to make a tragedian--voice, carriage--”

“Squeak and a buckboard,” interrupts Peewee. “Tragedian!”

“I have so. I could do Shakespeare.”

“Shore--in a horse-trade. As far as that’s concerned, I ain’t never seen anybody yuh couldn’t do, Zibe. Yo’re in love.”

“No such a damn thing!”

“How old is she?”

“I ain’t askin’ no lady her age. Anyway, age don’t make no difference; so--sa-a-a-ay, what lady are yuh talkin’ about?”

“The one Judgment Jones is nutty about.”

“That old Scriptural scorpion!”

“He’s here to save yore soul. Said so last Sunday.”

“Well, he don’t need to worry about my soul. I don’t.”

“Yuh would, if yuh had any. Right now all yuh need is one of them little bird whistles to make yuh imitate a flower garden. Man, yuh shore smell like a bed of Sweet Williams.”

“Some day, Peewee Parker, I’m goin’ to hang yore hide on a bobwire fence.”

“Pick yore day, feller, and bring the lady along.”

Not bein’ interested in dramatic teachin’ nor the troubles of married folks, me and Peewee goes back to the HP ranch. We’re dependable and as honest as the average run of cowpunchers. Of course, we don’t cut down no cherry trees, and then run our legs off to tell folks about it, but we git along. As long as the law keeps away from us, we’ll keep away from the law.

That night at supper time, Peewee gits to tellin’ me about one time he acts in a play. I figure he’s lyin’, of course, but a good lie is interestin’. Accordin’ to Peewee, he’s a pretty good actor. He shot six men in this play--two at one shot. He’s one of them pyramid liars--keeps pilin’ one on top of the other. I stopped him before he got too good. I ain’t never done no actin’, but I never seen anythin’ a Sykes couldn’t do; that is, anythin’ that’s honest.

“It took me a long time to git as good as I was,” says Peewee. “I’ll bet I was good enough to git a job in New York actin’ on a stage.”

“You wasn’t a good actor--you was a good shot. All the good actors I ever seen killed ’em with knives.”

“Well,” says Peewee, “I was a good actor. I wanted to kill ’em with knives, but the boss said, ‘You go ahead and shoot ’em, Peewee--knives is too messy.’”

“You never played in Shakespeare, didja?” I asks.

“Nope, only in Dry Lake. This was a home talent show. But I’m good. The stage shore got robbed when I turned my talents to punchin’ cows.”

“Yeah, and for turnin’ yore talents yuh ought to be arrested for cruelty to dumb animals,” says I.

* * * * *

The next day Hank Potts showed up, unfolded from his bronc, and sat down with us on the porch of the adobe ranchhouse. Hank looks kinda shopworn, as yuh might say.

“I came out to rest m’ nerves,” says he. “I’m a actor.”

“What kind of a actor?” queried Peewee.

“Good. I’m the leadin’ man--hee-roo--gits the fair damsel in the end.”

“Who is the fair damsel--Miss Eveline Annabel Wimple, D. T?” I asks.

“Don’t be comical, Horde,” says Hank kinda sad-like.

“Speak--yo’re among friends,” says Peewee.

“It’s thisaway,” sighs Hank. “We held a meetin’ last night. Miss Wimple aims to put on a show for the benefit of the church.”

“And the meetin’ busted up in a fight,” says Peewee, bein’ somewhat of a prophet.

“A discussion,” says Hank. “Miss Wimple has a play of her own, which she desires us to play. Bein’ as she is to furnish the play, train the actors, et cettery, and all that, she’s to receive seventy-five percent of the profits, the other twenty-five percent goin’ to Judgment Jones and his church.

“That started a argument among us. Miss Wimple argues that her play is a dinger, and the only available play in this county, when my wife----”

“She would,” agrees Peewee.

“I never knowed Susie wrote a play,” confesses Hank. “I never knowed a thing about it, until she steps out and says we can have her play free.”

“It would be worth at least that,” says Peewee.

“She calls it--” Hank stops to sigh deeplike--“_The Curse of Drink_. And me runnin’ a first-class rum shop.”

“Mebbe,” says Peewee, “she meant sody water or some soft drink.”

Hank shakes his head. “I read it, Peewee.”

“What’s it all about, anyway?”

“Gawd forgive me for sayin’ anythin’ against my wife, but I don’t know what it’s all about. Miss Wimple read it. Judgin’ from the expression of her face, as she read it, it’s a comedy. Even if Susie don’t think so. I’m goin’ to be Howard Chesterfield, a jockey. I’m the jigger,” says Hank sad-like, jambin’ his derby down over one eye, “what wins the race, saves the mortgage and wins the girl.”

“That’d be worth goin’ a long ways to see,” says I.

“That’s what Miss Wimple said. But we’re short of actors. Susie suggests that we git you two fellers to play with us. But I said neither of yuh knowed the first thing about actin’, and Miss Wimple said that mebbe I was right, ’cause, as she read the play, it needed somebody with more brains than an ordinary cowpuncher has to play them parts.”

“Lemme tell you somethin’!” says Peewee. “I’ve done more actin’ than you ever seen. I was a actor before you ever knowed there was anythin’ but a four-wheel stage on earth; and I never seen any part I can’t play.”

“I ditto all that and sign my name,” says I. “When it comes to play actin’, a Sykes jist falls naturally into the part.”

“This is a hard play to act,” says Hank.

“That’s my meat,” declares Peewee. “I’ve shore bit off some hard ones.”

“Didja ever see a horse on the stage?” asks Hank.

“Well,” says Peewee, “I kinda have, but I never favored ’em.”

“This’n has got to have a racehorse for me to ride. Susie said we ort to have a lot of horses to make up the race, but--I dunno.”

“Yuh might use Tequila,” says I, and Hank kinda shudders. Tequila was a racehorse. I say “was,” meanin’ the present time. Hank bought him off a horse-trader for a hundred dollars. Fastest horse on earth for a hundred yards, and then crossed his front feet. Always crossed his front feet. Worked himself into a lather, looked like a racehorse, ran like a scared coyote for a hundred yards and then--well, Hank kept him.

“Might use him,” admitted Hank. “Got a lotta sense.”

* * * * *

Hank wouldn’t commit himself further, and went back to San Pablo. We don’t hear nothin’ more about it for a couple days, when cometh “Dog-Rib” Davidson, of Oasis. Dog-Rib almost runs Zibe Hightower a dead-heat, when it comes to bein’ mean, and if all the hate in his carcass was laid end to end, yuh could use it for a trail marker from New York to Honolulu.

“I’ve been laughin’ m’self hoarse for two days,” says Dog-Rib. “Them there San Pabloers are goin’ to put on a play-actin’ show, with Hank Boll-Weevil Potts as the big he buzzard of the flock. Calls it _The Curse of Drink_. Haw, haw, haw! Can yuh imagine it? I can’t. I’ve seen shows in my life, I have.”

“You look like yuh had seen plenty, but never had none,” says Peewee. “You shore look to me like a man who never had a show from the start.”

“I’ve allus got along,” says Dog-Rib.

“I reckon all of Oasis will be at the show,” says I.

“Oh, shore. Accordin’ to their epitaphs, every ticket will have a number on it, and the lucky ticket will win Hank Potts’s racehorse. The tickets are one dollar per each, and no questions asked. Alkali and Oasis has shore invested heavy in them tickets. But it’ll be a awful show.”

“It’s about time they asked us in to learn our parts,” says Peewee, after Dog-Rib goes away. “We’ve got to have a little time.”

But by that time the next day there hadn’t nobody showed up to tell us; so we saddled up and went to San Pablo. The bartender at Hank’s place tells us that the actors and actresses are all over at the San Pablo Hall, where the _Curse of Drink_ is to make its showin’, and then he gave us a couple of handbills which read:

WORLD PREEMEER

“THE CURSE OF DRINK”

By SUSIE H. POTTS

A PLAY IN SEVEN ACTS & SOME SEENS

THE CAST:

Eveline Annabel Wimple, D. T. Gwendolyn Witherspoon Hennery Potts Howard Chesterfield Zibe Hightower Simon Legree Limpy Lucas Lord Worthington Mrs. Thursday Noon Lady Worthington Zeke Hardy Uncle Tom Olaf Swenson Jason SUSIE HIGHTOWER POTTS as LITTLE EVA

Presented by Eveline Annabel Wimple, D. T. under the auspices of the San Pablo Church and Susie Hightower Potts.

Tickets are one dollar including a chance on winning the racehorse used in this production.

Don’t miss this chance to see Howard Chesterfield win the big DERBY RACE and see LITTLE EVA go to heaven. Either one will be worth the price of admission.

“When is this here show to transpire?” asked Peewee.

“Tomorrow night,” says the bartender. “Eight o’clock sharp. She’s goin’ to be a dinger, gents. I’ve seen some of it, but from now on, she’s private. I tell yuh, they had a hell of a time gettin’ Tequila up there. Took him up this mornin’. Built a platform plumb across one end of the hall, and they’ve been carpenterin’ and paintin’ up there for three days. If it ain’t worth seein’, I never seen anythin’. Every danged seat in the house is sold.”

“We ain’t got none,” says Peewee.

“Well, yuh won’t git none. They’re all gone. Alkali and Oasis shore bought ’em in quantities.”

* * * * *

Wasn’t that a nice thing to do--sell ’em all out thataway? I shore intended to speak to Hank Potts about it, but he never showed up; so me and Peewee got a gallon of hard liquor and went back to the ranch, brewin’ up a hate against San Pablo. We left word with the bartender to tell Hank Potts what we thought of him and his show.

“Two of the best actors in the country--and they left us out,” mourns Peewee. “Tha’s great. And me, who made Bill Shakespeare turn over in his grave twice in one evenin’ in Dry Lake.”

I’m kinda hazy about things after that. A gallon of Hank’s liquor would make a jackrabbit waylay a lobo wolf. Time don’t mean anythin’ to yuh, and I thought it was the night before, when I realize that Hank Potts is among us, and with him is a beautiful lady. I remember tryin’ to shake hands with her and got Hank’s nose in my hand.

“I’m layin’ my cards on the table,” says Hank. “You fellers said yuh knew how to act, didn’t yuh? In two hours we’re due to lift the curtain, and we’re shy two actors. Zibe Hightower and Zeke Hardy got into a fight, and Olaf Swenson tried to help Zeke, until Susie bent a two-by-four over Olaf’s head. Zeke is plumb out of order, too. For the honor and glory of San Pablo, I ask you to help us out. Hozie, you’ll be Uncle Tom, and Peewee will be Jason.”

“Please, gentlemen,” says the lady. “I am Miss Wimple.”

“I’ll bezzer wife don’ know yo’re out here with thish woman,” says Peewee.

“The curse of drink,” says the lady soft-like.

“If you think I’m drunk now,” says Peewee, “you ought to shee me, when I’m right.”

“Yo’re both too drunk to act,” says Hank.

“Zasso? Who is? Me and Hozie? Say! Feller, I could play all the parts in yore show, includin’ the racehorsh, without any rehearshal--tha’s me. Go and git the horshes, Hozie, ’f yuh please.”

Peewee bowed to me, hit his head on the corner of the table, and wanted to fight Hank for hittin’ him when he wasn’t lookin’. Anyway, we got to town an hour before the show is due to commence. I got me a couple more drinks, which I didn’t actually need, and then they took me up into the hall. The back of that stage is full of actors and actresses, and I remember Judgment Jones shakin’ hands with me and God blessin’ me for helpin’ ’em out.

“The Sykes fambly never ignores a call for help,” I says. “Bring on yore crowd and lemme act.”

I ain’t never played in a show before, but I thought I had. That’s what jiggle juice will do for yuh. I kinda relaxed for a few moments, and when I realized things again, I finds Hank Boll-Weevil Potts and Zibe Hightower workin’ over me with somethin’ that smells a heap like turpentine.

“Keep yore eyes open, Hozie,” says Hank, “they might stick.”

* * * * *

Bein’ in a happy state of mind, I let ’em go ahead, not realizin’ that they was paintin’ me black as the ace of spades. It don’t hurt none, except kinda makin’ me stiff around the eyes. They left me in the chair and went about their business, and pretty soon I finds I ain’t got no shoes on, and my feet are so black they shine. And by that time my face is so stiff I can’t spit and I can’t blink my eyes. All I can do is stare at things.

“In the first act, yuh ain’t got to say a word,” says Hank, “except at the end, where you and Zibe walk out, you say to Susie, ‘God bless yore kind heart, Miss Eva.’ Can yuh remember that, Hozie?”

I kinda nods. Remember? Shore I can remember. If somebody would crack the paint around my mouth, I might say somethin’.

I can hear Judgment Jones out in front of the curtain, explainin’ things, and I hear him tell that me and Peewee has been added to the show. Miss Eveline Annabel Wimple finds me, and she says in a voice what is kinda choked, “Uncle Tom, yo’re goin’ to be a knockout.”

Then along comes Zibe Hightower. He’s wearin’ an old plug hat, long, black coat, which Judgment Jones uses on Sunday, a pair of striped pants and boots. He’s got some big black eyebrows painted up above his scrawny ones and his mustache is as black as ink. In one hand he’s packin’ a blacksnake whip, and he’s seven-eighths drunk.

There’s Susie Hightower Potts, wearin’ a knee-length white dress, and she’s wearin’ more paint than a warpath Apache. Susie weighs two-twenty on the hoof, and she ain’t over five feet tall. Cometh Hank Potts, ready for the fray, wearin’ one of his wife’s polka-dot waists, a pair of tight pants made out of a sheet, and a pair of boots, which he has painted with black enamel. On his head is a little speckled jockey cap, with a long beak.

“Limpy” Lucas is almost in-cog-neeto in a boiled shirt, glasses and Hank’s old brown derby. Mrs. Thursday Noon is wearin’ a necklace of them cut-glass dinguses off a chandelier, a feather fan, and a dress so danged tight that she couldn’t set down without havin’ a accident.

* * * * *

Then cometh a interruption in the shape of Dog-Rib Davidson, Roarin’ Lyons and “Nebrasky” Smith. The two former are from Oasis, and the latter is from Alkali.

“We’ve been appointed a committee,” states Dog-Rib. “We bought tickets in good faith, expectin’ to see a show, but we finds that you’ve done fired two of yore best actors--Zeke Hardy and Olaf Swenson--and we know why yuh ditched ’em. It’s ’cause Zeke used to live in Oasis, and Olaf used to hibernate in Alkali. We hereby demand our money back.”

“No, yuh can’t do that,” says Hank. “We’re ready to start the show.”

“Money or scalps,” says Roarin’.

“Let us arbitrate,” suggests Judgment Jones. “We’ve got two better actors to take their places, and the show will be much better.”

“That’s what you say,” grunts Dog-Rib. “Where’s the proof?”

“How’s it better, I’d crave to know, that’s what I’d crave,” says Roarin’ Lyons.

“Brother, you’ve got a cravin’,” agrees Nebrasky, “and so have I.”