Part 4

“The wheel of progress is turnin’, and wo unto him who gits under the tire. The people of Piperock has risen in their might, unleashed their bonds which has held them in darkness----”

_Tunk!_ Wick Smith’s two-by-four ended the speech.

“You didn’t have to blame him entirely, Wick,” says I.

He turns and looks at me, kinda weavin’ on his feet.

“You?” he whispers. “You come bub-back? Where’s my wife?”

“I dunno, Wick.”

“You had her, dang you! I seen you huggin’ her!”

I seen that piece of scantlin’ comin’, but didn’t have flexibility enough to dodge. I distinctly heard it clank against my head, and then I finds myself out in the street again. I can hear a lot of dogs wailin’, and I wonders if I can hear this because I’ve gone to the dogs. Ain’t it funny what a feller will think about in a case like that?

A lot of folks are yellin’ at somebody or somethin’; so I sets up and concentrates on the present. A bullet digs into the dirt beside me, but I don’t mind. I kinda wonders why they’re shootin’ at me, of course. Then somethin’ hooks me off the ground and begins to give me a ride.

I managed to get one eye open and finds that I’m on one end of that hitch-rack, and the motive power is furnished by Gunga Din. They’ve picked me up in the angle between one post and the top-pole, and the friction on that part of me which wasn’t on the pole was somethin’ awful.

Then Gunga Din let out another of them awful bugles, shucked the hitch-rack and headed for Buck’s place again--and hangin’ to the slack skin of Gunga Din’s rear end was Cleopatra. Behind them came Polecat Perkins’ pack of hounds, run to a frazzle, but still able to stagger on and wail plenty loud and long.

Them dogs has run that tiger all night, and it ain’t no wonder that the tiger is huntin’ for somethin’ to climb on to. Right into the wreck of Buck’s place they went, while the crowd, which is located in places of safety, yelled, shot and generally decided that ---- was havin’ a recess.

* * * * *

It’s only about five minutes since East met West, but there has been several things come to pass. Gunga Din has gone back into Buck’s place, tryin’ to get rid of Cleopatra, when here comes Chief Cod Liver Oil, packin’ an old Sharps rifle. The old war-whoop sure must ’a’ been fortified against fear by much flavorin’ extract, ’cause he heads straight for Buck’s shattered entrance, soundin’ his tribal war-whoop regular.

I got to my feet. I reckon they were my feet. There ain’t no feelin’ in ’em, but they hold me up; so they must be mine. An armless man could count all the Harper heroes on the fingers of his hands, but just the same I goes pawin’ toward Buck’s place to see what I can salvage from Gunga Din, Cleopatra and Cod Liver Oil.

I don’t quite get there, when Cod Liver Oil comes out. He came out of there, end over end, missed me about a foot, and stood on his head and shoulders in the street. His Sharps lit just outside the doorway; so I picked it up and went in.

Cleopatra is settin’ on what used to be the end of Buck’s mahogany bar, her mouth wide open and her eyes shut. Gunga Din is standin’ in the middle of the room, with one hind foot on Magpie’s pant-leg, and Sahara is half-in and half-out of a rear window. And every time Gunga Din weaves the whole building shakes.

Dirty Shirt has got to his feet, and there he stands, plumb out of clothes, kinda rockin’ on his feet and grinnin’ foolish.

“Dud-do somethin’!” whispers Magpie. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to do somethin’?”

“Call on the Chamber of Commerce,” says I.

From under a smashed card-table, Wick Smith shoves up his head. He’s got the brim of his hat in his teeth, but manages to work it loose with his tongue.

“I give up,” he wheezes. “I know when I’ve got enough.”

Old Testament is still settin’ on the back-bar, but now he shakes loose and falls into Cleopatra. He kinda takes that big striped cat into a lovin’ embrace, but Cleopatra yowled once, kicked Testament backward and jumped straight at me.

I throwed up that old Sharps, took a wing-shot at Cleopatra and then a great weight settled upon me. I ain’t no fighter. None of my family ever won any diamond belts; but there never was a Harper that wouldn’t fight to save his own life. And I sure went into a clinch with that tiger.

My eyes are too full of dust and pain for me to see just how the battle is comin’. We just kept on fightin’, thassall. Once we got separated and it takes us quite a while to get together again, but we did. I can’t see a danged thing and I don’t reckon Cleopatra can either; so we locates each other by sense of smell.

I dunno how long we fought. Scientists would probably differ as to how long a man and a tiger can fight without one or both of ’em dyin’. I ain’t got no feelin’ left within’ me. I reckon I’m kinda primitive just now, and I fights with tooth and claw. I hears voices around me, kinda cheerin’; so I puts up a supreme effort, as it were, and feels the tiger go limp.

“My ----!” I hears Dirty gasp hoarse-like. “They’re still at it.”

“I licked him--her,” says I.

I ain’t got more than enough breath to say that. And then I kinda passed out.

It seems like I heard somebody say:

“Let him alone, dang yuh! He done jist what I’ve wanted to see done for a long time.”

It was probably quite a some time before I woke up again. For quite a while I can’t figure out just where I am and what’s goin’ on. I seem to be layin’ across somethin’ that heaves and surges a heap. I manages to get one eye open and discovers that I’m on my stummick across a saddle.

Out in front of me and the horse is a queer-lookin’ figure. It’s got on a pair of overalls, which won’t stay up, barefooted, bareheaded. It looks back at me, and I recognize Dirty Shirt by his jiggly eye.

Then I slides off and sets down beside the trail.

“Where we goin’?” I asks.

Dirty comes back and sits down beside me.

“It don’t make no difference, does it?” he asks. “They said that we was mostly to blame; so I took you away from ’em and went away. It wasn’t our fault, Ike; but they have to blame somebody.”

“Magpie was mostly to blame,” says I. “We done the best we could. I dunno what you done, Dirty, but I know I saved Piperock from a lot of heartaches.”

“You sure did, Ike,” says Dirty.

“That critter would ’a’ been the ruination of Piperock.”

“That’s a cinch, Ike. But the worst of it is, you only stops the plague temp’rarily.”

“Thasso?” says I. “I done my best, Dirty Shirt. I wish I had the hide for a souvenir.”

Dirty looks queer-like at me.

“I dunno,” says he kinda sad-like. “A shock sometimes causes a feller to jerk back to his cannibal ancestors.”

I dunno what he’s talkin’ about, but I’m too bunged up to care much, and my face is beginnin’ to crack.

“How in ---- did it finish?” I asks.

“All right, Ike. The animals all hived up in the livery-stable, and Wick Smith sold ’em to Paradise.”

“The ---- he did!” I exclaimed, or as much of an exclamation as I can use in my condition. “And didn’t the Piperock Chamber of Commerce stop him?”

“There was only one to vote agin’ it--and he was too danged near death to even squawk. They never even give him credit for tryin’ to save the tiger. I seen it all, Ike. When you lifted that old Sharps to shoot Cleopatry, Magpie got loose from Gunga Din and fell into yuh.”

“Uh-uh-huh,” says I, feelin’ weak. “And then what did I do to the tiger, Dirty.”

“Nothin’ a-tall. The wheels of progress got to turnin’, and Magpie got under the tire, thasall. In the language of Magpie Simpkins, I wouldn’t be surprized to see Piperock one of the big cities of the world.”

“Well,” says I, “in the language of Ike Harper, whose spirit, liver, lights and gizzard has been busted to make a Piperock holiday, let’s get to ---- out of here, before the place grows too big. I don’t want to even be seen in the suburbs.”

But she hasn’t grown any since.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June 10, 1925 issue of The Blue Book Magazine.]