Part 1

Too Much Progress for Piperock

[Illustration]

Too Much Progress for Piperock

by W. C. Tuttle Author of “Law Rustlers,” “The Spark of Skeeter Bill,” etc.

I never seen anything like her before--not alive. One time I found a piece of an old fashion magazine, and there was a picture of a female in that--a female that some feller drawed; but I just figured that it was all imagination with him. I take one look at this live female and then I takes off my hat to the artist.

She said she was an artist. What in ---- anybody could find to draw in Yaller Rock County--except guns--was more than I could see. Me and “Magpie” Simpkins was down at Paradise, setting in Art Wheeler’s stage, when she got on, headed for Piperock.

Art got one look at her and then jackknifed his four horses in trying to turn around and go the wrong direction. Magpie Simpkins never took his eyes off her. Magpie’s old enough to know better, but he didn’t seem to. Art’s eyes don’t foller the road much, with the result that he runs a front wheel off Calamity grade and danged near sends us all to our final destination.

She said her name was Henrietta Harrison. Art pulls up for a breathing spell at Cottonwood Crick, and we stops in the shade of a tree. She looks at the big tree and then she says--

“Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird’s throat----”

“Me,” says Magpie, kinda foolish-like.

“You!” snorts Art. “Tune your merry note! Haw! Haw! Haw! You could ‘lie----’”

“Mebbe you could!” says Magpie, mean-like. “But your wife wouldn’t let yuh.”

“Set down, you ancient he buzzards!” I yelps. “Ain’t yuh got no sense?”

“I don’t understand,” says Henrietta.

“Nobody does,” says I, consoling her. “If we did, we’d know whether to lynch ’em or send ’em to the loco lodge, ma’am.”

“Magpie makes me tired,” declares Art. “Any time he wants to tune his note----”

“It’s my note, Mister Wheeler. If I want to tune my own note----”

“I was merely quoting Shakespeare,” says the lady.

“Giddap, broncs!” says Art Wheeler, and we rocked on into Piperock.

I’ll tell you right here and now; beauty ain’t even skin deep in Piperock. We’ve got wimmin folks--that is, some has--but nobody ever kidnaped any of ’em.

If they belonged to me I’d trust ’em with any man.

There’s Mrs. “Wick” Smith, who jars the hay-scales to two hundred and seventy-five, and wheezes plentiful. Art Wheeler’s better half tasted of life and found it sour, and never got the acid out of her system. Mrs. “Testament” Tilton looks upward for guidance in all matters except when it comes to flattering Testament’s head with a skillet. When Mrs. Pete Gonyer is in sight, Pete’s voice sinks seventeen inches below a whisper. Somebody remarks one day that Pete’s kinda henpecked.

“Henpecked, ----!” says Pete. “Orstrich--if there ain’t nothin’ bigger what wears feathers.”

Mrs. Steele, the wife of our legal light, is six feet two inches tall, and she’s always oratin’ about the sanctity of the home, whatever that is. One cinch, the prize never hands down any decisions in his own home.

Mrs. Sam Holt goes through life worrying about somebody alienating the affections of old Sam, who can barely hear himself yell, and has to eat his spuds mashed or miss the taste of ’em.

There’s the Mudgett sisters, who must ’a’ been the originals of the first cartoon of “Miss Democracy.” Cupid would have to use a .30-30 if he went to work for them. Scattered around the range is a occasional female, but nothing that you’d bet your money on in a beauty contest. Annie Schmidt is cooking for the Triangle outfit, but the same don’t seem to cause any of the other ranches to go short of help.

* * * * *

Henrietta Harrison horns into Piperock. Piperock takes a deep breath. Bad news travels fast, and it ain’t long before there’s a need of another hitch-rack in Piperock. Sam Holt runs the hotel--or thought he did; but Ma Holt got one look at Henrietta and shut up the book.

“Every room is taken,” says she.

“Who by, Ma?” asks old Sam.

“Me!”

“Ma’am,” says Magpie, “I reckon mebbe Mrs. Smith will take a boarder.”

Wick said she would. Wick locked up his store and took the valise in one hand and Henrietta’s elbow in the other, kinda rubbing Magpie and me out. We sat down on the sidewalk intending to speak unkindly to Wick when he came back, but Henrietta came back with him. Wick sets the valise down on the sidewalk.

“Ma said she was goin’ to have company, and won’t have no room.”

“This Summer?” asks Magpie.

“I ain’t no hand to argue,” says Wick.

Pete Gonyer comes over, and Magpie asks Pete about taking a boarder.

“Y’betcha,” says Pete. “Pleasure’s all mine. Mrs. Gonyer’d be plumb tickled stiff. Live all your life with us, ma’am.”

Pete almost stands on his head, bowing and scraping like a ground-owl; but just then Mrs. Gonyer comes down the sidewalk, but Pete don’t see her.

“Pete!” she snaps.

“My ----!” gasps Pete. “The rope broke!”

Mrs. Gonyer looks at Henrietta and then at Pete.

“I run out of horseshoes,” says Pete. “I had to come to the store----”

Pete goes on into the store and Mrs. Gonyer follows him inside.

“I must find a place to board,” says Henrietta, kinda sad-like.

“Eatin’ part’s easy,” says I; “but it begins to kinda look like yuh might have to hive up under that greenwood tree.”

“I’ll take her in before I’ll let her sleep under a tree,” says Magpie.

“You’ll take her in?” says I. “You mean, we’ll take her in, don’t yuh? Half of that cabin is mine.”

“It was my idea, Ike.”

Just then Testament Tilton and his wife drives into town. Testament is a sanctimonious-looking old pelican. He looks at Henrietta, and his lips move, but I know they don’t move in prayer.

“Miss Harrison needs a place to stay,” explains Magpie. “Have you folks got any extra room?”

“Brother Magpie, we have,” says Testament. “We have.”

“Where?” asks Mrs. Tilton.

Testament turns and looks at her kinda queer-like for a moment and then back at us.

“That’s the question,” says Testament. “I thought we had room, but where is it?”

“Well, get out of the wagon,” says Mrs. Tilton, nudging Testament. “Me and you have got to do shoppin’.”

“I think it is an insult,” says Henrietta. “I’ve half a notion to leave.”

“I’ve got a ---- good notion to leave with yuh,” says Magpie.

“Let’s make it a trio,” says I.

“What are you insulted about?” asks Magpie.

“I ain’t so danged particular that I’d mention any one little thing.”

“I came here to recuperate,” sighs Henrietta. “I escaped from every one and went to one country where they would never expect to find me, and I am not welcome, it seems. I thought I might find a new theme in the wild dances of aboriginal tribes. That sort of thing is new and original, I think.”

“I think so too,” nods Magpie. “They sure do dance wild around here.”

“Often?”

“Every time we can find somebody what can call a quadrille. Round dances don’t go very good, ’cause there’s always some woman accusin’ her husband of huggin’ some other man’s wife----”

“I don’t mean civilized dances.”

“Neither do I,” agrees Magpie.

* * * * *

Then cometh “Muley” Bowles, “Chuck” Warner, “Telescope” Tolliver and Henry Peck, the four disgraces of the Cross J outfit. Muley, the poet, is too fat to work. Telescope, the tall thin tenor, is too proud to work. Chuck Warner wiggles his flexible ears, lies fluently to every one, and proves an alibi every time “Jay Bird” Whittaker, his boss, tries to make him work. Henry Peck has kind of a dumb way of going through life, and plays a banjo.

They sees us and don’t lose no time getting off their broncs and investigating. Muley takes a look at Henrietta and swallers real hard. Telescope stumbles over Chuck’s foot and almost falls into her.

“Will you introduce me?” asks Henrietta.

“Well’m,” says Magpie, “Miss Harrison, I makes yuh used to Muley, Telescope, Chuck ’n’ Hen. They’re jist common or ordinary cow-punchers. Cowboys, meet Miss Harrison, a artist.”

“T’ meetcha,” says Telescope. “Mr. Simpkins misinformed yuh, ma’am. My name is Tolliver--one of the Kentucky Tollivers, ma’am.”

“Oh!” says she.

“I’m named Bowles,” wheezes Muley. “One of the Oklahoma Bowles.”

“His paw was a famous man,” says Chuck. “He’d ’a’ been greater, but the posse roped him just short of the State line. I’m named Warner--a name made great by some doctor who built a patent medicine. Pleased to meetcha.”

“Speak up for yourself, Hen,” urges Magpie. “Tell the lady about yourself.”

“I’m named Peck,” says Hen. “I can’t think of any smart thing to say today.”

“I am Miss Harrison. For a reason,” says she, “I am incognito.”

“My ----!” gasps Telescope. “Is that so? I used to know a family of that name. They was Eyetalians--or Mexicans. Good family though.”

“I detest a _nom de plume_,” says she, smiling.

“Me, too,” agrees Muley. “I never had one, but the looks of one was a plenty for me.”

“The lady can’t find a place to live,” says Magpie. “Nobody is willin’ to sleep her.”

They lets this soak in, and then Telescope says--

“What’s the matter with her?”

“Nobody got any room.”

“My trunks will be here tomorrow,” says she.

“Female drummer?” asks Hen.

“I?” says the lady, kinda dignified-like. “I am an arteest.”

“Oh--yeah. Kinda like what, ma’am? Do yuh paint?”

“I dance.”

“By cripes!” grunts Muley. “We’ll give a dance.”

“I--I am an interpretive dancer,” she explains.

“Oh, yeah,” nods Telescope. “I see.”

“You’re a kindly liar,” says Chuck, “because you don’t see nothin’. Ma’am, I’m plumb ignorant of the word you used.”

“Why--I--er--do nature dances, don’t you know?”

“Nature? Oh, yeah.”

“Oh, yeah,” mimics Hen. “You see just like Telescope did, Chuck.”

“I--er--really, I do not believe I can explain it to you,” says she. “Unless you have seen one done, it is difficult for the lay mind to grasp----”

“That’s a word I’ve been tryin’ to get for years,” says Magpie. “Every time I’ve looked at this Cross J bunch I’ve tried to think of a word to describe their mentality. I thanks yuh for the word ‘lay mind,’ ma’am. Them four snake-hunters sure have that kinda minds.”

“It ain’t the hoochie--” begins Hen.

“It ain’t!” yelps Telescope. “The lady never said nothin’ about muscles. Henry, your horns are gettin’ too long.”

“Clip ’em, cowboy,” challenges Hen. “Start clippin’ and see which one of us gets dehorned first. You’ve got a pretty fair spread yourself. If the lady don’t do that kinda dances it’s her lookout, ain’t it? Yuh don’t need to whoop about it. I noticed yuh down at Silver Bend at the circus----”

“Now have a little sense,” advises Magpie. “You pelicans are too danged anxious to show off before the lady. You fellers spillin’ lead up and down the street ain’t gettin’ her a place to lay her head, is it?”

“If she only wants to lay her head--” begins Chuck; but Muley steps on Chuck’s ankle and shoves him aside.

“Ma’am, I apologizes for my friends. They mean well, but they ain’t got no sense. Now, it appears to me that you are lookin’ for a place to sleep.”

“It took that idea a long time to appear to you, Muley,” says Magpie. “Jist in what shape did you get this here bright vision? I don’t think that Piperock needs any assistance from the Cross J cow-outfit when it comes to housin’ our guests. I’ll take care of Miss Harrison, y’betcha.”

“Can’t she get a room at Sam Holt’s place?” asks Chuck, serious-like.

“Ma Holt,” says Magpie, winking at Chuck; “Ma Holt says that every room is full.”

Chuck wiggles his ears at Magpie and then looks over toward the hotel. Then he grins and says:

“You wait, will yuh? I _sabe_ the cure for that.”

* * * * *

Chuck goes over to the hotel, and in a few minutes him and old Sam comes over to us. Old Sam says--

“Ma’am, we’ve got a vacancy and can sleep yuh fine.”

Chuck grabs her valise, and him and the lady and old Sam beats it for the hotel.

“Now, what in ---- did Chuck do to cause such a condition?” wonders Magpie.

“Chuck lied,” declares Muley. “The son-of-a-gun lied; but what did he lie about?”

Naturally none of us knowed, so we went over to Buck’s place and had a drink. We waited around for Chuck, but he didn’t show up; so me and Magpie went home. I said “home,” but it wasn’t home any more. Magpie got dissatisfied right away.

“Hawg-pen,” says he. “Anybody could tell that hawgs lived here. Lawd never intended for men to live alone this away.”

“You living alone?” I asks.

“You don’t count, Ike. A man like me kinda pines for the soft things of life.”

“Mush?”

“Mush! Naw-w-w! Always thinkin’ of your belly, Ike. A woman don’t mean nothin’ to you.”

“I don’t mean nothin’ to her, Magpie; so it’s fifty-fifty. Have you gone and fell into love again? Why, you danged old gray-backed pack-rat!”

“Age ain’t no barrier to happiness, Ike. It ain’t kind of you to point out a man’s failin’s thataway. Love knows no barriers.”

“Nor nothin’ else, Magpie.”

Magpie Simpkins is about six feet and a half in his socks, and he’s built on the principle of the thinnest line between two points. He’s just got hips enough to hold up his cartridge-belt--if he’s careful. His face is long and his mustaches look plumb exhausted from just hanging down past his mouth. His mind is full of odds and ends that never fit into anything.

A ordinary man in love can be handled, but Magpie ain’t ordinary. Love is quicksand and no help in sight to that _hombre_. I’ve herded him past several affairs of the heart, liver, and lungs, but each time the attack is harder. The D. T’s are a cinch beside what that pelican suffers when the little fat god of love stings him with a poisoned arrow.

Mostly always I hangs a extra gun to my belt and fills my pockets with rocks. Listen to reason? Say, that feller’s ears don’t hear nothin’ but “love, honor and obey”--that, and the church bells ringing.

I went to bed that night, leaving him setting on the steps, talking to himself about the gentle touch of a woman’s hand. I asked him if he remembered the one what “touched” him in Great Falls. There wasn’t anything gentle about that one, being as she took his watch and three hundred dollars. That was another case of love at first sight, and then he went blind.

As I said before, bad news travels fast. The next day is Sunday, but that ain’t no excuse for every puncher from Silver Bend to Yaller Horse to come to Piperock. I don’t think that the Cross J bunch went home Saturday night.

Sam Holt never sold so many breakfasts before in his life. Some of them hair-pant specimens ate two or three times. Muley Bowles comes back to Buck’s place with his belt in his hand, and groans when he tells me that he thinks he got ptomaine poisoning for breakfast.

“You done et three orders of ham and aigs,” says Hen.

“You say ‘ham and aigs’ to me again and I’ll massacree yuh, Hen.”

Magpie comes back from breakfast and acts kinda sad-like.

After everybody is back from breakfast, old Sam Holt shows up. The bunch kinda crowds around him.

“I has to come away,” informs Sam. “Ma’s goin’ t’ feed the strange lady, and she won’t allow nobody in the dinin’-room.”

“Won’t allow nobody in the dinin’-room?” parrots Telescope.

“She has her orders,” grins Sam. “Only one man is allowed to see her.”

“One man?” asks Magpie. “Sam, who is that there man?”

“Why, Chuck Warner, of course.”

“Chuck Warner, of course,” nods Magpie, like a man talking in his sleep.

“Chuck Warner,” wheezes Muley. “Of course.”

“Of course,” says Telescope. “Chuck Warner.”

Then we sets around and looks at each other.

“Chuck Warner?” says Hen, like he was trying to remember somebody by that name.

“Works for the Cross J outfit,” says I. “Kind of handsome _hombre_. You must remember him, men.”

“Oh-o-o-oh, yeah,” nods Telescope, fussing with his gun. “Chuck Warner.”

* * * * *

Magpie gets up, yawns and walks slow-like out of the door. Art Miller kinda saunters out, and then Telescope seems to desire fresh air. Muley kinda groans and starts to get up, but them three orders of ham and aigs has sort of depressed him, and he sinks back into his chair.

He takes out a piece of paper and a pencil and begins to write. You’ve got to hand it to Muley when it comes to poetry. In about fifteen minutes Magpie, Telescope and Art drifts back, and the three of ’em lines up at the bar.

“Here’s hopin’ he breaks a leg,” says Magpie.

“Or splits a hoof,” adds Art.

“Who yuh wishin’ all such luck to?” asks Hen.

“Chuck Warner,” says Telescope. “He’s--Ma Holt wouldn’t let us in, but we peeked in the winder and seen Chuck dancin’ a war-dance for the lady.”

“I’ll dance for her!” says Muley. “I’ll dance Chuck’s scalp for her. Why won’t Mrs. Holt let anybody in?”

“She’s got her orders,” says old Sam.

Just then “Scenery” Sims, the sheriff, comes in. Scenery is a squeaky little runt, and suspicious of everything and everybody. Magpie gets right up, takes Scenery by the arm and leads him outside.

“Now,” says Telescope, “what kind of a frame-up has Magpie got under his hair?”

We hears Scenery say--

“Aw-w-w, is that a fact, Magpie?”

Magpie nods and jerks his head toward Holt’s place. Scenery nods, and they starts for the hotel, with me and Telescope, Art, Muley, Hen, “Half-Mile” Smith, “Doughgod” Smith, “Tellurium” Woods, “Mighty” Jones and Pete Gonyer.

Magpie leads Scenery to a window of the dining-room, and they both peers in. Scenery looks at Magpie, kinda queer-like and nods his head. Then he tries to go in the door, but it’s locked. Mrs. Holt comes to the door and scowls at Scenery.

“You can’t come in,” says she, and starts to shut the door; but Scenery shoves a foot inside and blocks it.

“Mrs. Holt,” squeaks Scenery, “yo’re defyin’ the law. Actin’ thataway puts yuh liable for contempt of court.”

“Well,” says she, kinda dubious-like, “mebbe that’s so, Scenery. I’ll let you in, but the rest of you snake-hunters’ll have to stay outside.”

“We bows to superior intelligence, ma’am,” says Magpie.

In about a minute here comes Chuck Warner with his hands in the air, and behind him marches Scenery with a gun poked into Chuck’s back. Chuck looks at us and says--

“What’s the matter with this ---- fool?”

“Head for the jail!” squeaks Scenery. “Head for the jail!”

“You’re crazy!” wails Chuck.

“All right, all right,” squeaks Scenery. “We’ve both headed th’ same way.”

Henrietta Harrison comes to the door, but Mrs. Holt shoves her back inside and shuts the door.

“Poor Chuck,” says Magpie. “Poor Chuck.”

“Poor, ----!” howls Chuck. “I’m goin’ to kill somebody for this.”

“Gettin’ violent, Scenery,” says Magpie. “Don’t take a chance.”

“I’ll handle him, Magpie. Point for the jail, you scalp-dancin’ idjit.”

Chuck took one look at us, and then headed for the jail, with Scenery trottin’ along after him.

We all went back to the saloon. Pretty soon Scenery comes from the jail, and he’s got a beautiful black eye where Chuck walloped him. Scenery is peeved. Old Judge Steele shows up, kinda ponderous-like, and Scenery explains the whole thing as far as he knows.

“_Loco parenthesis_,” says the judge. “Reverted to sex. I always knowed there was aboriginal corpuscles in his arterial system. He is _non compos mentis_.”

“_Lignum vitæ_,” nods Magpie.

“Exactly,” says the judge. “You stated the case, Magpie. Who is the lady in the case?”

“Name’s Incognito,” says Telescope. “Incognity, _alias_ Harrison.”

“Hah!” says the judge, serious-like. “This will need _finesse_. I shall go over to the hotel and have speech with the maid.”

* * * * *

I reckon he got in in the name of the law, too, but anyway he got in. Me and Muley went out and sat on the sidewalk, when here comes Mrs. Steele and Mrs. Wick Smith.

“Have you seen anything of the judge?” asks Mrs. Steele.

“Yeah,” nods Muley. “He went over to Holt’s to see a lady.”

“Oh!” says Mrs. Steele, looking at Mrs. Smith.

“Men,” says Mrs. Smith, “men are considerable alike, and a judge ain’t no different than the rest.”

“That old cormorant?” explodes Mrs. Steele. “The only difference is--he’s worse.”

“We’ve got to unite,” says Mrs. Smith. “A united front must be showed. Let’s go and talk to Mrs. Tilton before Testament falls from grace.”

They toddles up the street, headed for Tilton’s place. But Old Testament wasn’t home. I reckon he was kinda snooping around, ’cause he comes out from behind Pete Gonyer’s blacksmith shop and walks up to us.

“What was them womin talkin’ about, Brother Ike?” he asks.

“They’ve gone up to hold a war-talk with your wife, Testament. Appears that there’s a united conspiracy against the lady what come yesterday. They’ve gone to warn your wife, I reckon.”

“Love’s labor’s lost,” says Testament, sad-like. “She don’t need warnin’. Where is said lady?”

“Her and Judge Steele are holdin’ a conference over in Holt’s place. Yuh might go over and add your spiritual presence, Testament,” says Muley.

“I might,” nods Testament. “I’m sure ready and willin’ to pass spiritual advice. A man of spiritual knowledge is always needed.”

Testament’s last words were kinda faint, as he was hittin’ the trail to Holt’s front door.

“Paw,” says Muley, sad-like, “Paw wanted me to study for the ministry. Seems like a minister can git into places where a cowpuncher can’t.”

Mrs. Holt met him at the door and let him in. Pretty soon we sees Mrs. Steele, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Gonyer, Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Tilton. They comes down the sidewalk toward us. Me and Muley starts to go into the saloon, but Mrs. Tilton yelps at us--

“Henry Peck, do you know where my husband is?”

“He--he’s givin’ spiritual advice to a lady,” says Muley.

“I suppose Pete Gonyer is measurin’ her for a pair of horseshoes,” says Mrs. Gonyer, mean-like.

“And maybe Wick is tryin’ to sell her a bill of groceries,” says Mrs. Smith.

“I seen Art curryin’ his horses,” states Mrs. Wheeler. “He ain’t curried one of ’em since he owned them four horses--and he greased his boots this mornin’.”

“Here comes Mrs. Holt,” says Mrs. Steele. “Mebbe she brings news.”

Mrs. Holt was all out of breath, and them women didn’t seem inclined to let her get any of it back. Magpie and Telescope comes out of the saloon and moves in close.

“I hopes to die!” gasps Mrs. Holt. “I hopes to die!”

“You’re got a cinch,” says Telescope. “We all have to.”

Them females gives Telescope one gosh-awful look, and then surrounds Mrs. Holt, who gasps out her story.

“She--she’s dancin’ for Testament and the judge--barefooted!”

“No!” declares five female voices at once.

“Yes! Her and the judge has a long talk and I heard ’em. She tells him that Piperock don’t appreciate art.”

“My Art?” asks Mrs. Wheeler.