Part 2

“I don’t know. Lemme talk, will you? The judge said he longed for the day when Piperock would become the greatest place on earth, and he said she had a good start right now. This here female opines that we’re fifty years behind the times. She asks him why folks don’t wake up around here. The judge says they’re just waitin’ for the right person to come along and set the alarm. She says she’s the greatest dancer in the world.

“She wants to show off, but the judge says that all Piperock ain’t as intelligent as he is and mebbe they’d not see things in the right light.

“Then Testament Tilton comes in. The judge introduces them two, and explains about her bein’ the greatest dancer on earth. Testament Tilton says he’s originally from Missouri. Then he laughed like a danged hy-e-ner. I don’t like to say that about a preacher, but----”

“Speak your mind, sister,” says Mrs. Tilton. “I like your description.”

“Well,” continues Mrs. Holt, “I had to go away for a few minutes, but when I got my eye to the crack of that door again I hears the judge sayin’--

“‘Testament, I reckon the rest of the country will kinda set up when we lets ’em know that Piperock is going to exhibit the greatest dancer in the whole danged world, eh?’

“Then Testament says:

“‘Brother Steele, you’ve said a lot in them few lines. Your idea of givin’ this under the auspices of my church is goin’ to make a hit with the womin folks. That takes the curse off.’

“Just then this here female shows up--barefooted.”

Mrs. Holt stops for breath.

“Can she dance? asks Mrs. Smith, wheezin’ quite a lot.

“Well--” Mrs. Holt looks around at us, and swallers real hard--“well--Mrs. Smith, I reckon we better go over to your house to tell the rest of it.”

They went across the street like they was afraid they’d get wet.

“I’ll never eat another meal in Sam Holt’s place again,” declares Muley. “I’ll get even with her by boycottin’ her husband.”

“I’m goin’ home,” says I. “The peace and quiet of Piperock is about null and void, and I need solitary communion with my pet hunch. Somethin’ tells me that all is not well. In fact somethin’ tells me that all is not only not well, but in danged delicate health.”

Nobody can read Piperock’s mind, but I’ve seen disaster come and go, and my personal prognostications are about on a par with a weather man prophesyin’ fair and warm in Death Valley.

* * * * *

I’m cookin’ supper when Magpie shows up, and the blasted idiot is grinning from ear to ear. He pours coffee over his potatoes and puts sugar on his bacon and then begins to talk.

“The rhythm,” says he, “the rhythm of nature is a wonderful thing, Ike.”

“Yes,” says I. “It must be.”

“The breeze of Spring; the waving of the branches of a tree. True poetry, Ike. The human form divine is the only thing capable of expressin’ these here e-motions.”

I takes out my gun and puts it beside my plate.

“Magpie, there’s a curse on you, and you might as well spill it all now. I’m not interested a danged bit, but any old time you starts out bobbin’ from flower to flower I knows what’s comin’. Spread your hand.”

Magpie smiles at me and then shoves back from the table.

“Ike, here’s where we jump fifty years ahead of Paradise and Curlew. We has hung to the old order of things too long. We has become moth-eaten and stale. Don’t yuh know we have?”

“Anything would--hung up for fifty years, Magpie.”

“We still dance quadrilles and waltzes, the same of which went out of style with flint-lock muskets. Now, we sheds the scales off our eyes and comes out of our shells into the dawn of a brighter day. Piperock entereth a reign of classical dancing, Ike.

“Miss Harrison is goin’ to elevate us, but we have to give her our able assistance. There seems to be a female sentiment against her here; but that’s plumb natural, bein’ as we’re in a rut and don’t know no better. Judge Steele and Testament Tilton has seen her dance. Them two are real progressive, Ike, and they sees the possibilities.

“Testament Tilton says it’s got anythin’ beat he ever seen, and he’s had his eyes open for sixty-six years. Miss Harrison says she’ll teach Piperock the rhythm of motion and then give a show for the benefit of the church. She’s gotta have a class of five to start with, and after them five has learned all about it they can each take a class of five. See how it’s done?”

“Has she picked her class?”

“I picked ’em for her, Ike. She kinda leans on me.”

“Might better ’a’ picked a fish-pole. Who’d you pick?”

“Me and Pete and Wick Smith and Art Wheeler and you.”

“I ain’t ripe,” says I. “You better put me back on the tree.”

“She wanted you, Ike. Mentioned you right off the reel. Said she wanted a representative group. Well, I got ’em, didn’t I? Everybody wanted to help, but five was all we could use.”

“Is Chuck still in jail?”

“Nope, Chuck’s mad. Yuh see, he told Mrs. Holt that him and Miss Harrison was goin’ to get married, and he wanted Mrs. Holt to take care of her and see that none of the men came near her. Chuck was showin’ her some Injun dances, and it was a good chance to get even with him for lyin’ all the time. Mrs. Holt was willin’ to take her in, bein’ as she was to marry Chuck.

“Testament has talked Mrs. Holt into keepin’ her until this here church benefit is over. It’s goin’ to be a e-leet affair, I’ll tell a man. Nothin’ like it has ever been thought about before, Ike. This is one time when Piperock shines as a social center and abolishes her rough career.”

When it comes to dancing I sure have always shook a wicked hoof, but this kinda stuff had me hoppled. You take two or three little running steps ahead, stop and wave your arms in the air, and kick out behind like a mule. Then you duck to one side, whirl around, lift up your arms again and go hippety-hopping around the place, kinda singing--

“Tra-la-la--, tra-la-la, la, la.”

That represents a little zephyr of Spring, you understand. There was five little zephyrs in our Spring. We zephyred around and around. Miss Harrison said we was getting the idea. Then she had us zephyr alone, while the other four little breezes set down and made smart remarks. There was considerable feeling aroused during this lesson.

Five little zephyrs took her back to the hotel, and then one little zephyr went home and packed up his burro. That one little zephyr had a vision of a big blow coming and wanted to get out of the road.

Magpie tried to plead with us, but me and the mule remained firm. Magpie’s voice was full of tears, but I shook my head, packed my jassack and went to live a while with “Dirty Shirt” Jones, who lives several miles away from the center of disturbance.

* * * * *

Dirty Shirt ain’t neither sane nor sanitary, but he appreciates me a heap. Dirty is cockeyed, but he believes in handing you bokays while you are yet in the land of the living and not waiting until you are ready for your weight of sand.

Dirty squints at me and says:

“I know you’d show up, Ike. It’s about time for Piperock to make a fool of itself again. What’s itchin’ the old town this time?”

“Interpretive dancing.”

“Oh yeah. I don’t know what in ---- that is, Ike; but it sounds like Piperock might adopt it. Magpie’s the ring-leader, ain’t he? Sure.”

Dirty knows Piperock as well as I do. For a week I helped him on a copper prospect, and not a word of Piperock’s doings percolated into our happy home.

Then Dirty got dry. When Dirty Shirt gets dry there ain’t nothing short of sudden death will stop him this side of Buck Masterson’s place.

Therefore we packs our burros and pilgrims to the city of Baal, as Testament calls it every Sunday. Testament has just got two sermons. One is on temperance and the other is on the evils of strong drink.

We has to pass Mighty Jones’ place on our way in, and we finds Mighty settin’ on his wood-pile, playing with a coyote pup. He squints at us.

“Goin’ to Piperock?”

I admits our ultimate destination.

“Better go home. Testament Tilton says that Piperock is goin’ to run a dead heat with Sodom and Gomorrah, whatever pair of horses them two is.”

“What’s the matter with Piperock?” asks Dirty.

Mighty hitches up his pants and spits very expressive-like.

“High-toned. Yessir, Piperock is gettin’ uppity--part of ’em, and the rest are packin’ two guns per each. Tonight means trouble in that town, y’betcha.”

“Tonight? Why tonight, Mighty?”

“Social affair tonight, that’s why. Two dollars per ticket, and not a gun allowed into the hall. I’ve got a ticket, which I’ll sell yuh.”

“Goin’ to save my money for ca’tridges,” grunts Dirty, and we pilgrims on.

We went right down the street of Piperock, looking neither to the right nor left, and heads straight for Magpie’s cabin. Looking into the open door we sees Magpie bending over the cook-stove, frying meat.

“_Klahowya_,” says Dirty.

Magpie drops the pan on the floor and whirls with a gun in each hand.

“Dancing makes you jumpy?” I asks.

Magpie shoves his guns back inside the waistband of his pants, kicks the hunk of meat into the skillet and turns back to the stove.

“How’s Miss Harrison?” I asks.

Magpie turns and squints at me.

“She’s gone, Ike.”

“De-mised?”

“De-parted.”

“Kinda busts up the show, don’t it, Magpie?”

“Like ---- it does!”

“How comes she to de-part thataway?” asks Dirty.

Magpie flops the meat and sets it on the back of the stove. Then he sets down on a bunk and combs his mustache.

* * * * *

“You ain’t heard, have yuh, Ike? No. Well, here’s the how of it all. You left hereabout the time that all the married womin are faunchin’ around, organizin’ a vigilance committee to hang their own husbands, didn’t yuh? Well, Wick and Pete and Old Testament and Art Wheeler and Judge Steele decides that Piperock and posterity needs ’em more than jealous wives do, so they up and orates that for th’ interests of the furtherance of Piperock they’re goin’ to stick to their original idea of learning the latest thing in dances.

“Them womin combines against such proceedings, and locks their doors against said husbands, with the result that we puts up bunks in the Mint Hall for all them errant husbands. Miss Harrison hangs on to her room at the hotel and Mrs. Holt enlists with the belligerent wives and hives up at Judge Steele’s.

“Inside of three days them husbands are plumb anxious to go to their wives, but wifie has nailed the front door shut. Them there dancin’ lessons has improved us wonderful, Ike. I gets old Sam Holt to dance in your place.

“Then we finds out somethin’.

“Judge Steele goes sneakin’ around home late at night after our lessons, and he peeks under the curtains in his house, and he sees Miss Harrison teachin’ them womin to dance, and the judge swears that they ain’t got enough clothes on to flag a hand-car.

“The judge so forgets himself that he raps on the window, and he gets a lot of bird-shot sprayed into the seat of his pants.

“Miss Harrison has double-crossed us, and the next night we chides her about it. She gets kinda woolly and informs us that the ladies invited her to teach them so they could do their part in the performance. She was teachin’ ’em the ‘Dance of the Raindrops.’

“‘My ----!’ grunts Wick. ‘My wife ain’t no raindrop.’

“‘I ain’t goin’ to permit Mrs. Tilton to appear in no mosquito nettin’ and bare feet--not in public,’ declares Testament.

“Things got kinda deadlocked, Ike. The tickets are all sold for the performance, and the church realizes over two hundred dollars. Me and the judge goes as a committee to confer with Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Tilton, and they refuses to arbitrate. They opines that what’s good enough for their husbands is good enough for them. Mrs. Tilton says:

“If Testament can wear a gee-string and imitate a willer-tree, why can’t I wear a porous-knit undershirt and imitate a drop of rain?’

“What could we do? We went back and held a council of war. Pete said he’d be ---- if his wife was goin’ to be a spectacle. They all declared that they wasn’t goin’ to let the world at large gaze upon their property in the rough. Miss Harrison declares that it must go through. There yuh are, Ike.

“Miss Harrison was taken to Paradise this morning and was put aboard the train. Art Wheeler drove the stage, and Pete Gonyer, Judge Steele and Testament Tilton acted as shotgun guards. Our premier dancer has went.”

“Which busts up the show, eh?” says Dirty.

“Not while Magpie Simpkins roams the plains, it don’t. Piperock is goin’ to get a look at interpretive dancin’, y’betcha. How much civic pride has you two snake-hunters got?”

Me and Dirty don’t say a word, being as we don’t _sabe_ his wau-wau. Then he hauls out a jug of pain-killer and we sets down to do homage.

* * * * *

After all danger from drought is a long time past, Magpie points out the duty of a real honest-to-grandma citizen. He orates openly that the future of a city is only as broad as the inhabitants will allow. He asks Dirty Shirt if his views are narrow.

“Wide as the ocean, and beggin’ to expand,” says Dirty.

“I’m the widest human bein’ yuh ever seen, Magpie. Dog-gone me if I ain’t wider than anythin’ anybody ever seen. How about you, Ike?”

“I’ve got you skinned about four ways from the jack,” says I, and somehow I believed it.

Magpie got in between us and took Dirty’s gun away from him.

“Killin’ ain’t expansion,” explains Magpie. “Piperock has entertained too many times in the interests of the undertaker. Piperock is so far behind the times that the seventeenth generation of Montana’s human race has started and finished and we’re still runnin’ the wrong way of the track.”

“Are we that far behind the rest of the world?” asks Dirty, tearful-like.

“Further,” assures Magpie.

“Then let’s be up and doin’,” urges Dirty. “My ----, I never realized that we was runnin’ in the dust. How does we start in to speed up the old buggy?”

“I,” says Magpie, “I am the little jigger who is goin’ to lead Piperock to th’ promised land. I am the pelican which is goin’ to make Piperock a place of honor and glory and a social center. I has been throwed down by the best citizens, you know it? Puttin’ their personal feelin’s ahead of the best interests of the city, they has laid down upon their labors, willin’ to let poor old Piperock slumber and waller in the dust of decay; but the womin can see what it means to the city, and they’re firm as rocks. I have got one of the best dances yuh ever seen, gents.

“The ordinary poetry of motion is the weavin’s of a drunken Siwash with a sprained ankle beside this here dance of mine. Miss Harrison said it had anythin’ beat she ever seen.”

“Do yuh have music for this kind of dancin’?” asks Dirty.

“Well, kinda,” assures Magpie. “Frenchy Deschamps’ jew’s-harp and Bill Thatcher on his wind-pipe. Bill bought it a short time ago. Said that ever time he got a bull-fiddle busted it cost him ten dollars for a new one; so he buys him a wind-pipe. If anybody shoots holes in that thing he can patch it up.”

“That’s a new instrument on me,” says Dirty.

“That’s it,” says Magpie. “We’re so far behind the times, Dirty, that we don’t recognize things that the rest of the world has been usin’ for years.”

“My ----!” wails Dirty. “This is awful, Magpie. I’m grateful to yuh for callin’ my attention to same. Ain’t you grateful, Ike?”

“Remains to be seen, as the feller said when he dug into a Injun grave.”

“Ike’s grateful,” says Magpie. “Ike’s the gratefulest human bein’ on earth.”

“That ain’t no ways true,” objects Dirty. “I’m the most gratefulest.”

I gets between Magpie and Dirty and makes ’em put up their guns. Then we all took a last look at the inside bottom of the jug of pain-killer.

Piperock appreciates art, there ain’t no question about that. There’s fellers in town for this social event that ain’t been outside their dug-outs since the big blow. Plain and fancy horse-thieves, unsuccessful rustlers, hairy old shepherds that says “Ya-a-a-ss” and “No-o-o-o,” just like a sheep, and others too numerous and or’nary to mention.

Scenery Sims is setting in front of the Mint Hall with a sawed-off shotgun on his lap, but he lets us in.

“How does she look, Scenery?” asks Magpie.

“Well,” squeaks Scenery, “everythin’ is all right so far, but them ex-dancers is all back from Paradise. The women is all up there in the hall now. Bill Thatcher is drunker’n seven hundred dollars, and somebody has hit Frenchy in the mouth and kinda crippled his part of the orchestra. Shouldn’t be s’prized if there’d be buzzards circlin’ Piperock in the mornin’.”

* * * * *

We went up into the hall, which is all fixed up for the social doings. They’ve got the stage all curtained off and the room is full of chairs. Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Tilton, Mrs. Gonyer, Mrs. Holt, Mrs. Wheeler and Mrs. Steele are there. Magpie leads me and Dirty up to the stage and in behind the curtain.

“My ----!” gasps Dirty. Sheep!”

“There’s four sheep tied up back there--all rams.”

“Sheep--yes,” agrees Magpie. “Them is what Miss Harrison calls ‘atmosphere.’”

“At---- Oh, my!” gasps Dirty. “What’s she mean, Magpie?”

“Accessories to my dance,” explains Magpie. “I’m the star performer in ‘The Shepherd’s Awakening.’”

“What do we do?” asks Dirty.

“You fellers are fauns.”

“I’m the old buck deer--me,” declares Dirty. “You’re more cockeyed than me, Magpie, if you can see me with four spindle legs and a spotted hide.”

“A faun,” says Magpie, “a faun is a thing that looks like a human bein’, but ain’t. It wears skin pants, but from there on up it’s plumb nude. On its head is little horns, and it’s got a tail like a goat. It plays a tune on a wooden whistle.”

Me and Dirty looks at each other, kinda foolish-like.

“I think it’s lovely of you two gentlemen to step in the breach,” says Mrs. Tilton.

“Step in the--oh--!” croaks Dirty, wild-eyed. “This is terrible!”

“It will be a big thing for Piperock,” says Mrs. Gonyer, “and it will teach the male sex that the women are the real progressives. Don’t you think so, Mr. Harper?”

“There’s goin’ to be a lesson taught,” says I. “Experience is a great teacher, but I ain’t never learned much. I thought I was wise, but I finds that-- Well, I ain’t never wore a tail like a goat and blowed on a wooden whistle yet.”

“I hope that Testament’s skin pants will fit Mr. Harper,” says Mrs. Tilton. “Mr. Harper is a little wider across than the Reverend.”

“Mr. Jones will be a little snug in Sam’s,” opines Mrs. Holt, “but he don’t have to do only one little dance.”

Dirty’s bad eye rolls a complete circle and then stops with a dead center on the tip of his nose. He grabs me by the arm and flops down in a chair.

“Ike,” he gasps, “Ike, shoot me while there is yet time.”

“Shoot yourself--you’ve got a gun,” says I.

“I know it, bub--but I’m so nervous I’d miss.”

Dirty just sits there and sweats.

“Them sheep--has they been trained?” I asks.

“They’ve been here two days,” says Magpie. “They ought to be used to the stage.”

* * * * *

Sudden-like we hears a crash down-stairs, the sound of loud voices raised in anger, and then up the stairs comes Judge Steele, Wick Smith, Pete Gonyer, Art Wheeler and Sam Holt. They’ve got Scenery Sims in their clutches, and he’s squeaking like a rusty gate. They files into the door, and Magpie greets ’em with a gun in each hand.

“Come ye in anger?” asks Magpie.

“Kinda,” admits Pete. “This whangdoodle tried to stop us.”

“Put your hands up!” snaps Magpie, and the whole gang reach upward. “Take their guns away, Scenery.”

“Now,” says Magpie, “what’s eatin’ you backsliders?”

“Ma-a-a,” wails Testament. “You ain’t aimin’ to carry out your threat, are ye?”

“I’m goin’ to dance--if that’s what you mean,” says Mrs. Tilton, mean-like.

“Arabellie, does you mean that you womin--” begins Wick.

“Wick Smith, you started this,” says Mrs. Smith. “You told me I was narrer. You said I was fifty years behind the times, didn’t you?”

“That ---- Magpie Simpkins put them words in my mouth, Arabellie.”

“I won’t stand for it!” yelps Pete. “No woman of mine can----”

“Pete, you shut your face!” whoops Mrs. Gonyer. “If you don’t want to see me imitate a raindrop--vamoose. I sure am goin’ to rattle on the roof.”

“I’ll git out a injunction,” says Judge Steele. “By mighty, I’ll declare it a public nuisance! I’ll stop this here----”

“You’ll set down and keep your face shut,” says Magpie. “You five pelicans are goin’ to set right down and look and listen. Has you all got tickets?”

None of ’em has bought a ticket, and they opines they won’t.

“Scenery,” says Magpie, “take two dollars from each of ’em.”

Them five arose up an yelped like a pack of wolves, but Scenery got ten dollars out of the bunch, and then we made ’em take front seats.

We hears some gosh-awful sounds coming up the stairs, and into the door comes Bill Thatcher. He’s got one of them Scotch wind-pipe instruments and it’s wailing like a lost soul. Behind him comes Frenchy Deschamps. Neither of ’em are in any shape to make music for anything except a dog-fight, but they flops down in their chairs at the front of the stage and acts like they meant business.

Scenery recovers his sawed-off shotgun and sets down on the corner of the stage, where he can watch them disgrunted husbands.

Me and Dirty follows Magpie to a place he’s got partitioned off for a dressing-room. Through the curtain we can hear Yaller Rock County beginning to come in. Me and Dirty are just sober enough to kinda be indifferent to death or taxation.

Magpie gives us our costumes, which consists of cowhide pants with a tail tied on, and a jigger made like a cap, with yearlin’ calf horns sticking out the side. He also gives us each a little whistle made of a willer.

“Where’s the shirt?” asks Dirty.

“Fauns don’t wear shirts.”

“What do you wear, Magpie?”

Magpie holds up a mountain-lion skin and a breech-clout. Dirty looks things over and then says to Magpie: