Part 3

“If you escape, Magpie, will yuh do me a favor? In my cabin--in a old trunk, is a suit of clothes. I paid sixteen dollars for it the year Bryan run for free silver, but I never wore it. Will yuh see that they lays me out in it? Lawd knows I don’t want to be buried in a outfit like this.”

From outside we hears “Fog-horn” Foster’s voice--

“We-e-e-ll, come on, you mockin’-birds!”

“The house must be full,” opines Magpie, fastening his lionskin.

“Full of hootch and ----” sighs Dirty, sliding into his cow skins. “I’m goin’ to die like a ---- cow, I know that.”

“My gosh!” grunts Magpie. “I’ve plumb forgot we ain’t got no announcer since the judge quit. Ike, will you do the announcin’?”

“Then I won’t have to dance?”

“Sure you’ll have to dance, but all you’ve got to do, Ike, is to tell ’em what is comin’ next. The first thing on the program is a solo dance, which is knowed as ‘The Gatherin’ Storm,’ by Mrs. Smith; and then she gets assisted by the five ‘Raindrops,’ consistin’ of Mrs. Holt, Mrs. Tilton, Mrs. Steele, Mrs. Gonyer and Mrs. Wheeler. Mrs. Smith is doin’ the solo in place of the departed champeen dancer of the world. Will yuh do this for me, Ike?”

“Do it for Magpie,” urges Dirty. “Do anythin’ to get it over.”

* * * * *

I went on to the stage, and I got the shock of my life. Them females are out there, and I’m a danged liar if they ain’t undressed about as much as possible. I takes one look and staggers for the curtain. I hears one of them women bust out in a “haw! haw!” as I went past, but I never stopped to think that I wasn’t wearing any more than the law allows.

I steps out through the curtain and looks around. Never did the old hall hold as many folks. Fog-horn Foster and Half-Mile Smith are settin’ in the front row, across the aisle from each other. They stares at me for a moment; then both gets up like they was walking in their sleep, steps for the aisle and bumps together.

Fog-horn hit Half-Mile and Half-Mile hit the floor, after which Fog-Horn went right on up the aisle. Half-Mile got up, looks at me again, and follers Fog-Horn, but he ain’t tryin’ to catch Fog-Horn--he’s tryin’ to go past him.

“My ----” gasps “Cinch” Culler, lookin’ wild-like around. “Won’t somebody please hold me? I won’t be responsible----”

“Ladies and gents,” says I. “I’m out here to let yuh know what’s comin’ off.”

“Wait a minute,” says Abe Mudgett, standing up. “I’ve got my two sisters here with me, and if anything more’s comin’ off----”

“Set down!” squeaks Scenery, waving his shotgun at Abe, and Abe sets down.

“Now,” says I, “I’m out here to announce that the first thing on the program is Mrs. Smith. She’s goin’ to imitate a storm comin’ up, and then Mrs. Holt, Mrs. Tilton, Mrs. Wheeler, Mrs. Steele and Mrs. Gonyer are goin’ to show yuh what raindrops look like. This here----”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Pete Gonyer, but his laugh don’t show that he’s tickled so awful much.

“Haw! Haw! Haw! Mrs. Smith is goin’ to imitate-- Haw! Haw! Haw!”

“Haw! Haw!” howls Wick. “My wife looks as much like a storm as yours does like a raindrop, Pete.”

“My wife,” states the judge, standing up, “my wife ain’t goin’ to do no ---- fool thing of the kind. I’ll show her----”

“Set down!” yelps Scenery. “Set down, you old Blackstone blatter! This is once when you don’t hand down no decisions.”

“Git off the stage and let ’er rain!” howls Telescope Tolliver. “I’ll see it through if I have to wear a slicker.”

“Ready for us to play?” asks Bill Thatcher, kicking Frenchy to wake him up.

“Use your own judgment, Bill,” says I. “I’ve done all I can, and now I’m goin’ to let nature take her course.”

I starts to step back through the curtain, when “Polecat” Perkins yells--

“Ike, I was wrong--you’re only half-cow.”

I gets back inside. Them women are all scared plumb stiff, but Mrs. Smith wheezes--

“Ladies, we’ve made our bluff--let ’er go!”

Just then Bill Thatcher’s instrument begins to wail and wail, shutting off all chances for Frenchy Deschamps to be heard.

“Sweet Marie!” howls Mrs. Smith. “Gee cripes, don’t he never learn a new tune?”

I ducks out of sight and the curtain slides back.

* * * * *

If Mrs. Smith knew anything about dancing she forgot every step. She trots out on the stage and starts something like Kid Carson used to call “shadow-boxing.” Then she turns around about three times, stubs her toe and falls down. Standing in a line across the stage is the rest of them females, with their hands up in the air like they was being held up by somebody with a gun.

“A-arabellie!” wails Wick. “My ----, woman, git out of sight!”

Mrs. Smith gets to her feet and yelps back at Wick:

“Git out of sight yourself--if you don’t like it! I’ll teach you to flirt with a dancer. Start the music over again, Bill.”

“Em-m-m-i-lee!” shrieks Sam Holt. “Ain’tcha got no modesty? Go put on your shoes and socks!”

Bill Thatcher starts squealing on his instrument again, and Mrs. Smith starts doing some fancy steps.

Wow! Here comes Judge Steele, Art Wheeler, Pete Gonyer, Testament Tilton, Wick Smith and Sam Holt, climbing right over the top of folks.

“Git ba-a-a-ck!” squeaks Seenery, waving his shotgun. “Stop it! Whoa, Blaze!”

“Look at the wild man!” howls somebody, and here comes Magpie across the stage hopping high and handsome.

“Stop ’em, Scenery!” whoops Magpie. “Dog-gone ’em, they can’t bust up my show!”

Man, I’ll tell all my grandchildren this tale. Them outraged husbands came up on that stage, while Yaller Rock County yelled itself hoarse and made bets on whether it would be an odd or even number of deaths. Magpie hit Pete in the neck and Pete lit with one leg on each side of Bill Thatcher’s head. Wick Smith got hold of his wife and them two started a tug of war.

Me and old Sam Holt got to waltzing around and around, which wasn’t a-tall pleasant, being as I’m barefooted and Sam ain’t. I seen Mrs. Wheeler and Art locked in mortal combat, and just then I hears Dirty Shirt Jones yelp--

“Heavy, heavy hangs over your head--”

I whirls just in time to see what’s coming, but I can’t escape. Dirty Shirt has turned the atmosphere loose. Them four he-sheep--four ungentlemanly woollies, with corkscrew horns, are buck-jumping across that stage, seeking what they may hit. I swung around to meet the attack, and I reckon the leading sheep hit him a dead center, ’cause I felt the shock plumb to me.

Maybe it hit Sam a little low, because it knocked all four of our feet off the floor, and the next in line picked us in the air and stood us on our heads.

I seen Wick Smith, braced against the edge of the stage, trying to pull his wife over the edge, the same of which is a invitation to a sheep, and the old ram accepted right on the spot. Mrs. Smith grunted audibly and shot into Wick’s arms. Scenery Sims starts to skip across the stage, but a ram outsmarted him, and I seen Scenery turn over gracefully in the air and shoot, regardless, with both barrels of that sawed-off shotgun.

Them load of shot hived up in the chandelier, the same of which cut off our visible supply of light.

I heard the crashing of glass, and I figures that the hallway is too crowded for some of the audience. I lays still, being wise, until the noise subsides, and the crowd has escaped. Then I moves slowly to my hands and knees. I feels a hand feeling of my legs, and then a hand taps gently on my horned cap.

“I--I thought,” whispers old Sam’s voice kinda quavering-like, “I--I thought they was all old ones, but a sheep’s a sheep to me.”

Bam! Something landed on my head, and I seen more bright lights than there is in a million dollars worth of skyrockets. Then things kinda clear up, and I hears old Sam saying to himself:

“Well, I killed one of the ---- things. If I go carefully----”

I can dimly see old Sam sneaking for the front of the stage. I’m mad. I got up and sneaked right after him. No man can mistake me for a sheep and get away with it. I jumps for old Sam’s back, and just then he seems to kinda drop away from me. I reckon he forgot about the five-feet drop from the stage, and I know danged well I did. I reckon I sort of lit on my head and shoulders on top of somebody. There comes a squeak from Bill Thatcher’s instrument, and then all is quiet.

* * * * *

I wriggled loose and starts to get up, but a strong hand grabs me by the ankle, yanks me off my feet, and I hit my head on a chair. I kinda remember being dragged down them stairs, and then I feels my carcass being dragged over rough ground. It was a long, hard trip, and I reckon I lost about all the skin on the upper half of my body. Finally I bumps over a step, gets yanked inside on to a carpet, and then I hears a voice very dimly--

“Sweetheart, I brought thee home.”

Then a light is lit, and I sees Mrs. Smith putting the chimney on a lamp. Without turning she says--

“I reckon you’ll confine your love to me after this, eh?”

Then she turns and looks at me, setting there on the floor with my back propped up against a chair. I looks around. Just inside the door, sitting on the floor, is Wick. Mrs. Smith looks at me and then at him. Then she wipes her lips and stares at Wick.

“Sweetheart, eh?” grunts Wick, getting to his feet. “Arabellie, ain’t you got no shame? Dancin’ up there without nothing on to speak of, and then you has the gall to bring your sweetheart home with yuh.”

“Did--did--didn’t I--bring you home, Wicksie?”

“You--know--danged--well--you--didn’t. I always knowed you was kinda sweet on Ike Harper.”

“On that!” She actually yelped, and pointed her finger at me. “Sweet on him?”

I gets to my feet, but my legs ain’t very strong. I says:

“Lemme a-alone. I don’t want no man’s wife’s love--especially one what hauls me home by the ankle. When I git married I want a clingin’ vine--not a pile driver.”

I never did have much sense. A feller in my condition ought to keep his mouth shut and sneak away soft-like. I turns my head toward the door, and just then the weight of the world hit me from behind, and it was a lucky thing for that house that the door was open.

I landed on my hands and knees in the yard, with all the wind knocked out of my system. Wick has got some rose-bushes in his yard. Like a animal wounded unto death, I reckon I tried to crawl around on my hands and knees to find a spot to die in.

All to once I sees one of them ---- sheep. It’s only a short distance from me. I know if I move it’s going to hit me sure as ---- so I remains still. I’ll bet that me and the sheep never moved a muscle for fifteen minutes.

Then all at once the sheep spoke.

“For ----’s sake, if you’re goin’ to butt--butt and have it over with!”

I got to my feet.

“Get up, Dirty Shirt Jones,” says I. “What kind of a way is that to act?”

Dirty weaves to his feet and stumbles over to me.

“Ike, thank the Lord, we’re alive!”

“Don’t presume too much. Medical science says that a man can live after losin’ a certain amount of skin, but I’m bettin’ I’ve passed that certain limit. Let’s sneak home and save what life we’ve got left.”

We sneaked around the Mint Hall and Wick’s store, and at the corner we stumbles into somebody.

“Who goes there?” asks Dirty.

“Go ----!” wails Magpie Simpkins. “Help me, will yuh? I wrastled all the way down here with one of them ---- sheep and now I’m afraid to let loose.”

“You and your ---- atmosphere!” groans Dirty.

“I’m settin’ on it,” wails Magpie, “I’ve got a kink in my neck. Will yuh hold it down until I can get up?”

Just then a voice from under him starts singing very soft and low--

“There’s a la-a-a-nd that is fairer than this----”

Magpie gets to his feet and takes a deep breath.

“Testament,” says he, “what made yuh blat like a sheep?”

But Testament’s mind is not dwelling on sheep--not the kind of sheep that Magpie meant.

Then the three of us starts limping toward home.

“Mebbe,” says Magpie, kinda painful-like, “mebbe we progressed too fast. Piperock don’t appreciate it, gents, but this night the old town jumped ahead at least fifty years.”

“Jumpin’,” says Dirty, reflective-like, “Jumpin’ don’t hurt nobody, but, holy hen-hawks, it sure does hurt to jump that far and light so hard.”

We pilgrims along, everybody trying hard to make their legs track. Finally Magpie says--

“Personally, I think that interpretive dancin’ has anythin’ skinned I ever seen.”

“Me too,” says I, “and parts I never have seen.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the April 30, 1922 issue of Adventure Magazine.]