Wild Western Tales 2: 101 Classic Western Stories Vol. 2 (Civitas Library Classics)

by Various

  "Enright raps Monte down. '"Scenery" is spelled any way which the Doc says,' declar's Enright, his eye some severe, 'an' I trusts no gent'll compel the cha'r to take measures.'

  "'Say no more,' responds Monte, plenty humble and prompt. 'What I urges is only to 'licit information. I still thinks, however, that onder the gen'ral wellfare clause of the constitootion, an' with an onfenced alphabet to pick an' choose from, a sport ought to have the inalienable right to spell things the way he likes. Otherwise, whatever is the use of callin' this a free country? If a gent's to be compelled to spell scenery with a fool "c," I asks you why was Yorktown an' wharfore Bunker Hill?'

  "Monte, havin' thus onloaded, reetires to the r'ar, coverin' his chagrin by hummin' a stanzy or two from the well-known ditty, 'Bill, of Smoky Hill.'

  Bill driv three spans of hosses, An' when Injuns hove in sight, He'd holler "Fellers, give 'em hell! I ain't got time to fight."

  But he chanced one time to run ag'in A bullet made of lead, An' when they brung Bill into town, A bar'l of tears was shed.

  "While Texas an' Boggs an' Tutt an' Cherokee an' Monte an' the rest of the Wolfville outfit is fallin' like November's leaves, them Red Dog bandits is fadin' jest as fast. If anything, they're fadin' faster. They're too p'lite or too proodent to cavil at the presence of Spellin' Book Ben, an' by third drink time after we starts thar's no gents left standin' except that Wells-Fargo book-keep sharp for Red Dog, an' Spellin' Book for us. It's give an' take between 'em for mebby one hundred words, an' neither so much as stubs his orthographic toe.

  "The evenin' w'ars into what them poets calls the 'small hours.' Missis Rucker is wearily battin' her eyes, while little Enright Peets is snorin' guinea-pig snores in Tucson Jennie's lap.

  "Thar comes a pause for Black Jack to pass the refreshments, an' Nell takes advantage of the lull.

  "'Hopin' no one,' says Nell, 'will think us onp'lite, we ladies will retire. Jedgin' from the way little Enright Peets sounds, not to mention how I feels or Missis Rucker looks, it's time we weaker vessels hits the blankets.'

  "'Yes, indeed,' adds Missis Rucker, smothering a yawn with her hand; 'I'd certainly admire to stay a whole lot, but rememberin' the hour I thinks, like Nellie, that we-all ladies better pull our freight.'

  "Enright settin' the example, we gents stands up while the ladies withdraws, little Enright Peets bein' drug along between Nell an' Tucson Jennie plumb inert.

  "Peets resoomes his word-callin', an' them two heroes spells on for a hour longer.

  "At last, however, the Wells-Fargo book-keep sharp commences to turn shaky; the pressure's beginnin' to tell. As for Spellin' Book Ben, he's as steady as a church.

  "'By the grave of Moses, Dan,' Tutt whispers to Boggs, 'that Red Dog imposter's on the brink of a stampede.'

  "Peets gives out 'colander'; it's Spellin' Book Ben's turn. As he starts to whirl his verbal loop the Red Dog adept whips out his gun, an' jams it ag'inst Spellin' Book's ribs.

  "'Spell it with a "u,"' says the Red Dog sharp, 'or I'll shore send you shoutin' home to heaven! Which I've stood all of your dad-binged eryoodition my nerves is calk'lated to endoore.'

  "Spellin' Book Ben's game, game as yaller wasps. With the cold muzzle of that book-keep murderer's hint to the onconverted pushin' into his side, he never flickers.

  "'C-o,' he begins.

  "But that's as far as he ever gets. Thar's a dull roar, an' pore Spellin' Book comes slidin' from his learned perch. It's done so quick that not even Jack Moore has time to hedge a stack down the other way.

  "'It's too late, Doc,' says pore Spellin' Book, as Peets stoops over him; 'he gets me all right.' Then he rolls a gen'ral eye on all. 'Gents,' he says, 'don't send my remainder back to El Paso. Boot Hill does me.'

  "Them's Spellin' Book's last words, an' they does him proud.

  "It's the Lightnin' Bug who grabs the murderin' book-keep sharp, an' takes his gun away. Then he swings him before Enright.

  "'He's your pris'ner,' says the Red Dog chief, actin' for his outfit, an' Enright bows his acknowledgments.

  "Son, it's a lesson to see them two leaders of men. Enright never shows up nobler, an' you can wager your bottom peso that the Red Dog chief is a long shot from bein' a slouch.

  "Jack Moore takes the Wells-Fargo book-keep homicide in charge, while Enright, who declar's that jestice to be effectyooal must be swift, says that onless shown reason he'll convene the committee at once. He adds, likewise, that it'll be kindly took if the Red Dog chief, an' what members of his triboonal is present, will b'ar their part.

  "In all p'liteness, the Red Dog chief deeclines.

  "'This is your joorisdiction,' he says, 'an' we Red Dogs can only return the compliment which your su'gestion implies by asshorin' you-all of our advance confidence in the rectitoode of what jedgments you inflicts.'

  "'Speak your piece,' says Enright to the Wells-Fargo book-keep culprit, when stood up before him by Moore. 'Whatever prompts you to blow out this Spellin' Book Ben's candle that a-way?'

  "'Let me say,' exclaims the Wells-Fargo book-keep murderer, an' his manner is some torrid, 'that I has five hundred dollars bet on this yere contest----'

  "'That is a question,' interrupts Enright, suave but plenty firm, 'which will doubtless prove interestin' to your execooter. This, however, is not the time nor place. I asks ag'in, whatever is your reason for shovin' this yere expert in orthography from shore?'

  "'Do you-all think,' returns the Wells-Fargo murderer, 'that I'll abide to see a obscoority like him outspell me?--me, who's the leadin' speller of eight States and two territories, an' never scores less than sixty-five out of a poss'ble fifty? Which I'd sooner die.'

  "'So you'd sooner die?' repeats Enright, as cold an' dark an' short as a November day. 'Well, most folks don't get their sooners in this world, but it looks a heap like you will!' Turnin' to Moore, he goes on: 'Our friends from Red Dog'll hold your captive, Jack, while you-all goes rummagin' over to the corral an' gets a rope, the committee havin' come onprovided.'

  "Moore gives the Wells-Fargo homicide to the Red-Dog chief, an' tharupon, we Stranglers bein' ready to go into execyootive session, all hands except Enright an' the committee steps outside. We're in confab mebby it's ten minutes, an' Enright has jest approved a yoonanimous vote in favor of hangin', when thar's a modest tap at the door.

  "It's the Lightnin' Bug.

  "'It ain't,' he says, when we asks his mission, 'that we-all aims to disturb your deelib'rations none, gents, but the chief'd like to borry Doc Peets for five minutes to say a few words over the corpse.'

  "Upon this yere hint we-all gambols forth, an' finds what's left of the Wells-Fargo book-keep murderer adornin' the windmill. Thar's whar their del'cacy comes in; that's how them Red Dogs saves us from a disagree'ble dooty.

  "We plants Spellin' Book Ben on Boot Hill as per that sufferer's last request, an' Red Dog graces the obsequies to a man. Thar Spellin' Book lies to-day; an' the story of his ontoward takin' off, as told on that tombstone conj'intly erected as aforesaid by Wolfville an' Red Dog, is anyooally read by scores of devotees of learnin' who, bar'-headed an' mournful, comes as pilgrims to his grave."

  Contents

  THAT TURNER PERSON

  By Alfred Henry Lewis

  "Talk of your hooman storm-centers an' nacheral born hubs of grief," observed the old cattleman, reminiscently; "I'm yere to back that Turner person ag'inst all competitors. Not but what once we're onto his angles, he sort o' oozes into our regyards. His baptismal name is 'Lafe,' but he never does deerive no ben'fit tharfrom among us, him behavin' that eegregious from the jump, he's allers referred to as 'that Turner person.'

  "As evincin' how swift flows the turbid currents of his destinies, he succeeds in focusin' the gen'ral gaze upon him before he's been in camp a day. Likewise, it's jest as well Missis Rucker herse'f ain't present none in person at the time, or mighty likely he'd have focused all the crockery on the table upon him, which you can bet your last peso wouldn't have proved no desid'ratum. For
while Missis Rucker ain't what I calls onusual peevish, for a lady to set thar quiet an' be p'inted to by some onlicensed boarder as a Borgia, that away, would be more'n female flesh an' blood can b'ar.

  "It's like this. The Turner person comes pushin' his way into the O. K. Restauraw along with the balance of the common herd, an' pulls a cha'r up ag'inst the viands with all the confidence of a oldest inhab'tant. After grinnin' up an' down the table as affable as a wet dog, he ropes onto a can of airtights, the same bein' peaches. He he'ps himse'f plenty copious an' starts to mowin' 'em away.

  "None of us is noticin' partic'lar, bein' engaged on our own hook reachin' for things, when of a sudden he cuts loose a screech which would have knocked a bobcat speechless.

  "'I'm p'isened!' he yells; 'I'm as good as dead right now!'

  "Followin' this yere fulm'nation, he takes to dancin' stiff-laiged, meanwhile clutchin' hold of the buckle on his belt.

  "Thar should be no dissentin' voice when I states that, at a crisis when some locoed maverick stampedes a entire dinin' room by allowin' he's been p'isened, prompt action should be took. Wharfore it excites no s'rprise when Jack Moore, to whom as kettle-tender for the Stranglers all cases of voylance is ex officio put up, capchers the ghost-dancin' Turner person by the collar.

  "'Whatever's the meanin' of this midprandial excitement?' demands Jack. 'Which if these is your manners in a dinin' room, I'd shore admire to see you once in church.'

  "'I'm p'isened!' howls the Turner person, p'intin' at the airtights. 'It's ptomaines! I'm a gone fawnskin! Ptomaines is a center shot!'

  "None of us holds Rucker overhigh, an' yet we jestifies that husband's action. Rucker's headin' in from the kitchen, bearin' aloft a platter of ham an' cabbage. He arrives in time to gather in the Turner person's bluff about 'ptomaines,' an' onderstands he's claimin' to be p'isened. Shore, Rucker don't know what ptomaines is, but what then? No more does the rest of us, onless it's Peets, an' he's over to Tucson. As I freequently remarks, the Doc is the best eddicated sharp in Arizona, an' even 'ptomaines' ain't got nothin' on him.

  "Rucker plants the platter of ham an' cabbage on the table, an' appeals 'round to us.

  "'Gents,' he says, 'am I to stand mootely by an' see this tavern, the best j'int ondoubted in Arizona, insulted?' An' with that he's down on the Turner person like a fallin' tree, whar that crazy-hoss individyooal stands jumpin' an' dancin' in the hands of Moore.

  "'What's these yere slanders,' shouts Rucker, 'you-all is levelin' at my wife's hotel? Yere we be, feedin' you on the fat of the land; an' the form your gratitoode takes is to go givin' it out broadcast you're p'isened! You pull your freight,' he concloodes, as he wrastles the dancin' Turner person to the door, 'an' if you-all ever shows your villifyin' nose inside this hostelry ag'in I'll fill you full of buckshot.'

  "To be shore, that crack about buckshot ain't nothin' more'n vain hyperbole, Rucker not possessin' the spunk of bull-snakes. The Turner person, however, lets him get away with it, an' submits tamely to be buffaloed, which of itse'f shows he ain't got the heart of a horned toad. The eepisode does Rucker a heap of good, though, an' he puffs up immoderate. Given any party he can buffalo, an' the way that weak-minded married man expands his chest, an' takes to struttin', is a caution to cock partridges. An' all the time, a jack-rabbit, of ordinary resolootion an' force of character, would make Rucker take to a tree or go into a hole.

  "Is the Turner person p'isened?

  "No more'n I be. Which it's simple that alarmist's heated imagination, aggravated by what deloosions is born of the nosepaint he gets in Red Dog before ever he makes his Wolfville deboo at all. Two hookers of Old Jordan from Black Jack renders him so plumb well he's reedic'lous.

  "Most likely you-all'd go thinkin' now that, havin' let sech a hooman failure as Rucker put it all over him, this Turner person'd lie dormant a spell, an' give his se'f-respect a chance to ketch its breath. Not him. It's no longer away than second drink time the same evenin' when he locks gratooitous horns with Black Jack. To this last embroglio thar is--an' could be--no deefense, Jack bein' so amiable that havin' trouble with him is like goin' to the floor with your own image in the glass. Which he's shorely a long sufferin' barkeep, Jack is. Mebby it's his genius for forbearance, that a-way, which loores this Turner person into attemptin' them outrages on his sens'bilities.

  "The Turner person stands at the bar, sloppin' out the legit'mate forty drops. With nothin' said or done to stir him up, he cocks his eye at Jack--for all the world like a crow peerin into a bottle--an' says,

  "'Which your feachers is displeasin' to me, an' I don't like your looks.'

  "Jack keeps on swabbin' off the bar for a spell, an' all as mild as the month of May.

  "'Is that remark to be took sarkastic?' he asks at last, 'or shall we call it nothin' more'n a brainless effort to be funny?'

  "'None whatever!' retorts the Turner person; 'that observation's made in a serious mood. Your countenance is ondoubted the facial failure of the age, an' I requests that you turn it the other way while I drinks.'

  "Not bein' otherwise engaged at the moment, an' havin' time at his command, Jack repairs from behind the bar, an' seizes the Turner person by the y'ear.

  "'An' this is the boasted hospital'ty of the West!' howls the Turner person, strugglin' to free himself from Jack, who's slowly but voloominously bootin' him towards the street.

  "It's Nell who tries to save him.

  "'Yere, you Jack!' she sings out, 'don't you-all go hurtin' that pore tenderfoot none.'

  "Nell's a shade too late, however; Jack's already booted him out.

  "Shore, Jack apologizes.

  "'Beg parding, Nellie,' he says; 'your least command beats four of a kind with me; but as to that ejected shorthorn, I has him all thrown out before ever you gets your stack down.'

  "The Turner person picks himse'f out of the dust, an', while he feels his frame for dislocations with one hand, feebly menaces at Black Jack with t'other.

  "'Some day, you rum-sellin' miscreent,' he says, 'you'll go too far with me.'

  "As showin' how little these vicisitoodes preys on this Turner person, it ain't ten minutes till he's hit the middle of Wolfville's principal causeway, roarin' at the top of his lungs,

  "'Cl'ar the path! I'm the grey wolf of the mountings, an' gen'ral desolation follows whar I leads!'

  "Yere he gives a prolonged howl.

  "The hardest citizen that ever belted on a gun couldn't kick up no sech row as that in Wolfville, an' last as long as a drink of whiskey. In half the swish of a coyote's tail, Jack Moore's got the Turner person corralled.

  "'This camp has put up with a heap from you,' says Moore, 'an' now we tries what rest an' reeflection will do.'

  "'I'm a wolf--!'

  "'We savvys all about you bein' a wolf. Also, I'm goin' to tie you to the windmill, as likely to exert a tamin' inflooence.'

  "Moore conveys the Turner person to the windmill, an' ropes his two hands to one of its laigs.

  "'Thar, Wolf,' he says, makin' shore the Turner person is fastened secoore, 'I shall leave you ontil, with every element of wildness abated, you-all begins to feel more like a domestic anamile.'

  "From whar we-all are standin' in front of the post office, we can see the Turner person roped to the windmill laig.

  "'What do you reckon's wrong with that party?' asks Enright, sort o' gen'ral like; 'I don't take it he's actchooally locoed none.'

  "Thar's half a dozen opinions on the p'int involved. Tutt su'gests that the Turner person's wits, not bein' cinched on any too tight by nacher in the beginnin', mebby slips their girths same as happens with a saddle. Cherokee inclines to a notion that whatever mental deeflections he betrays is born primar'ly of him stoppin' that week in Red Dog. Cherokee insists that sech a space in Red Dog shore ought to be s'fficient to give any sport, however firmly founded, a decisive slant.

  "As ag'inst both the others, Boggs holds to the view that the onusual fitfulness observ'ble in the Turner person arises from a change of lic
ker, an' urges that the sudden shift from the beverages of Red Dog, which last is indoobitably no more an' no less than liquid loonacy, to the Red Lights Old Jordan, is bound to confer a twist upon the straightest intellectyooals.

  "'Which I knows a party,' says Boggs, 'who once immerses a ten-penny nail in a quart of Red Dog licker, an' at the end of the week he takes it out a corkscrew.'

  "'Go an' get him, Jack,' says Enright, p'intin' to the Turner person; 'him bein' tied thar that a-way is an inhooman spectacle, an' if little Enright Peets should come teeterin' along an' see him, it'd have a tendency to harden the innocent child. Fetch him yere, an' let me question him.'

  "'Front up,' says Moore to the Turner person, when he's been conveyed before Enright; 'front up now, frank an' cheerful, an' answer questions. Also, omit all ref'rences to bein' a wolf. Which you've worn that topic thread-bar'; an' besides it ain't calc'lated to do you credit.'

  "'Whatever's the matter with you?' asks Enright, speakin' to the Turner person friendly like. 'Which I begins to think thar's somethin' wrong with your system. The way you go knockin' about offendin' folks, it won't be no time before every social circle in the Southwest'll be closed ag'inst you. Whatever's wrong?'

  "'Them's the first kind words,' ejacyoolates the Turner person, beginnin' to weep, 'which has been spoke to me in months. Which if you-all will ask me into yon s'loon, an' protect me from that murderer of a barkeep while I buys the drinks, I'll show you that I've been illyoosed to a degree whar I'm no longer reespons'ble for my deeds. It's a love affair,' he adds, gulpin' down a sob, 'an' I've been crooelly misonderstood.'

  "'A love affair,' repeats Enright plenty soft, for the mention of love never fails to hit our old warchief whar thar't a palin' off his fence. 'I ain't been what you-all'd call in love none since the Purple Blossom of Gingham Mountain marries Polly Hawkes over on the Painted Post. Polly was a beauty, with a arm like a canthook, an' at sech dulcet exercises as huggin' she's got b'ars left standin' sideways. However, that's back in Tennessee, an' many years ago.'