W. C. Tuttle

“ You’ve done advertised a race, and we crave a race.”
“But there ain’t no jockey to ride that race,” pleads Judgment. “You can see for yourself that Hank Potts ain’t fit to ride nothin’.”
“Suit yourself. I’ve done sent a couple men down to the hotel to set on that safe, where yuh keep the money. Oasis and Alkali towns crave that horse race; so it’s shore up to you.”
They go stompin’ out, while the crowd out in front makes all kinds of noise. I sabes them people, and if we don’t give ’em what they want, they’ll take the hall apart.
“Are you loyal to San Pablo, Hozie?” ”

“ I’m goin’ to be Howard Chesterfield, a jockey. I’m the jigger,” says Hank sad-like, jambin’ his derby down over one eye, “what wins the race, saves the mortgage and wins the girl.”
“That’d be worth goin’ a long ways to see,” says I.
“That’s what Miss Wimple said. But we’re short of actors. Susie suggests that we git you two fellers to play with us. But I said neither of yuh knowed the first thing about actin’, and Miss Wimple said that mebbe I was right, ’cause, as she read the play, it needed somebody with more brains than an ordinary cowpuncher has to play them parts.” ”

“ The whole town is kinda stirred up.”
“Susie stirred up?” I asks.
“Most always is. She’s learnin’ to shoot a six-gun. Hurt her arm the last time she throwed a flat-iron at me. Them things kinda keep a man active, I s’pose. Some married men kinda git in a rut, but if I ever do I’m a goner. Well, I took her for better or worse, and I shore got it.”
We left Hank to his reveries of a squirshed love, and has a few drinks at the No-Limit, after which we’re unfortunate in runnin’ into Zibe Hightower. He’s wearin’ a clean shirt and he shore smells of perfume.
“Heel-yuh-tripe?” asks Peewee. ”

“ While they’re tryin’ to fix the stage for the next act, Hank explains the show to me.
“In that first act, the father of them two girls has just died, leavin’ ’em nothin’ but that racehorse. I was their father’s jockey, and this horse is to win a big race. That’s the climax. Legree owns a horse in that race, but he knows it can’t beat our horse; so he schemes to git our horse. Legree is the villain, yuh see. Yo’re an old nigger, which was owned by the old man, who went broke and had to sell yuh, along with other slaves. ”

“ And as far as we know, the heathen are in jist the same shape they were before we put on this show. Peewee wanted to be a contortionist, and for once in his life he got tied in a knot. Peewee’s satisfied. Hank’s satisfied, but Susie ain’t; she wanted to go all the way to heaven. I’m satisfied—that a cowpuncher ought to keep off every kind of a stage, except one with four wheels. ”

“ It shore made me see a lot of stars, but I kept my presence of mind, as Tequila whirled around and went buck-jumpin’ straight to the back of the stage, knockin’ down everythin’ in sight, with me still out over his ears—and then we hit that treadmill.
Did we go? Man, that Tequila horse never ran so fast in his life. Why, he never had time to cross his legs. We wasn’t goin’ no place, but we was sure goin’ fast. Out from a pile of busted lumber I sees Peewee raise up, his eyes wide at what he sees. ”

“ Every danged seat in the house is sold.”
“We ain’t got none,” says Peewee.
“Well, yuh won’t git none. They’re all gone. Alkali and Oasis shore bought ’em in quantities.”
Wasn’t that a nice thing to do—sell ’em all out thataway? I shore intended to speak to Hank Potts about it, but he never showed up; so me and Peewee got a gallon of hard liquor and went back to the ranch, brewin’ up a hate against San Pablo. We left word with the bartender to tell Hank Potts what we thought of him and his show.
“Two of the best actors in the country—and they left us out,” mourns Peewee. “Tha’s great. ”

“ But what in hell is a dramatic teacher doin’ in San Pablo?”
“It ain’t clear to me jist yet,” says Hank “Judgment Jones and her kinda holds several pow-wows, and it’s somethin’ to do with the church. Judgment has been tryin’ to raise money enough to buy himself some fresh pants, or a pulpit or a bell, or somethin’ needful for Christianity. He ain’t flourished yet, as yuh might say. He said he’d have some news for me in a short time.”
“That woman is pretty,” says Peewee. “You better keep away from her, Hank.”
“I’m a married man—and I’m satisfied.”
“Satisfied that yo’re married?” ”

“ It’s Judgment Jones’s writin’. Peewee shakes his head.
“We can’t do it, Hozie. Old Judgment is the most honest man on earth. He needs that money for the heathen. I could never look him in the face again. He wouldn’t do wrong to anybody, and he needs that money. He trusted that woman, jist like he trusts everybody. Why, he’d even trust me and you.”
“That’s right,” says I. “We’ll give it back.”
But I wanted to see how much money they took in for that show; so I steamed the envelope open and dumped it out. I looked at Peewee and he looked at me. Money? ”

“ I don’t hold that any man has a right to wear that kind of a war-bonnet in a cow country. It is jist a invitation to those desirin’ a legitimate target. But Hank owns the No-Limit Saloon, along with the HP cow outfit, and that kinda gives him the right to look kinda doggy, as yuh might say.
Me and Peewee runs the HP outfit for Hank. Peewee Parker weighs two hundred and fifty on the hoof, and he ain’t so awful tall. ”

“ Dog-Rib almost runs Zibe Hightower a dead-heat, when it comes to bein’ mean, and if all the hate in his carcass was laid end to end, yuh could use it for a trail marker from New York to Honolulu.
“I’ve been laughin’ m’self hoarse for two days,” says Dog-Rib. “Them there San Pabloers are goin’ to put on a play-actin’ show, with Hank Boll-Weevil Potts as the big he buzzard of the flock. Calls it The Curse of Drink. Haw, haw, haw! Can yuh imagine it? I can’t. I’ve seen shows in my life, I have.”
“You look like yuh had seen plenty, but never had none,” says Peewee. ”

“ Peewee don’t know much about his family further back than two generations, but that don’t hurt his chances to be a good puncher. Owners of cow outfits don’t question yuh much, when yuh apply for a saddle-slickin’ job.
Hank Boll-Weevil Potts married Susie Hightower. Sometimes I look at Hank and know dang well he wishes it was merely an unfounded rumor. Susie weighs two-twenty, and takes after her pa—and that’s takin’ quite a lot. “Zibe” Hightower is somethin’ for to take after. ”

“ Judgment Jones comes back and kinda tearfully explains that Susie Hightower Potts and Eveline Annabel Wimple has had a battle, and Susie swears that Eveline and Hank ain’t goin’ to do no love scenes, except over her dead body.
Hank said he’d talk with her, but he came back pretty soon, nursin’ a black eye. The audience is plumb impatient, and the committee comes back to see what’s keepin’ us.
“We’ll give yuh five minutes more,” says Dog-Rib, “and if yuh ain’t actin’, we declares this here show null and void. ”

“ And all of a sudden we went high-wide and handsome. Rippety-bing-bang-boom! There’s a bell ringin’, somethin’ roarin’, and then I landed on the seat of my pants on the depot platform and almost skidded into the train, which was ready to move. ”