Everybody's Magazine/The Gypsy Gyp

by Anthony M. Rud

 

An uproarious Yarn of Three
Cowboys Far from Home

The Gypsy Gyp

By Anthony M. Rud

A Western Story of the Mining Camps
When the Bad Men Were in Power

PLATEMOUTH and me and Boley ain't been in Palo Verde more than three drinks and a long chaser of water, when Ed Randolph, round shouldered and red nosed, with ink stains on his drooping yaller mustache, come in through the swing door.

He's carrying an armload of papers, and now he strips one loose and lays it on the bar. “Evenin', gents,” he says low and mournful, at the same time planking down a half dollar and a dime. “A pint,” he groans to the barkeep.

Keno Williams obliges, and scoops in the silver. But there ain't any of us says much more than howdy to Ed, and we let him stalk on away, knowing the symptoms. Till he's wrapped himself around his second daily pint, Ed would give the graveyard gloomies to a laughing jassack. And he don't ever treat; jest ponies up his sixty cents twice a day, and then goes back to the shack where he keeps his etaoins and toctus and other peculiar critters what make the weekly Vindicator a sorta mystery story.

For the time it takes to absorb three-four drinks nobody bothers about the paper Ed has delivered. But then Platemouth wanders off, a bottle and a glass in his hand and goggles at the paper.

Boley and me drink. By this time we're getting sorta consolidated, anyway, and don't care a hoot if Platemouth don't want to be sociable. Keno's got a chile bar down to the other end of the broken up, warped old dance floor, where a fat, marijuana-doped Mex woman sells tamales, chile, sandwiches and such.

When we get there, old Maria is snooched down, snoring mild and weary like. Boley knows the ropes. He goes back, coggles a blunt spur across her bare feet, and then steps back as she yowls and starts to get up on her hind laigs to find the snake what bit her.

Boley grins, and winks at me. I notice he ain't quite steady on his pins. “If you want money's worth, take ham—ham shan-wish,” he whispers.

It's all right with me, even if ham kept in a place like this ain't my election usually. I'm plumb amiable. Ham it is.

Maria sulls and glares some, but she has got her positive orders to treat gringo customers good. I see her cut the ham. This is what Boley meant. Being glass eyed and trembly from that greaser dope, she don't slice ham—she massacrees it! I get a crazy wedge weighing about a quarter of a pound; and Boley gets darn near as much. And the tariff is a small bit for the two!

Still munching, ten minutes later, we get back to the bar. It has been a long journey, the floor all of a sudden getting pretty steep. Boley trips once and goes down; but by setting down alongside, and proping him, I manage to get him up. Then he gives me a hand in turn.

“Hey, Band-Ear,” hails Platemouth. “C'mere.”

He sounds serious; not even a little bit ossified. It's thataway often; when a jigger gets interested about something, likker don't seem to take holt for a while.

“Right with you,” I promises—and makes good. By holding to the bar, I reach him, though I leave Boley setting on one of Keno's dented brass spittoons, cogitating on the powerful effect a waddy can get outa a nickel's worth of ham. “Now ef I'd jes stuck to ham—” he argues reproachful with himself.

Platemouth has got the four page Vindicator wide open at the middle, and spread out. On one side is a wild and woolly yarn I been reading part by part. It's about a fella and a girl who go hell-hooting all over Europe, forking one of these here autocars what run without winding; and it's called “The Lightning Conductor”. It's a whale of a yarn, though of course I don't believe it much.

“Bang-Ear,” says Platemouth, “what in heck is a 'eccentric millionaire manufacturer'?” And he pokes a finger at the headline on the patent inside page opposite from Part VI of my autocar story.

I read:

ECCENTRIC MILLIONAIRE MANUFACTURER
WANTS SON BACK

It's got me grabbing leather. Holding on to Platemouth, I manage to make out that the old coot, whose picture is printed there, is looking for a wife and younker he got sore at and kicked out into the cold, cold world a while back. But what this here eccentric thing is old Waldo manufactures, I dunno.

We consult Boley. And setting on the spittoon don't seem to injure his imagination none. “Sure,” he tells us solemn. “Eccentrics is ver-y vallyble. Part of a steam engine. You know, the piston—well, that ain't it. Nope.”

He shakes his head and immediately gets so dizzy he falls off the spittoon.

“Nope,” he denied even more emphatic, and gets up.

“A eccentric is a piston inside out,” Boley elucidates. “It goes jes' t'other way. An' it's got two steel balls—go roun' an' roun'—call 'em guv'nor. Faster—balls lift. Goin' real fast—all balled up. See?”

“Red crème de mint,” orders Platemouth, planking some silver on the bar. “An' serve that there fellow way over to that far table—there. Yeah, I know I already got a drink. So's Bang-Ear. Gotta have crème de mint—the red kind—for chasher. Always use chasher after bar whisky.”

I nod. It's a fact. Fella don't really appreciate a ham sandwich till he dilutes it with whisky and red crème de mint chasers.

First thing I know, we're all back to that far table. Boley's asleep, but he don't count. Platemouth reads me a touching piece about how this here Grover Waldo gent, a long while back, catches his wife dancing what the paper anyway, calls a schottische; and, being ramrod-backed, real religious and a deacon in the church, he orders her out of his house. “The sinful schottische!” wails Platemouth; and a tear drops in his crème de mint.

Waldo's woman goes—but she takes the five year old boy along. And all the old gent can do never does get him his son back. Now he says he'll forgive and forget; and that he's learnt something they call the “Boston Dip”, and sees the error of his ways. He supposes that by now the erring wife has paid the supreme penalty for causing him this sorrow; but if not, he ain't going to welsh. He'll take her back, and not even horsewhip her. And he's made nine-ten millions since she went away, too.

“D'yuh reelize,” Platemouth says solemn and portentous, poking a finger into my wishbone, “that mebbe I was that li'l geezer?” And he shows me that smudgy picture of a kid with yaller curls—the paper says they're yaller. “An' me, who never knew no home and mother!”

“No, nor father, neither,” I admit practical. “An' no fetchin' up—except on whang leather.”

Maybe it's because I'm setting down, but I seem to be thinking clearer. And a great idea dawns. Nine million dollars ain't to be sneezed at. And why can't Platemouth and me and Boley grab it off?

It takes me a while, and two-three more of Platemouth's double-headers, before I get it all worked out. But then it's a cinch, if only Boley don't balk on being the Gypsy. We gotta have a Gypsy, and Gypsies are dark complected. Boley comes nearest, and besides, he's snoring. We can work on him.

Once I got Platemouth sold, the rest is easy. I get some axle grease from Dan Covey's shed back of the Palace, and work some brown varnish into it with a paddle. But I have to use my hands in smearing it thin over Boley's face and body—Platemouth having pried off all his clones while I was getting the grease.

IT REALLY wasn't so bad, once we got in the express car and grab a good sleep. Boley, on waking up, was real bothered over having to be the Gypsy who had took care of Waldo's runaway woman, until Platemouth slipped him a good stiff morning's morning, a half a pint. Then Boley saw a faint glimmering of the joke. He grinned, and looked real tough, with that red bandanna around his forehead, the white silk shirt, and purple plush fiesta pants we got for him. With his greasy hair, and dark greased skin, if he didn't look like a Gypsy chief, I never seen one.

“But why ain't you jiggers in uniform, too?” he wants to know. Platemouth an' I ain't changed clothes.

“Because Bang-Ear an' me planned it!” comes back Platemouth. “You wasn't present to vote, so I done took yore proxy. And that made it unanimous; right in the middle of the meeting you went plumb Gypsy! If you wasn't so necessary, I'd be real ashamed of you, waddy!”

“Well, what the heck makes my face kinda draw when I turn my head?” wails Boley. He ain't got any real scrap in him—yet.

“Shucks, it's yore heathenish complexion,” I tells him, careful not to spill a word about that there quick drying varnish; which same is getting its work in, spite of the axle grease. “An' now listen! When we gets to Denver an' goes to that millionaire's ranch——”

So from then on I tells him the rest of the deep dark design we got against the nine million dollars of Mister Grover Eccentric Waldo.

I'll say this much for Boley Lynn; when he sets his back to the plow he don't never turn forward. So I kinda sigh in relief when he shrugs and reaches for the new opened bottle. Sorta to christen hisself, I reckon.

“Whe-ew!” he gasps and chokes. “Did you put a whole package of fine cut in that?” Platemouth has the Oregon habit of stuffing two-three pinches of chawing tobacco into each new bottle of Bourbon. Him never having been within a thousand miles of Oregon, this musta come to him plumb natural.

“No, jest a pinch,” denies Platemouth; and then to prove it, he up-ends the quart, gargling long and high and handsome.

“Hey, that's enough!” I caution. “You can't get drunk!”

“I can't, huh?” he glares. “I wanna know why not? I got mouth, I got bottle, and I got stummick, ain't I?”

“Yeah, but—” I see his hangover is getting a swell start.

“'Sall a cow nurse needs. I knew an Englisher onc't. Bradley; you 'member, owned part of the Cross-Pipe Stencil. Bradley, he was plumb fancy. He drunk good whisky outa a tall glass, an' splashed down fizzwater inta it. The fizzwater made it go up my nose. Now, who'n'ell wants whisky up his nose?”

Not knowing any such critter, I admit the force of his augering, and take my own turn at the sustainer.

“But look-a-here, Bang-Ear,” puzzles Boley. “D'you want me to be a real wild an' pippin' Gypsy, or jest quiet an' some civilized?”

“Medium wild. Jest about half broke an' hellious.”

“Then I gotta drink the rest this bottle,” he says firm, an' takes a good half of what's left.

“Of course you can't talk puncher lingo,” I goes on, realizing we're getting most' to Denver, and struck by a chilly sorta thought. “Sa-ay, d'you happen to know any Gypsy?”

“Me?” He looks up surprised. “Hell no! I can jabber some Yaqui, an' can cuss eloquent in six other languages, includin' the Scandahoovian——”

“No cussing,” I caution. “He's probly high-toned, this Waldo fella. S'pose you stick to Yaqui; he ain't liable to savvy that. An' I'll be interpreter.”

“What's a interpreter?” Platemouth wants to know.

“Well, you see, Boley he don't know no English. So he——”

But Boley has got part of his own second day lift. He jumps in front of me, grinning—an' nearly goes down as the train swings fast around a curve.

“O wotan as siam, presto spondulica jiblets,” says he, wobbly but emphatic, using a sorta neo-Gypsy lingo hard to classify, as old Jedge Clarke would put it.

“That means,” I interpret real dignified, “we aim to den in Denver. Shucks, I oughta sing that, but I ain't got my music along.”

“An' am I s'posed to speak that lingo too?” Platemouth grins, making a pass at the telescope bag where we've got our last bottle, but missing the handle about six inches as the train lurches sideways.

“No, you ain't. Is he Boley? Nope. Boley says no, too. Y'see, this here Gypsy, he went an' fell for pore Miz Waldo, so at a very early age he sent you to yale.”

“Yale?” says Boley. “Hell, thass a college. Yuh don't go there till yuh been through sixth grade, an' all that.” He waves vaguelike, indicating education-at-large.

I shake my head. “This different sort—sorta yale,” I tells him. “It's run by Skandahoovian sheriff like Nels Anderson down to Piñal.”

That has him grabbing leather a minute or so; so I sit down dignified and edge over to where the telescope bag and our last bottle is.

ONCE into Denver, we aim for the Silver Star, looking for information. We're all sobered some, owing to me holding onto the bottle the last three-four hours, and all of us grabbing some shuteye. Nobody's got a lot to say; only Platemouth allows in a sorta growl the reason he feels so submarine low is because them two-three drinks he's had ain't been chased adequate. I see they didn't teach arithmetic at the yale he went to.

On we plod, glum and kinda weaving when we dodge them rampaging boss cars what run up and down the streets on rails. But at the Silver Star—a place we'd heard of on account it was a place big cowmen hung out, times they brung in shipments of cattle—things brighten up considerable. It's only four o'clock in the afternoon, so there ain't any big crowd, jest a few fellas in city clothes, and one bleary eyed cow gent in overalls and Stetson. We get service.

According to custom, the first drink for visiting cow waddies is on the house. I make it a Tom Collins, same being cool and long. Boley, who horns in spite of his disguise, elects a rum punch. Platemouth decides on a schooner of dark beer—with a green crème de mint chaser. And more than that, he denominates the same chaser for Boley and me.

I dish my chaser, however, taking care nobody sees. Sweet stuff like that never did tickle me none. And mebbe I'm right, because ten minutes later I'm left alone, while Boley and Platemouth make a fast weaving and sprint for somewhere out back. I don't give a hoot. It gives me a chance to ask some questions confidential of the barkeep.

And that's why we finally get to a great big house built right up on a rock terrace, with the land sloping down, and all brown with grass that's dried out.

It's a funny house, square, and made out of red brick, with a little cupola setting up on top. And the front stairs go way to the second story. We climb, and I make Boley take off his spurs afore we ring the bell.

Platemouth snakes out his six-shooter, and is going to rap good and hard with the butt, until I catch his arm. “No, wait a second,” I tell him. “See, all we gotta do is poke this.” And I push a finger against a bell button what's all surrounded by curly ironwork.

He looks at me kinda funny. “Yuh mean to stan' there an' tell me, Bang-Ear Eckells, that them inside'll hear that measly little tap? Hell, I didn't even hear it m'self! Yo're smart, Bang-Ear, but I don't——”

That second the door swings open slow and impressive. A medium tall, but heavy and impressive jigger stands there, all blue and white, and with red yarn on his sleeves and shoulders. He's sorta double-breasted, vertically speaking, and he's let his hair grow down along front of his ears, clear to his chops, which is plenty fat. They hang like a turkey's wattles.

“I beg your pahdon?” says he, talking like he's got a mouthful of mush.

“No offence took,” I answer generous. “We aim to see——”

But Platemouth, after gaping a second, opens wide his arms, and rushes. “Father!” he yells, and rushing, tries to clinch.

Mebbe he ain't jest as good a jedge of distance as usual, or mebbe the old gent ain't expecting to be reckernized. Anyway, down they go, with a crash what shook the floor. Platemouth's shoulder sinks down eight-ten inches in the old man's waistline, bringing forth a gasp of escaping breath. And then he goes jellylike, and his eyes roll back.

“Gollewhiz, now yuh done it!” wails Boley, forgetting all his Gypsy lingo, in the excitement. “Yuh kilt him!”

But I find out pretty quick the old fella ain't dead—jest whacked too solid in his sole perplexity. He begins to grunt and wheeze. “Now's our time!” I whisper, plenty agitated. “Get a-going! Old Waldo...”

“I'm 'Old Waldo'!” comes a grim sorta voice from the doorway. “Who are you three, and what in tarnation have you been doing to James? James, get up!”

“Ug-ug-awk!” throttles out James, pop-eyed and wiggling one foot; but we don't pay him no attention. Not any. There in the doorway, holding a lifesized cannon with the hammer at full cock, is a wispy little guy with white hair and mustachios. He's kinda pale, and his shoulders don't square off like mebbe once they did. But he's got silvery eyes like two shots of rock and rye with the rye left out.

“Huh, I—we, I mean—” I try to explain why we come, an' particular why we seem to be perpetrating murder and mayhem on old Waldo's friend, James; but somehow my tongue don't track. I stutter.

Boley rushes to the rescue—honest, I hand it to him! “Kutterafojas di whemgubble kak ek looroolooey!” he protests indignant, pressing front and center to come atween old Grover an' me. The boy is on his lines. Mebbe we can pull outa this yet.

I shamble up, dignified as a tailed-up steer and twice as natural. “I'm the blame interpreter. You see, he's Gypsy. He brung up yore son, until I got him on my little cow ranch.” I thought that was sufficient, if not smooth.

“Oh indeed!” says Waldo, “So this one claims to be my son. And what is the circus all about?” He points with a jump of his gun muzzle, towards Boley Lynn.

Boley leaps three feet sideways, and lets go some more Gypsy-Yaqui-Hooey.

“What was it he told me just a minute ago?” asked Waldo, putting away his gun.

I'll swear he grinned; but seeing that cocked six-gun go up on a shelf back there outa sight, relieved me a lot.

“Yore quarrel is with me, not them,” he was aiming to say,” I elucidate, translating that mebbe Gypsy talk. “He's scairt you aim to salivate him, on account of him marrying yore woman over the Gypsy tongs. But you see——”

“Yes, maybe I do,” broke in Waldo crisp. “And is he living with Irma now?”

I shakes my head and sighs. “Poor Irma passed out three year back.”

“I see. Umm-hmm! Yes, that accounts for it.”

“For what?” I don't jest savvy.

“Why he's got so much grease in him now. If Irma was alive she'd keep him scorched to a crackling. No, you tell your Gypsy friend that there are no hard feelings. None at all.”

But he don't give me a chance to jabber. Turning to the fat boy in uniform he says sharp, “James, have we got a room or two left?”

James, who's up on his pins but still kinda groggy, admits reluctant mebbe they have.

“Then show these gentlemen to them. The usual service, you understand. And now I shall leave you, boys. This—er—revelation has been something of a shock to me, you surely realize. Nerves are bad. But I shall expect you to dinner with me—all of you.”

With that he bows, and disappears. I'll swear he's grinning wicked!

BOLEY and Platemouth are walking on air, as they foller that grumpy, wheezy bag of mush they call James. They figger everything's rosy, even if the old duck ain't exactly fell on their necks. Me, I got doubts. Some things Waldo said hadn't sounded like they come from the heart.

“Blame if I don't kinda cotton to yore dad,” confides Boley in a whisper, for a second forgetting his rig-up as Gypsy.

Platemouth gasps, and his mouth looks like it's turning his head plumb inside out. James turns and hands Boley a fishy eye.

I have to do something, but I don't rightly know what.

“You see?” I exclaim, trying to sound triumphant. “If you jest didn't mislay all you learned, when yuh get excited, you could talk an' understand English pretty near as good as anybody.”

“Yes, sir-r-r?” slurs Boley, doing his best to cover up. “Blak-amac-hijo cuestes honzorano.”

“Mummety-peg,” I deny stern.

There mighta been more, but jest then Mister James pulled one that's still got me hanging to the horn. We come to a little glass door in the hall, but it was a door what didn't have no knob. On the frame was three pearl buttons, like electric door bell buttons, only fancier. I savvy door bells, having seen them once I was to Tucson. But this contraption is a heck of a lot fancier.

James, breathing audible but not saying a word, punches one of them buttons; and then we wait, wondering what's up. By and by there's a muffled sorta clank; and James, he pushes another button.

Right away that little door slithers back!

Inside is a little gilt barred cell, like they'd have for solitary confinement in hell, mebbe. I look at it, plumb suspicious; but Boley and Platemouth troop right in regardless.

“After you,” wheezes James. And I think I hear him add, under his breath, something like, “Bloody bounder!” Whatever mebbe that means; I'm turning thirty-five, and there ain't quite the elastic spring in me that once there was.

I don't like the layout, so I act quick. Grabbing James around the middle, I give the rush. He goes in first, and I follow. Like I thought, his first act is to punch a button inside that little cell, and slide the door to.

Then something happens. Maybe I'm wrong; but when James, who's got real mad and snorting, pokes another button, I swear to the great Hijackers my stummick curls way down around my knees. We go up! How it's done I dunno, but I give my range word that whole little gilt cell started upstairs, only there weren't no stairs. Of course you'll call me a liar, especial when I tell you a button was punched, the door slid open—and we looked at a different layout complete. It wasn't the place we'd left; it was two floors up! And we hadn't clumb a single stair.

Some day when I've been sober more than usual, say for two-three weeks, I aim to ask Jim Orville—my Big Auger on the O-in-a-Box—what that heap medicine was. I know damn well it wasn't any of James' magic doings. If he was that good, he'd of killed all three of us off, a inch at a time. He liked us about the way a roulette house gambler likes a night the two-three zeros is taking a vacation in the upper air.

But he takes us down a wide, soft footed hall and into a room, where a door leads inta another room. A double and a single. When James goes, however, the outside door goes click! I don't like it. I try the handle—and it's locked! Somehow I kinda expected as much. Without saying anything, I sneak through and try the door of the small room; but that's locked, too.

I look out the window, and see it's thirty feet down, or mebbe more, and us without a rope.

A few minutes later there's a grating and a click at the door of the small room. I'm plumb sober by now, and wondering jest what the heck is up. I ain't told my compadres nothing about this last development; they has plenty to talk about, figgering what really happened to that gilt cell what riz upstairs on us.

“It was hauled up by ropes!” I hear Boley maintain. Like me he has gone pretty nigh cold sober, probably on account of the excitement.

When I investigate the noise, I get a sorta agreeable shock. The door is jest slamming shut hurried like, but there on the floor is three glasses setting on a tray! Aside the glasses is a full bottle of tall and narrer shape, a corkscrew, and one of these here seltzer shoot-'em-Sammies, glistening with cold sweat on the glass.

Well, locked in or not, we sure can recognize a friend, particular in liquid form. During the next half hour—the bottle proving up as Three Star Hennessy—we gets plumb good-natured towards old Grover Waldo, and even wishes something less than green rawhide and a hot sun for friend James.

During the solemn ceremonies of pouring, Platemouth, who's too reckless to trust with a bottle, discovers there's two-three windows on the floor below, where guys are poking their heads out and cussing each other venomous. Platemouth finds out the combination of that seltzer siphon, leans out, and shoots one of them cussers in the back of the neck.

“Ho-ho-ho!” bellows Platemouth, turning to tell us. But his laugh don't last. Not any. At that he's lucky.

Wham! Tinkle, tinkle.

From below, the squirted guy has turned around and let loose with a gun. And in Platemouth's hands a high pressure bottle of fizz suddenly explodes. Krrummmmmp!

“Ug-ugh—Gawd—I—c'mere Bang-Ear! I'm plumb diluted!” He gargles. “Gimme a drink. I——”

“Spit out the glass fust!” I tell him. And then, him obeying thorough, I give him a swaller outa my tumbler, though right quick I see he don't need so much more.

He wags his head and starts to sniffle. “I don't care, they's suthin' strange about this house!” he mourns, meditative. “Never did I expect to see the day a bottle would explode all by itself.” Yeh, his hangover has come back.

I don't pay any more attention to him. He's disgracefully drunk; don't even know he's been shot at! Who am I to disillusion him?

IT'S maybe an hour after that, when James come up after us. By then the lights, which we've punched on and off lots of times, is swaying; an' the carpet is squirming under my feet. I ain't quite sober.

But we go down, forking that funny gilt cell with the punch buttons. And, first being asked for our guns—we'd left our'n up in the rooms, all except one I always hangs under my left arm—we was led into a big room where a big chuck table is set.

That table is all snow white cloth, glittering glass, and real silver, with three branching candlesticks giving the light. Me, I sorta wonder why Waldo, with all his spondulix, don't loosen up and get electricity.

But I ain't really got any kick coming. Being some illuminated myself, I see two flames on the end of every candle. So that makes the room most as bright as day, you might say.

What grabs me hard and immediate, though, is the gang Waldo's got there—seven of the toughest looking eggs I ever draped an eye on. They ain't cowpokes. Most is city dudes, but only one the flossy kind. He's a big, red nosed, sandy mustached varmint with a black coat, striped pants, and rings on his fingers. I figger he's got a gold brick hid under the tail of his trousers. Then there's a little rat of a guy, shifty eyed, in a gray jersey, with his coat buttoned tight. And the other five might of been bum prizefighters, cops in plain clothes, or anything like that.

They're all standing up behind their chairs, scowling hard at some little cards what have been set around to each place. Something ain't pleased them a bit; and it's plain they don't like each other none, and us still less if any.

“Henry the Eighth, this is your place,” says Waldo courteous to Platemouth, pointing out a chair. “And here, Mr. Eckells. And here, Big Chief Romany Chal.” The last is for Boley, who's gone bug-eyed.

“The names and numbers are purely chronological, you understand,” goes on Waldo smooth. “Please be seated. My son's name was Henry; and so in the order you came back to me I have named you Henry the First, Second and so forth. So don't attach any sinister significance to a combination like Henry the Eighth, for instance.”

“These other bums ain't only impostors, Daddy!” growls rednose, whose card names him Henry the Sixth.

“Tush! Tush!” admonishes Waldo. “Let us not criticize each other this early in the evening, Henry. Let all be amity. Of course I am aware that my dear, departed Irma did not present me with octuplets, twenty years ago this morning; yet withal, desiring to be my son indicates, to me at least, the yeasting of a worthy ambition. So let us not judge each other harshly—not now, at any rate.”

That was hifalutin' talk, only part of which I get right then. But immediate come a gang of waiters, bringing little fancy drinks. Yellowish they was, sorta wry tasting, and a undernourished green prune sunk to the bottom of each. I drunk mine, though it wasn't so good; but the prune must of had dyspsy. I took one bite, then waited till the waiters come again, and snipped it off my thumb. It jest missed a waiter with two heads, going somewheres between.

The supper goes on. Most of it is kinda misty to me, and likewise to Platemouth and Boley. We're sure old Waldo done most the talking, shutting up any Henry who got to shooting off his mouth, and telling us yarns about the tricks little bony fidy Henry used to play twenty-two-three years back.

There is all sorts of vittles, dished up a dab at a time; and there's fizzy wine after a while, a pint bottle to each man. It sorta tickles, but don't seem to have a hell of a lot of authority. Piper Heidseick they calls it; and I remember having an argument with Platemouth as to whether it was named after the tobaccy, or vicy versy, and if so, why.

But the grub comes and goes—not so much of it inside of me. Not until they bring something they calls “filly mean yawn”. Mebbe that's a dirty dig at Platemouth, who spears his all to once, and dumps it in his head cavern, where it don't interrupt traffic none to speak of.

I discover that all the stuff is, is beef—but what swell, tender beef it is! I eat three of them, finishing the pint of Piper, before the hiccups commences. After that I ain't hungry so much.

At the end Waldo stands up, holding his glass. We all do the same—except two-three of us aim to, and don't make the grade first try. My head feels as though it's way, way high up above the floor, and swelling fast But third time, I make it.

“To the real Henry Waldo, wherever he may be!” toasts old Grover, and drinks his glass, the first he's had. “And now, gentlemen, I shall leave you to yourselves with the dessert. My doctor does not allow me to eat rich deserts. You are at liberty to discuss which one of yourselves is the real Henry. Gentlemen, if you will excuse me?”

And with that he goes back through the doorway what I reckon leads to the kitchen. The waiters come in, bringing coffee, and a little plate on which is something looks like a eggcup upside down. They get out quick, but click the door wide open. And almost immejit an ugly growl starts on the other side the table, where the five ex-pugs are setting. Each guy has lifted his eggcup, you see.

And there, big as life on each plate, is one fresh red raspberry!

IT DON'T mean a thing to Platemouth or Boley or me; we jest goggle at it. But these city dudes must of been looking for apple pie, or something, because they get right up on their hind laigs, sore as hell. I seen Rat-Eye snap out a blackjack, and swup rednose one over the head.

This ain't in order a-tall. I see Rat-Eye haul back for a real killing swipe, so I grab the old peacemaker and let go, wham! He's moving so fast I don't hit what I aim at, and my eyes is crossed some anyway. The shot nicks his shoulder, though, and the blow don't fall. Rat-Eye looks kinda surprised, then wilts down and slides under the table.

And jest then the ex-pugs go for me, and the table spills into my lap. Somebody throws a chair, which I dodge, and somebody else lamms my gunhand with a kick what breaks two-three bones, as I find out some later. I drop the gun, but swing that stinging fist into a face what all of a sudden comes close.

“El-yahhhh!” rises a rebel yell, and I know Platemouth is in action. There's two-three pugs hanging to him, but he's throwing them around regardless.

I pushed back to the open door, and then I jump and holler. Something has scorched me through my shirt! I look up, and damn if there ain't old Grover Waldo, grinning in the doorway. He's got a mighty warm stencil branding iron in his hands, and any time a Henry get too close, he sears him up, and the Henry jumps back.

Something heavy bings me under the ear, and before I go down, I kick back—wishing to hell I hadn't took off my spurs. I connect. I grab a pair of legs, and bring down somebody with a crash. Then I crawl up and smash him one—two—three!

And then the lights go out, for me, anyway. I got a bump on my noodle to prove it; though Boley claims I was snoring when the cops carried me out. Lot he knows about it!

YEAH, we woke up in yale—all three of us in one kinda small dormitory. I'm last to open an eye;, and that's as is, because my left eye is doughy and sore, swole plumb shut. Two upper jaw front teeth is loose, my right hand is all puffed outa shape, some skin is gone off my chin, and all over I feel like I been walked on by a herd of ringy Brahma steers.

Also, my head is funny. I try to set up, and bump my forehead on the floor! Mebbe that Piper Heidseick fizz water wasn't so puny, after all.

In time, being used to wounds and such, I get so I can make it across the cell. Platemouth looks horrible. First off I think his face has been sliced clean off; but then I see he's bought a round steak, taken out the bone, poked his pug nose through the hole, and layed back—hoping to reduce the swellings.

It's a hell of an afternoon. And the night ain't so much better. None of us eats a damn thing, only drinking the dishwater coffee they brung us. And then we can't sleep good.

But next morning the sheriff, or whatever, takes us out, and we go up before the police sergeant. It's plumb funny, but he don't seem sore. “You're discharged, under suspended indictments,” he tells us. “Here's three tickets back to Palo Verde. Don't bother us here in Denver any more, or I'll sock hell out of you!” And I'm a sailor if he don't slip us our fare on the cushions, back home!

“That ain't all, quite. One of you birds, who thought you could put it over old Grover, was Whitey Webber—snowbird an' killer. Well, we got Whitey now. They was two grand on his tail. Waldo gets it, but he says to split it up amongst the rest of you. So you ride free—and I take my half, see?”

“But old Waldo, who ain't to be sneezed at in this man's town, left a sealed envelope he says was to be given to Henry the Eighth, an' not to be opened till you get back home. Now, who in hell does he mean by Henry the Eighth?”

“I reckon that's me,” groans Platemouth.

Some time later—we takes three days to go back to Orville's cow spread, aiming to let our faces and other contusions get well—Platemouth opens the letter. I see him puzzle over it, and gaze peculiar at a blue slip which slides out, and which he picks up from the floor.

I look over his shoulder. It's a check on the Merchants' & Miners' National of Denver, for three thousand bucks!

An' here's the letter, done on one of them new typing machines:

Henry VIII & Company

Gentlemen:

Of course I knew from the first that all of you were faking; I rather expected that. After seeing the array of thugs I am accused of having sponsored, I shall search no longer for my missing son. I might find him...

You boys really put on an immense show, however. I appreciate it. It was probably the best battle royal ever held in Denver—and the demolition of my dining room was an infinitesimal matter. I expected it, planned it. I am glad, too, that no one was killed.

So I am turning over the reward to all of you. And as a special reward for your flight of imagination—the Gypsy chief and all—I am enclosing a slight token. Split it three ways.

Though you could not know it, I had one sure test I could have applied to any man who seemed like a son of mine. At the age of three Henry had a bad fall, and bit almost through his tongue. The tongue was stitched all the way across, and doubtless shows signs of that difficult though successful operation.

I take it most of my guests on that memorable night had tongues not stitched—but forked.

Thank you again for the best entertainment I've had since the days when I rode the Nevada and New Mexico range.

Yours,

Grover (Dry Lake) Waldo

P. S. Doesn't a single one of you waddies ride a Waldo-Whitley saddle? I make 'em. Sort of hurt my professional pride.

G. W.

“Good Lord!” I groan, not being able yet to do anything else. “I'll bet all three of us sit his saddles; fourteen-inch fork bear trap is mine.”

But I see Platemouth ain't listening. His broad, flat tongue is stuck out. And there, about a half inch from the end, is a whitish, puckered scar what runs clean across!