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Title: The hen-punchers of Piperock

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: May 10, 2026 [eBook #78651]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1917

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78651

Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HEN-PUNCHERS OF PIPEROCK ***

THE HEN-PUNCHERS OF PIPEROCK

By W. C. Tuttle

Author of “A Bull Movement in Yellow Horse,” “Bearly Reasonable,” etc.

Did yuh ever git so dog-goned good and hungry that yore mind gits to hangin’ onto one single item uh grub, and yuh feels that yuh won’t never be satisfied until yuh gits it?

Shore yuh have. Cowpunchers have that failin’ uh heap, and the one item is usually ham and aigs. Shore, ham and aigs is one item uh grub same as liver and bacon or hawg and hominy. The full moon of uh aig yolk, shinin’ on uh background uh juicy ham—Cripes! That’s how me and Magpie Simpkins felt when we ties our broncs in front uh Jimmy Peyton’s chop-house in Piperock, and wipes the alkali dust out uh our ears.

Two souls with but uh single thought—ham and aigs. When we gits inside we finds Slim Hawkins and Cobalt Williams, of the Seven A outfit, and they’re settin’ at uh table lookin’ sad-like at Jimmy.

Jimmy stands there, with that long lock uh hair slidin’ down off his head and interferin’ with the sight of his right eye, and the other eye is squinted from the smoke of uh limp cigaret which hangs out uh the corner uh his big mouth.

“Not one, Jimmy?” asks Cobalt. “Not uh danged single one?”

Jimmy shakes his head, and wipes off uh table fer me and Magpie.

“Not one, Cobalt. The aig crop in Piperock is minus. The last one I has I boils fer Buck Masterson this mawnin’. There’s the last sad re-mains over ag’in the door where Buck tries to assassinate me with it. Buck swears that it chirped when it busted. It wa’n’t what you’d call uh brand-new aig.”

“What do yuh know about that, Magpie?” asks Cobalt. “Me and Slim rides plumb over from Hell Gate Springs to git uh big feed, and finds that the ingredients is invisible. Shucks! Uh feed house without aigs ceases to deserve the title.”

“Come to ponder on the subject,” sez Magpie, drummin’ on the table with his fork, “a aig shore does appeal to my stummick. Nothin’ like uh nice aig yolk on uh piece uh juicy ham, but when yuh takes away the aig that ham ain’t nothin’ but jist plain hog.”

“My opinion edzactly,” agrees Slim. “I jist seems to pine fer uh aig like uh calf fer its maw. I ain’t got no ham hunger unless it’s chaperoned by a aig.”

“I’d hate to say what I’d give fer one,” sighs Cobalt. “I reckon I’d give uh four-bit piece fer one right now—middlin’ fresh one at that.”

“Why don’t some uh these nesters around here rustle uh herd uh she-chickens and raise aigs?” complains Slim. “They harbors uh lot uh dogy cows which don’t produce milk, and they raises onions. Who the —— wants onions! Shucks! Give me uh can uh peaches and some coffee.”

When Magpie Simpkins was born he inherited uh li’l kink, which has allus stood in his way when it comes to bein’ uh normal human bein’. Sometimes he’s normal but when anythin’ happens to enervate that kink th’ stuff is all off. When it gits to kinkin’ yuh can tell it by jist one sign—song. I knowed when we walked out uh that restaurant that day that my peace and comfort was drawin’ to uh sundown, ’cause when we forks our broncs and ambles off toward our shack, Magpie lifts his voice in song:

When the Springti-i-i-ime cometh, gentle Annie-e-e-e-e.

Jist that one line. I’ve often wondered what happened to gentle Annie when the Springtime cometh, but Magpie said he hadn’t never heard. He jist wailed the one line, and he could hold uh high note on Annie until I often feels sorry fer the pore gal. I opines to myself that I ought to go to uh photygrafter and git my tin-type taken so I could show folks how I looked before. I don’t ask no questions. When that kink is workin’ he’s about as sociable as uh pole-cat.

“Ike,” sez he, th’ next day, when we’re settin’ in front of our cabin, “I’ve got it all figgered out.”

“I’ve got uh lot uh friends in Piperock,” I states, “and all I asks, Magpie, is uh chance to pack my war-sack, and tell ’em all good-by. Yore experiments don’t appeal to me a-tall, but I don’t want to leave without uh word.”

“Experiment? Who said this was uh experiment?” he snorts. “This here is uh dead immortal cinch, Ike. Go ahead and punch cows fer forty uh month if yuh wants to.”

“They’ve all been cinches, Magpie,” sez I. “I’m gittin’ tired uh cinches, so I reckon I’ll jist move along while the way is open. Mebby when I’m in the sere and yaller leaf I’ll appreciate uh cinch and then I’ll come back to you.”

When it comes to tearful voices, that Magpie person can give ’em all uh quart handicap. I’m old enough to know better, and I’ve heard them woful accents often enough to git wise, but dog-gone, what could I do when he opines thusly:

“Ol’-timer, I’m full uh grief and sorrow.

You and me been pardners fer years, sharin’ our blankets and beans, and now yuh elects to leave me forever. You know what’s best, Ike. Go if yuh must, but not in anger, ’cause I loves yuh like uh brother and I know that life is goin’ to be empty when yo’re gone. Won’t yuh stay another week, Ike? Pardner uh mine, I needs yuh like uh porkypine needs quills.”

“Well,” sez I, wipin’ the sweat off my cheek-bones, “lookin’ at it from uh sentimental standpoint I’ll go yuh oncet. What’s the idea, Magpie?”

He points down across the hills and sez:

“Ike, do yuh see that li’l bunch uh cactus-covered hills down there? Them’s mine now.”

“Well,” sez I, “they say that man wants li’l here below, but I reckon you undershoots that about six feet, Magpie. Cactus, mesquite and grasshoppers! Without wishin’ to be considered inquisitive and nosey, I’d shore admire to know why you accumulates such undesirable real estate? Uh man couldn’t raise whiskers on that plot.”

“All I asks is perfect faith,” sez he. “I aims to show yuh how to git rich without workin’, Ike.”

Me and Magpie goes on with our li’l social duties, and things is normal fer uh week, except that Magpie wails uh heap about gentle Annie. One evenin’ the stage comes in and she’s piled up high with boxes. Andy Johnson is drivin’ and he’s some peevish. He climbs down and starts jerkin’ the ropes off that load.

“Gol dang. This shore is some load!” snorts Andy. “Between them hawgs and he-hens I shore have had one hy-iu trip, if yuh asks me. First uh hawg would squeal and then uh he-hen—the same uh which ain’t familiar to my broncs—would yell, and then I has uh man-sized runaway on my hands.”

“I reckon that freight is fer me,” states Magpie.

“Ke-rect!” snaps Andy. “Help me git this danged hawg crate off. Them’s the funniest lookin’ hawgs I ever seen. Cripes! They ain’t wider’n nothin’ and about five feet long.”

“Razor-backs, Andy,” sez Magpie, grinnin’. “Them hawgs is reported to contain the sweetest meat on—hol’ onto that crate! Dog-gone!”

Andy misjudges the weight of the crate as it slides off, and down she comes onto the ground with uh smash! The crate busts wide open and there stands them hawgs, tryin’ to git their bearin’s. Magpie takes one less look than the hawgs did, and dives fer the pair.

Magpie is shore some sudden mover, but he didn’t figger on the speed uh them slender animiles, and all he gits is his hands full uh dirt, while the hawgs shoots right under the stage and under the feet uh them four broncs. Blooey!

Uh bronc is some tickled when he can find somethin’ to git good and scared at, and all four uh them buzzard-heads seems to be delighted with the situation. They yanks the stage plumb off the ground, and heads right up the main street, with them crates ridin’ high, wide, and handsome.

At the upper end of the street, in front uh Holt’s hotel, is uh tree. It’s the only one in five miles, and uh course them broncs has to head straight fer it. One uh the leaders stands on his rump on Holt’s porch and then rolls into the doorway, to the consternation uh the Holt fambly. The other goes buckin’ off across the flat with nothin’ on except his blinders and uh throat-latch. The pole uh the wagon hits the tree dead center, and the wheelers splits and burns the sand away from Piperock and razor-backs. The wagon jack-knifes, and all three uh them crates rises sudden like, hits the tree and proceeds to open up all to oncet.

Chickens? Say, when them crates busted it looks like an explosion in uh feather-bed factory. We runs up there as fast as we can, and it looks like the whole town was comin’ to the scene. When we gits there them chickens ain’t noways in evidence—jist busted wagon, busted crates and feathers.

Andy walks around the stage and looks her over and then gazes up in the tree. We natcherally all looks up, and there on uh limb stands uh he-hen with uh scared look in his eyes. Jist one left out uh them three crates full.

We don’t git more’n one good look before uh gun explodes in our midst and that chicken ain’t nothin’ but uh bunch uh soiled feathers.

“There!” sez Andy, shovin’ his gun back in his belt. “That’s how much I appreciates chickens.”

“Folks,” states Magpie, “I calls yuh all to witness my ultimatum. I hereby states that I won’t pay Andy one cent fer haulin’ that bunch uh livestock up here. With malice aforethought and uh .45 he’s done assassinated freight which was assigned to his care. He’s responsible fer safe delivery.”

“Mebby I was uh bit hasty,” sez Andy. “But so long as Magpie feels the way he does about it I’m sorry that hawgs can’t climb trees. Uh hen ain’t what I’d call adequate recompense fer uh busted stage, four busted harnesses and four locoed broncs.”

“Mister Simpkins!” One uh Sam Holt’s kids worms his way through the crowd and grabs Magpie by the leg. “The blacksmith’s done killed one uh yore hawgs.”

“Cripes!” howls Magpie, “I done paid fifteen apiece fer them animiles.” And we all gallops off down to the blacksmith shop.

We finds Pete Gonyer settin’ on the sill of the doorway, holdin’ his head in his hands.

“Did you kill one uh my hawgs?” yells Magpie.

Pete looks up in uh dazed sort of uh way and rubs his stummick.

“I did not,” sez he. “My gosh! I shore hit him hard enough, Magpie, to kill all the hawgs on earth. He went down, and when I starts to drag him out he tore loose, went between my legs and I busts my wish-bone on the anvil.”

“What did yuh hit him fer in the first place?” asks Magpie.

“I was shoein’ Art Miller’s pinto hoss, and jist as I was fittin’ uh shoe on uh hind foot that narrer contracted piece uh animated bacon comes in and says, ‘Woosh!’ at that hoss.

“He wooshed all right, and I had hold uh that hind leg. Jist after he wooshed I hits my head on the other side uh that shop and the pinto emigrates toward Canada. When I opens my eyes that danged hawg is blowin’ bubbles in my slack-tub. That’s when I soaks him, Magpie.”

Magpie turns to the crowd and spies them three kids uh Sam Holt’s and sez:

“Say, you kids, want to earn some money? If you’ll ketch all them hens uh mine and bring ’em up to my cabin I’ll give yuh ten cents fer each one. There’s forty-eight—no, forty-seven. One was sacrificed to pay th’ freight.”

“Yore hawgs are over back uh my restaurant,” states Jimmy Peyton. “I tries to take my garbage can away from ’em but I shore changed my mind. What in —— kind uh hawgs is them, Magpie? Look to me like uh cross between uh bed-slat and uh grizzly. I don’t like ’em a-tall.”

“Th’ man what sold ’em to me told me that they was razor-backs and that they could hold their own anywhere,” sez Magpie.

“Well,” opines Jimmy, “I don’t mind that so much, but I don’t care to have ’em hold my own. I’d admire to git my can back.”

I don’t know yet jist how we manages to git them hawgs up to our cabin. They’re the worst critters I ever tried to lead or drive, but we manages to git ’em home before dark and puts ’em into uh li’l corral which Magpie builds uh few days before. One uh Holt’s kids comes up later and tells us that our hens will be brought up the next mawnin’ ’cause they’ve all hived up in his father’s barn.

“So this was yore cinch scheme, was it?” I sez, as I starts supper.

“Uh-huh,” sez Magpie. “It wa’n’t what you’d call a suspicious beginnin’, Ike, but we shore advertised our new business. Whenever uh person gits to thinkin’ of us they’ll jist natcherally think about ham and aigs. Sabe? Now, forty-seven hens means forty-seven aigs per day. At four bits each that totals up to the sum of twenty-three dollars and four bits per day. Add that to uh few head uh hawgs per year and she looms up, Ike, she looms up.”

“Shore,” I agrees, “but she’d loom up uh heap bigger if yuh didn’t have so many he-hens in that herd, and also if them two hawgs wa’n’t of the gentlemen variety. She-hens are the ones what lays the aigs.”

“It’s reasonable to suppose that the man what sells ’em to me knows my needs, Ike. I can’t say that he treated me edzactly right in the hawg proposition though. He shore did send me uh mixed lot uh stock. When that wagon hit the tree I sees blacks, browns, bays, sorrels, roans and pintos in great profusion. She shore is a assorted herd.”

“What do yuh aim to feed ’em on?” I asks.

“That’s where them cactus hills comes in, Ike. Fer some reason the grasshoppers seems to congregate on them hills. Uh course you’ll find ’em other places, too, but right there is where the bulk of the Hopper fambly lives. In the mawnin’ I’m goin’ to haze ’em down there and play hen-puncher while they grazes. What’s botherin’ me now is how to brand ’em. I was plannin’ to run uh S on the hip but it can’t be done. Also yuh can’t ear-brand or dewlap. Mebby I could paint ’em like they do on sheep.”

“Why brand ’em a-tall?” I asks. “There ain’t no other herd in the country.”

Magpie ponders deep fer uh while and sez:

“Mebby that’s right, Ike, but I shore hates to run uh herd without uh brand. I’ll take that ol’ Bar S iron and run it on them hawgs in the mawnin’.”

But Magpie didn’t run that iron on them hawgs, fer the simple reason that them hawgs wa’n’t there in the mawnin’. That corral was built to hold uh hawg, not uh cross-cut saw on legs. Magpie immediate and soon goes out hawg huntin’, and when he’s gone Tellurium Woods shows up.

While me and Tellurium is plenty friendly, him and Magpie don’t hitch a-tall. Tellurium is built like uh hooch barrel, and he ain’t got no hair on his head, which makes him plumb laughable whenever he removes his hat.

I tells him about Magpie’s scheme and he laughs so hard he busts the top button off his pants. He does that every time he laughs hearty, so he packs uh li’l box uh them patent buttons along with him. When somethin’ funny is liable to happen he carries the box in his hand.

He don’t laugh so much when I explains that Magpie’s goin’ to corral the aig market and shove that article up to four bits each.

“Two bits is enough,” he argues. “After yuh gits over thirty-five cents fer a aig yo’re infringin’ on uh citizen’s rights. It ain’t noways accordin’ to humanity to charge uh feller four bits fer one li’l aig, Ike.”

“But these will be fresh aigs,” I states.

“Shucks! That ain’t nothin’. The inhabitants uh Piperock wouldn’t appreciate fresh aigs, ’cause why they ain’t got no taste like one what has sort o’ lingered. I shore likes to taste what I’m eatin’.”

Me and Tellurium sa’nters down to Buck Masterson’s saloon after a while, and jist gits inside in time to hear Magpie state:

“I don’t care if yuh didn’t know what it was, Cobalt. Jist ’cause yuh don’t know what uh thing is ain’t no reason fer takin’ uh shot at it.”

“Well,” sez Cobalt, leanin’ ag’in’ the bar, and rollin’ uh smoke. “As I stated before, Magpie, I ain’t noways to blame. I’ve imbibed the full of uh mule’s ear uh Buck’s hooch to see if she won’t help my appetite. While I’m engagin’ uh full meal in deadly combat down in Jimmy’s place I happens to turn around and here comes that thing. I sez to myself: ‘Cobalt, that hooch gave yuh somethin’ beside uh appetite.’ And I starts shootin’.”

“Aw ——!” sez Buck, slidin’ the bottle down the bar. “Let’s all have uh li’l snifter. What’s the use uh arguin’? That hawg never got hit.”

“It ain’t the fact of the hawg gittin’ away with uh whole hide,” orates Magpie, “but it’s the principle of the thing. Jist because it looks uh heap like uh delirium tremens apparition don’t lessen the fact that it’s uh hawg, and stands me fifteen dollars each. I’m now goin’ to try and put them things back into the corral before some hooch-soaked hombre makes the mistake, uh shootin’ my thirty dollars into ribbons. Come and help me, Ike.”

“Can’t be done,” sez I. “I got uh li’l deal to talk over with Tellurium.”

“Then you let him do the talkin’, Ike. Keep yore mouth shut or he’ll steal the fillin’ out uh yore gold tooth.”

That shows how much affection Magpie’s got for Tellurium Woods. When I goes home Magpie has the hens all safe and sound but the hawgs is still at large.

We shore has uh hy-iu time fer the next week. Me and Magpie punches hens—the same uh which can’t be done. Them danged things is shore finicky and weak-minded in the head. They’re plenty willin’ to go out to feed but jist as soon as they gits their stummicks full uh hoppers—blooey! They admires to see what’s over in the next county.

Them hawgs never gits corral broke and spends most uh their spare time rootin’ up the creek bottom and huntin’ fer trouble. We ain’t worried when they don’t come home at night ’cause nothin’ less than uh full-grown grizzly’d tackle that pair. In uh week we gits two aigs, which is deposited in the hen shack. One uh them ain’t noways firm and Magpie wipes the re-mains off his vest. The other is up to plans and specifications and Magpie markets it for four bits to Jimmy, and spends the proceeds fer stickin’-plaster fer our heel blisters.

We’re settin’ in our cabin one evenin’ about ten days after our herd arrives, when Art Miller comes in.

“I reckon this range is goin’ to be given over to the aig industry right soon,” states Art.

“Meanin’ which?” I asks.

“Well, Andy Johnson hauls another load uh aig-producers tonight. Four boxes of ’em fer Tellurium Woods. Bein’ as Pete Gonyer helps him take ’em away, I’d opine that they’re in pardnership.”

“We ain’t heard no funereal marches played in Piperock fer quite some spell, but I kin hear, ‘Ashes to ashes’ right now,” sez Magpie. “Dog-gone, uh feller can’t start nothin’ without uh lot uh imitators startin’ up. Them fellers ain’t pioneers in the aig business like me and Ike and they shore are breedin’ trouble, Art.”

We argues the question fer uh while, and Art leaves. As soon as he’s gone, Magpie puts on his coat and tells me to come on. We pilgrims down to Jimmy’s place and he’s alone.

“Jimmy,” sez Magpie, “I wants to contract to furnish yuh with aigs. About how many can yuh use per day?”

Jimmy scratches his head and grins:

“Magpie, I needs at least uh dozen uh day but I’ve done contracted with Tellurium Woods. He’s agreed to let me have uh dozen uh day at two bits each.”

“It can’t be done!” howls Magpie. “Dad bust it, Jimmy, it can’t be done! Two bits! Why, uh feller couldn’t make nothin’ at that price. Uh hen ain’t like uh cow, Jimmy. Yuh got to spend all yore time on the job.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to say,” replies Jimmy. “Bein’ the consumer, I ain’t mixin’ a-tall. All I asks is aigs.”

Magpie is so mad he don’t talk to me that night. In the mawnin’ he lets the chickens out and hazes ’em down to the hills. I ambles down after awhile, and I sees Magpie settin’ on uh rock, and he’s countin’ out loud:

“Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two—gol dung yuh, hold still uh minute can’t yuh—forty-three—Ike, where in —— does th’ increase come from? I’ve counted ’em up to sixty and there don’t seem to be no ——”

“Hey! What yuh doin’ with my hens?” yells uh voice behind us, and here comes Tellurium Woods down the hill, with uh shotgun under his arm. “What do yuh mean by mixin’ herds with me, eh? Yo’re uh nice ——”

Magpie jumps to his feet and starts toward Tellurium.

“Git off my hen range!” he whoops. “Git yore bunch uh animated dusters off these hills!”

Tellurium spits in the dust and waves his shotgun.

“What yuh talkin’ about, yuh long, disjointed hawg-herder?”

“E-nough!” snaps Magpie. “This is my range and I don’t allow no trespassin’. Sabe? Take yore herd and vamoose.”

“Ain’t this uh free range?” asks Tellurium, sarcastic like.

“Not any she ain’t. I’ve done located this prickly pear plot as uh homestead. All this mesquite, sage-brush, rocks, scorpions, tarantalers and rattlers belongs to me. Also if yuh don’t git yore hen herd off right now I’m goin’ to sue yuh fer about one acre uh grasshoppers. Yore herd are shore some ravenous.”

Tellurium, bein’ plumb respectful uh personal rights, starts in to cut out his hens. It’s some job, bein’ as his herd is also mixed on color.

Cuttin’ out uh hen is some chore. Jist about the time yuh thinks yuh got her cut out she sneaks under uh mesquite. Yuh gits down on yore prayer bones to chase her out, and yuh finds that she’s gone out the other side uh long time ago and is now helpin’ some more hens hold uh convention under another bush.

Tellurium is some busy, and Magpie is right on his trail to see that he don’t make no mistakes.

Tellurium cuts out uh pair uh hens and hazes ’em up the hill uh ways.

“Hold on there!” yells Magpie. “Don’t yuh cut out them two roans. I know them two shore is members uh my herd. No, you don’t take that li’l bay one, either. I reckon I knows my own stock.”

Tellurium glares at Magpie and starts after another hen. I reckon that hen was plumb kerflumixed, ’cause she dodges the wrong way and Tellurium steps square on her. That hen’s usefulness is over.

“Yuh, will, will yuh!” yells Magpie, grabbin’ Tellurium by the back uh the neck. “You done killed that hen uh purpose, knowin’ she was uh favorite uh mine. You danged ol’ buffalo-whiskered hippopotamus, you and me’s goin’ to mix!”

They shore did! Tellurium drops his gun when Magpie grabs him, and I appropriates said hardware and appoints myself referee. Hoyle didn’t have uh word to say about that fight. Tellurium ain’t built fer speed, but he shore has uh swing that’s wide and graceful. Magpie is so tall that when he bends over his waist line is five feet back from the point of his jaw.

They wrecks two uh Magpie’s perfectly healthy mesquites, and up-roots uh half-acre uh thrivin’ cactus, the same uh which is decoratin’ Tellurium’s carcass, makin’ him look uh heap like uh porkypine.

After the usual small parlor talk, Magpie sets his toes and dives fer Tellurium’s belt line. I rolls ’em apart. There ain’t no use countin’ ’cause they’re both out. I reckon Magpie’s done twisted his neck, and Tellurium looks jerky around the waist line, like uh balloon with uh leak.

Pretty soon Magpie is with us ag’in, and he looks over at Tellurium, who is laborin’ some hard. Magpie twists his neck some careful and grins.

“I knowed I’d knock him out, Ike,” sez he. “But I don’t jist remember what it was all about.”

“Hens,” sez I, and jist about that time Tellurium heaves uh big sigh and sets up.

“Hens is right,” sez he. “Jist as soon as I gits my wind ——”

“Yo’re goin’ to git off my property,” finishes Magpie.

Tellurium pulls most uh the prominent cactus out of his hide, and goes hen huntin’ ag’in.

“Look here!” snaps Magpie. “Do you know yore own herd, Tellurium?”

“Beyond contradiction,” sez Tellurium. “Why?”

“I’m jist wonderin’. If you do I don’t see why yo’re herdin’ that li’l bay hen. That particular one I’m callin’ Louise, and me and her is tillicums. Sabe? I’m ashamed to know uh hen-puncher what don’t know his own herd.”

Tellurium wipes the sweat off his bald head and glares at Magpie.

“——!” sez he. “How do yuh reckon I’m ever goin’ to git my hens cut out if each time yuh claims the critter? It ain’t reasonable, Magpie. What I suggests is this: I’ll take my required number regardless. They’re all hens anyway.”

“You git any aigs yet?” asks Magpie.

“Not a aig.”

“Then yore idea don’t appeal to me a-tall. I got two already and I ain’t goin’ to take uh chance on you gittin’ my prize layers. Somewhere in that herd is uh hen what don’t put good covers on her produce, but I reckon she’s young yet and will do better with practise. One other is uh humdinger of uh layer, but I don’t recognize her, and I can’t take no chances. Sabe?”

“Mebby my herd will come home at night,” states Tellurium, hopeful like. “It’s reasonable to suppose that they knows their own home corral.”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Magpie. “But in the meantime they’re eatin’ up my range. By night my total loss in grasshoppers will amount to jist about twenty dollars, and I’m here to orate that unless I’m reimbursed to that amount I mavericks enough hens to square the bill.”

“Twenty dollars——!” howls Tellurium. “Why, Magpie, it——”

“Dollars or hens,” states Magpie. “I ain’t in the feed business fer my health, and pasture means money. Sabe?”

Tellurium is gittin’ pretty sore about this time and he’s also tired.

“Dollars or hens, eh? How many hens do yuh reckon it will take to square the bill, Magpie?”

Magpie figgers on his fingers and looks the herd over.

“I reckon it will take about forty——”

“Forty,” explodes Tellurium. “Why, gol dang it, Magpie I only got forty-eight!”

“Eight,” finishes Magpie. “Don’t ask uh question, Tellurium, and then git all heated up and butt in before it’s answered.” Tellurium digs down in his pocket and hauls out uh ol’ tobacco sack.

“Here’s yore danged twenty!” he snaps, handin’ the bill to Magpie. “I’m goin’ home, Magpie, and I hopes fer yore sake that my four dozen hen animiles comes home to bed down. Otherwise I appeals to the law.”

Tellurium pilgrims off toward town, wipin’ the sweat off his bald dome, and slappin’ his leg with his hat. I reckon he’s some exasperated.

“That’s finance, Ike,” grins Magpie. “This ham and aig business shore is uh winner, jist like I said. I’ll keep that twenty fer uh rainy day.”

We has uh audience at our cabin when we arrives with the herds that evenin’. Tellurium Woods, Pete Gonyer, Andy Johnson, Judge Steele and Sam Holt is settin’ in front of our cabin, and they seems uh heap interested in our hens. They watches us haze ’em into the hen shack, and then Judge Steele removes his hat and opines:

“It has been brought to my notice that things ain’t edzactly right up here. Mister Woods comes to me with the complaint that he’s been unfairly gouged in uh legitimate enterprise, and wishes uh satisfactory settlement. I understands that there has been uh minglin’ uh livestock which has caused Mister Woods deep grief and sorrow, not to mention financial losses.”

“Is Pete Gonyer full uh sorrow, too?” asks Magpie.

“He shares both mentally and financially,” states the judge.

“Also I harbors ill-feelin’ toward them hawgs,” sez Pete.

“Art Miller deciphers that I’m to blame fer the loss uh that pinto hoss. Now, that hawg——”

“I’m ag’in all local productions uh ham and aigs,” cuts in Andy Johnson. “The last I hears uh my four-hoss team they’re standin’ on uh bluff in the Medicine Hills, afraid to eat.”

“Well,” sez Magpie, complainin’ like, “that’s always the way with folks when uh feller tries uh new scheme. Nobody helps but they all tries to hinder. Me and Ike figgers that we’re uh boon to humanity when we introduces domestic ham and aigs, but I finds that our efforts in behalf uh the betterment uh local conditions ain’t appreciated. Genius ain’t appreciated noway. Christopher Columbus was in the same fix when he said——”

“Christopher Columbus never got his hens mixed!” howls Tellurium. “Why talk about the Civil War, Magpie—git up to date.”

“That’s jist what I tries to do, Tellurium, and look what I gits fer it. You and Pete covets my business, and jist because yo’re uh failure at it yuh has to invite the law to help yuh out. What do yuh aim to do about it?”

“We’ll hold them hens in abeyance,” sez the judge, “until official adjudication.”

“Never heard uh the place, Judge,” states Magpie. “Bein’ uh heap interested in the ultimate disposition uh them hens I’d argue that we leaves ’em in that shack.”

“The law has been invoked and must be obeyed,” pronounces the judge. “Them hens is disturbin’ the peace and tranquillity uh this here law-abidin’ community, and so far they ain’t been no benefit a-tall. While they ain’t edzactly what you’d call uh public nuisance——”

“I’d say that them hawgs comes under that description, Judge,” interrupts Andy.

“There wa’n’t no hawgs mentioned in this complaint,” sez the judge. “Until them hawgs do become obnoxious, Andy——”

“Zowie.”

Around the corner uh the cabin comes them two hawgs, runnin’ about neck and neck and runnin’ wild. They got plenty room to pass, but they acts uh heap like uh pair uh runaway cars—they can’t seem to leave the track.

Tellurium is uh heap bowed in the legs, and them hawgs is taperin’ as to form, but there ain’t room fer both of ’em to go through the wicket to oncet. They makes uh good try, though. Tellurium’s right toe ketches the judge under the chin, and they’re both still in the air when them hawgs vanishes over the hill. Tellurium sets up and rubs his bald head. It’s all right. I don’t know why he rubs his head, ’cause he didn’t ’light thataway. He glares at Magpie fer uh minute and then pulls uh six-shooter out uh the band uh his pants.

“Now, dog-gone yuh, Magpie,” sez he, “I’m shore goin’ to make yore string-bean carcass look like uh worm-eaten lodgepole! Sic yore hawgs on me, will yuh!”

“Aw ——!” snorts the judge, reachin’ over and smotherin’ Tellurium’s weapon, with one hand, while he rubs his own jaw with the other. “Lost me uh tooth—eye-tooth!” he announces. “Put down that gun, you clumsy hippopotamus! I’m the one to feel insulted. I reckon them hawgs ain’t been misrepresented a-tall. Such goin’s-on makes me sore in spirit and meek feelin’.”

“Sore spirits must be all the rage this season, Judge,” states Magpie. “I’m wearin’ uh wreath of ’em myself. Tellurium, if you don’t put down that gun I’m shore goin’ to make yuh wish it was uh edible article. As far as them hawgs is concerned——”

“Where’d they go, eh? Where’s them crosses between uh grizzly bear, cross-cut saw and uh hawg?”

There stands Jimmy Peyton, bareheaded and packin’ uh 45-70. That long lock uh hair is still botherin’ his sight, and the cigaret is no more than uh scrap uh brown paper hangin’ to the corner of his mouth. He’s pantin’ like uh overheated pup.

“Where’d they go to?” he yells, when nobody seems inclined to answer.

“Them hawgs, Jimmy, is under the jurisdiction of the court,” states the judge.

“——!” snorts Jimmy. “Them animiles shore are there when it comes to gittin’ under things. Them things admires to move my supply shack. They’re as strong as mules, danged if they ain’t!”

“That ain’t no legitimate reason fer assaultin’ ’em with uh 45-70,” sez Magpie, peevish like. “Dumb animiles ain’t to blame ’cause yore domicile ain’t anchored solid.”

“No, that’s right,” agrees Jimmy. “But gol blast it, Magpie, they gits on my nerves. I been oilin’ my saddle in the kitchen, and I goes over to Buck’s to git uh bracer. When I comes back them hawgs uh —— has et up most uh that saddle except the stirrups and the tree. When they sees me they wallers under that li’l shack, and by the time I borrows Buck’s rifle and gits me another drink, that li’l shack is goin’ down the street without visible means uh support. Dirty Shirt Jones comes ridin’ straight fer Buck’s place, but when he sees that shack he don’t stop. He jist rides on up the street and don’t even look at me. I reckon that was uh temperance lecture fer Dirty.”

“This conversation is driftin’ away from the main stem,” states Tellurium. “We starts on uh hen mixture and leads up to uh booze cure. The fact that Dirty Shirt is laborin’ under uh delusion don’t adjudicate them hens.

“Me and Pete, bein’ in the aig business, don’t wish to tie up our capital while disinterested parties argues the wrongdoin’s uh hawgs. Jist suppose that them hens lays uh lot uh aigs in that shack, Judge. Who owns the aigs, eh? Suppose we locks them hens up in that shack—who gits the custody uh the keys?”

“I’d argue that nobody does,” states Pete. “Leave the door open. Suppose our hens wants to come home? What about that, eh? Them pore innocent hens uh mine and Tellurium’s ain’t to blame fer this trouble, and ought to be allowed to come home if they so wishes. Am I right?”

“That’s uh reasonable thought, Pete,” nods the judge. “Mebby the thing can be settled thataway. I don’t reckon that nobody wants the responsibility uh actin’ jailer fer hens, and I’m danged shore the law don’t. I don’t know nothin’ about hens. Tellurium, are you willin’ to call off further law proceedin’s if this here scheme works out?”

“It costs me twenty, Judge, but I’m willin’. There’s allus uh silver linin’—he might have put the price uh hoppers at forty dollars per acre. Leave the gates ajar, and may the best man win.”

We props the door open, and the satisfied aggregation ambles off down town. They ain’t gone long until Dirty Shirt rides up to our door. He slides off, sort uh painful like, and comes over and sets down. He don’t say uh word.

“Nice day,” sez Magpie.

Dirty stares at the ground fer uh minute or two and then sez, in mournful tones:

“Magpie, there ain’t never going to be no more nice days fer me and mine. I been uh ungodly ol’ pelican in my time, but now in the sere and yaller leaf my past life rises up like uh spook and mocks me. I’ve drunk enough hooch to fill Sullivan gulch, and she’s reactin’, Magpie, she’s reactin’.”

“Be uh good cheer, Dirty,” consoles Magpie. “There ain’t nothin’ ever happened what was as bad as yuh looked fer. What seems to be bearin’ down on yore immortal soul?”

Dirty heaves uh long slender sigh and shakes his head.

“I don’t know, Magpie. I had snakes oncet over in Oklahoma, which I annexes from imbibin’ boot-leg hooch, and I figgered that I’ve seen all there is to see, but by the muddy Missouri River, I don’t believe I’ve begun to ——!”

Dirty comes to his feet like uh flash and his face turns the color uh wet alkali mud. He goes after his six-gun, and wails hopeless like:

“It ain’t no use in shootin’ but I jist can’t seem to know it!” And he starts shootin’.

It’s them hawgs ag’in. They’re jist comin’ around the corner uh the hen shack when Dirty unlimbers with his .44, and they jist natcherally turns on the space of uh dime and splits the atmosphere around the other way.

“Flup! Bang! Zing-g-g! Bing!”

I falls backward into the open door, Magpie ducks flat on the ground and crawls on his belly around the corner, and Dirty splits the breeze toward town behind his bronc, which seems to have contracted the getaway fever, too.

I hears two more shots fired, but the bullets don’t come our way like the first two did. I pokes my head out and sees Magpie’s nose stickin’ around the corner of the cabin.

“Cripes!” sez he. “Must be uh Injun uprisin’. Better pass me my rifle out uh the window, Ike. Look! Dirty’s caught his bronc and is reinforcin’ our rear.”

I cranes my neck, and sees Dirty. He’s got the cabin between himself and where the bullets come from, and he’s riding our way with his gun in his hand. He comes up behind the cabin and slides off.

“Some son-of-uh-gun danged near spoiled me!” he wails. “That chunk uh lead sung, ‘There’s uh land that is fairer than this,’ right past my jug’lar vein, and I ain’t swallered since.”

He fidgits with his gun fer uh spell, and when we don’t say nothin’ he shoves the gun back into his holster and turns to Magpie:

“Magpie, did somebody shoot at me?” he asks, sort uh foolish like.

“I—I—I know I ain’t edzactly myself but—it—huh—shore did seem—well, mebby I did imagine it but——”

“Yeow! I shore put the deadwood on ’em that time!” yells uh voice, and here comes Jimmy Peyton on uh bronc. He’s got uh rope on the horn of his saddle, and is draggin’ somethin’ in the dust. His bronc don’t seem pleased a-tall and is actin’ scandalous. Jimmy’s lost his hat but he’s still hangin’ onto the stub uh that cigaret.

“I got ’em!” he whoops ag’in, anglin’ his bronc up to us. He shore had! On the end uh that rope is tied two hawgs—dead hawgs, too. Dirty Shirt walks out, sort o’ unsteady like, and looks ’em over. He goes up and puts his hand on Jimmy’s leg, and looks sad-like at him.

“Jimmy,” sez he, “don’t joke with uh pore ol’ man. Is there anythin’ draggin’ in the loop uh yore rope?”

“Hawgs,” sez Jimmy. “Dead hawgs, Dirty.”

“Cripes!” sez Dirty, startin’ fer his bronc and shakin’ his head, “I thought all the time it was my mind, and now I finds that it’s only my eyes. Gosh, I’m dry!”

“Yore first two shots didn’t hit them hawgs,” I states to Jimmy, reprovin’ like.

“Impossible, Ike,” sez he, rollin’ uh fresh smoke. “My bronc tries to turn over backwards when them hawgs comes toward him, and my first two shots hits the sky. This bronc ain’t what you’d call ‘hawg broke.’”

“Mebby the sky was yore limit but you aimed too low,” states Magpie. “Them two shots danged near makes uh vacancy in our law-abidin’ community, as the judge would say.”

“Close don’t count in nothin’ but pitchin’ horse-shoes, so there ain’t no use in holdin’ post-mortems on might-have-beens. Loosen yore hawgs, and I’ll go back, Magpie.”

“Yore target practise this evenin’, Mister Peyton, is goin’ to cost yuh about thirty dollars,” states Magpie. “Any time I wishes to butcher my hawgs I’ll hire uh meat cutter, not uh cook.”

“Thirty——!” wails Jimmy, slidin’ off his bronc and illustratin’ his peeve by wavin’ his arms like uh windmill. “Why, gol ding it, Magpie, I’m uh public benefactor! You can’t make me pay thirty dollars fer riddin’ the world uh them things which is hawgs in name only. It ain’t reasonable.”

“Hawgs is hawgs,” pronounces Magpie. “They sets me back jist what I tells yuh the damage amounts to. You goes after ’em like they was wild animiles. Them’s domestic things, Jimmy.”

Jimmy rolls uh smoke, sort uh thoughtful like, and looks at them two dead hawgs. He takes uh puff or two and throws the cigaret away.

“Huh!” he snorts. “I never thought about it thataway, Magpie. Will you and Ike take it out in trade?”

Would we? Well, I reckon that thirty dollars’ worth uh feed looks good to me and Magpie, and we sez so to Jimmy, who goes off down-town, towin’ them hawgs through the dust.

After supper we goes down to Buck’s place, and finds Dirty Shirt lit up like uh birthday cake fer the heap.

“Ike,” sez he. “My ol’ friend, Ike, my eyesight’s glimmerin’ out, but it ain’t no worse’n lots uh others. They all sez that them things is hawgs, Ike. Gosh A’mighty, what imaginashuns some folks has. Le’s all have li’l drink to shelebrate optical ill-illule’s all——”

Dirty fergits the hawgs and goes to sleep under the pool table, and me and Magpie horns into uh game uh draw. It shore is some game. I manages to own what clothes I got on my back when I quits in the mornin’, but that’s about all.

Magpie yawns when I quits, and throws another twenty on the table.

“I been savin’ this fer uh rainy day,” he states, as Buck slips him another stack. “But I reckon I might as well use it, bein’ as I got my feet plumb wet in this li’l pastime.”

Tellurium seems uh heap interested in them chips. He recognizes the twenty as the grasshopper payment.

The next deal Magpie picks up two li’l pairs and fills on the draw. Tellurium opines to need three, and he’s the only one to see Magpie’s bet, and he puts uh li’l raise under it. Magpie shoves the rest of the chips to the center, and spreads his hand.

“No more good than axle-grease on uh six-gun,” grins Tellurium, spreadin’ four queens. “Four hens, Magpie, takes the feed bill.”

“That shore was hopper money, Ike,” sez Magpie, yawnin’. “She hops away from me some sudden. Let’s go over and eat some uh the breakfasts we got comin’ from Jimmy. It’s uh lucky thing it was him what kills them hawgs. Suppose some uh these cow rustlers had uh done it.”

Jimmy’s locked up yet, in spite uh the fact that it’s not very early, so Magpie sez:

“Let’s go home and kill uh hen fer breakfast, Ike. Dog-gone, them things ought to be good fer somethin’. Might as well eat some now, Ike, ’cause by the time we gits through lawin’ about ’em they’re goin’ to be so danged ol’ and crippled up that they won’t be edible a-tall.”

When we gits to the cabin we sees Pete Gonyer settin’ on uh stump near the hen shack, with his hat pulled down low over his face.

“Gosh A’mighty!” snorts Magpie. “I’ll bet that hombre’s been settin’ here all night watchin’ them hens. He shore must be uh heap wrapped up in the business.”

“How’s the hens, Pete?” I asks.

He’s whistlin’ “The Holy City” in uh low key, sort uh sad-like, and don’t respond. He jist crooks his thumb over his shoulder toward the open door uh the hen shack, and goes on whistlin’. Magpie walks over, looks in, and then motions fer me. My gosh! It shore resembles uh riot in uh hen-hair factory. We examines it some close, and then Magpie shuts the door and turns to Pete.

“Well, Pete,” sez he, “I’d opine that coyotes is uh unforeseen contingency.”

“Indubitably,” nods Pete. “That open-door policy shore settled the aig controversy.” And then he switches his whistle to the “Cowboy’s Lament.”

Me and Magpie ambles down-town in silence, and finds Jimmy’s place open. We sets down and pounds on the table, and Jimmy comes out with that lock uh hair ticklin’ his nose, and the cigaret in the corner uh his mouth.

“Jimmy,” sez Magpie, “bring me and Ike about—uh—good breakfast uh ham and aigs.”

Jimmy grins and goes back to cook the order. He slips us two aigs and uh piece uh ham each. Magpie sniffs the aigs and turns up his long nose.

“Not any too recent, Jimmy,” sez he.

“Nope,” agrees Jimmy, leanin’ ag’in’ uh table and rollin’ uh fresh smoke. “But at the present high price uh ham and aigs, unless yo’re uh millionaire yuh can’t expect fresh aigs.”

“Meanin’ which?” asks Magpie.

Jimmy lights his smoke and points over at the wall. There’s uh sign on the wall which reads:

HAM AND EGGS——$20 PER ORDER

IF YOU FURNISH YOUR OWN HAM

——$15 PER ORDER

“Yo’re the first ones to furnish yore own ham,” grins Jimmy. “Uh course yuh didn’t edzactly furnish ’em, but I’ll give yuh the benefit uh the doubt.”

Magpie gazes at his plate fer uh minute and then back at the sign on the wall.

“That sign don’t specify whether yuh furnishes coffee with yore meal or not, Jimmy.”

“Coffee is free as per usual, Magpie.”

“At them prices,” sez Magpie, “any small favor is thankfully received.”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the First September, 1917 issue of Adventure magazine.

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