Playing Safe in Piperock
“‘Magpie,’” says I, “if my corns wasn’t hurting —— out of me I’d havetears in my eyes from such sentiment. I’m all choked up—with alkali.”
“You’ve got to admit that she rhymes,” says Magpie Simpkins, spittingout a mouthful of dust and lifting his canteen to his lips. “I donefigured ’em all out of my own head, Ike.”
“You better leave off taking things out of your own head,” says I.“First thing you know, old-timer, you’ll be taking out what promptsyou to chaw your grub, and I’ll have to feed you with astummick-pump.”
Then we pokes off the mountain and hits the trail toward Piperock. Foryou who ain’t never heard of Piperock, I’ll say this much: Piperockwas the place the feller was thinking about when he wrote “Letsleeping dogs lie.”
Piperock looks like a siesta settlement, but she sure is deceiving.Few folks ever get killed in the town. The good old village usuallyinvigorates ’em to a mile-a-minute clip, and we makes it a point neverto shoot anybody in the back.
She ain’t the birthplace of nobody, and nothing much excepthorse-thieves are buried there. When it comes to law and order, we’vegot old Judge Steele. He’s got two law books and a copy of theCongressional Record for 1885, which about covers all the crimes thatmankind is heir to, I reckon. Piperock ain’t on no map nor railroadand she ain’t never been sung in song or story, but if you don’t thinkshe’s there, just get off the train at Paradise, ride north on ArtMiller’s stage to where he unhitches his team, and then startsomething.
She’s there like sixty per cent dynamite and no questions answered. Meand that long-mustached, brainless, asinine arguer of a—well, me andMagpie have been away for two months doing assessment work on somemining claims that nobody would jump if we moved ’em down to therailroad and offered to develop ’em free of charge. We sort of hankersfor the bright lights of Piperock. Even kerosene dazzles after usingcandles for two months.
Magpie stops, sudden-like, and appears to be looking down at a littleflat below us. I adds my gaze to his and gets astonished right away.There is “Half-Mile” Smith and “Yuma” Yates: Half-Mile is one of ourown home folks, but Yuma is sort of e pluribus unum with me andMagpie.
Half-Mile has got his boots and vest off and is standing a little waysfrom Yuma, who is arguing with a gun in his hand.
“I don’t sabe this play,” says Magpie, wondering-like. “Appears tobe a one-sided proposition with Half-Mile on the weak end, Ike.”
Just then we sees Half-Mile make a break for liberty, and Yuma’s gunwhangs out loud and clear. If he hit Half-Mile he didn’t get him in avital place, ’cause he sure is hitting the high spots.
Magpie unhooks with his gun and I sees Yuma’s hat spin off his hea