The loot of the Lazy A
“Ain’t this my shirt?” asked Mex softly.
“Yore shirt! Sa-a-a-ay, when did you own a shirt like that? I bought
that shirt in Phoenix three years ago, Mex. I’m not dressin’ both of
you jiggers. Omaha’s got on a pair of my socks, and if that ain’t my
red tie he’s-- Hey, Omaha, that’s my collar!
“Yeah, it is, too! You never had none as high as that. My Gawd, if you
ever set down hard, you’d slice off yore ears. Now, look at it! Why
don’tcha polish yore boots _after_ yuh dress yore neck? Hell, I can’t
wear that collar now! And there ain’t-- Wear one of yours, Omaha? That’s
right neighborly of yuh, cowboy. I’ve got a fifteen and a half neck, and
you’ve got a seventeen.”
“I’d rather have a phonygraft, wouldn’t you, Omaha?” asked Mex,
searching his war-sack for another shirt. “Yuh can shut off a
phonygraft.”
“I don’t pay no attention to the big scorpion,” said Omaha. “He
thinks he can claim things by talkin’ louder than anybody else. That
was my collar. Provin’ it to him jist ruined it for both of us. And
this tie----”
“Give us the hist’ry of it,” begged Pie Ide. “After you’ve done lied
yore soul into purgatory, I’ll tell yuh where and how I got that tie.
Mex! Didn’t I tell yuh to let that shirt alone? Flimsy? Of course
it’s flimsy! But yuh didn’t need to rip it down the bosom thataway,
jist showin’ it was flimsy. O-h-h-h-h, why didn’t yore folks wean yuh
in yore callow youth?”
“Ain’t you goin’ to shave?” asked Omaha mildly.
“Not with my razor,” said Mex. “Every time Pie shaves with my razor I
have to pay a barber a dollar to hone the nicks out of it.”
“Aw, he’s beautiful enough,” grinned Omaha. “When that girl takes a look
at him, she’ll----”
“Wonder how I can stand to live with you two misfits,” finished Pie.
“Yeah, I’m goin’ to shave--with Mex’s razor. I’m goin’ to wear that
flimsy shirt and I’m goin’ to accept one of Omaha’s clean collars,
even if I have to punch some new buttonholes to ram my collar-button
through.”
“And ruin it for me?” wailed Omaha.
“Prob’ly.”
“Are you aimin’ to make a play for this heiress?” asked Omaha
resignedly.
“Jist like a road-runner pickin’ a grasshopper,” said Pie seriously.
“Ain’t it legitimate? She’s single. There ain’t nothin’ in the
constitution of the State that says I ain’t eligible, is there? I’m
a clean, whole-souled young feller, and I’ve got ambitions to be
somethin’ in the world.”
“If you’d ’a’ said you was clean-souled, I’d keep still, ’cause yore
soul ain’t visible,” grinned Mex. “You ain’t took a bath since yore
bronc bogged down in the Little Muddy last spring. With all the land
she’s gettin’ on the old Lazy A, I don’t reckon the lady would want
any extra real estate, Pie.”
Mex dodged gracefully through the doorway, just ahead of the shoe-brush,
which Pie hurled the length of the room. It was a good throw--as far as
velocity was concerned--but the angle was bad and Omaha looked up just
in time to get the handle of it across the bridge of his nose. Omaha
went backward over a chair, landing on the back of his neck near the
door, howling bloody murder. Nothing could ever convince Omaha that Pie
Ide had not intended to hit him. He came to his feet, swearing a streak,
blood running from his injured nose, eyes half blinded.
His grasping hands came in contact with his belt and gun on a bunk, and
he fired one wild shot, as Pie Ide went under a bunk on his hands and
knees.
“Gdigyuh!” wailed Omaha. He staggered to the center of the room, one
hand held to his streaming nose, as he tried to locate Pie under the
bunk.
“What’s goin’ on in here?” Idaho Breen had just heard the commotion,
and had come from the stable. “What happened to you, Omaha? Put down
that gun!”
“It was an accident, Idaho!” panted Pie, sticking his nose and eyes
out between a drapery of blankets, which hung down over the end of the
bunk. “I throwed that brush at Mex, and Omaha walked into it. Take the
gun away from him, Idaho.”
“I’d wadden’t no dab aggcided,” denied Omaha. “He idtedded to hid be.”
“He throwed it at me,” Mex stuck his head around the corner of the
doorway. “But you’ve got my consent to kill him, Omaha.”
“Some of you damn’ fools are goin’ to kill each other one of these
days,” declared Idaho. “Why don’tcha ever grow up?”
Omaha tossed the gun to the bunk, and turned to the broken mirror to
examine his injury. The nose was swelling, and was tinged with purple
across the bridge. Idaho grunted disgustedly and walked out, while Pie
crawled from beneath the bunk and advised Omaha to hold his breath and
stop the bleeding.
“Will thad stob id?” asked Omaha wearily.
“Sure it will.”
Omaha tried it, but with no results. “How log?” he asked heavily. “How
log do you hab to hold id?”
“All depends on the person,” said Pie seriously. “Some die a lot harder
than others.”
But this time Pie had secured Omaha’s gun, and walked outside to
join Mex. Idaho was hitching up the buggy team, with the intention
of going to Oreana City to meet the train. Idaho had not dressed for
the reception of the heiress of the Lazy A, but the three cowboys
felt differently about it. All they knew was that Mary Ault, old Jud
Ault’s niece, was coming to the Lazy A. Idaho had told them that she
was a fairly young woman. It was not often that the Lazy A boys
dressed up, but when they did they made an event of it.
Pie had suggested that they all go to the depot to meet her, but
Idaho vetoed that idea. Idaho drove away. It would be several hours
before train time. Omaha came from the bunkhouse, looking queer with
his purple nose, which resembled a potato in contour.
“All dressed up and no place to go,” complained Pie. “It’s hours before
the train comes in.”
“And nothin’ to drink on the ranch,” wailed Omaha. “I’d sell my soul for
a shot of liquor.”
“Got over yore hayfever, eh?” grinned Mex. “Yore nose looks like the
handle on a door.”
“Thasall right,” growled Omaha. “Ne’ mind my nose.”
“It strikes me that somethin’ must be done,” said Pie. “We can’t gloom
around here for hours, dressed thisaway. Suppose we go to town, keep out
of sight of Idaho, and when the train whistles we can head for home.”
“Yore voice is tuned for my heartstrings,” said Mex. “How about you,
Omaha?”
“Pshaw, I’m halfway there right now. C’mon.”
And while the three Lazy A cowboys headed for town, four other riders,
“Buck” Wing, “Heinie” Moriarity, “Klondike” Evans and Joe Chevrier, of
the Star X, foregathered in the Oreana saloon and gambling house, with
enough money in their pockets to make the visit worthwhile.
Buck Wing was a long-legged, buck-tooth cowboy, with one eye slightly
out of line, and one of his ears, in prize fight parlance, was slightly
cauliflowered. Moriarity was short, broad of shoulder, typically Celtic,
even to his love of battle.
Klondike Evans was of medium height, bald-headed, sallow complexioned,
which accentuated the wispy black mustache on his long upper lip. Joe
Chevrier was a little, red-faced, French-Canadian, voluble, excitable,
the butt of most of the rough jokes originated by Buck and Heinie.
The Lazy A and the Star X outfits had never met since the funeral of
Jud Ault. Personally there had never been any bad blood between the
cowboys, but they had been loyal to their own outfits, respecting the
ancient enmity.
Idaho Breen saw that the Star X outfit was at the Oreana; so he tied
his buggy team in front of the New York Store, and gave the Oreana a
wide berth. This was as Pie Ide had expected; so the Lazy A trio tied
their horses at the rear of the Oreana and made their entrance through
the rear door.
The four Star X boys were at the bar. Omaha, Pie and Mex stopped about
midway of the room, looking at the Star X men.
Buck Wing grinned widely. He had imbibed plenty of liquor and his soul
was mellow toward everybody.
“’S far as I kin see,” he said slowly, “there ain’t no feud left. Hyah,
cowboys!”
And for the first time since the feud started, the Star X punchers
shook hands with those from the Lazy A. After about the sixth drink,
Omaha offered this explanation:
“This here Miss Ault, which the old man designates in his will-paper as
bein’ the one he chooses to own the Lazy A, is due to hit Oreana City
this evenin’. Idaho Breen aims to take her out to the ranch. That’s the
reason we’re all duded up this-a-way. When that train toots for Oreana
City, we fogs for home and lines up at the front door to welcome her.”
“Perfec’ly proper,” said Klondike owlishly. “My, my, I don’t see how
you boys ever got so stylish! I take one look at Pie Ide, and I says
to myself, ‘Here’s a ’Piscopal preacher.’ You shee it was that collar
that fooled me.”
“’S one of mine,” said Omaha. “Pie punched button-holes in it. Had t’
kinda lap the ends over to fit his neck.”
“My Gawd, he shore is a dude!” applauded Buck Wing. “Yo’re all
pretty gaudy, if yuh ask me. Still, it’s perfec’ly proper under the
circumstances. Whatcha say, Joe?”
Joe Chevrier hadn’t said anything. Liquor made him just a trifle
mournful, it seemed. He looked gloomily upon the three Lazy A punchers.
“I say not’ing,” he replied. “Me, I’m jus’ t’ink w’at somebody say ’bout
Star X kill Lazy A beef and t’row hide in de prospec’ hole.”
“Drop it!” growled Heinie. “This is no time to stir up a lot of smelly
cow-hides, you frog-eater!”
Frenchy was properly squelched, but continued to glower. He was just
drunk enough to hold a grudge, and his remarks brought a decided chill
over the festivities.
“I’m for buryin’ any hatchet that might be around,” said Pie Ide. “We
might as well all be good little friends together.”
“Sure thing,” agreed Buck Wing. “I’m willin’. But you know yourself,
Pie, that Idaho Breen made some remarks that are hard to overlook.”
“You say somet’ng true,” applauded Joe.
“And I’m goin’ to squirsh you, if yuh don’t shut up!” snapped Heinie.
“And I’ll help yuh,” offered Omaha. Heinie glared at Omaha.
“The hell yuh will!”
“If yuh need help,” amended Omaha quickly.
“I’m not scare from de Lazy A, you bet,” declared Joe.
“You shore don’t need to be, Joe,” said Klondike warmly.
“Well, yuh can’t hold us responsible for what Breen said, can yuh?”
asked Pie Ide. “I’d crave to know if we’re responsible for what our
boss says; that’s what I’d crave to know.”
“You seems to have a cravin’, cowboy,” observed Buck coldly. “Folks that
crave hard enough usually gits, yuh know.”
“Aw, you don’t need to git yore tonsils all swelled up,” said Pie. “We
came here in a peaceful mood. Yo’re four to our three, but nobody ever
seen the Lazy A----”
“Let’s arbitrate,” interrupted Omaha. “I’ll buy a drink. And we don’t
care how many Lazy A cows you’ve rustled. We don’t care if you’ve
filled every prospect hole from here to Welcome Creek with Lazy A
hides. Whatcha drinkin’, gents?”
“Are you admittin’ to yourself that we has done such a thing?” Heinie
Moriarity hitched up his belt, his eyes snapping.
“Let’s have the drink first,” suggested Klondike.
Arguments were forgotten for the moment, while seven men drank. Joe
Chevrier threw his glass in a cuspidor, smashing it into a hundred
pieces.
“I drink no more wit’ Lazy A,” declared Joe, waving his arms. “I’m
insult from w’at Breen say about de cow-hide.”
“Why,” said Omaha expansively, “don’t some of you Star X gents kill that
damn’ Frenchman? He’s a menace to friendship.”
“’O’s a menace?” demanded Joe belligerently. “Tak’ dat off! By gosh, I
no stand for dat!”
“He ain’t no menace,” said Klondike. “You hadn’t ought to call him
that.”
“Then why don’t he forget them cowhides?” wailed Omaha.
“He’s so honest it hurts him,” explained Buck Wing thickly.
“Hurts him to be honest,” nodded Mex. “I sabe what yuh mean.”
“You don’t sabe nothin’!” snorted Buck Wing.