HAIR-TRIGGER HOLLIBAUGH

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “A Tin Cup Trophy,” “The Wisdom of Cyclops,” etc.

Whenever uh man sets down to review his past life he sure must have uh hardened conscience if he don’t shed uh few tears uh sympathy for himself. I sure did. I always figured that my conscience was plated with Harveyized steel, but just the same I weeps copious and fluent like.

I meditates on what uh fool uh man is who has just turned forty, ain’t got nothing but two days’ grub, uh denatured jackass to pack it with, uh strip uh cleaned bed-rock, fifteen feet below the grass roots, and not uh color to show.

Hard work? Cripes! That fifteen-foot hole was nothing but uh succession of lifts, heaves and grunts. Also, I owned uh rocker. It was built on the spur of the moment and kicked to pieces in uh whole lot less time, when I pans plumb across that strip uh corrugated rock and don’t find nothing more exciting than some black sand. I rinses out my gold-pan, meditates for uh minute, and then sails her off into the crick bottom like uh blue-rock.

Just to show that I’m disappointed entirely I waits until she almost stops sailing, and then punctures her with five or six .41 slugs. I grins with Satanic glee at my handiwork, and then orates aloud to nobody:

“There! I’m through! I don’t believe there ever was any gold.”

“Everybody is entitled to their beliefs,” states uh tired-sounding voice behind me, and I turns sudden-like.

I figured that I was the only human being within twenty miles, and after taking uh look at the owner of that voice, leaning against uh granite outcropping, I don’t change my opinion.

He’d be uh handy thing to measure telegraph poles with, and yuh could allow the length of his feet for the part of the pole what goes into the ground. Also, he qualifies in circumference, and on top of that animated flag-pole is the saddest face I ever saw. His eyebrows hangs down and matches his mustache, which don’t show enough animation to harbor uh dandruff germ.

The pouches under his tired-looking eyes looks like they had been squeezed dry and then left to shrivel up in the sun like the shell of uh walnut. The Adam’s apple in his lean neck is so active that I expects it to knock his hat off at any time, and his speckled hands wobbles limp-like around his bulgy knees. He yawns, slow and deliberate-like, when I stares at him, and then yanks uh couple uh times on the rope he’s holding, which appears to extend around the rock.

“What you doing with Eveline Ann?” I asks, and he yawns some more.

He hauls out uh plug of tobacco, looks it over careful-like, and puts it back. I opines that he’s too tired to bite.

“This her?” he asks, pointing at my burro.

“Sure!” I replies.

He relaxes against the rock and scratches his left leg just above where the boot leaves off.

“Your jack?”

“Yes, mine!” I snaps. “You’re leading my burro! Sabe?”

He looks the burro over in uh sad sort of uh way, and then nods sort uh solemn-like.

“Don’t make no difference,” he states, taking lots uh time between each word. “It’ll be all the same uh million years from now.”

“Well, mister,” says I, “you got more gall than any one I ever seen. Do you intend to appropriate my mule right under my nose?”

“Might as well,” he drawls. “You opines that there ain’t no gold, and unless yuh got faith enough to prospect yuh ain’t got no use for uh burro. Yuh can’t wear it on your person, and—your gun is empty, anyway. Sabe?”

“You’re uh philosopher are yuh?” I asks, but he shakes his head.

“No,” says he. “No, Texan. My maw’s folks were from Arkansaw. I was born in—in—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate. I forgot where I was born. Don’t matter none.”

“No,” I agrees, “it don’t make no material difference. I reckon we can come to an understanding without your birthplace. Were yuh born tired?”

“I—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve been tired for—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Tired for uh long time. Maybe it’s the climate.”

“Stranger around here?” I asks, and he nods.

“I hope so. If I thought I wasn’t I’d be on my way. I’m wanted.”

“What for—exceeding the sleep limit?”

“Sleep limit? Huh! I wouldn’t put shells in that gun if I was you, mister. One loaded gun around here is enough. I don’t know your disposition so I plays safe. Sabe?”

“Sheriff at Blue Nose,” I states, offhand-like, but he just nods and yawns.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Just one?”

“We only have one to uh county in this State,” I informs him.

“Poor system,” he states. “One sheriff is enough to handle ordinary men, but I ain’t ordinary.”

“No, you’re not,” I agrees.

“I’m ‘Hair-Trigger’ Hollibaugh.”

He yawns wide and unhandsome and pats the long Colt, which hangs near his knee.

“Ever hear of the Hollibaugh tribe?” he asks. “The longer the family runs the tougher they gets, and I’m the last survivor. They has all died with their boots on.”

“Too sleepy to take ’em off?” I asks.

“Mister Man,” he puts one hand on my knee and stifles uh yawn over his wide mouth with the other. “Mister Man, don’t chide me. The Hollibaughs don’t let no man chide ’em. Who might you be?”

“I might be General Funston or Admiral Dewey,” says I, sort uh peeved-like, “but I ain’t. Did yuh ever hear of ‘Comanche’ Cal?”

He looks at me, solemn-like for uh moment, and then hands me the lead-rope of that burro.

“Lead your own stock, Comanche,” says he. “Also and moreover, yuh might as well fill up your gun. Yuh never can tell what we’ll meet. If you’re short uh ca’tridges yuh might fill out uh my belt, seeing as we both use the same size.”

“Where do yuh figure we’re going?” I asks.

He yawns uh couple uh times, and tugs at his mustache.

“I don’t know, Comanche. Doggone me—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Doggone me if I know. I reckon we might as well go down and kill that sheriff. I believe in taking folks by surprise. There ain’t no limit to what you and me can do together. Comanche Cal, eh? Well, dog my cats! You sure are deceiving to look at.”

“Yes,” says I, “and I’m also deceiving to talk to. You got any mode uh locomotion except your feet?”

“I—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate. Nope. That’s your stuff on the burro. I came past your camp, so I takes what I wants. I don’t reckon I left much of anything. Yuh see,” he explains in his tired voice, “I’m uh Hollibaugh. We takes what we want. My paw was lynched for stealing uh cow, and my grandpaw was shot for coveting another man’s hawgs. Grandpaw loved pork right up to the time he died.

“I been sojourning over in uh place called Maverick. Ho, hum-m-m! Must be the climate. Got into uh poker-game over there. Inhabitants are fish-eaters. Thought I was sucker enough to go to sleep in uh poker-game. They rings in uh cold deck in uh jack-pot. They didn’t know I was uh Hollibaugh. I got peeved and stuck up the whole bunch for what they had. One feller, name uh Kelly, thought I meant table stakes, and tried to hold out on me.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Got uh posse after me pretty soon. Shot my hoss from under me and then crippled my pack-animile. I went to sleep in the brush and they missed me. No, sir, I ain’t got nothing left but my gun, clothes, self-respect and the traditions of the Hollibaughs, and I been on foot for so long that my pants hungers for the squeak of uh saddle. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m-m-m!”

I sets down and rolls uh smoke, and when I gets it to going good I looks up at him but he don’t say nothing. He’s snoring like uh grizzly in the Winter-time.

I steps over, slips his gun loose and prods him in the stummick with it.

“Hair-Trigger,” says I, “give me back that pocketbook yuh got up at my camp.”

He opens his eyes slow-like, busts into uh wide yawn, and produces the article referred to from inside his shirt.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m!” he yawns. “Gosh, I wish yuh hadn’t woke me up. I was dreaming, and I sure love uh good dream. Was that your wallet?”

“Whose did yuh think it was?” I snaps. “You got it on top uh my roll uh blankets, didn’t yuh?”

“Uh-huh. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! That ain’t no sign it belongs to you. Nothing much in it anyway. I just took it so it wouldn’t be lonesome. If that’s all the money you got we better rob uh bank right away. Do you believe in dreams, Comanche?”

“What kind uh dreams?” I asks.

“Aw, just dreams. When you woke me up I was dreaming that I wasn’t uh bit sleepy.”

“I don’t believe in ’em,” says I. “Your stomach is out of order. Maybe it’s your liver. Anyway, you needs medical attention.”

We journeyed to Blue Nose, me and Hair-Trigger and Eveline Ann. The last-mentioned is my burro. Eveline is of the male gender, but it seems sort uh home-like to hear uh woman’s name around camp, so I misnames the brute.

The two ends of him ain’t mates in disposition. If yuh approaches him from the front he’ll try his dangdest to kiss yuh, but if yuh gets near his rear end yuh better hang on to your hat. Eveline can kick the soda out of uh biscuit and never crack the crust.

Hair-Trigger makes the mistake of trying to lean his tired carcass on that jack’s rump, with the result that Eveline kicks him so hard in the belt-buckle that the suspender buttons snaps off the back of his pants.

“I could love that animile,” states Hair-Trigger, while he rustles enough baling-wire to hold up his pants. “Some day I’ll buy him from yuh, Comanche. He woke me up just as uh Injun was going to annex my scalp.”

“Why not buy an alarm-clock?” I asks, but he shakes his head.

“I’ve tried ’em all. They don’t do nothing but make me sort uh restless when they explodes.”

“You ever bothered with insomnia?” I asks.

“I don’t know,” says he. “While I was on my pilgrimage over into this country I slept in an old cabin, and I got something. I hung my shirt on uh ant-hill for uh spell, and then boiled the thing. I ain’t felt nothing there since. What you noticed me scratching was uh wood-tick bite. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Must be the altitude.”

I don’t reckon yuh ever heard uh Blue Nose. It ain’t on no map. It is one uh them places that’s partial to spittin’-tobacco and justifiable homicide. The nearest railroad is sixty miles away, from whence uh stage runs time and again to Blue Nose. It carries the mail, when there is any to carry, which ain’t often. Nobody in Blue Nose has any friends to write to. If they had they wouldn’t be in Blue Nose.

To all appearances the city is dormant when we arrive, and when Hair-Trigger sees that one dusty, deserted street, he smiles like he had found his heart’s desire.

“I been looking for uh place like this for years,” he states, as we pilgrims toward uh hitching-post.

“Not me,” says I. “I ain’t like uh wounded animal thataway. I don’t hanker to sneak into some secluded place to cash in my chips. I hope I never has to point with pain to the fact that I died in uh place like Blue Nose. What do yuh suppose Saint Pete would say to uh corpse from here?”

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m!” yawns Hair-Trigger. “I don’t know Peter, but if he said anything he’d either be loco, drunk or prodigal with his talk. I saw enough in your pocketbook to ask yuh to set ’em up, Comanche.”

We snubs Eveline to the rack, and enters that grog-shop. She sure is one busy-looking place uh business.

There’s uh feller reclining half in uh chair and half on uh card-table, with his head resting on his arms, and he’s snoring plentiful. Hair-Trigger looks him over with envious eyes, and yawns.

The bartender is humped over in uh chair at the rear, busy as uh bee at something. Hair-Trigger sniffs, and I sniffs, and then Hair-Trigger grins.

“Bananas!” he whoops. “Doggone! I never expected to find one in this part of the world.”

“Does smell thataway,” agrees the hooch-handler, uh fat hombre, of about forty Summers and sundry whiskers. “Smells like ’em but it ain’t. Nothing but just paint. Uh feller was going through here, painting signs, and he left this bottle here. I been putting some on this here picture-frame. Don’t look so danged bad at that, does it?”

Hair-Trigger looks it over and yawns, so we moves over to the bar and samples the elixir.

“Right lively little city yuh got here,” I opines.

“You darn well know it,” agrees the bartender. “Blue Nose is about the best place west uh Boston. She’s uh little quiet right now, but some day she’ll hit her stride.”

“Anything in sight?” asks Hair-Trigger, accepting the bartender’s solicitations to sluice again.

“Well, not exactly what you’d call visible. Some day there’ll be uh strike around here, and then she’ll be uh hi-yu place again. Sabe?” Hair-Trigger looks over at the sleeping figure at the table, and yawns wide.

“Plenty uh room if yuh wants to sleep, stranger,” offers the bartender, but Hair-Trigger shakes his head.

“I ain’t—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! I ain’t sleepy. It always makes me yawn to see uh man sleeping thataway. You spoke of uh strike; do you mean placer?”

“You darn well know it. There’s uh wide pay-streak around here. Yuh see, the town was named after me. I’m ‘Blue Nose’ Blucher, discoverer of the Fare Thee Well.”

“Think she’s ripe for uh stampede, eh?” questions Hair-Trigger.

“Mister,” pronounces Blucher, “Blue Nose pines for uh strike like uh calf for its maw. You fellers prospecting?”

“You said it,” states Hair-Trigger. “I’m Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh—me. This person with me is Comanche Cal. Ever hear of him? Him and me is side-kicks, and when we can’t find gold she ain’t no place, eh, Comanche?”

“She ain’t no place, Hair-Trigger,” says I, with conviction, and Hair-Trigger busts his yawn with uh grin.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m!”

The sleeper over at the table stretches convulsively and opens uh mouth yuh could put uh tin can into and never touch ivory. Hair-Trigger takes one look and imitates him to uh gnat’s eyebrow.

“You—you—you—” stutters the figure at the table, and Hair-Trigger nods.

“Yes, yes—me. Go on, go on.”

“You—you—you—you going—going—going—going to pup—pup—pup—prospect huh—huh—huh—here?”

Hair-Trigger nods and yawns and the other nods and yawns with him.

“Let—let—let—let me sus—sus—sus—sell yuh—yuh—yuh—you sus—sus—sus—some cla—cla—cla—claims.”

Hair-Trigger looks the feller over, and then leans against the bar.

“Mister,” says he, “you sound like you had gas on your stummick. Let me do the talking and you just nod or shake. Sabe? You got some claims?”

“Sh—sh—sh—sure. I—I—I—I gug—gug—gug—gug——”

“Nod or shake!” advises Hair-Trigger. “Placer ground?”

The person nods some industrious.

“How far from here?”

“Uh—uh—uh—uh—uh——”

“Wait!” snaps Hair-Trigger. “My mistake, old-timer,” and then he turns to the bartender. “You know anything about his claims?”

“He owns uh claim on Fool Hen Crick, about three miles from here. He works just like he talks, and sleeps when he ain’t working, so I don’t reckon he ever got near bed-rock. I don’t reckon there’s anything there worth digging for, anyway.”

“I—I—I—I—I—gug—gug—gug——”

“Nod or shake!” yelps Hair-Trigger. “You don’t need to go into details. If this here Blue Nose person opines wrong about your personal affairs, you just shake. Sabe? Did yuh ever find any color?”

He nods.

“I—I—I——”

“Amounts don’t count!” howls Hair-Trigger. “Can’t yuh keep from talking? Cripes! If talking was as hard for me—ho, hum-m-m-m! Must be the atmosphere. Now, you nod or shake. How much yuh want for the claim?”

“Uh—uh—uh—uh——”

“Ex-cuse me!” whoops Hair-Trigger. “Dog my cats! You’re sure one hard person for to converse with. Some day you’ll choke to death. Tell yuh what we’ll do; you turn the claim over to me and Comanche, we’ll open her up, and we’ll share alike. What do yuh say?”

“You—you—you——”

“Shake or nod! Doggone yuh, shake or nod!”

The person thinks deep like for uh minute, and then begins—

“I—I—I—I’ll——”

“Shake or nod!” advises Hair-Trigger, in uh hoarse whisper, and the person nods.

“Now,” says Hair-Trigger, accepting another free drink, “we’ll go right out to our mine as soon as we can raise uh grubstake.”

He turns to the bartender, and says—

“Mister, do you know where we can raise the price of uh piece uh grub?”

“Nope, I don’t. Yuh might go over and tackle old man Swigert at the bank. He’s got plenty uh money, but if you can pry him loose from any of it you sure can pan gold out of uh haystack.”

“Stingy?” I asks.

“Stingy!” he snorts. “Stingy? Say, that old hombre is so danged stingy he sleeps with his boots on to save the wear and tear on his socks. If I had the money handy I’d stake yuh myself.”

“Well, what are we going to do?” I asks, and when Hair-Trigger telescopes back to normal, after uh convulsive yawn, he replies:

“We’ll go over—ho, hum-m-m-m-m!—and make this stingy person hand us the price of some bacon and beans. The Hollibaughs are great when it comes to borrowing things. I borrowed uh quart uh alcohol from uh thirsty Injun once, and I’d uh drank it, too, but danged if I didn’t go to sleep, and he stole it back. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m!”

“Now, you—you—you—” begins the spluttering one, but Hair-Trigger holds up one long freckled hand, and bids him desist.

“Pardner,” says he, “don’t! Wait till yuh make uh stake and then yuh can hire an interpreter. Right now yuh resembles uh scratched phonygraft record.”

We takes another shot uh hooch all around, and Hair-Trigger cocks his hat on top of his sad face, and sings in uh voice that sounds like filing uh saw in uh loose vise:

“Old man Swigert, was uh generous jigger, and he bought uh grubstake for little Hair-Trigger. With uh hi-yi and uh hi-yi and uh hi-yi, yippi aye.”

Hair-Trigger over-shot when he sings of Swigert’s generosity. That bank uh Blue Nose wasn’t what you’d call uh palace uh finance, but the proprietor sure qualified as uh warden for wayward dollars. Every cent that old hombre had in his bank was kept in solitary confinement, and I’ll bet that every check had to prove an alibi before he pardoned the cash. He glares at me and Hair-Trigger, from where he’s bending over uh desk, writing the obituary of the last ten cents he spent for chewing tobacco, and snarls—

“Well, what do yuh want now?”

Hair-Trigger sizes up the layout, and yawns wide.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! What yuh say?”

“I said what I said, and you heard me!” snaps the old turtle. “What do you want now? Hear that?”

“Let me see,” grins Hair-Trigger. “What did I ask for the last time?”

The old sidewinder gets up from his table and peers close-like at us.

“Was you ever here before?” he demands.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Danged if I know,” states Hair-Trigger. “You spoke just like I’d been here before. Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“I don’t believe nothing I can’t see!” snorts Swigert.

“Good system,” replies Hair-Trigger. “Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the climatic conditions. Uh feller done told me about you, but I couldn’t believe it until I saw yuh. Dog—my—cats! He sure was right.”

“What did he say?” demands the old pelican. “What’d he say, eh? Said I was stingy, eh? Said I was, didn’t he?”

“Nope,” yawns Hair-Trigger, tugging at his dilapidated whiskers. “Said he wouldn’t say uh word against yuh, Mister Swigert. Said he didn’t have to, ’cause you’re uh mind-reader, and you know what folks think. He said he thought you was stingy as ——. He didn’t come right out and say that yuh was—he just thought yuh was. Sabe? Ho, hum-m-m-m!”

“Well, I ain’t!” howls Swigert, pounding on uh table. “I ain’t stingy. I’m careful—that’s all. What you fellers want, anyway?”

Hair-Trigger yawns and pats himself on the chest.

“I’m Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh—me. Ever hear of the Hollibaughs? Mining engineers—whole fambly. Born with second sight. Invented seventeen ways uh saving gold. Honest as uh hot day is long, and honorable from the cradle to the grave. This person with me is Comanche Cal, expert on amalgamation. What I can’t save he can. Sabe? Ho, hum-m-m-m! Must be something in the climate.”

“Well!” yelps the old rooster. “What do yuh think this is—uh prospect? This is the bank uh Blue Nose—not uh mine!”

Hair-Trigger smothers uh yawn with his hand, glances cautiously around and then whispers confidential-like to Swigert:

“Listen: me and Comanche has gone into pardnership with uh feller who has uh claim up on Fool Hen Crick. We know what we’re talking about when we say it’s richer than anything Alder Gulch ever showed. Want uh fourth interest? All that will cost yuh will be enough to grubstake me and Comanche for uh month or two—say uh hundred and fifty dollars. You’ll—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! You’ll get rich. Sabe?”

The old ground-hog draws his lips so close together that his chin and nose shakes hands with each other, and squints at us like uh badger full uh cayenne pepper.

“I will, will I?” he howls. “You say I will, do yuh? Doggone your panhandling souls, get out uh here! Stake yuh? Why, I’d sooner give it to uh coyote. Gold-hunters ——! Grub-hunters is what you are. All you wants is to live off somebody else. Prospecting parasites!”

That ain’t all he said, but it’s sufficient. Telling uh story in polite society sort uh hampers direct quotations. Anyway, it ain’t going to shock nobody to say that he called us uh lot uh unprintable names, while I absorbs several cigarets.

After a while he seems to have run out of mean things to say, and is panting hard from the exertion.

“Well,” says I, “I hates an argument. If you believe half the things you’ve said about me and Hair-Trigger, I’d opine that we ain’t going to get that grub. What do you think, Hair-Trigger?”

“Think!” howls Swigert. “Think? Say, that cross between uh string-bean and uh shot uh morphine went to sleep ten minutes ago.”

Hair-Trigger yawns and pushes his hat back off his eyes.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Seems close in here. What did you say, Mister Swigert? Do we get that stake?”

Do you know what uh riot gun is? Yuh take uh ten-gage shotgun—muzzle-loader preferred—and saw off the barrels until she’s about half the usual length. Uh riot gun ain’t so much in itself—it’s all in knowing how to load it.

First yuh take uh quart uh powder and divide it into two parts—one part for each barrel. Tamp it down tight, using uh crowbar and old newspapers, felt hats or gunnysacks. Next yuh add uh couple uh doorknobs, two or three feet uh heavy chain, add uh dash uh horseshoe-nails and stove-lifters, and yuh might include the horseshoe if you’re playing in hard luck.

Now, all yuh needs is caps on the nipples and supreme faith in your ability to take punishment. It is fully guaranteed to annihilate everything within half a mile and within uh hundred-yard radius. What uh riot gun does at close range is awful to behold, ’cause it does everything except write the obituary of the deceased.

I’ve beheld their gruesome execution, and I reckon Hair-Trigger had too, ’cause me and him hung in the doorway of that bank for uh second or two before we can claw our way out, and I’m betting that nobody, no matter how thirsty, ever entered that saloon with greater dispatch.

Blue Nose Blucher stops painting long enough to set out that bottle, and our third-interest pardner heeds our loud call to irrigate.

“Get it?” asks Blucher.

“Nope,” replies Hair-Trigger. “We—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Dang this climate! We would if we’d uh stayed another minute.”

“You don’t mean to say that old Swigert offered to stake yuh?” exclaims Blucher, spilling hooch all over the bar, in surprise.

“I don’t think so,” replies Hair-Trigger. “What did he offer us, Comanche?”

“Ten feet head start,” says I.

“You—you—you——”

Our pardner starts his usual oration, but Blucher signals him to stop.

“Let me tell it, Lafayette,” says he. “You fellers ain’t been properly introduced to your pardner, have yuh? Let me make yuh used to Lafayette John Paul Jones. Lafe has an impediment in his speech.”

We shakes hands with him, and wishes him many happy birthdays, and he manages to dig up enough to pay for uh round.

“Impediment?” says Hair-Trigger. “You got an impediment, Lafie?”

“I—I—I—I—” begins Lafe, but Hair-Trigger yells—

“Nod or shake, dad bust your hide!” and Lafayette John Paul Jones nods.

Hair-Trigger yawns over his drink, and says to Blucher——

“What was you going to tell us uh while ago, in Lafe’s behalf?”

“Lafe tells me that if yuh can’t raise enough for uh stake out of old man Swigert yuh can have his. He orates that he’s got enough for two weeks in his cabin at the mine.”

“Cripes!” explodes Hair-Trigger. “Is that uh fact? I didn’t think we was gone long enough for him to tell yuh all that. Is that right, Lafe?”

“Uh—uh—uh—uh—uh——”

“Nod or shake! Gosh A’mighty, man! Either do that or write it out.”

Lafe nodded.

Well, we has uh few more on each other, and then me and Hair-Trigger goes after our rolling stock. Eveline has resented our inattention to such details as dinner by eating up my coat. Eveline Ann’s ancestors must uh been goats, ’cause he’ll nourish off anything he can get his lip over. Red shirts is pie to that jackass. Anyway, I ain’t got no coat, so I wails loud and long and kicks the jack in the floating ribs.

“Never get mad at uh burro or uh woman, Comanche,” advises Hair-Trigger. “Give ’em all the credit in the world when they performs right, and forgive ’em when they does things wrong. It’s their privilege and inherited rights to do things wrong. Sabe?”

“You’d have Socrates skinned four ways from the jack if you’d keep awake,” says I. “But philosophy don’t restore no coats. I pines uh heap for that coat, Hair-Trigger.”

“Did I or did I not see uh coat hanging on the walls of the den of iniquity we just left?” he wonders aloud. “Maybe I dreamed it, Comanche, but I feels certain sure that on one uh them four walls I has observed the top garment of the male sex. You might investigate, and thereby fill uh long-felt want.”

I wanders back and finds that for once Hair-Trigger had not dreamed it.

“What’s she worth?” I asks, pointing at the coat.

“That coat?” asks Blue Nose. “Huh! It ain’t mine, but I don’t reckon the owner is where he’ll need it. Yuh see, the feller what owned it was uh sheriff from Horse Heaven. Not having studied geography fluently he mistakes the boundaries of his own county and comes over here to arrest one of our prominent citizens.

“Official jealousy arises in the breast of ‘Sassafras’ Simpson, our sheriff, when he hears of the invasion, so we ships the Horse Heaven sheriff home to his widow, and auctions off his horse. Some of our right-minded citizens takes what money he’s got in his pockets, and buys him uh nice shiny black suit to be shipped in. It was uh suit that Zeb Holden has had in stock for years and, while it ain’t exactly suitable for ordinary wear, it was good enough to put under ground. It helps Zeb out that much, and it don’t hurt the sheriff’s looks none to speak of. That coat was left over, and if yuh needs it you’re sure welcome to it.”

I looks the garment over, tucks it under my arm, and thanks everybody concerned. Hair-Trigger is asleep against the rack, and acts peevish when I wakes him up.

“Dang it all!” he yawns. “Seems like something always wakes me up when I’m half way through uh pleasant dream. Well, I reckon we got to do some digging if we’re going to start uh stampede.”

“What good is uh stampede going to do us?” I asks. “Where do me an you profit?”

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Ain’t that old banker uh stingy old wood-rat? I’ll bet he’s got uh lot uh money in that place uh his, Comanche.”

“Uh-huh.” I agrees. “Also, he’s got uh riot gun. You can’t do nothing with riches when your hide is full uh doorknobs and nails, Hair-Trigger.”

“I’m uh Hollibaugh,” he states. “No Hollibaugh ever passed out from the effects of uh riot gun. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Must be something in this air. Darn his old hide! I’ll bet that the sight uh nuggets would give him apoplexy. Yes sir, I’ll bet—huh! You and me is going to wake up that hamlet, Comanche Cal. Dog—my—cats, I’m glad I met yuh. Picture-painting bartenders, stuttering Jones and stingy bankers. Whoo-e-e-e-e! Yes, sir, we’ll cause ’em all to come and see. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m!”

Me and Eveline Ann and Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh found Lafayette John Paul Jones’s mine on Fool Hen Crick. The faded location-notice proclaims it to be the Golden Gob Mining and Milling Company. We finds the cabin and grub cache, which consists of uh few beans, some flour and uh hunk uh bacon the size uh your fist.

“Two weeks, eh?” says I. “Stuttering Jones must be uh vegetarian.”

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m!” yawns Hair-Trigger, over that piece uh bacon. “Mountain air always makes me sleepy. Whoo—e—e—e—e! This sure is one big layout, Comanche. Dog—my—cats! Let’s me and you go and see how much work he’s got done. Saw uh place down the crick where he’s been doing uh little work.”

Little was the right word. He drifts in about twenty feet through loose gravel, builds uh few feet uh flume, and then I reckon he must uh went to sleep on the job or else somebody came along and he took the rest of his time to tell ’em hello. I takes one look at the place and then opines aloud that this ain’t no place to find gold.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m!” groans Hair-Trigger, locking his boots around uh boulder, and stretching until he’s plumb grotesque. “Gold is where yuh find it, and stampedes are where yuh start ’em. That old man Swigert ain’t no good citizen, is he, Comanche?”

“What’s that got to do with the Golden Gob?” I asks.

“Being uh white man covers the proverbial ounce of prevention, Comanche. Did yuh ever notice what uh lot uh misery eventually comes to uh feller what don’t treat his feller men white? I’m uh Hollibaugh—me. We go and get things. Would you take what ain’t rightfully yours if yuh had uh chance, Comanche?”

“I would not,” I states. “I complies with the law.”

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Everybody to their own ideas. Some folks just covet, but the Hollibaughs take. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate. Reckon we might as well dig uh while to keep from going to sleep. You take the shovel and clean out the flume while I goes up to the cabin and rustles uh small feed. I’m hungry.”

I shovels for about an hour and then ambles up to the cabin to eat. I finds some bread burning in the oven and burnt bacon on top uh the stove, and Hair-Trigger asleep on the bunk.

“Here! You copper-riveted sleep-consumer!” I yelps. “You’re uh —— of uh cook!”

He raises up and looks at me dumping things off the stove, and then stretches himself plentiful.

“Enough for one meal and you incinerates it!” I yelps.

“Getting excited is bad for your system, Comanche,” he states. “Never let yourself get above normal. Doggone. I dreamed of gold again. You believe in dreams?”

“What kind uh dreams?”

“I dreamed that we made uh million out of the Golden Gob.”

“I don’t,” says I. “You need some paregoric.”

We heaves boulders for uh while, after we eats what is left, and then we plans on our future operations. I outlines everything and Hair-Trigger fails to disagree on uh single point, ’cause he sleeps all through the meeting.

The next morning he scratches his back on the corner of the cabin, and opines thusly:

“Comanche, we can’t work if we don’t eat, so I’m going to Blue Nose and see about uh stake. Yes, sir, I’m going to take that community jackass and either bring back uh load uh grub or Blue Nose will regret it. Sabe?”

“Going to get it from old man Swigert?” I asks, sarcastic-like.

“Maybe. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate.”

“You can’t get nothing in Blue Nose,” I argues, but Hair-Trigger pats himself on the chest and tugs at his whiskers.

“I’m uh Hollibaugh, and the Hollibaughs gets what they go after. The trouble with you, Comanche, is that you’re too honest. You’ll never get no place. I thought that me and you was going to mix like mud and water, but—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m-m! Well I’ll go down and see how she looks.

“Ripe for uh stampede, eh? If yuh never see me again, Comanche, don’t feel hard against me. The Hollibaughs inherits, and paw was lynched for rustling cows, and grandpaw was killed with uh strange hawg in his arms. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate. So long.”

He weaves off down the trail with Eveline Ann, while I sets down and reviews things. In the first place I ain’t Comanche Cal—whoever he is or was. Hair-Trigger just took it for granted. I starts to feel sorry for myself, but happens to realize that I ain’t no worse off than I was before I met this here sleepy freak.

I don’t do uh tap uh work all day, and the next morning I starts in right where I left off the day before. My breakfast was slim. In fact I never had uh slimmer one in my life. I took uh drink out of the flume and tightened up my belt.

“Fool Hen Crick,” says I, aloud, “I’m going to bid yuh adoo. I’m going out and kill me some breakfast, cook it on that little rusty stove, and then I’m going to foller in the footsteps uh one slumbering hombre named Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh, the same uh which has annexed my burro under false pretenses. He ain’t coming back, and it ain’t in my heart to chide him for it.

“I’m going to seek fresh pastures. Milk and honey don’t thrive in the land uh cactus, mesquite and lizards, so yours sincerely is on uh pilgrimage to find greener vegetation.”

Fool Hen Crick don’t rise up and dispute my right to navigate, so I pilgrims up the gulch. Pretty soon I busts into the domestic life of uh couple uh sage-hens. The first one was going north, so I hits it in the south end, which makes it unfit for anything except uh pillow. I cuts the head off the other. It looks uh heap ancient, but even tough meat keeps uh man from starvation, so I pilgrims back towards the little cabin with joy in my soul.

Do I turn kitchen mechanic? I do not!

I don’t get quite to the cabin when uh bullet shaves my ear, and proclaims that I’m excess baggage around there. I immediate and soon drops into the brush and dusts the sight of my .41.

That bullet came from uh rifle, so I’m wise enough to keep down low. I hears uh faint yell off to the left uh me, and then away off in the next gulch I hears uh couple uh scattering shots. Pretty soon I sees two men on hosses, racing up the ridge.

“Well,” says I, to myself, “things is looking up around Fool Hen.” I sneaks low in the mesquite, and gets close to the cabin. I figures that I’m some Injun when it comes to sneaking, but just as I cranes my neck for uh peep at the shack, I hears uh twig snap. I turns sudden-like, and finds myself looking down the muzzle of uh Winchester, and back uh that gun is Lafayette John Paul Jones.

He recognizes me, too, and lowers the muzzle.

“You—you—you—you——” he begins, and I nods.

“Uh-huh—me. What’s going on around here?”

“Sus—sus—sus—strike,” he manages to splutter.

“Don’t jerk your hands thataway when yuh talk!” I yelps. “Ain’t yuh got no sense? That gun is cocked. Did you say ‘strike’? Nod or shake.”

He nods.

“Where?” I asks.

“Huh—huh—huh—huh—huh——”

“Let down that hammer, you carbonated coyote!” I whoops. “You mean that uh strike has been made in this district? Nod or shake.”

He nods and then starts spluttering again—

“You—you—you——”

“Look here, Lafe,” says I, “I hate to kill yuh—I hate to kill any man who is crippled in the speech, but just as sure as the Lord made little apples I’m going to do it if yuh don’t lay that gun down. Who made this strike?”

“Ha—Ha—Ha—Hair-Tut—Tut—Tut——”

“Hair-Trigger?” I asks, and he nods.

We looks foolish-like at each other, and I fumbles for uh smoke.

“Where’s Hair-Trigger?” I asks, but Lafe looks blank-like at me for uh minute, and then starts—

“I—I—I—I—I——”

“If yuh don’t know, shake your danged head!” I yelps, and he shakes.

“Well,” says I, “if this property is good I’m uh third-owner, Lafayette,” but he shakes his head some more.

“You—you—you—ain’t gug—gug—gug—gug—got n—n—n—n—n—nothin’ tut—tut—tut—tut—to pup—pup—pup—prove it,” he orates, perspiring fluently and waving his arms, and when I comes to consider it I finds that he’s perfectly right.

“All right, Lafayette and So Forth Jones,” says I. “Far be it from me to take what ain’t rightfully mine. Over in your cabin is uh coat what belongs to me. I take what’s mine. Is that proper?”

“Uh—uh—uh—uh——”

“Shake or nod,” I advises, so he nods.

I gets my coat, and then pilgrims off down the trail. About uh mile from the Golden Gob I hears somebody yell—

“Git off from here!”

I sees uh man in the trail, with uh rifle in his hands.

“What’s the main idea?” I yells, stopping short, of course.

“This is all located, stranger,” he yells back. “You’ll have to locate some other place.”

I nods and goes way around. I’d walk uh mile out uh my way any time to keep from getting killed. About half uh mile further on uh bullet lifts my hat off, and I stops to pick it up.

“Doggone yuh, don’t come on my land!” howls uh voice, and I don’t have to peer close to see that it’s old man Swigert. “Keep off!” he warns, so I takes uh little side trip again.

I takes off my hat to Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh. He sure is some little starter. I pilgrims almost into Blue Nose, when I meets that saloonkeeper, Blue Nose Blucher, galloping some fast on uh bronc. He pulls up and shakes hands with me some industrious.

“You’re uh little late, ain’t yuh?” I asks.

“See old man Swigert?” he pants, and I nods.

“He’s located,” I tells him, and he looks relieved.

“That’s good. Me and him is in pardnerships. He beat it to make the location and I stayed to buy out your pardner. You sold out yet?”

I shakes my head.

“Want to?” he asks, and I nods.

“How much? I’ll pay yuh what I did your pardner. Is that fair?”

I nods and he pulls out uh roll what would choke uh burro. He peels off eight hundred dollars and hands it to me.

“I’ll give yuh the rest after the first clean-up,” says he, and I nods some more. I find it pays to keep your mouth shut.

“Where’s my pardner?” I asks, and he waves his hand toward town and gallops on.

I kisses that roll uh bills, and takes off my hat to Hair-Trigger once more. When I gets into that deserted village I sees uh small speck out in the desert, going away from that land uh strikes.

I pilgrims over to uh restaurant and helps myself to uh feed that somebody forgot to eat, annexes uh bottle at Blucher’s place, and then looks into the bank. I rolls uh smoke, and pilgrims away in the footsteps of Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh and Eveline Ann.

It gets cool after sundown, so I finds use for that coat. I sleeps under uh mesquite that night, and gets an early start. It’s about ten o’clock when I drops over uh little bluff and sees Eveline Ann. He’s grazin’ peacefully, so I sneaks up soft like and finds Hair-Trigger at his favorite occupation. I takes his gun.

“Nice morning,” I states in something above uh whisper, and he sets up some sudden-like. He feels for his gun but it’s missing, and he gazes at me, reproving-like.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m-m!” he yawns. “I didn’t expect yuh, Comanche.”

“No?” says I. “Ain’t that queer? What did yuh leave me for?”

“You’re too—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m!—honest, Comanche. You and me don’t hitch. Sabe?”

“You didn’t hesitate to take my jack,” I reminds him, pointing at Eveline Ann.

“That’s plumb right,” he admits, yawning some more. “But mules ain’t got no morals. Didn’t I start some stampede, though.”

“Uh-huh,” I admits. “You sure did. How?”

Hair-Trigger grins and reaches in his pocket. He takes out some objects and lets ’em roll out on the ground.

“Nuggets!” I yells, but Hair-Trigger yawns and grins some more.

“Look fine, don’t they? That’s what Blue Nose thought. All I did was to roll ’em on the bar, and the stuff was all off. Nothing but hammered .41 bullets. Just plain lead. Remember that paint the bartender was using on that picture-frame? That wasn’t paint at all. It was gilt. Gilded bullets! Gosh A’mighty! Picture-painting bartenders, stuttering prospectors, stingy bankers and gilded bullets. Dog—my—cats!”

“Why didn’t yuh let me in on that bank robbery?” I asks, offhand-like, and he breaks right off in the middle of uh yawn.

“Bank robbery!” he exclaims. “Bank—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the air. Dog my cats! You sure are one deductive person, Comanche. How’d yuh know I robbed that bank?”

“There wasn’t nobody left to guard it,” I states, and he grins.

“Uh-huh,” he admits. “Stingy old pelican! All he left was three hundred in silver. That person sure hustled to stake uh claim. Pays him back for the names he called us.”

“I’ll take it,” I states, patting the barrel of my six-gun, but Hair-Trigger yawns and shakes his head.

“You can’t, Comanche. You’re too danged honest. Sabe? This is stolen money.”

“That ain’t it uh tall,” says I, pointing at the lapel of my coat. “This is the reason, Hair-Trigger.”

He examines me some close-like and then leans back and yawns.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Ain’t that the truth? Sheriff! Well, dog—my—cats! Comanche Cal, you sure are one deceiving person for to see. The money is in the pack on the burro. Do I have to go, too?”

“No,” says I, “I ain’t no danged Shylock. I’m uh white man, and I comes from an honest family. You go in peace.”

“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Much obliged. I reckon I’ll be going on. I’m sorry you’re so danged honest, Comanche, ’cause me and you sure could uh pulled—oh, well. Give everybody my regards, will yuh?”

I nods, and watches the last of the Hollibaughs top the first sand-hill. On the top he stretches his long carcass in uh farewell yawn, and ambles out uh sight, and me and Eveline Ann pilgrims towards the sun.

I holes up about forty miles from Blue Nose, and communes with myself for days. I got too much money on my conscience, and I mourns uh heap when I consults my immortal soul and finds that I’m an accessory to Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh.

Finally I gets Satan behind me, along with Eveline Ann, and we pilgrims back to Blue Nose. It’s been two weeks since I left there, but the town ain’t changed uh bit. I ties Eveline to the rack in front of the bank, and goes inside.

Old Swigert is right where he was the first time I saw him—humped over that table, trying to smell out uh missing cent. He glances at me and growls—

“Well, what do yuh want now?”

“What did I want the last time?” I asks.

He peers at me for uh minute and then gasps—

“You here again? My ——!”

I lifts that sack uh coin up on the window-ledge and shoves it toward him.

“Here’s your old three hundred silver dollars,” says I. “Take ’em and get glad.”

The old pelican grabs them and loves them like they was human. I reckon that dollars must say sweet things to uh feller like him.

“All here?” he asks. “All here?”

“You didn’t think I’d spend any of it, do you?” I asks, peeved-like.

“Hello, Comanche.”

I turns and hands that roll uh bills back to Blue Nose Blucher, and the shock almost petrifies him.

“Well!” he explodes with joy. “Well, what do yuh know about that?”

Old Swigert looks at Blue Nose, and Blue Nose looks at Swigert, and that danged old pack-rat smiled for the first time since he knew uh dime from uh dollar. Also, he shakes hands with me.

“Comanche,” says he, “I’d admire to know how yuh got this money, and also how yuh happens to bring it back. That strike was uh frost.”

“I never made no strike, and I ain’t saying who got that money. I brought it back ’cause I’m honest. Sabe?”

“That’s what Hair-Trigger says,” grins Blue Nose. “We thought he was the one, so we locks him up, but he don’t do nothing but yawn and grin when we asks him who done it.”

“Hair-Trigger in jail?” I asks, and they nods.

“We locked him up on general principles,” says Swigert.

“Well,” says I, “there’s your money. Now, I reckon I’ll move on.”

“Set down,” orders old Swigert. “You’re uh novelty around here. Honest men ain’t no drug on this market. Can yuh shoot?”

“Yes, I reckon,” says I, and Swigert grins and says:

“Comanche, we need yuh. Ever since Sassafras Simpson, our sheriff, nailed that sheriff from Horse Heaven, he’s been packing uh chip on his shoulder. Uh little hombre comes here day before yesterday, gets full uh hooch, and mistakes that chip for uh target. He aims uh little low, and we plants Sassafras on the hill. Now, we ain’t got no sheriff. How’d yuh like the job, eh? We can get yuh appointed for the rest of Simpson’s term and it’s uh cinch to elect yuh next Fall. What do yuh say?”

“Thanks,” says I. “Give me the keys of the jail.”

I pilgrims over for uh drink and then goes down to the little jail. Hair-Trigger is asleep and I has uh hard time to wake him up. After dumping him off the bunk he sets up and stretches his arms.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m! Must be the inside air. Well, dog—my—cats! What’d they put you in for, Comanche?”

“Me?” says I. “I’m the sheriff, Hair-Trigger.”

He peers at my breast and yawns some more.

“Well, dog—my—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Sheriff, eh? I thought—well. Huh! I came back to see what I could get and I got grabbed.”

“You can go now,” says I. “She’s uh open road, old-timer.”

“You—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! You mean that I can go?”

“Free as air,” says I. “I told yuh I was white.”

“I can’t find that blasted star no place,” complains Blue Nose, from the doorway. “We’ve looked every place. I reckon we must uh buried it with Sassafras. What’ll we do?”

I points to the star on my breast and Blue Nose grunts:

“Cripes! It’s lucky we didn’t bury it, now ain’t it? That’s the only one in the country.”

“Yes,” says I, “it sure was uh lucky thing all the way around.”

But I wasn’t thinking about Sassafras: I was thinking of the sheriff of Horse Heaven, and the coat pocket I found it in. I reckon that Hair-Trigger thought about the same thing, ’cause he left us without even uh yawn, and didn’t stop to stretch until he topped the rise out of Blue Nose.

Transcriber’s Note

This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, February 18, 1918. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.

About This Book

This work is believed to be in the public domain in the United States. Copyright status in other countries may vary; readers outside the US should verify the status in their own jurisdiction.

Originally published by The Ridgway Company in Adventure Magazine, February 18, 1918

Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net).