# SALT OF THE EARTH

by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Upside Down or Backwards,” “Muley’s Morals,” etc.

“Reckon you fellers will have to take it out in trade,” he states, leaning on the counter, weary-like, and making funny little figures with his pencil. “When I sent you fellers out to do that piece uh work I has money uh-plenty, but right now I couldn’t buy uh humming-bird’s breakfast. I figured out a new system on the roulette wheel, and played her last night.”

Me and Magpie looks around the place, and rolls us some smokes.

“Fifty feet at four dollars uh foot comes to two hundred dollars,” remarks Magpie, looking at the stock. “You got that much worth in here?”

“Uh-huh. I have if yuh both takes uh suit uh clothes and——”

“We’ll take it. I’m glad you ain’t in the piano business.”

Me and Magpie took that contract ’cause we needed the money. We’re on one of our annual pilgrimages after the filthy lucre in the rough, and we takes this here job so we can buy uh regular grubstake.

It was Magpie’s system. Magpie is so danged tall that he can’t feel blisters on his heels, and he’s up so high that he most always gets the wrong perspective of earthly things.

I’m Ike Harper. I’m meek and lowly uh nature, Magpie’s pardner through ungovernable circumstances, and I got bowlegs. I’d uh been uh self-made man if Magpie hadn’t come along and spoiled the plans and specifications.

Uh burro is uh plumb placid animal. You can abuse uh burro—try to scare it; starve it and forget to give it uh drink, but all it will ever do is to give you uh sad look, and kick —— out of you some day for being kind to it. Lodestone was the most placid burro on earth, and the saddest one of our four, but when me and Magpie approaches him with our new apparel, he busts his rope, kicks me in the floating ribs, and hee-haws off down the street like uh overgrown jackrabbit loaded with loco.

This is all that Ike Harper is going to tell of this story. For once in my life I’m going to pass the buck. There’s uh hombre named “Sad Slim” Sanderson, who knoweth this tale full well, and from now on he’s doing the talking. Sabe?

Did yuh ever hear of Painted Post? It ain’t neither uh city, village nor uh town. It consists of one side of uh street, one saloon, uh general store which is closed up, uh place where yuh used to be able to buy uh meal, but which is also uh memory.

Painted Post ain’t inhabited—it’s infested. I adds my bit uh discomfort to Painted Post uh few moons ago, and gets acquainted with “Whispering” Smith, “Forty-Dollar” Fisher and “Lonesome” Larson. The four of us completes the census. We spends our time on the shady side of Lonesome’s saloon and figures on how long we can subsist without tarnishing our sacred honor.

Whispering says that on account of the unsanitary jails in Utah he can’t live in that State. Forty-Dollar loves his country but hates its marshals. Lonesome hopes some day to grow enough yaller whiskers to disguise himself against North Dakota officials. His wife lives there, on his money, but won’t meet him half-way.

I ain’t wanted—much. I’m peaceable—sort uh peaceable. I was in jail once for uh minor offense. I licked uh feller ’cause he wouldn’t listen to me sing, and they throwed me in jail. On the way down to the correction cabin I glimpses the sheriff from the adjoining county. Having the feeling that he ain’t down there on pleasure, I proceeds to remove myself from that jail, by putting uh chair on top uh the bunk and pushing uh section off the roof. Some folks never think about uh jail roof being the line of least resistance.

“Gold is where yuh finds it,” states Forty-Dollar, leaning back against the wall and spitting at uh lizard. “Now take that prospect uh mine, for instance. It——”

“Yah!” interrupts Lonesome. “That’s all anybody would take it for. You owes me thirty-seven dollars now. When do I get it?”

“As I was saying,” continues Forty-Dollar, “it——”

“Ain’t there,” laughs Whispering. “My little prospect up on Windy Gulch——”

“Is on uh par with mine,” says I. “If Lonesome wasn’t such uh good old scout——”

“Salve!” snorts Lonesome. “Good scouts starve to death. Why don’t some of you alleged prospectors find something besides uh thirst?”

“What we need,” grins Forty-Dollar, “is somebody who will shoot his roll on that old saying: gold is where you find it. I’d sell if I had uh chance.”

“Sell?” squeaks Whispering. “If somebody offered me uh quart uh good hooch——hear me? I said good hooch. Why, I’d——”

“Mine is good,” defends Lonesome.

“For this country, Lonesome,” replies Whispering. “Yuh got to consider that I ain’t always lived where uh man has to shock his nervous system just ’cause he’s dry. I’ve met whisky that was uh drink—not uh jolt.”

“I think it all leads to the same grave,” grins Lonesome. “If you ain’t too danged stuck on your throat I’d ask yuh all to have uh jolt.”

We all lines up at the bar and gets inoculated with Bright’s disease and paralysis. We’re waiting the first symptoms, when into the open door emerges the head of uh yaller burro, and it announces its presence and discomfort by yodeling uh stanza or two.

“The same to you,” proclaims Whispering, when the song is over.

And then into the saloon pilgrims two specimens uh humanity that beggars description. The first is taller than I am, and that’s speaking of elevations.

He’s got uh long, sad sort uh face, with plenty uh hair on his upper lip. He wears uh black suit uh store clothes, which makes him look like uh pencil mark, and on his head is uh hard hat. He’s got on shiny leather shoes—with buttons on. He’s got uh boiled shirt and uh collar which is at least four inches high, but which is inadequate to conceal further than his Adam’s-apple. His tie is of many hues, and on his hands is yaller kid gloves.

The one in the rear is worth uh word. He stands about five feet, eight inches high, and is garbed in black-and-white checked pants, an undertaker’s coat, with tails, and shows uh shirt of saffron hue and uh purple tie. The hat is of the hard variety, brown of color, and his shoes are yaller with green tops. His legs shows uh decided arc at the knees. They looks us over, appraising-like, and then the tall one takes off his hat and polishes it with his sleeve.

“Gents,” says he, “what hamlet is this?”

“Painted Post,” replies Whispering. “The city uh Painted Post extends you uh welcome.”

“Have uh little jolt,” invites Lonesome, and they shows uh complete familiarity with such proceedings.

“Strangers?” asks Forty-Dollar, and the tall one looks around slow-like.

“Evidently,” says he.

The short one nods—

“Without uh shadder of uh doubt.”

“You don’t happen to be looking for uh prospect, do yuh?” inquires Whispering.

“Fair,” says the tall one. “Good covers too much territory. Is there such uh thing around here?”

“Purchase, promotion or paltry gain?” inquires Forty-Dollar.

“Something that looks good might hit our fleeting fancy,” replies the tall one, and the short one nods and sips whisky that would kill uh coyote at point-blank range. “Something that looks good,” he agrees. “First we must find uh place of abode.”

“To sleep, and so forth,” agrees Whispering. “Take my cabin. It’s got uh dirt floor and few of the comforts uh home, but you’re plumb welcome. I holes up with Forty-Dollar.

“Gents, my name is Smith, and called Whispering ’cause I can’t. This one is Forty-Dollar Fisher, and the poison-mixer is Lonesome Larson. That elongated ani-mile over there is Sad Sanderson, whose middle name is Slim. As representatives of Painted Post we welcomes yuh.”

“We take it, and are pleased to meet yuh,” says the tall one. “I am of the tribe of Simpkins, and my pardner answers to the name of Harper. We thanks you for your seeming generosity. If you’ll point out the cabin we’ll bless yuh.”

“There is our grubstake,” chuckles Whispering, as them two P. T. Barnum nightmares pilgrims off to the cabin with their burros. “Them hombres got money.”

“And no way to pry it loose,” wails Forty-Dollar. “How yuh going to sell nothing to even uh tenderfoot for something?”

“Tenderfoot is right,” grins Whispering. “Look at the stuff they got packed on them burros. Rocking-chairs, garden-rakes, uh hoe, uh half-dozen brooms and uh box uh soap! My gosh! I’ll sell ’em the Yaller Chuck.”

“What about my Golden Glow property?” asks Forty-Dollar.

“And my Web uh Gold workings?” I asks.

“Fools fight but wise men figure,” states Lonesome.

“Maybe they knows something about rock,” I complains. “We ain’t got nothing to show.”

“Salt,” replies Whispering. “Season ’em.”

“What with?” demands Forty. “We ain’t got no gold to salt with.”

“How much?” inquires Lonesome.

“Plenty,” says Whispering. “Give ’em enough so they won’t haggle about the price.”

“I know!” exclaims Lonesome. “Take uh shotgun and load her with gold. Bang into the rock! Haw! haw! haw! So?”

“Exactly,” agrees Forty. “You’re uh wise man, Lonesome.”

“You know it,” and he takes the bottle off the bar.

“Ho, hum-m-m-m!” yawns Forty. “It’s always the way. When yuh got money you can make money. I wish I knowed uh man who had uh little money to bet on uh cinch. Ain’t you got none, Lonesome? Man, this is better than five aces in uh poker game.”

“I plays safe,” states Lonesome. “If you show me where I can get my money back and fifty per cent. interest, I’ll talk.”

“Lonesome, your folks must uh come from the Holy Land,” opines Whispering. “All them fellers wants is something that looks good. If I had uh little gold I could make granite look good to them.”

“Let’s wait and find out if they got any money,” advises Lonesome, and we all agrees.

We opens up our usual poker game, and plays for futures. When them specimens comes in I’m loser half uh million, so we shuts up the game, and prepares to visit.

“Nice looking country around here,” opines Simpkins.

“Best on earth,” agrees Whispering. “She’s in uh class by herself.”

“I’d back up that last assertion,” agrees Harper. “Anything in the mineral line been found around here lately?”

“Well,” says Forty-Dollar, moving up close and speaking in uh low tone. “Now, that you’ve brought up the subject, we may as well let yuh in on uh good thing. We’ve kept it under cover for uh long time. This place is the richest district in——”

“I’ve got uh prospect—” begins Whispering, but Forty waves him to silence.

“Now, my piece uh property is worth uh hundred thousand dollars, and to the ordinary eye she ain’t worth six bits. You’ve heard that old saying that gold is where yuh find it? Well, there she is! The formation ain’t gold-bearing—not according to books, but yuh can’t dispute your own eyes.”

“I reckon it would take too much money,” replies Simpkins. “We ain’t looking to buy no mint.”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Forty. “She’s uh valuable thing, but I ain’t no Shylock. I’m uh plain ordinary prospector, and I believes in the equality uh man. Make me an offer. Uh course I wants yuh to see and test the property. When can yuh go up there?”

“Where is it?” asks Harper.

“She’s called the Golden Glow, and she’s located in the second gulch above here—three miles. When can yuh look at it?”

Simpkins scratches his head for uh spell, and picks on the buttons on his shiny shoes.

“Well, there ain’t no sure thing that I wants to buy. Yuh see we wants to look things over and maybe find something for ourselves. Tomorrow we’ll take our hoe and rocking-chair, and look around.”

“Hoe and rocking-chair!” snorts Whispering. “Prospect with utensils like that?”

“Uh-huh,” nods Simpkins. “There ain’t no use in being uncomfortable. The feller what sold ’em to us said they’d come in awful handy. Yuh can’t always find a good place to set down.”

“I feels that you’ll like this Golden Glow,” states Forty-Dollar. “Uh course it will take uh little cash.”

“Magpie can write uh check for fifty thousand,” states Harper.

“You can, too, Ike. We’re pardners in all things.” Simpkins grins.

“My gosh!” whoops Whispering, after they’re gone. “If we don’t get uh stake out uh them I’m uh liar. They’re the greenest things that ever follered uh jackass.”

“If we had the wherewith to salt,” says I. “You can’t sell ’em nothing without uh showing uh some kind, Whispering.”

“Where do I profit if I furnish the salt?” asks Lonesome.

“There’s four of us,” states Whispering. “If you furnish the salt, uh course you’re entitled to uh little more than the rest of us, Lonesome. Suppose you take uh fourth and the three of us split the remainder?”

“Some day you’re going to give away your right name, Whispering,” grins Lonesome. “I’ll take uh third, and all the salt back.”

“All right. I’ll let you have uh third, Lonesome. It’s more——”

“Being as it’s my claim I’ll take uh third, and you and Whispering can split the other third to suit yuh, Sad,” states Forty. “How does that suit yuh?”

“Just like tarantalers,” says I. “Forty, your mine ain’t worth six bits. Me and Whispering will take that other third and half uh your share and pay you six bits to boot.”

“Give me the six bits now?”

“After the deal is over,” says I, and Forty-Dollar nods. Lonesome opens his little iron safe and takes out uh buckskin poke. He lays it on the bar and fingers it, loving-like.

“Here is forty-four ounces,” he states. “It’s Horse Crick gold and she runs eighteen dollars per ounce. I bought it from ‘Swede’ Swanson this Spring. How much do yuh want?”

“I got uh ten-gage muzzle-loader,” informs Forty-Dollar. “She takes two ounces uh shot to uh load.”

“My ——!” wails Lonesome. “Seventy-two dollars! How many times you going to shoot, Forty?”

“Twice. I’ll shoot her into some uh that soft stuff, and it’ll be uh cinch to pan it all out again. We’ll get it all back.”

Lonesome weighs out four ounces and hands it to Forty-Dollar.

“I’ll go over and load her right up,” announces Forty. “In the morning I’ll sneak up there early and shoot her full uh wealth. No use of all of us going, ’cause we don’t want ’em to suspicion anything.”

The next morning Forty-Dollar joins the thirsty circle around Lonesome’s, and rubs his hands with satisfaction.

“She sure is salted to the queen’s taste,” he states. “Anybody seen anything uh them rocking-chair miners today?”

Nobody had, and we don’t see ’em until evening, when they saunters into our midst.

“Well, how’s prospecting?” asks Forty-Dollar.

“Tolable,” replies Magpie. “We’d admire to see that Golden Glow mine tomorrow.”

“The pleasure will all be ours,” says Forty.

“Get any game?” asks Ike, offhand-like.

“Game? What game?”

“Thought I seen you packing uh shotgun today. Maybe I was mistaken.”

“Oh!” grunts Forty-Dollar. “No, I didn’t. I was after fool-hens.”

The next day we all goes up to the Golden Glow. Them two hombres insists on taking their chair along, and one of them carries the hoe. We strings along up to the hole in the ground. Forty-Dollar immediate and soon makes us uh lecture on gold-bearing-formations, and hands Magpie uh pick and shovel. Harper sets down in the chair and rolls uh smoke.

“Dig right here,” explains Forty-Dollar, pointing out the correct spot. “It’s uh cinch you’ll find something good.”

Magpie digs out uh lot uh soft stuff and dumps it into the pan.

“Now,” states Forty, “we’ll pound it all up fine, and pan it down at the crick. I’ll bet that pan will show more than ten thousand to the ton.”

We smashes it up fine, and packs it down to the crick. Whispering hands the pan to Magpie, who squats down and begins to pan her out. We all leans over him, interested-like, but Harper sets up there on the bank in his rocking-chair, and takes life easy. If I had fifty thousand I’d do it, too.

The dirt washes lower and lower, until only uh spoonful remains and in it is one tiny speck uh gold.

“Pretty lean, don’t you think?” asks Magpie.

Me and Whispering and Lonesome stares at Forty-Dollar, and he stares at the pan. Pretty soon he reaches down, takes the pan out of Magpie’s hands and stirs the contents. He tosses it out in the crick, and scratches his head.

“How much uh pan?” asks Harper.

“Trace,” replies Magpie; “bare trace. Not worth the wear and tear on our rocking-chair and hoe, Ike. Let’s go back.”

Conversation is scarce on the way home. Magpie and Ike comments on the sunset, and we don’t notice it. They goes up to their cabin and we goes in the saloon. We sets down facing Forty-Dollar, and waits for him to explain.

“Well,” says he, “I shot both barrels into that spot, and there ain’t nothing there.”

“I’ll swear to the last,” agrees Whispering. “Hardly uh trace. Where is it, Forty?”

“Seventy-two dollars is more than uh trace,” states Lonesome, sliding his gun around to the front. “I’d admire to know about things.”

“Letting uh pair uh rocking-chair miners laugh at us,” says I, sarcastic-like.

“It must be there!” squeaks Forty-Dollar.

“Unless,” says Lonesome, “some folks hate to put their money in the ground.”

“Wait uh minute, Lonesome!” snaps Forty. “Don’t insinuate that I’d steal that money. I’m honest—I am. Gosh Almighty, I’m as surprised as you are.”

“But not so pained,” states Lonesome. “It was my money.”

“Well, it’s gone,” says Whispering. “Them two hombres were all ready to buy, too. Did yuh notice how careless that Magpie person handles uh gold-pan?”

“Handling uh shotgun careless is more of uh crime,” says Lonesome, sad-like.

Finally Forty-Dollar observes, apologetic-like—

“There’s still the Yaller Chuck.”

“Yes,” agrees Whispering. “There is still my property.”

Just then in comes Magpie and Ike. They sets ’em up to us, and talks of leaving soon.

“I might interest yuh if you’re looking for uh real mine,” states Whispering. “Yuh see I ain’t in good shape physically, and I got to get out uh this climate pretty soon. Now, I got uh claim, the Yaller Chuck, which lies east uh here about uh mile. She’s new, gents, but she’s uh hummer. I’m waiting for assays right now, and likely when I gets ’em I’ll be so danged enthusiastic over ’em that I’ll stick here and ruin my health.”

“Gold?” asks Magpie, and Whispering nods.

“You know it. Runs about eighteen per ounce, too. I’d admire to show it to you tomorrow, if yuh ain’t got nothing else to do.”

“Well,” nods Magpie, “I reckon we might as well, Ike. Just because we had our trip today for nothing don’t dampen our ardor. Some day we hopes to be mining kings.”

“You gents be ready to go over tomorrow, and maybe I can show something mighty good to look at,” says Whispering.

They pilgrims back home after uh while, and we thinks it over. Lonesome sort uh limps behind the bar, and takes out that poke.

“How much do you want, Whispering?”

“I ain’t going to pike,” announces Whispering. “You can see how Forty fell down with uh small amount, Lonesome. Give me about eight ounces, Lonesome.”

Lonesome figures for uh minute and gets tears in his eyes.

“Uh hundred and forty-four dollars!” he wails. “My gosh!”

He weighs out the gold and shoves it across to Whispering.

“Please shoot straight,” he implores. “Get up close and don’t shut your eyes, Whispering.”

“Don’t worry. When we pans my rock there ain’t going to be no argument. That gold will all be there. I’m going to make an early sneak and be back before nine o’clock.”

The next morning Whispering comes in, rubbing his shoulder, and accepts uh jolt.

“Look at my shoulder!” he wails. “Both barrels uh that thing! I put seventy-two dollars in that thing, in each barrel, and she kicked like uh million. I’ll bet we’ll open their eyes.”

When Magpie and Ike shows up, Lonesome treats ’em to some microbe-killer, and they seems anxious to investigate that mine.

“You sure do hunt early, old-timer,” states Harper. “Are the fool-hens so wild around here that yuh has to sneak up on ’em in the dark?”

“Why—uh—yes, they—huh—are,” stutters Whispering. “Yuh sure got to get out early to have any luck.”

We pilgrims to the Yaller Chuck, which looks on uh par with the Golden Glow, and Whispering immediate and soon proceeds to show Magpie the pay streak. He lets Magpie dig out uh pan uh dirt, which we puts in uh canvas sack. There ain’t water enough around there to pan it in, so we has to pack it back to uh stream near Painted Post. It sure was some pe-rade. One burro packing uh rocking-chair, and another with uh little sack uh salted dirt. Harper sets down in his rocking-chair, while we sets down at the water’s edge.

“If that ain’t the richest pan uh dirt you ever seen I hope I never have another drink uh liquor in my life,” orates Whispering. “I know what the Yaller Chuck contains.”

We squats there on the bank and watches Magpie slosh that pan around, while Ike sets up there on the bank, rocking back and forth, admiring the clouds.

Pretty soon we sees Magpie shake his head, slow-like, and then we clusters around him. Down in the bottom uh that pan is one single piece uh gold that will weigh about ten cents—nothing more.

Whispering heaves uh sigh plumb from his heels, and the next minute him and Lonesome are tangled up in the crick. It takes all of us to pry Lonesome loose, and then explanations seems in order.

“What for kind of uh way is this to act?” asks Magpie, staring at them two dripping critters.

“I’m mad!” snaps Lonesome. “After I lets him——”

“Hold on!” yelps Whispering. “He’s just sore at me ’cause—’cause—well, he expected to see more than he has seen. Sabe? He’s excitable that way. Doggone yuh, Lonesome! Keep your wet paws off me! We can’t afford to fight when we got company. Ain’t you got no ettiket in your make-up, Lonesome?”

We drifts back to Painted Post and invades Lonesome’s place. Magpie and Ike accepts uh drink and goes back to their cabin. Lonesome sets out uh glass for me and one for Forty, and fills one for himself.

“Another glass, Lonesome,” suggests Whispering, in uh low tone.

“Nope. You’re going to get your wish, Whispering.”

“What wish?”

“Uh hope is the same as uh wish, ain’t it? Well, you hoped you’d never get another drink uh liquor if that wasn’t the richest pan uh dirt he ever seen. Beat me out uh all that gold and then have the nerve to stand up here and drink up my hooch.”

“Dang your heart, Lonesome!” explodes Whispering. “Do you mean to insinuate that I stole your gold? Do yuh?”

“Where is it? Where is Forty-Dollar’s gold?”

“Well,” says Whispering, “all I got to say is this: I don’t know what Forty-Dollar done with his, but you can’t stand there and accuse me——”

“Peace,” says I. “Let’s not lower the census. Quit quarreling and do uh little figuring. Them Jaspers have got money, and we got to get some of it. How?”

“I got an idea,” suggests Forty-Dollar. “Maybe you fellers don’t like violence, but it ain’t no more of uh sin to take uh man’s money at the point of uh gun than it is to get him happy over salted rock and take it that away.”

“You keep on talking,” says Whispering. “Your oration seems to be leading up to something except words. Go ahead.”

“I’m meek and mild and I got quarts of the milk uh human kindness in my veins,” continues Forty-Dollar. “I’m an apostle uh brotherly love and sisterly affection, and the sufferings uh mankind makes my heart bleed. But in uh case like this, gentlemen, uh man has to steel his heartstrings and blunt his affections.”

“Hymn number five hundred and six,” announces Whispering. “Let us all arise.”

“Hang on to yourself,” advises Forty-Dollar. “I’m excusing my plan as I goes along, so yuh won’t see me in the wrong light. Now, them hombres has got money, ain’t they? Didn’t they mention uh sizable check? Don’t they seem to have uh sprinkling of the needful in their pockets? Does human beings dress as them are dressed without having financial backing?

“Do plain, ordinary, burro-busting prospectors carry rocking-chairs, bath-tubs, wash-tubs and kerosene lamps with them? There is but one answer—they don’t. I don’t aim to hurt uh hair uh their heads.

“Suppose we goes over to their cabin this night: suppose we takes what they got at the point of uh gun: suppose we takes and confiscates their burros and holds them two in fear of destruction until they presents us with uh piece uh paper, which calls for all their worldly goods and chattels. Nobody ever comes to Painted Post. We’re supreme, ain’t we? Ain’t that uh hiyu scheme, brothers?”

“The ravens fed Elijah,” proclaims Lonesome. “The buzzards must uh sent them unto us.”

“Amen,” says Whispering.

We plans it out right there, and has numerous and sundry jolts to increase our wisdom. There’s two windows and one door to this cabin. The windows are the sliding kind and there ain’t no lock on the door. We hunts around and finds two flour sacks to put over our heads, so we won’t be recognized in case we fails.

Me and Lonesome is to go in the door, while Whispering and Forty are to go in the windows. ’Long about ten o’clock we has one last jolt, takes our guns in our hands and starts on our dastardly mission. The cabin is in darkness and so is the whole world. No better night could be picked for the purpose. We sneaks up to the door and listens.

“Sound asleep,” whispers Forty. “When we’re ready I’ll make uh noise like uh bird. Listen to them dude prospectors snore.”

Me and Lonesome stands there at the door until we hears Forty whistle, and then we opens the door and slips inside. The door closes behind us, and we’re in darkness. We hears Forty and Whispering slide through the windows, and then all of us advances through the gloom.

I’m trusting to luck and instinct that I don’t fall over anything, when all to once I runs into something that moves quick, and then my belt-buckle takes uh half-hitch around my spine. Nobody will ever know how hard I got hit. All I know is that I slammed against the side of the cabin right under uh window, but I ain’t got ambition enough left to get up and go outside.

All seems silent for uh second or two, and then I hears uh grunt and uh crash, and something whirls past me and crumples up in the corner. Uh gun explodes as I gets up, and into me comes the world’s champion rough-and-tumble fighter. We has it all over the place.

I runs into something else and gets uh wallop that would kill any heavyweight in the world, but it only serves to crash me back into another foul fighter. There’s audible brimstone enough turned loose to blow up the shack, and all to once somebody kicks me when I’m down.

That makes me mad. I gets right up and limps into the thick of it, and got uh punch that sent me spinning plumb out of the door, where I lights into another fighter. We forgot all rules. I been beat up in such an unfair manner that I forget my usual sense uh fair play, I gets my opponent’s neck between my teeth, and tries to make him let loose of my ear.

“Curse yuh!” he hisses, sinking his fingers deeper into my ear. “Yuh will kick me in the face, will yuh!”

“Lonesome,” says I, letting go of his ear, “you better not curse me.”

“My ——!” says he, going limp-like. “Sad Sanderson, is that you?”

“Maybe. I won’t swear to it, Lonesome. Don’t hold it against me if it ain’t. Hold on to your complaints until I hear from all the precincts.”

We sets there on the ground and braces against each other.

“I reckon they must uh killed Whispering and Forty-Dollar,” opines Lonesome, solemn-like.

“I don’t know about Forty-Dollar, but they sure killed me,” states uh weak voice in the darkness. “I must be dead! No mortal man could get what I got and live. I’m all kicked to ——!”

“Look out!” hisses Lonesome. “Here comes somebody.”

We hears the crunch of boot-heels and discerns the bulk of uh man between us and the cabin. He stands there and sighs so audible that it would almost be uh whoop of uh ordinary man.

“Lost!” it wails, in uh thin voice. “I fought everything in the world and in the waters under the world. I don’t want no wreath uh glory. I don’t want nothing!”

Then he wilts like uh rag.

“You ain’t going to get nothing, Forty-Dollar,” consoles Lonesome. “You don’t deserve nothing—dang yuh!”

Just then the moon peeps out from behind uh cloud, and we sees the shadow of uh mighty pair uh ears on that cabin door.

Hee-e-e-e-e haw-w-w-w-w-w!

“Forty got what he deserved,” groans Whispering. “Yuh can’t intimidate uh burro in the dark. Yuh simply can’t!”

“Nobody around here ever said yuh could, did they!” yelps Lonesome. “Gosh A’mighty, man! Don’t argue about something what has been duly demonstrated.”

We carries Forty-Dollar up to the saloon, lays him out on the table, and then sets down to rest. We sure are uh sight. I feels that most uh my upholstering has been kicked loose, and the rest of them look that way. Pretty soon Forty-Dollar groans and sets up.

“When I whistle—we’ll—all—go—in,” he announces, with his eyes shut. “I’m—an—apostle—uh—brotherly—love—and——”

Lonesome has removed his boot, and Forty gets it right in the butt of his ear. He shudders and announces—

“I’m meek—and—mild.”

Then he lays down again.

“So am I,” I agrees. “Uh little child could lead me. I’m going home and to bed. I’m going to take uh bath in hoss liniment, lay down on my humble couch and let nature take her course. I’m naturally uh honest man, and tonight’s underhanded work revolteth my soul. Uh reaction is upon me. Good night.”

The next morning we manages to limp up to Lonesome’s place. We sure look like the breaking up of uh hard Winter, and there ain’t much conversation. After a while Forty-Dollar states, offhand-like:

“Them fellers slept in Kelly’s old cabin last night. They must uh stabled their burros in Whispering’s shack.”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Whispering, running his hands over the lumps uh his head. “Why say ‘must’ when it’s uh cinch?”

“It wouldn’t uh been uh bad scheme—if it worked,” opines Forty-Dollar, thoughtful-like. “Can anybody suggest something?”

“I can,” says I. “I know where there’s uh rattlesnake. Let’s all go out there and get bit.”

Just then Magpie and Ike comes in. They looks us over, and invites us to have uh drink. We hobbles up to the bar.

“Did my burros bother you fellers any last night?” asks Magpie.

We looks at each other, and then Lonesome stutters—

“Uh—uh—ju-just what do yuh mean?”

“Singing,” he explains. “We got four of the kickin’est, singin’est burros on earth. They held uh concert last night, and we was afraid it might disturb yuh.”

“Never heard ’em,” states Forty-Dollar. He told the truth.

“Fell down uh prospect hole,” explains Lonesome, tapping his black eye and the lump on his forehead. “The four of us imbibes uh little too much and on our way home we fell into that hole. Sabe?”

“That’s what we heard, Ike,” says Magpie. “Did you fellers fire uh gun?”

“Accidental,” says Whispering. “Shot in the ground.”

“Must uh glanced,” remarks Ike. “Bullet went through the ears of our burro.”

“Pshaw!” says I. “Must uh glanced.”

“This country seems to be pretty barren,” opines Magpie. “We ain’t seen nothing promising since we came. Ain’t there no real mines around here?”

“There’s one,” says I, getting uh happy inspiration. “There is one, and ’cause it ain’t on the market you ain’t been told about it yet. It’s called the Web uh Gold, and while it ain’t for sale—every man has his price. She’s only been worked enough to show that one person named Sanderson will be ranked with the idle rich some day, unless he gets foolish and sells out.”

“Around here?” asks Magpie.

“You pronounced the locality. Free-milling to uh startling degree. Like to see it? I ain’t trying to sell it to yuh, understand. I just wants your expert opinion. How about tomorrow? It’s only about uh mile and uh half from here—west. I ain’t much of uh judge, so I’d like to have yuh tell me what yuh think of it. You fellers sure do sabe formations.”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Harper. “We’re experts on them things, and we’d admire to pass judgment on the Web uh Gold.”

“I’ll meet yuh here tomorrow,” says I. “Now, you’re going to see uh mine—uh honest to grandma gold mine. Sabe?”

“Well,” says Whispering, after they leaves, “they’re trusting souls, Slim. What do yuh reckon to do?”

“It’s up to Lonesome,” says I. “I’m an honest man. You fellers sneaked away alone to do your shooting, but I ain’t going to do it thataway. I’m going to take Lonesome along with me, and let him load the gun—and shoot it if he wants to.”

“Now you’re saying something,” applauds Lonesome. “Hereafter I sees where my money goes. How much will we shoot, Slim?”

“Every danged ounce yuh got, Lonesome. We’ll give that prospect uh load uh gold. We can’t lose. We know it’s there, and even if we don’t sell we can pan it all out.”

“That’s uh lot uh gold, but as you say we can’t lose, Slim.”

“We’ll share the same, won’t we?” asks Whispering, anxious-like.

“Less the amount yuh shot,” states Lonesome, and they nods, satisfied-like.

THE next morning at daylight me and Lonesome pulls out with that shotgun and the poke uh gold. We sneaks up on that alleged mine like uh pair uh burglars, and what we done to that mine was uh-plenty. It took eight shots to deplete that poke, and then we pilgrims back for liniment. We sure got punished for our sins.

We finds Whispering and Forty-Dollar waiting for us, and we goes into detail.

“That’s the way I wanted to do in the first place,” complains Whispering. “I wanted to fill her full uh gold.”

“Anybody could sell uh mine salted thataway,” says Forty-Dollar. “Lonesome was too stingy with us.”

At noon they shows up with uh burro. That danged rocking-chair tops the pack, and Magpie pilgrims along in the lead with his hoe like Little Bo Peep. We arrives at the mine, and as usual we has uh few speeches before breaking ground.

“Lonesome,” says I, “you not being familiar with the ground, I’d deem it uh favor if you’d select uh pan uh dirt.”

Lonesome gets down in the hole and digs right where we filled her full uh wealth. He hands the pan to Magpie, and we all pilgrims to the water. Lonesome took the dirt out of the place where we buried it all, and we know that the result will knock their hats off.

Ike sets on the bank and rocks in his chair, while Magpie squats down at the crick and sloshes that pan. We perches on the bank and grins at each other. It’s uh cinch. We don’t seem interested, but there ain’t one of us but what is prepared to be awful surprised. We watches him deplete that pan uh dirt, and waits for the finish. Pretty soon he looks close-like at the results. He takes out his pocket-knife and digs into the muck. He examines the point of the knife for uh minute and straightens up.

“How does she look, Magpie?” asks Ike.

“Trace,” says Magpie. “Bare trace, Ike.”

“Trace ——!” yelps Lonesome. “Trace? Let me have that pan!”

The four of us comes to uh common center and grabs the pan. Barren! Not uh sign uh gold. We looks at Magpie, who is looking at the point of his knife, but he only wipes it off on his leg and puts it in his pocket.

“Thought it was uh little color,” he explains. “Too small to tell.”

Lonesome looks that pan all over and drops it in the crick.

“I reckon we might as well go to some other locality,” observes Magpie. “All we’ve found is uh trace, and uh man can’t never get to be uh mining king on traces.”

We strings out in single file, four of us limping a heap, and pilgrims back to Painted Post. We ain’t talkative uh-tall. Magpie and Ike goes over to their cabin to get their other burros, and we enters the saloon once more. We sets down, sort uh tired like, and stares at each other. Pretty soon Lonesome screws up his face and spits plumb across the room.

“——!” says he.

“The same for mine,” says I.

Lonesome sets there for uh while, deep in thought, and then turns to Forty-Dollar.

“You and Whispering were pikers, Forty—just cheap pikers. Look what me and Slim done. Yeah-h-h-h! Where in —— did that gold go?”

“Aw, don’t ask me!” wails Whispering, holding his head in his hands. “Where did my gold go? Where did Forty’s gold go?”

Just then that yaller burro, with bullet holes in both ears, sticks his head in the door and yodels another stanza, and in comes the tenderfeet.

“Going away,” says Magpie. “Like the place, but not the prospects. I’ll buy uh drink. Me and Ike have got to strike it or go to work. We got to eat. Sabe?”

“Haw!” grins Lonesome. “Able to write uh check for fifty thousand, and worrying about starvation. Haw!”

“Anybody can write uh check,” grins Magpie, “but they got to have money in the bank or she ain’t no good. Me and Ike ain’t got no bank account. Sabe?”

“Mister Sanderson, I forgot to ask yuh if yuh got any fool-hens this morning?” says Ike. “I seen you and Mister Larson packing uh gun, and we hears uh lot uh shots.”

I looks at Lonesome, and chokes.

“Nope. We’re uh pair uh rotten shots—me and Lonesome. Never got uh feather.”

“You got any scales?” asks Magpie, leaning against the bar, and feeling inside his shirt.

“Scales?” says Lonesome, absent-like. “Here’s some.”

He sets the scales out on the bar, and blows his nose on the bar-towel.

“Might as well know how we stand, Ike,” grins Magpie, hauling out uh poke. He pours the scale-pan full and checks off the weight. We stands there like dummies and watches him weigh it all out and put it back inside his fancy shirt.

I sees Forty-Dollar feeling of the butt of his six-shooter, but he shakes his head sad-like, and folds his arms.

“How much, Magpie?” asks Ike, reaching for the bottle.

“Forty-three and uh half ounces, Ike. You must uh spilled uh little this morning.”

Lonesome watches the operation, and stares at Magpie, as he sets down in uh chair and rolls uh cigaret.

“Forty-three and uh half ounces uh—uh—uh—” stutters Lonesome, like uh man half asleep.

“Salt of the earth,” pronounces Magpie, settling that hard hat on top of his head, and getting up. “Ike, we might as well be on our way. There ain’t nothing here for us.”

“Even the fool-hens are shy,” grins Ike, and they goes outside, points their burros north, and strings out in single file. We pilgrims back inside the saloon, and sets down in uh sad group.

“Honesty is the best policy,” proclaims Whispering, in uh sad voice. “Being crooked don’t get yuh nothing.”

“Fool-hens is the right word,” agrees Forty-Dollar. “We didn’t need to hunt ’em, boys. We’re uh whole flock unto ourselves. If we’d uh been——”

Forty’s discourse fades out when he seems to get his eyes focused on uh certain spot. We all stares at that spot, which is the chair that Magpie occupied, and which has been partly turned around.

Lonesome starts the rush, and grabs the object to his bosom.

“That poke!” he yelps. “That danged gold poke! He must uh forgot it!”

He dumps the contents on the bar, and with the rush uh yaller metal comes uh folded paper. Whispering grabs the paper, and peers at it, close-like.

“Listen!” he whoops. “Listen to this here e-pistle, you fellers: ‘To Four Fool-Hens: Gold may be where yuh find it, but no man ever found placer gold in uh quartz ledge, and kept faith in mankind. Also, according to metallurgy, black powder and felt wads do not appear in this formation. Remember this golden rule: if yuh can’t be technically crooked, be honest and keep out of jail.’”

Whispering stops reading and looks us over. He folds the paper up and puts it in his pocket.

“I’m still shy four ounces and uh half,” reflects Lonesome, and the three of us takes him down and sets on his stummick.

Some folks are salt of the earth, but there are others who will never be anything but fool-hens.

Transcriber’s Note
This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, May 3, 1918. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.