Injuneered — Background and Themes

say?” asked the chief.

I reads it to him. He scratched his left knee with the toe of his right moccasin, and then he laughs kinda foolish.

“Who’s Chief Axlegrease?” I asks.

“Long time ago I be with him in medicine show. Him Osage or Cherokee or somethin’.”

“He’s a hell of a lot like you, eh?” grunted Dirty.

“Yeah--when you’re sober.”

“Pretty damn dry now.”

“Yeah,” says Dirty, “and if you don’t quit drinkin’ hair tonic, you’ll have to eat moths to keep down the fur. So this here Axlegrease Injun is comin’ to visit you, eh?”

“Um-m-m-m. Play damn bad poker.”

“I suppose you’ll skin him out of his moccasins, eh?”

“Um-m-m-m. Me no got money. Mus’ have money for play poker.”

“Yeah, we all found that out a long time ago, Mister Vanishin’ Race.”

It might be well to tell you somethin’ about our town of Piperock and of the rest of Yaller Rock County. Piperock, Yaller Horse and Paradise are set in a sort of triangle. Yaller Horse grew up from a one shack horsethieves’ hangout. I mean she growed up in size, but her morals remained dormant. The town is kinda mismanaged by Tombstone Todd, Yuma Yates, Hardpan Hawkins and Smoky Potts, knowed by us Piperockers as Murderer’s Row. Whenever folks enumerate the poisonous reptiles, they mention them four in connection with rattlers and copperheads.

Paradise is only of more consequence, because of a larger population. A horsethief got run out of Piperock, hid in a hole down the country, and out of spite he started a town, which they called Paradise. Bein’ of the same minds and dispositions, Yaller Horse and Paradise buried the ax against each other, in order to concentrate against Piperock.

Piperock is a lovable old place, full of memories, tryin’ to get along in a peaceable way and amount to something. If it wasn’t for the folks in Piperock it would be a great old town. But even with our failin’s, we’re united. We don’t need no outside help. We stand for a certain principle, and we back our own--right or wrong--and there ain’t been an innocent bystander killed in years. We shoot straight. We go on the idea that if the law leaves us alone, we’ll leave the law alone. Reciprocity, Magpie Simpkins calls it.

Magpie is built a whole lot like Runnin’ Wolf, has sad, droopin’ eyes, like a disappointed bloodhound, and a long mustache. And nature didn’t cheat him, when it comes to noses. He’s full of quaint ideas, all of which suffer a heap from missin’ parts, and his main idea in life is to keep Piperock on the map.

Well, me and Dirty Shirt proceeds to forget all about Chief Axlegrease, and he ain’t brought to our attention until the next day when a runaway bronc, bearin’ Mighty Jones in the saddle, comes down through our main street like Paul Revere spreadin’ his anti-English propaganda. Mighty ain’t very big, but his hair is long and his voice is plenty resonant, as you might say.

When he’s about in the middle of the town, wingin’ along on that locoed animal, which is jist touchin’ here and there, we hears him yelp--

“Ho-o-o-o-old your ho-o-o-orses!”

Jist one more _clickety-clack_, and he’s faded out complete.

“That,” says Dirty Shirt, “is damn’ queer advice, under the circumstances. But mebbe he’s like Old Testament Tilton, allus preachin’ advice that he won’t foller hisself.”

“I’m pure in heart,” replied Old Testament, who is also built awful high above his corns.

“Lotta bum watches have plenty good main springs.”

“I’m meek and lowly,” says Testament, pious-like.

“Yea-a-ah--right now.”

“Well, f’r Gawd’s sake!” snorts Magpie. “Will you tell me what this cavalcade is? Will you tell me--crip-puled crawlers!”

I didn’t blame Magpie for his remarks. This here cavalcade turns into the main street from the south, and if it ain’t a circus, I’m a hairy tarantaler. In front is one of them big decorated wagons, with four horses, and on the driver’s seat is a big fat Injun, all dressed up in a shiny plug hat, cutaway coat and a high white collar.

Tied behind that wagon is a scrawny lookin’ elephant, behind which comes another big wagon--one of them Queen of Sheba float wagons--hauled by two pinto horses and driven by a fat squaw; and in that float is at least sixteen Injun kids, from one year to sixteen. Towin’ behind that comes one of them steam pipe pianos, and a tow headed jigger in a red uniform is playin’ “Sweet Adeline” as loud as he can.