WHEN LOVE’S LABOR’S LOST
by W. C. Tuttle Author of “Sparing the Family Tree,” “The Wisdom of the Ouija,” etc.
“This is the land of the free and the home of the brave, the same of which makes your argument worthless. Everybody except ‘Testament’ Tilton was strong for the idea, and Testament, bein’ a preacher, don’t count.”
“Well,” says I, “it ain’t none of my business, but I don’t like it. I’ve got a right to an opinion, ain’t I? Just because a committee of danged fools agrees on anything it don’t mean that it’s all right and perfectly proper, does it? And besides all that, where in —— are you going to get a lion?”
“From the circus which is to be at Granite on the last day of August, Ike. We aims to purchase one from them.”
“Cost you a lot of money, Magpie, and I don’t know of anybody in Piperock who is going to pay good money for a ordinary lion.”
“Not ordinary lion, Ike—African.”
Magpie Simpkins unhooks his spurs from the top of the table and rolls a smoke.
“The community is going to foot the bill,” he explained. “We’re goin’ to sell chances on the lion. We sells the chances for enough to buy the lion and promote the entertainment. Five dollars per chance.”
“I wouldn’t pay five dollars for no lion.”
“If you could win the lion, Ike? If your number wins you gets the lion free gratis and also a share of the receipts, which means two dollars per ticket.”
“Is it the bull that Zeb Whittaker calls Calamity?”
“Uh-huh. Some animal, Ike.”
“Some. But what is there about Labor Day which falls for a fight between a bull and a lion?”
“Just a novelty, Ike. You’ve got to hand it to us for handing Piperock something new and novel in entertainments. When me and Judge Steele, ‘Wick’ Smith, ‘Buck’ Masterson and ‘Jay Bird’ Whittaker gets together we sure surprizes ourselves with the things we can think of to do.”
“You can’t surprize me,” says I. “I’ve suffered too many times from your brilliant ideas, Magpie. I don’t sabe this Labor Day thing, but I reckon it has to be. Still it ain’t going to be nothing in my existence, ’cause I won’t be here. Nobody can point at me and say, ‘Ask him—he was there.’”
“Say yuh won’t?” Magpie looks sad-like at me and smooths his mustache.
“Said I wouldn’t. Labor Day may be a hyiu holiday, Magpie, but it ain’t no sufficient reason for me to be a stepping-stone for a lion and bull fight. I ain’t lost no lions and as far as the bull is concerned—there’s a great plenty always. I sure am all packed up and ready for shipment the day before.”
“I’m sorry for yuh, Ike.”
“Go ahead and be sorry. I hope you enjoy the fight. I hope it is a howling success, but somebody will have to write and tell me about it, that’s a cinch. Curse me if you will, but——”
“Curse yuh, Ike?”
Magpie’s voice shows about two quarts of tears.
“Curse yuh, friend Harper? No, old pardner, I won’t curse yuh, but——”
“No!” I yelps at the top of my voice. “—— you, let up on that sob stuff! You dog-goned——”
“Me and you has been selected to secure the lion,” says he soft-like. “I promised ’em, Ike, and Magpie Simpkins never breaks his promise. I told ’em that you would go with me and I ain’t goin’ to let you make me out a liar. What did you say, Ike?”
“I didn’t say. I was just wonderin’ how we were going to haul the lion down here, Magpie.”
“That’s easy. We’ll get a wagon, I reckon. Jay Bird is going to advance the money.”
“Why not pull off the raffle first?”
“Not until after the fight, Ike. It’s the uncertainty that is going to make it interesting. Sabe?”
“Uh-huh. Like shaking dice to see whether you’re going to get shot or hung. I don’t know what in —— anybody would want of a lion if they got it for five dollars.”
“Yuh can’t get African lions every day in the week, Ike.”
“Be a —— of a place to live if you could, but that don’t answer my questions, Magpie.”
“Well, for gosh sake don’t start any agitation like that! Let the winner decide what he wants to do with it.”
“In other words—keep your danged mouth shut and let the lucky man get scratched.”
“Something to that effect,” says Magpie.
Old Testament Tilton sure is anti-bullfight. He rises with indignation and scorches us with his wrath. He calls a meeting to protest against it. “Dirty Shirt” Jones was the only one in the audience and he slept all through the protest.
Testament comes to us and promises that we’ll never climb the golden stairs nor twang a harp. He points out the error of our ways and denounces our past, present and future.
“Desecratin’ Labor Day by chargin’ two dollars to see a lion and a bull fight each other,” says he, wailing-like.
“I’ve got a free seat for the clergymen,” says Magpie. “A seat where you can see every move of the fight.”
Testament seems to consider this for a while and then—
“Do you think they will put up a good fight, Magpie?”
“You can’t lose nothin’ by taking a chance.”
“That’s right, Magpie. Verily, I reckon I’ll have to bow down to the popular clamor. Didn’t think I’d go, but when you’re in Rome you’ve got to do as the Romans does, I reckon.”
“Yes,” says I. “And when you’re in Piperock, do as the rest of the —— fools do.”
“Piperock ain’t so bad,” says Testament. “She needs better society, that’s all, Ike.”
“Yes,” says I, “that’s all —— needs.”
* * * * *
Calamity was one of them cross-grained animals born with a grudge against everything on earth. He’s sort of a blue-black color and inside his hide is the spirit of a grizzly and the ambition of a quart of nitroglycerin. Nobody knows why Zeb Whittaker keeps such an animal.
Calamity is a son of the cow that jumped over the moon and what he can’t jump he goes through. Zeb has one puncher who don’t have nothing to do but pack a hammer and some nails and foller Calamity’s blazed trail.
“Weinie” Lopp tried to ride him once—just once. Weinie pulled leather for a mile, after which the cinch busted. Then Weinie played matador until he found a tree. About ten hours later we found the bull still waiting for him.
“Yuma” Yates bulldogged Calamity once. Somehow the bull got his horn tangled in Yuma’s raiment and started for Canada with him. “Slim” Hawkins roped Yuma, yanked him loose, and then had to drag him half a mile to keep Calamity from hooking him. Everybody except Yuma applauded Slim for his presence of mind.
Then cometh the question of where this heroic contest is to be held. It’s a cinch it can’t be done in a house.
“She’s got to be bull-strong and lion-proof,” says Buck.
“I’ve got a idea,” says Wick, “and she’s a good idea. We’ll set posts from the corner of my store to the corner of Buck’s place, and another bunch from Rickey’s corner to Pete’s blacksmith shop. We’ll set in high posts and board ’em to the top. We can fix seats on top of the store, saloon, blacksmith and barber shop. Sabe? There will be plenty of room in the enclosed street for the fight, and the spectators will be up out of harm’s way.”
“I rise to applaud our foresighted citizen,” states the judge. “You’ve got a beautiful thought, Wicksie.”
“I don’t know about the beauty of it, but she’s plausible,” agrees Magpie.
I meets Dirty Shirt, who is watching the digging of the post-holes, and he’s seeking information. I explains the idea.
“Labor Day?” he asks. “Contest between a lion and a bull?”
Just then Magpie and the judge comes along.
“Who you fellers going to favor in this exhibition?” asks the judge. “Does you place your increment upon the chances of the feline or does you see grand prospects for the domestic quadruped?”
“My money stays in my overalls,” states Dirty. “In a case like this I may dig a hole and bury it.”
“Me,” says I, “I feel as sorry for the lion as I do for the bull.”
“Well, that settles that end of it,” says the judge, happy-like.
“The question is what?” asks Dirty.
“We needs two neutral witnesses,” explains Magpie. “This here will be some contest, you understand, and many pieces of silver will be wagered. Them what has bet their money will be prejudiced in one way or another, which makes them noways fit to judge upon the outcome. You and Dirty Shirt Jones are hereby honored with the distinction of being the referees of said contest and your decision will stand. Sabe?”
“Yes, even if the hills do fall,” says the judge. “Judge without fear or favor and let nature take its course.”
“And,” says Magpie, “we also hereby appoints you both to go with me to Granite to purchase said lion.”
Me and Dirty Shirt sets down on the sidewalk and looks at each other. After while Dirty says:
“What do I know about lions? Why ask me to help pick lions? I don’t know a danged thing about lions.”
“Neither do I,” grins Magpie. “But I’m willin’ to do my dangdest. This is for the community at large and in the sublime interests of Labor Day. Be public-spirited for once in your lives. This little task will be a labor of love. There won’t be no remuneration nor pay. Just a labor of love, gents.”
“Labor of love sounds poetical,” nods Dirty.
“It will be appreciated.”
“Yes,” say I. “I hope they appreciate it, as the horse-thief said when the rope broke.”
* * * * *
Me and Magpie and Dirty Shirt and “Whiskers” went to Granite. I don’t know how Whiskers happens to adopt us, but he does. “Mighty” Jones is Whiskers’ lord and master, but I reckon Whiskers is one of the noble souls who arise above such masters as Mighty.