Bearly Reasonable
“Ike,” sez Magpie Simpkins, pointin’ down th’ trail, “th’ feller what said, ‘Th’ worst is yet to come,’ must ’a’ meant that outfit comin’ our way.”
I takes uh good look and agrees. In th’ lead is Ricky Henderson, on his calico bronc, and behind him is three figgers on burrows. Th’ leadin’ one looks like uh cross between uh Holy Roller proselyte and uh fence picket. Th’ legs of th’ critter is bent back at th’ knees to keep its feet off th’ ground, an th’ rest of its body ’pears to have been soaked in starch before it seasoned.
It’s wearin’ uh swaller-tailed coat, buttoned at th’ top, makin’ it swell in th’ breeze like th’ wings of uh turkey-buzzard, and th’ peaked, side-whiskered face which bobs at th’ top is crowned with uh hard hat. It is also wearin’ black-rimmed specs, and enough black ribbon floats from th’ top to furnish mournin’ fer uh wake.
Th’ next in line is uh fe-male person, and uh glance shows that she ain’t built fer neither speed nor comfort. Th’ pore li’l burrow she’s ridin’ is wig-waggin’ uh distress signal with its ears, and threatens to cave in at th’ knees in uh short time.
Th’ next in line is one uh them human carbuncles. He’s so danged fat that his clothes ache, and he has to lift his yaller eyebrows plumb to th’ top of his bald head to git his eyes open. When I first sees his face I’m inclined to git th’ skin of uh aig to put on it and draw it to uh head.
Behind this caravan loiters five burros and they’re so danged loaded down with plunder that all yuh can see is their ears. While me and Magpie stands on th’ steps of our cabin, at th’ Silver Threads mine, this aggregation peerades to uh standstill before us, and that she-packin’ burro hee-haws with relief.
“Here we are,” states Ricky, turnin’ in his saddle and grinnin’ at his followers.
“Thank goodness!” snorts th’ fe-male. “I feel that I’m jolted to a shadow. Shall we dismount?”
“Ricky, yuh might make us used to yore friends, and tell us why you terminates th’ peerade at this point,” sez Magpie.
“This person,” sez Ricky, pointin’ at th’ lean critter, “is Perfessor Phinney. Th’ lady is his wife, and this here robust party is Doctor Doolittle. They’re from th’ East—” and then he turns to them:
“Ladies and gentlemen, this slender party with th’ hairy upper lip is Magpie Simpkins, and th’ bow-legged party beside him is Ike Harper, his mate. Now that yo’re properly introduced I’ll pilgrim back. Au revoir.”
“Yuh will—in uh hearse,” snaps Magpie. “Come back here, yuh blamed coyote and explain why yuh shirks yore duty. What’s th’ great idea?”
“My duty is done,” states Ricky. “These here persons desire to hire competent persons so I brings’ em up here. Every man in Piperock holds up their hands and swears that they ain’t competent, so what could I do? You and Ike shore must be. I reckon th’ perfessor can tell yuh what he wants, Magpie. I hates to deprive yuh of my company, but I’m uh right busy man.”
“No depravity, Ricky,” sez Magpie. “Run right along home.”
And then he turns to th’ outfit. Th’ three of ’em are off their mounts, and busy rubbin’ th’ circulation back into their legs. I feels that th’ perfessor has some chore, ’cause he has quite uh strip uh country to hear from.
“I—er—shall try and explain in a few words,” sez th’ perfessor, peekin’ at us over th’ tops of his specs. “I am up here to settle an argument between myself and Professor Manning. Isn’t it queer what an argument between friends will bring forth?”
“Uh-huh,” agrees Magpie. “She shore is. I’ve knowed six good men to git killed on th’ spot, four more in th’ pen, and dozens who have been crippled fer life over friendly arguments.”
“How unique!” exclaims th’ perfessor’s heavier half. “How unique.”
“Yes’m,” agrees Magpie, “two of ’em was, but th’ rest was jist common ordinary arguments.”
“As I was—er—saying,” continues th’ perfessor, “I am up here to settle a friendly argument.”
“Th’ question is?” asks Magpie.
“Do rattlesnakes and prairie-dogs live together in harmony, and will a female grizzly recognize its own offspring after it has been away from, it for twenty-four hours.”
“That’s uh —— of uh reason fer comin’ way up here!” snorts Magpie.
“Why didn’t yuh write to me? I’d ’a’ told yuh.”
“That’s what I said,” cuts in th’ human carbuncle. “When you told me about it I——”
“Doctor,” pipes th’ perfessor, “there’s no use arguing with me. This is a serious question. Professor Manning’s theory is wrong, and I am going to prove it.”
“Yuh can’t prove nothin’ by uh rattler,” objects Magpie. “Also, yuh got uh sweet chore on yore hands when yuh tries to git uh female grizzly to let yuh take its cub and——”
“Can’t I believe my own eyes?” wails th’ ol’ pelican. “Can’t I see these things?”
“My husband, being a scientist, is very observing,” states Mrs. Perfessor.
