DERELICTS OF THE HILLS

Now, I reckon yuh had to come clear up here to tell me that th’ grub is on th’ table, eh? Of all th’ gol dinged⸺”

The grumbler turned from his inspection of the three split fuses in the gopher hole and cast a baleful glance in my direction. He spat against the side of the cut and smiled after looking me over from new sombrero to riding boots.

“Ex—cuse me, stranger,” he grunted, climbing out of the hole and wiping the day off his hands on his weather-beaten overalls. “I shore thought yuh was Magpie. Yuh see we ain’t used to havin’ strangers hereabouts. Magpie’s my pardner and he’s supposed to be down at th’ cabin gittin’ dinner.”

“I saw a man sitting on a log down the trail a ways as I rode up,” I remarked. “Seemed like a curious kind of a person. Wouldn’t talk at all. Just sat there and gazed off across the hills.”

“’Bout six feet long and ten inches wide—sort of uh roan with sparsely settled whiskers?” asked the prospector.

“Exactly,” I agreed. “I noticed particularly the moth-eaten hirsute gathering and also the immense distance from the lobe of his right ear to his rear suspender buttons.”

“Haw, haw!” exploded the prospector. “Suspender buttons! Haw, haw! Dog-gone good thing yuh didn’t mention suspender buttons to him, ’cause he’s sort a sensitive over such trifles. Uh-hu,” he grunted reflectively, “that was Magpie Simpkins, shore was. Did yuh say he didn’t seem to be lookin’ at anything particular—jist sorta lookin’?”

I assured him that as far as I was able to discern there was nothing about those mesquite-covered hills to cause a man to focus on one certain spot for an indefinite period of time, oblivious to all material matters.

“There’s one or two words in th’ American langwidge I ain’t never been introduced to,” he replied, “and jist now yuh used ’em all in uh heap, but I gits th’ drift. Magpie’s trancin’.”

“He’s what?” I asked.

“Trancin’,” he repeated, with a wide smile. “Anyway, I reckon that’s what it’s called. Yuh see, this pardner uh mine yuh gazes on down there has got th’ idea he can commune with th’ speerits, and I reckon he’s down there tryin’ to raise uh ghost.”

“Go ahead and laugh,” he continued, when I smiled. “Mebby it sounds funny to you, but, dog-gone it, you ain’t never been partners to uh scientific loco human or yuh would jist shed uh tear and wish me well. Jist lemme tell yuh something now. I been— Say, I plumb forgot to ask yuh if yuh was lookin’ fer some one up here, stranger. My name is Harper—christened when I was young and plumb helpless with th’ appellation of Wellington Alexander, which same ain’t no title fer uh sourdough. Th’ first pardner I had rubbed it all out and called me Ike.”

“My name is Frederick Norwood,” I replied, and smiled with Harper. “My family are of the old English stock, and believed in saddling a child with all the names in the family record, and as names were dirt cheap at the time of my christening they never stopped at one little old middle name.”

“Jist lookin’ over th’ mineral wealth of this great and glorious country, eh?” reflected Harper, as if I had made that statement but corrected his presumption by adding, “That’s all there is to ever bring uh feller north uh Piperock.”

“I’m looking for a fellow by the name of Woods,” I stated.

“Tellurium Woods?” asked Harper.

“I believe that is what he’s called. I stopped at the Empire Hotel at Piperock and the proprietor, a Mr. Jones, directed me up here. It’s a queer thing, but the description he gave me seems to cover the man I saw down the trail—your partner, Mr. Simpkins.”

“Uh-ha,” he agreed. “I reckon it would. Yuh see, this Cobalt Jones thinks he’s funny. He expected yuh to spring it on Magpie. Mebby you’d have got past with it, bein’ as Magpie’s in uh trance, but I’d shore hate to try it. Yes, sir, I reckon it would have laid the ghost.”

“Would you mind explaining?” I asked. “I come up here to look over a copper prospect for some Eastern parties—property belonging to one Tellurium Woods, whose description fully covers the party you assure me is Magpie Simpkins, an embryo spiritualist. Also, that he’s sensitive to suspender buttons.”

“Mister Norwood,” said Harper, biting off a fresh chew, “I sent Magpie down to th’ cabin to cook uh pot uh beans about two hours ago, and knowin’ th’ animile as I do I’ll bet uh dobie dollar that he’ll start that fire in about two hours more. Also, bein’ as I ain’t in no hurry to shoot them three measly blasts, which won’t uncover nothin’ but shovel work, I’ll tell yuh what and why fore.

“Yore time ain’t worth no more than mine, I figure cause yuh won’t find Tellurium Woods in this country no ways, so lets me and you mosey over under that big mesquite and I’ll wau-wau yuh th’ hull thing.”

We reached the comfortable spot indicated, and he began:

Uh course Magpie ain’t his right name. He got that name ’cause one time he gits lost in th’ Bitter Roots and near starves to death. Shot all his ca’tridges away tryin’ to kill uh magpie—th’ same bein’ classed with coyotes and buzzards as eatables—in uh country where blue grouse is thicker than fleas on uh pet coon.

I been pardners with Magpie for ten years now and I knows that jasper jist like I knows astronomy. Th’ milk uh human kindness jist plumb bogs him down at times, and as a pardner he assays big; but when it comes to doin’ useful things he don’t show uh trace.

First he tries hypnotism. Tried it on uh wildcat in uh spruce-tree, but somehow th’ cat didn’t sabe th’ play. If yuh ask him he’ll show yuh where he was boloed down in th’ Philippines. That was ten year ago that I met him in th’ hospital in Helena and we went to Nome together.

Man, that human string-bean has dabbled in all kinds of scientific stuff. He took up Christian Science and played her four ways from th’ jack, but one time he gits an ulcerated tooth and shifts his affections to psychology.

That shore was an affliction. He suffered from that fer uh year. Psychology goes bust when he salts uh feller’s mine with copper to make said miner work harder, and some sucker come along and buys th’ mine on th’ strength of th’ “salt” for five thousand—said mine-owner bein’ that same Tellurium Woods yuh pilgrims up here to see. I know this is stringin’ th’ what and whyfore out pretty long, but I wants yuh to git an idea of this pardner uh mine.

I’m sittin’ in front of our cabin uh couple uh months ago and watchin’ th’ sun set behind th’ Medicine Men peaks and keepin’ one eye on th’ trail. Magpie’s been down to Piperock fer seven days—which same trip after grub don’t take more than two days. I’m down to greasin’ th’ fry-pan with uh ragged bacon rind, and th’ coffee has been boiled so darn much it tastes like stewed gunnysack. In other words there ain’t enough grub in th’ shack to feed uh hummin’bird’s offspring.

Long about that time I hears uh jackass brayin’ down th’ trail and ’long comes Magpie and them three pack-jacks and all four uh them animiles is singin’. Th’ jacks is singin’ ’cause they knows th’ packs is soon to come off, but I ain’t hep to what makes Magpie so care-free—him usually bein’ too deep in thought to sing above a whisper.