Read Ebook: The Color of His Boots by Tuttle W C Wilbur C

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 265 lines and 10207 words, and 6 pages

Babies ain't got much sense, I reckon. Mostly any person or animal that creeps, crawls or walks will pine for a thing for a certain length of time, and, when it don't show in a reasonable period of pining, they forgets it; but a baby gets one idea in its bosom and cherishes said idea forever and ever, amen.

This one is too young for us to explain things to, and the night is too dark for us to hand it anything in sign-language; so we pilgrims along, listening to it wail continuous for something to ease its stummick. Pretty soon Magpie stops.

"Ike," says he severe-like, "you've got to find something to feed to this infant. The blamed thing must be plumb empty, to wail thataway, and I won't poke along and let it die in my arms."

"I've got forty-three dollars, Magpie," says I, "and I hereby gives you power of attorney to take my property to dinner. I'm neither a wet-nurse nor a restaurant."

We pikes along for a while, baby wailing copiously. Then Magpie says--

"Wonder if singing would help it any?"

"I might sing a little," says he apologetic-like.

The baby keeps on playing three notes plumb across the board:

Pretty soon Magpie stops and sets down on the rail.

"Ike, I can't stand this," he wails. "We've got to get condensed milk for this human phonygraft, or it will ruin its lungs."

We sets there in the dark and contemplates deep-like. Off in the distance a coyote raises its voice in protest against the bounty law, and then a cow bawls soft-like.

"Did you think they made it out of cans?" I asks.

"Cow!" he grunted joyful-like, getting to his feet. "We'll milk that critter, Ike."

He picks up our painful inheritance, pilgrims down the railroad fill, and we goes in the direction of that cow's voice. We finds said bawlers standing in the corner of a fence, and they acts inquisitive toward us.

"We ain't got no rope, Magpie," I objects. But he's enthusiastic over the proposition and says:

He crawls over the fence and approaches the herd. I'll admit that Magpie has a soothing voice, and his "So-o-o, boss," would assure most anything of his good intentions. But them cows ain't used to having strangers come out of the night to steal their juice. They sort of mills around and acts foreign to his designs.

"Make that kid shut up!" he yelps. "It's scaring the critters, Ike."

I hears a cow bawl, and then comes a rattle, a bump and a curse.

"What are you trying to do?" I asks.

Pretty soon I hears Magpie spit audible-like, and then:

"Dang the luck! Tried to bulldog a muley cow!"

Bulldogging is the gentle pastime of getting in front of a cow, getting one arm under a horn and the other arm over a horn and then twisting the critter's neck until said critter decides to lay down. Muley cows are exempt on account of not having any horns.

The baby seems to sympathize openly with the cows. In fact, that kid has the only perpetual voice I ever heard.

"Hurry up with that milk!" I yelps.

I hears somebody swearing sweet and low; a cow grunts deep-like, and then comes a dull thud.

"Woof!" I hears Magpie grunt and then, "Come huh-here! Got 'um!"

I lays the baby down on the ground and crawls through the fence. A cow sticks its cold nose in my face in the dark and uses my necktie for a handkerchief.

"Where you got 'um?" I asks, peering around.

"Huh-here, Ike."

I peers closer and finds Magpie down on his shoulders, with a cow's head in his arms. The rest of the animal is making useless jerks, trying to get loose.

"Mum-milk it," he stutters.

"What in?" he grunts. "In your huh-hat."

"Lost it. You danged-- Sh-h-h-h!"

Then we heard footsteps approaching on horseback. Up that line fence comes some indistinct shapes. We hears the creak of saddles, and then somebody curses a loose cinch. They stops right near to us, and we holds the cow and our breaths.

"Can't do much until daylight," opines a voice. "Never catch anything busting around in the dark."

"Ain't you got that cinch fixed yet, Mort?" asks another voice.

We hears a couple of broncs move quick. Somebody swears.

"What in made that noise?" grunts somebody.

"Rabbit, I reckon," chuckles the feller who is fixing his cinch. "You're a fine posse. Like a nervous bunch of old women. Well, let's go."

They drifts away in the dark, and me and Magpie wipes the perspiration off our brows.

"Thank the Lord for the little rabbits!" grunts Magpie. "Now get busy on the dairy proposition, Ike. I'll buy you a new hat."

I ain't no milkmaid. All my life I've punched cows, prospected, gambled a little and played deputy to Magpie while he was sheriff. I've always put milk in the same class with water--meek and mild. I'm not qualified to pail a cow--not even gentle cows, but under the existing circumstances I tries to do my duty.

The baby raises its voice in discords; so I hurries to get it a grub stake.

Magpie is holding firm; so I takes off my new hat and kneels down on the ground. Then I got up on my feet, walked around to the other end of the critter and told Magpie what I thought of him as a cow-man. We had a hard time letting that critter loose without it doing us bodily harm, and then we crawled back through the fence, and Magpie picked up our audible off-spring.

"Well," says he, "there's one steer that will have something to think about for a while, even if I did lose a sock and some skin. Wonder who the posse was after?"

"Not us," says I, holding my hands over my ears to shut out the wails of misery coming from that bundle. "Where in thunder do we find something to appease that kid's appetite?"

"Gawd only knows," says he solemn-like, limping along in the dark. "If it dies, you're a murderer, Ike. I'm doing all I can to save both of your lives."

Then we saw a light. Over to the left of us comes a flicker from a cabin window. Magpie turns like the needle of a compass and points straight for the flicker.

"Where there's light, there's succor," says Magpie.

"And, where it's dark, there's two," I replies, and we pilgrims along, listening to our accidental inheritance howl itself hoarse.

We seen some folks ride away from the open door before we got there; so we waited until they are gone.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet