billy guttered

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WANTED:The Adventures of

Billy Thickub

Book One:

How the Horse Was Lost

Mike Curtis

PlainOlePublishing


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PlainOlePublishingPlano, IllinoisUnited States of America

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER:2008909912

ISBN: 978-1-4404391-9-2

Copyright (2012) by Mike CurtisAll rights reserved

Cover design: Mike Curtis

Printed in the United States of America byPlainOlePublishing

For bulk purchases, author appearances, or school visits:please contact [email protected]

Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved

above, no part of this publication may be reproduced,

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transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic,

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of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please

purchase only authorized printed or electronic editions and

do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of

copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is

appreciated.


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This book is for Andy, Jake, and Josh.

Because in my mind the entire universe is just for mythree boys


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AcknowledgementsThis is the part of the book where an author gets tosay thanks to all the folks who helped them get to thispoint. Thats a really long list, so Ill try to spit it outin one big spalurt of acknowledgement. (and no,spalurt is not a real word, but thats the cool thingabout being a writer and a teacher I can make up myown words, then convince unsuspecting young mindsthat theyre real. I really should think about writing aMiketionary).

Anywho, thanks go out to Stephanie for her patienceand help. Mom, Dad, Nikki, and Cory for alwaysbeing there when I need them. All my friends for

doing stupid things that I can turn into stories aboutidiots running around in the Old West. My students,because in teaching you about writing, you all makeme a better writer too. And my three boys youmake everything everything.

An extra special shout out goes to the MJHS 6th grade

from 2004/2005. Brutally honest critics who knowwhat they like.


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WANTED:The Adventures of

Billy Thickub

Book One:

How the Horse Was Lost


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Chapter 1How I Met Old

SteveIt was summertime the day it all began, and out therein the sun it was hotter than a fryin' pan full of boilin'lava stuck down your undershorts. I was ten yearsold, walkin' around the county fair, tryin' to find away to earn myself a few pennies. Sloppin' pigs,pickin' up trash with one of them pokey things,cleanin' up horse mess, anything to earn enough to getmyself a little food. The thing is, no one would hireme on, so I was just about to give up and find a wayto steal me something to eat.

That was the day I got myself introduced to spittin'contests. Now, these sorts of skill competitions hadbeen around for as long as I could remember. Back inthe olden days, disagreements were settled by weirdold Frenchy dudes slapping each other with whitegloves, or perhaps by shooting one another at dawn,or maybe some sort of dance off or what not, but over

time a more civilized, less lethal way of settlingarguments developed - the spittin' contest. At first itwas a peaceful way of settlin' disagreements and a fine


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way to make a buck or two, if ya had the skills.

Eventually, though, it could become pretty high stakesand cut-throat if you found yourself in the wrongcircles. Now a days it's pretty much how I make mylivin', so I'll always remember my first spittin' contest.It's funny, as good a spitter as I am now, I kinda cameinto the world of competitive spittin' in a roundaboutsort of way. At that county fair, I was wandering by atent full of abnormally large vegetables that werebeing judged for a whole slew of things like size,shape, shininess, and sphericaledness, when I saw thislanky, gray-bearded old man wandering by all thebooths.

That old man looked out of place, not quite right,wearing one of them itchy tweed jackets; some shiny

pants that must've been made outta snake skins orsome kinda dead lizard; and this gigantic, big-enough-for-two-cowboys cowboy hat. He mustve beensweatin' like a pig at a barbeque cook off in that getup, plus, as if to make it weirder, he wasn't lookin'where he was going one bit, just whistling a little tuneto himself and tossing a handful of coins back and

forth between hands.

Some particularly nice lookin' rutabagas had caughtmy eye, and I was thinkin about snatchin one of em,when I saw him coming 'round the corner my way.He was concentratin' so hard on whatever was on hismind that he didn't see little old me. With the old

man gettin' closer and closer, not looking at all, Istarted to move myself out of his way, but Big DarlaLittles not so little butt was blockin' my exit. Shearguin' up a storm with cheap ole Swede Rothersburg


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about the askin' price of his specially grown

ginormous corn ears, and she wasnt moving fornothing.

"Freak o' science," Big Darla swore, "ain't nothin' buta God forsaken unnatural hoodoo voodoo magic."Big Darla wasn't foolin' nobody though. Seein' ashow Swede and the rest of Calabert County knew forcertain that Big Darla didn't get the name Big Darlaby findin' anything edible to be God forsaken.

With Ole Gray Beard bearin' down on me, I thoughtabout duckin' under one of the tables, but with allthem hoodoo voodoo vegetables blockin' my paththere was no place to go. I tried to move to my rightand I tried to move to my left, but what I mostly

managed to do was confuddle myself up so bad aboutwhich direction to go that I just froze there right inhis path with a stupid look on my face that probablyresembled a drunk beaver realizin' a steam train wasdrivin' through his livin' room. There was noavoiding a collision now.

BAAAMMMM!!! Gray Beard slammed right into me,knockin' me half way to next Tuesday. I hit theground with a thud that made my eyeballs rattlearound and bounce off the sides of their eyeball holes,and I slid across the dirt like a skippin' stone, facefirst into the ankle fat pouring over Big Darla's shoetops.

The old guy stopped dead in his tracks, surprisedmore than anything. Them coins practically jumpedout of his hands like they was some sort of magical


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crickets hoppin away from some sort of cricket eating

critter, and the man made some sort of noise from theback of this throat that sounded like someone hadstepped on a chicken. The coins went scattering everywhich way, and Gray Beard threw his arms up to tryand keep his own balance. That was just too little,too late. He teetered a bit, then tottered for amoment, then he waved his arms in little tiny circleslike he was gonna topple over right on top of me. Itried to scramble out of the way, just about clawingmy way through the biggest green pepper I ever didsee before he caught himself, using the stem of a five-foot pumpkin to get steady.

Now, I was plenty used to adults being mean to me,so I braced myself for a tongue lashing from Old Gray

Beard, but, to my surprise, he apologized to me. "I'msorry young fellow. I really should watch where I amgoing."

Flabbergasted, I tried to apologize right back at him,but he wouldn't have none of it. He swore up anddown that he was the one at fault. Big Darla tsked

and walked away, disgusted that a fine gentleman likethat would stoop to apologizin' to a street rat like me.

Gray Beard helped me to my feet and begged myforgiveness. Like I said, I was none too used to adultstreatin' me nice, so I was a little in shock. Mentioningsomething about an old man's sore back or something,

he did ask me to help gather up his coins. I felt badfor the old geezer, so I dove down to the ground andscrambled around for all them dimes, nickels, and


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pennies that had rolled under the overgrown squash

and pumpkin-sized tomatoes.

After I gave him back all of them I could find, hethanked me and asked, "You're Billy Thickub, aren'tyou?" I nodded in response, cuz that's who I am, andhe continued, "I can see that you'll grow up to be afine and honest man just like your father." Then heflipped me a nickel for my troubles and whistle-walked his way out of sight, tossing what was left ofhis coins back and forth between hands as he went.

I just sat there for a second, speechless. Lookingback, I wish I woulda said something, cuz I never didknow my father. I shoulda asked him how he knewmy pop, but it just didn't cross my mind at the time.

Right there and then all I could think of was thatnickel, all shiny and new and cool in my sweaty littlehand.

I felt as rich as a chipmunk with the spare key to apeanut factory. That moment, the moment he flippedto coin at me, the four tenths of a second the nickel

was softly spinning through the air towards me - thatwas one of the best moments of my life. I don't thinkI'd ever been so happy. A whole nickel, that was afortune for me, and just for helping out a nice oldman my day couldn't get any better.

I shouted out thanks to Ole Gray Beard as he walked

away, then ran down the midway grinning like somecrazy thing that grinned an awful lot.


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A few seconds later, I came upon a crowd gatherin' in

front of the midway stage. Something excitin' mustvebeen going on. I figured it was the pie eatin' contestabout to start, bcuz Big Fat Pie Eatin' Larry was theonly thing in town sure to draw a crowd that size. Iwas right.

And you know what?

It only cost only a nickel to enter.

And you know what that meant?

It meant that little ole me could have all the pie Icould cram down my throat for just a nickel!

Sure, there was no way in heck I would win, but thatwasn't the point. The point was that I could eat allthe pie I wanted for five lousy cents. That was thebargain of the century.

So you know what I did?

I pushed my way up to the front of that crowd andpaid my entry fee. I was ready for some pie.

*Lawrence Darymple III, known to town folks as BigFat Pie Eatin' Larry, had won the Calabert CountyFair pie eating contest every single year since long

before I was born. Nobody ever even came close, sothere wasn't a big mob of folks lined up to enter andlose. In fact, there were eight seats at the pie eatin'


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table, and before I arrived there were only three

contestants.

Judge Farris, the actual judge in Calabert County,known as "The Farrisest Judge in the Land," was thepie eatin' judge. That was no surprise; he took itupon hisself to judge all the contests at the fair everyyear.

Well, the judge took my nickel and laughed a little tohimself about a little squirt like me trying to beatLarry Darymple in a pie contest. "Little BillyThickub against Big Fat Pie Eatin' Larry in a piecontest," he chuckled, "now that's a sight worthseeing."

I chuckled right back, not to show no disrespect, butcuz I knew I wasn't there to try and win. I justwanted to eat pie 'til I burst. I was a smart kid, and Iwas hungry. I knew that a nickel would get one lousysausage or one teeny-weeny bag of popped corn ORall-I-could-eat pie. No contest there.

All the fair contests; pie eatin', potato sack race, eggtoss, spittin' they were all in the same little area ofthe fairgrounds. Off to the side of the pie stage was abig empty field where the potato sack andwheelbarrow races and the egg toss and the spittin'contests took place. Out in the field, folks werealready warming up for their events. At the same

time, a huge crowd continued to gather around PiePavilion.


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Now, where you come from, pie eating may not be all

that much of a spectator sport, but in CalabertCounty, Big Fat Pie Eatin' Larry was a celebrity, andthis year he'd guaranteed he'd break his own thirty-seven and three quarters pie record. That wassomething folks could tell their grandbabies they'dseen, so there they were, shoulder to shoulder, dozensupon dozens of rows deep, all crammed into PiePavilion to witness pastry devouring history. No onewanted to miss this.

With the contest about to start, Theresa Little, MissCalabert County herself, showed me to my seat, rightnext to Big Fat Pie Eatin' Larry. I guess they figuredhe'd eat the most and me the least, so it'd be easy tobring pies our way.

Behind us, there was close to a hundred warm,steaming pies lined up on a long table. I sat and saidhello to Larry, cuz I always was a polite kid, but OleLarry just grunted at me in a grizzled old obese fella'sgrowly sorta way. Apparently he already had his gameface on. Also, he wasn't a very nice guy from what I'd

heard.

On the other side was Twitchy LaRue. He twitched aneverstopped twitching. Nice enough fella though.

Last at the table was some guy I didn't know. I'll callhim Ed, cuz he looked kinda like this other fella

named Ed that I knew once, and since Ed was a prettycommon name, his name was probably Ed anyway.


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Out of the corner of my eye I could see a handful of

egg tossers loosening up their egg tossin' muscles, afew town kids practicing potato sackin', and a coupleof spitters preparing for their contest. It looked likethey were all having a ball, and I kinda wished I couldenter some of them other contests too, but first thingsfirst, and first things were filling my tummy withsweet delicious pie.

My mind started to wander in those last few seconds,and I started to wonder what kind of pie I'd soon beneck deep into. Would we get blueberry, raspberry,boysenberry, rhubarb, what would it be? I guess itdidn't really matter; with a stomach as empty as mine,they all sounded so good.

Pie time came. Theresa Little started passing outthose little bits of heaven in a pan. She set one downin front of me first, and I could feel the heat comingoff of it, the steam moistening my cheeks. I don't carehow hot it is, there's nothin' like fresh from the ovenpie.Next, Larry got his pie, then Twitchy, and lastly that

guy whose name was probably Ed.

She took her time delivering those first pies, workin'the crowd, getting' 'em all riled up and anxious.Showmanship like that was good for the audience, butsittin' there waitin' with that sweet pie aroma ticklin'my smellers, I almost burst. I could just about taste it

already, the flakey, warm, buttery crust, the sticky,sloppy, gooey filling. It was killing me.


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Judge Farris told us to lock our hands behind our

backs, then he gave us a ready, a set, and then hefinally yelled, "GO!" And go we did.

Larry got into his pie first, hands behind his back, hedove in with his face. He looked like a pie vacuum,just sucking that pie outta the tin.

Probably Ed wasn't far behind; he seemed to have asystem, eatin' around in circles, outside of the piearound and around and around towards the middle.He was surprisingly quick, but bound to get dizzysooner or later.

Twitchy didn't start off so good. His first pie woundup in the second row of the crowd when he stuck his

face in it and started twitchin' so bad that he knockedit right off the table and into Mayor Crambart J.Dilkins' lap.

Ole Crambart didn't much care for that, but he put onhis politician's face and gave folks a big smileyproduction. The mayor's act made Ole Twitch not

feel so bad, however, if you looked close, which I did,being right there in front of him, you could tell by hiseyes that the Mayor was unhappy.

Probably Ed was on his second pie before Theresawas able to get Twitch a replacement for his first one.I noticed Mayor Dilkins shooting the Judge a look,

and he nodded over to Theresa as she handed Twitcha new pie, signaling that she should tell Twitch it'd beokay for him to use his hands, since he was already sofar behind. By that time, Big Fat Pie Eatin' Larry was


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well into his third pie, getting ready to lap the rest of

us. Me, I was pacing myself, just about halfwaythrough my original pie.

Holding on didn't seem to help Twitch all that much,mostly he just sat there hunched over the table, hismouth wide open, eagerly awaiting some deliciouspastry, twitchin' so bad that he was really justmashing pie into his own shoulders and neck. Itseemed that the twitching got worse when he gotnervous, and apparently high stakes pie eating madehim plenty nervous.

Larry got his fourth pie, Probably Ed was working onnumber three, and I had just a little left in that firsttin when all heck broke loose.

Little Darla Little, the not so little little sister ofTheresa Little, and daughter of Big Darla Little, set anew pie in front of me. I didn't want a second pie. Iwanted a break, a nap maybe. I already felt like I waseither going to pop or lie down and die. Who knewpie eating could be so tiring?

Across the field, some potato sackers were potatosacking, and a handful of racers were limbering uptheir wheelbarrow joints, but most importantly, afellow by the name of Injun Pete, who actually wasn'teven an injun, was warming hisself up for the spittin'contest.

Injun Pete was a spittin' contest legend around ourparts. He entered every organized spittin' contest inCalabert County and put together a few of his own.


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However, he never won a single one. Not once. He

took hisself pretty dang serious though. He alwaysgot there early to check the wind and the humidityand the barometricals and all the other spit relatedweather conditions.

On this particular day, that's what Injun Pete was upto, getting in a few warm up spits before the actualcontest began.

Well, the major problems arose when Pete stretchedout his back and let loose what was probably the bestspit he ever spat, just as a couple of potato sackerstook a tumble and knocked into him. The potatosackers impact made that loogie veer off course, andit got caught in a pretty heavy wind, flyin' all the way

across the field and landing right in the middle ofProbably Ed's brand new pie, just as Ed was aboutsmash his face down in it.

Now, I didn't know Probably Ed before that, but Ilearned right quick that he had quite a temper on him.He got up and started yelling and screaming about

locating pie contests away from spittin' contests andshouting all sorts of curse words I ain't never heardbefore or since, but I figured had to be curse words bythe appalled looks of shock on everyone's faces.

All that hollering made Twitch even more nervous,and he twitched hisself right outta his seat and into

Miss Theresa, who, at the time, was carrying over asixth pie to Big Fat Pie Eatin' Larry. Losing herfooting, she dropped that steamin hot pie right onLarry's head and tumbled backward into her little


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sister, and pie helper, Little Darla Little, who was,

what we called in the day, a BIG girl. She, in turn,crashed into the pie table, which was still holdin' morethan eighty pies.

Not So Little Darla, as the kids called her, completelysquooshed five pies beyond recognition underneathher plus-sized rump. She also let four pies fall to thestage floor and catapulted seventy-three warm gooeypies into the air. The majority of eight pies smashedinto the back of Larrys head, making a goodshampooin' the number one thing Larry needed. Onepie actually struck a small bird that wasn't small forlong. And, bits and parts of thirty-two pies landed onor in the mayor and his wife, who happened to havetheir mouths open at the time. If they'd actually

entered the contest, they would have been creditedwith eating more pie that day than poor Ole Twitch.Speaking of Twitch, he got so nervous about all of theruckus that he twitched his way right off that stageand right out of Calabert County, and no one saw himagain for dang near a year.

Big Fat Pie Eatin' Larry was furious about his lostchance at pie eating immortality, so he leapt up outtahis seat and slugged Probably Ed. They both wentcrashing down onto the floor, slippin' and slidin' androllin' around on the stage in the sticky gooey pieremains.

Not So Little Darla Little just stood there smackingwhichever one of them she could with a mostly emptypie tin, while her sister,


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Theresa, sat in a big pile of pie bits, cryin' about her

Miss Calabert County reign being ruined forever.

The crowd? Well, they were stunned silent, coveredin warm boysenberries, whipping cream, and a delicateflaky crust.Me, I just sat there eatin' pie. I guess I must've gottensome sort of second wind, and I was not passing upthis opportunity to stuff myself full.After a few minutes of dessert related violence, JudgeFarris declared me the winner. There was some crazyrule about not getting up outta your seat during a pieeatin contest, so Twitch, Larry, and Probably Ed wereall disqualified. So there I was, ten years old, stuffedto the gills with warm boysenberry pie, and the brandnew Calabert County pie champion. Whodve thunk

it?

I kept eatin' while I watched the sheriff and his boyspull Big Fat Pie Eatin' Larry and Probably Ed apart.The judge slipped and slid his way across the stage tohand me my prize, a dollar and a brand new set ofcooking pots. I shoved the dollar in my pocket and

sat there wondering what in the world I would dowith a brand new set of cooking pots.

*Judge Farris ran off to get to the other contests, andthe crowd slowly thinned out. After seein' from afarhow much fun the other kids were havin' participatin'

in them other contests, and with a crisp new dollar inmy pocket, I figured I could try my luck at potatosackin', so I walked down the steps and toward the


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field, draggin' my brand new cookin' pots behind me.

Well, it turns out that dragging them cookin' potsslowed me down enough that I missed every singlecontest that remained, except for the spittin' contest.

I really had no interest in competitive spittin', but Istood and watched some of the fellas gettin' warmedup. I took a seat on the largest of my cookin' pots,just happy to be done with lugging them thingsaround for the time being, when all of a sudden, JudgeFarris grabbed me by the arm and dragged me over tothe spittin' line. "Let's see if lightening strikes twicetoday, Billy," the judge whispered as he got mesituated.

I tried to ready myself, which wasn't easy, considering

I had no idea what I was doin', but I watched theothers and aped their spittin techniques the best Icould. Off in the crowd, a much smaller crowd thangathers for Big Fat Pie Eatin' Larry, I spotted OleGray Beard. I coulda sworn he gave me a little nodjust as it was my turn.

Not only were my nerves gettin' the best of me, Igotta tell ya, eatin' almost two whole boysenberry piesdoes a pretty good job at dryin' out your mouth. Ilined up to take my turn, but I could barely even lick,my mouth was so dry.

I came in seventeenth place out of eighteen (Injun

Pete was dead last) but I was hooked on the sport. Itseemed that spittin' was in my blood.


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Afterwards, I ran into Old Gray Beard again, I think

he may have been lookin' for me. He found mesitting in the grass with those shiny cookin' pots,wonderin' what in the heck I was gonna do with 'em.He just sat down there next to me for a while notsayin' nothing, then outta nowhere he asked if Iwanted to trade him those heavy, useless pots for abroke-down old horse with a bad hoof and an ornerydisposition. I don't know why he would make a tradelike that, but I said, "Sure thing Mister," cuz a horsesure is one heck of a lot easier to get home than aheavy old set of cookin' pots. And that's how I metmy best friend in the world, my horse, Old Steve.


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Chapter 2The Spittin'

ContestAlmost five years later, Old Steve still at my side, Ifound myself in another spittin' contest. This onewas against Scoots McGinty. Ole Scoots had thisdisorder where he couldn't even muster up enoughspit to moisten a stamp. His lips and his face werealways all chapped up and dry and he was alwaysdrinkin' just to keep his whole head from shrivilin' upinto his dry mouth. So you can probably guess that Iwas pretty confident about winnin' this particularcontest.

I may not have fared all that well in that first spittin'contest back at the county fair, but by now I couldspit with the best of 'em. In fact, when a contest wasstarting up, and folks saw me comin', they'd usuallyjust head on home.

On that particular day, almost all of them did just

that, just a few brave or ignorant souls bothered tostick around. Within two minutes of me strollin'over, the only contestants left were Ole Scoots


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McGinty; Thirsty Al Riggins, the town drunk who

didn't know his own name half a the time; and a fewout-of-towners, who didn't know about my spittin'prowess.

I shoulda known right off that something wasn't rightwhen I saw Scoots there in that contest, him havin'that disorder and all, but I didn't. I was probably justtoo cocky or too assured of myself, but I didn't thinknothing about it. I just figured I'd have an easy win.In the first round I faced a young man by the name ofBartholomew Jims. He claimed to be a horse doctoron his way out to California. I beat him good. "Justcuz you can horse doctor, don't mean you can spit," Ialways say.

Scoots beat Al Riggins. Even with Scoots' disorder,that wasn't much of a surprise considering Thirsty Alspat in the wrong direction, hittin' Sheriff Cowens inthe neck with a great gooey glob, earnin' hisself anight in the poke.

I had one of the best spits I had ever spat in round

two. A championship spit if you ever did see one. Iwas up against another out-of-towner. He did prettygood actually, but it was no real competition. I was intop form.

Scoots lined up against Jo Jo Marcus, Jr.

Lil Jo had lots of potential, but he was still just a kid;he just wasn't up to the task of competing with thebig boys yet. Still, he should have beat Scoots handsdown, but Ole Scoots, shifty as always, leaned over


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and whispered something into poor Lil Jo's ear, just as

he was about to spit.

After hearing whatever it was that Scoots said, Jo Jocoughed, causin' little bits of spittle to flutter out aninch or so past the line. Unfortunately, by spittin'contest by-laws, spittle is still spit, so that was Jo'sturn. Underhanded, most definitely, but the rules arethe rules, and Scoots knew how to work the rules.Scoots easily beat Jo Jo's spittle cough and that leftme against Scoots for the title of Spittin' Champion.

There was ten whole dollars on the line, so even ifScoots did have a spittin' disorder, I had to take thewhole thing very seriously. I was readyin' myself whenScoots approached me about making the contest

interesting. "What you say we make this here contesta little more interestin', Billy," he said.

"Ten dollars is plenty interestin' to me Scoots," I saidback to him.

"A man down on his luck like you, with the spittin'

talents you got, well, he'd probably find fifty dollars aheckova lot more interestin' I think," Scootsanswered.

"Sorry Scoots, I ain't got fifty dollars to bet," Ireplied, getting a little irritated at his distractions,which is probably exactly what he was after.

"Well surely you got something that's worth fiftybucks, like Ole Steve over there. And surely you don't


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think yer gonna lose a spittin' contest to a man with a

spittin' disorder, do ya Billy?"

I didn't think that I'd lose a spittin' contest to a manwith a spittin' disorder. Scoots had a good point inthat, but I just didn't feel right about bettin' OleSteve. I loved that horse.

"Look Billy, I can see that yer havin' reservationsabout bettin' yer horse, but hows about you put upOle Steve and I put up a hundred dollars? Thatsound fair to you Billy Thickub?"

That got me. A hundred dollars was a lot of money,and I sure could use it. Besides, how could I lose aspittin' contest against a man with a spittin' disorder?

"Okay Scoots, you got yourself a bet," I told him. Ididn't think there was anyway that I could lose, in factI didn't even think about that I couldn't lose. I was soconfident that even couldn't losing wasn't even apossibility. I could feel that hundred dollars in mypocket already. It felt good. However, something in

the way back of my mind told me something fishy wasgoing on.

The way back of my mind was usually pretty smart.It had a real good track record of keeping me outtatrouble, but as smart as it was, this time I ignored it.

We lined up for that final round of spittin'. I wasfirst. Scoots stood behind me, drinkin' heavily from ajug of water, which everyone in the spittin' worldknows is a bad idea. All the conditions were good, so


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I let lose, and I swear to God, that was the best spit I

ever spat.

The arch, the force, the volume, even the wind waswith me. Everything was perfect. That great spit Imentioned a minute a go, this one passed it up beforeeven reaching its peak.

I was jumpin' for joy, take your boot off and howl atthe moon happy.

The crowd was awed.

Scoots was dumbstruck.

After my awesome display of skill, Scoots took a

moment to prepare hisself, lookin' up to the sky andthe weather vane up on top of the courthouse to checkthe wind. He appeared to be a little nervous, and boy,he should have been; he had a spittin' disorder forcryin' out loud.

One thing about Scoots, he always made a big

production outta things. He walked up to the lineslowly, rolled his neck, cracked his spine, andstretched out all the important spittin' muscles.Finally he was ready. Toes on the line, he tensed uphis arms, leaned backward, arched his back, puckeredup his mostly already puckered up mouth and closedhis eyes. Scoots spat.

I thought he mustve been the fastest spitter to everenter a contest, cuz I didn't see anything. I figured Imustve blinked and missed it, cuz all the other folks


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were looking out where Scoots was pointing, out in

the street towards my super spit. Then, all of asudden, a great big glob landed in the dust just a fewinches past where my loogie of a lifetime had hit. Afeeling of dread, mixed with shock, washed over me.

The judge, none other that Judge Rantoul W. Farrishimself, proclaimed Scoots the winner immediately. Iwas still standing there with my mouth hanging openten minutes later, too shocked to even blink, whenScoots, laughing and carrying on with his pals, rodeaway on my best friend, Old Steve.


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Chapter 3Merv, The

More Than

Half Deaf Old

ManI kinda lost the next few hours. They must've fallenout of my brain. All I know for sure is that I wentinto the saloon and ordered me a sarsaparilla. I nevercould hold my sarsaparilla to begin with and I believe

that I had a few after that first one. I think I mustvehad some kind of allergic reaction to that drink, ormaybe that batch was tainted. Either way, somethingwas not quite right, cuz I got all dizzy and woozy andmy rememberator doesn't work real well for thatperiod of time. The few things that I do recall arethat I wasn't thinking all that straight, and my mouthtasted kinda like shoe polish.

That's when the old man came to talk to me.


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The old man's name was Merv and he was more than

half deaf.

*Most folks got pretty good ears. Those people heareverything the way that it's meant for them to hear it.

Some unfortunate folks are deaf, God bless 'em, they

can't hear a dang thing.

Others still are half deaf. These folks can hear, butnot quite right.

Then, there are the poor sad souls that are more thanhalf deaf. People like that, people like Ole Merv, arenot quite all the way deaf, they can hear some, butthey are well more than half way to being all the waydeaf.

The problem with more than half deaf folks is thatthey can hear some, and most of 'em are pretty proudand stubborn. Most of them insist they can heareverything perfectly well, that is if everyone would just

speak up a little for Pete's sake. They'll yell at ya tospeak up or to stop mumbling and they get prettyangry atcha if you don't, and more than half deafpeople tend not to be able to hear their own selves ifthey're not speaking up as well, so usually what youend up with when talking to a more than half deafperson is them shouting as loud as they can, not

realizin' it, cuz to their ears shoutin' sounds like anormal volume voice, and then the person they'retalking to is either shoutin' to be heard or bein' yelled


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at for talking to dang soft. Conversatin' with more

than half deaf people is not too much fun.

Merv was one of them people.

*Merv wasn't always that way though. In fact, when hewas a boy, dang near a hundred years ago, he had near

perfect hearing. Over time though, he lost more andmore of it. You can't really blame him for his hearingdifficulties; you'd have to blame Marv, Merv's twinbrother, for most of it.

Part of the problem came from the time Merv spentin the Tarnation City marching band. For a period ofMerv's life, music was his passion; he poured his heartand his soul and whatever else he had in his innards topour into his music into his music. It paid off, cuzafter years of practice, hard work, and dedication,Merv was one heck of an oboe player. He becamesuch a fantastical oboe player that folks came frommiles to see the World Famous Tarnation MarchingBand and each and every one of them walked away

from that performance saying to any one who wouldlisten, or to themselves if there was no one around tolisten, "Boy oh boy, that was one heck of an oboeplayer if I do say so."

The problem, though, wasn't the oboe; the oboe is afairly quiet instrument. The problem was Marv.

Marv liked to be close to Merv and Merv like to haveMarv around as well; they were best friends after all.


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The problem was that Marv didn't have the musical

talent his brother possessed. You could never say thatit was for lack of effort, though. Marv tried justabout every instrument you could think of, just to bein the band.

He tried the trumpet, but nearly choked during andunfortunate spit valve incident.

He tried the drums, but after the he lost both of histhumbs in the infamous Tarnation hot potatoincident, he couldn't properly hold the sticks.

He attempted to play the triangle, but after BandDirector Davis W. Waltermonger nearly lost an eye,Marv wasn't allowed to touch the triangle anymore.

So Marv played the cymbals.

And boy did he play the cymbals. Not well, mindyou, but he played them often, and he played themvigorously, and he played them violently, and heplayed them just a few inches behind Merv's head as

the marching band marched and marched andmarched in every marching band competition DavisW. Waltermonger could find. Cymbal crash aftercymbal crash after cymbal crash slowly took its toll onMerv's hearing, and by the time Marv and Merv leftthe marching band to join the army, Merv already hada permanent ringing in his right ear.

After few years in the army, Marv and Merv's sergeantfound out about their musical past and signed themup for the Army Marching band. Due to some


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paperwork errors, Marv arrived at his new post and

was handed a tuba. Marv, unlike Merv, wasn't thesort of fella that liked to stir things up, so he just tookthat tuba into the barracks and practiced his guts out.

Marv lay in that bottom bunk night and day blowin'into that confounded thing, but the only sound hecould ever manage was a weird high pitched squeallynoise. Now, this didn't bug nobody all that much,cuz it was the kind of weird high pitched squeallynoise that mostly only dogs could hear, but I reckonthat Merv, bein' in the bunk right above his brother,got quite irritated by that racket, or lack there of, andafter nearly a year of being confined to the tinybarracks and not hearing his brother not play the tuba,Merv soon had a permanent ringing in his left ear.

It wasn't long before the head honchos at that armybase came to the conclusion that Marv wasn't much ofa tuba player, and they sent him off to the artillery.

Now Merv, oboe or no oboe, was not about to letthem send his brother off alone, so he demanded to be

sent along. That was a mistake, cuz it weren't toolong after that that a war went and broke out, and theartillery corps newest recruits got sent right to thefront lines to shoot big giant cannons at the enemy.

The idea of this kinda excited both Marv and Merv,and pretty soon they were the best cannon shooting

team the army had. On account of havin' no thumbs,Marv couldn't pick up the cannon balls and load themin, so Merv handled that duty, while Marv packed thegunpowder and lit the fuses. They had quite the little


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system going, and were soon able to shoot three times

as many cannonballs at the enemy as any othercannonball shooting team.

Because they were so quick, and prided themselves ontheir speed and efficiency, Merv very rarely strayedvery far from the business end of the cannon when itwas being fired, so he could be there and reload rightquick. Thirteen weeks on the front line and theringing in Merv's right ear wasn't gone, but his earshad gotten so much worse that he couldn't hear itanymore.

The end of that thirteen weeks on the front linewasn't the end of the war, but it was the end of Merv'spart in it. The enemy had grown stronger; battalions

of reinforcements had broken through the front line.Merv and Marv held their ground, but Merv wascaptured. The enemy soldiers took him to a prisoncamp. It wouldn'ta been so bad if Merv woulda justaccepted it, mostly it was just a bunch of soldierstalking and playing cards and telling stories, but Mervdidn't want none of that. You see, Merv was beside

himself. He had been captured, but Marv hadn't, andthey'd never been apart.

Besides having hisself some hearing difficulties, Mervalso had a bit of a temper, and when them enemysoldiers dragged him, kicking and thrashing, awayfrom his brother, Merv started screaming at the top of

his lungs and he did not stop screaming when theylocked him in a little bunkhouse with a dozen otherprisoners of war. And he didn't stop screaming whenthose prisoners tried to shove dirty old socks in his


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mouth to get him to shut up. And he didn't stop

screaming when the guards dragged him into his ownlittle cell. And he didn't stop screaming for dang nearthree months, aside from eating and sleeping, Mervdid nothing but scream. He screamed for his brother.He screamed at his captors. He screamed at the army.He screamed for revenge. He screamed for justice.And sometimes he screamed just cuz he didn't knowwhat else to do.

When the war ended, and the army finally came andrescued him and the other soldiers, Merv stoppedscreaming, but by that time, the had done so muchdamage to his hearing that he could no longer hear theringing in his left ear.

Merv spent the next half dozen decades looking forhis brother, but never finding him. He'd grown oldand bitter and incredibly cranky as the years passed.Old age and time took more and more of his hearinguntil Ole Merv was way beyond half deaf, but still notall the way deaf, and he was standin' in a saloon inCalabert County, trying to tell me something that I

couldn't quite understand.

*Like I said, conversatin' with someone who was morethan half deaf could be quite challenging, and Mervwas so much more than half deaf that to talk to him Ihad to shout so loud that it was kinda embarrassing to

talk anywhere near other people. Lucky for me, whenI met him in the saloon, I was so loopy on that tainted


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sarsaparilla that I didn't much care about being

embarrassed.

"I gots some infermations fer ya," Merv whispered tome in the way that only a more than half deaf old manthat shouts all the time can whisper.

I don't need no information. I need Old Steve, that'sall I need," I answered. I wasn't really myself at thatmoment, so I was kinda rude.

"Ole Steve, I don't know nuthin' 'bout no Ole Steve,but I gots some infermations 'bout yer horse."

"Old Steve is my horse you crazy old man," I saidback. I guess once I start being rude I can't seem to

stop myself.

"Well, ain't that a stupid name fer a horse," Mervanswered, getting a bit rude hisself.

"Old man, yer breath is just about the rankest thing Ihave ever smelled, and that's comin' from a man who

once spent a month bunking down in a barn with aherd of flatulent pigs," I threw back at Merv. Hisbreath wasn't actually all that bad, and I had neverslept with no pigs, but I felt I needed a good insult atthat point in the conversation.

"Okay kid, if you just want to trade insults back and

forth that's fine by me, but I just thought I'd help youget yer horse back from that no-good, dirty, filthycheat Scoots McGinty," Merv shouted in his more


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than half deaf sort of way, so loud that it could

almost be considered a shout-shout.

The people around us hadn't heard all of what Mervhad said, but theyd heard enough to know there wassomeone cheating at something somewhere. It's funnyhow quiet a saloon can get when someone is accusedof cheating, not a soul in there was making any noiseno more. All the card players just looked around theroom, starin' each other down, tryin' to figure outwho the cheat was among them.

Finally Jimbo Flynn looked kinda cross-eyed atWhitlock Davies, and believe you me, Whit Davies isnot the kind of man you want to look kinda cross-eyed at, especially if youre playin' cards with him at

the time youre lookin' kinda cross-eyed. That alonewas enough for Ole Whit. Jimbo saw a look inWhit's eye that told him all heck was about to breakloose, so he quick threw a half empty bottle at him,before Whit could clobber him one.

Just about then everyone in the whole place started

lookin' at each other all cross-eyed and side-eyed andcrookedy-eyed and every other kinda bad-eyed lookyou could think of. Pretty soon an old fashiondonnybrook was on. Chairs and bottles and glasseswere being thrown at everyone.

Merv, bein' a sneaky little sneak, sneaked his way

outta there. I followed as best I could, my headalready starting to clear up a little.


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When I got outside, after takin' a shoe to the head

and getting hit in the shoulder with a flying sausage, Ilooked around for Merv, whose name at that point Istill didn't know was Merv, otherwise I probablywould've just shouted out, "Hey Merv," or "Merv,where did ya go?" Instead, I had to settle forshouting, "Hey old man," or "Old man, where did yago?" or something impersonal like that. Then, just asI was about to shout out, "Hey old man," Mervpeeked out from across the street and shouted,"PSSSSSSSSTTTT."

Now, psssssssstttt is one of them things you say to getsomeone's attention when it's not right to be shoutingout their name or hey old man or anything like that,but when a more than half deaf old man says

"pssssssttttt," it's pretty dang loud. Me being a littlewoozy in the head still, at first I thought that maybe Iwas being attacked by a giant snake, but when I waslooking 'round and 'round for it, I saw Merv.

"Hey you crazy old man, when you say psssssstttt it'ssupposed to be quiet. There's no sense in psssssssting

someone if yer gonna do it so dang loud. Crazygeezer," I called over to Merv, adding that crazygeezer part to emphasize my point.

"What?" Merv shout-shouted back, "You gotstaspeak up kid. I'm more than half deaf you know."

"Yer an old coot I said," shouting this time so he'dhear me for sure.


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"Just git on over here so I can tell ya about yer horse.

And hurry up about it. I'm old for Pete's sake. Icould die any second." That was a valid concern.Merv did look to be about a hundred and nine yearsold, so I hurried across the street.

That's when Merv told me about what a lying cheatScoots McGinty was, about how he rigged thatcontest, about how stupid I was to have taken a bet ina spittin' contest against a man with a spittin'disorder, about how I shoulda known that somethingdirty was goin' on, and about how the way back of mymind must be pretty dang dumb to fall for such tricks.

I told him to wait a minute and stop all the insultingand tell me how he knew Scoots cheated. That's

when I found out that Scoots didn't even spit, he hada pinch spitter. After my loogie of a lifetime, Scootsmade his big production and when through themotions, but didn't really spit. Instead, Scoots' pal,Yup-Yup Johannsen spit for him from up on top ofthe courthouse.

That's why I didn't see nothing when Scoots spat.That's how a man with a spittin' disorder beat me in aspittin' contest. I was outraged, but also I was a littlerelieved. I didn't think that no one could beat thatmonstrous spit and now it was for sure, the only wayto beat me was to cheat.

Merv went on to tell me that he personally saw Yup-Yup spit from the top of the courthouse, but hedidn't say nothing, thinking it wasn't worth gettinghisself involved in over a ten dollar bet. When he


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found out later that I'd lost my horse, well, then he

figured it wouldn't be right for him to keep quiet.

Right away I figured we'd just go to the Judge andclear the whole mess up, but Merv told me the Judgewas in on it. Merv did some snoopin' around alreadyand found out that Scoots and his boys paid JudgeFarris to look the other way. All Scoots' boys putsome big bets on the contest and they paid off as soonas Ole Judge Farris declared Scoots the winner.Besides, Merv explained, folks thought they saw whatthey thought they saw and we weren't gonna be ableto change their minds with any fancy evidence. Folksweren't all that scientific back then. They didn't lookat things like spit trajectory or DNAs. Anyway, Mervtold me the Judge wasn't gonna side with us anyway,

because he was in on it; he'd just got hisself a prettygood payday from dirty old Scoots.

Merv figured the only way I could get Old Steve backwas to find Scoots, call him a dirty cheat in front ofeveryone, and demand a respit. Merv explained thatScoots would have to accept if I challenged his very

honor, and he wouldn't have time to rig anothercontest.

Merv and me agreed. That was the best plan - insulthis honor and have another contest. Then Mervinformed me of the one tiny little wrinkly wrinkle inour plan.

That dirty old cheat Scoots McGinty had already lefttown. Now to get Old Steve back from that lowdownsnake, I'd have to track them down first.


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It would be difficult, impossible almost, but I didn't

care. By the time Merv had finished talking, I'dalready made up my mind to do whatever it took toget Old Steve back. There was no way I was gonna letScoots get away with disgracin' a spittin' contest andswindlin' me. Then I passed out. I guess thatsarsaparilla affected me worse than I'd thought.


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Chapter 4The Posse

I woke up the next morning on the floor of Merv'splace, still kinda dizzy and woozy from thesarsaparilla, but after a nice hot cup of coffee andsome slippery, slimy brown stuff that Merv claimedwas bacon, I was all set to head out after Scoots.

Merv thought it'd be a good idea to round up a posse.

I agreed. Unfortunately, when we rounded up all themen in town and told 'em my story, most of 'em justsaid I shoulda known better than to get into a highstakes spittin' contest against a man with a spittin'disorder. Not one of them doubted that Scoots hadcheated me, but none of them cared all that muchneither.

Merv did his best to rile them up and get them on ourside, but he yelled so loud that it actually sounded likeyelling to a more than half deaf old man. That wasplenty loud. Most everyone left after that. Peopledon't like being yelled at when you're trying to getthem to join your posse.

Mrs. McGinty, Scoots' mom, stuck around longenough to tell me that she thought I must be kinda


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dim, and she strongly suggested that I leave her

Scootsy alone if I knew what was good for me.

When the crowd had all shuffled off, all that was leftwas some kid who looked kinda slow in the head andkept nodding and saying, "Sloop sloop, sloop sloop"every time anyone said something and a dog thatlooked like it had died a few years ago and had justforgotten to fall down.

"Now that's a posse," Merv shout-shouted. I'm stillnot sure if he was being sarcastic or ironical or if hereally thought that me, him, that slow kid, and themostly dead dog were any sort of posse.

Oh yeah, I forgot to tell ya, the dog only had one eye.

Now that's a posse!

*Menacing or not, our posse had been formed, and wedecided to head to Albaloosa. Seeing as how that wasthe closest town in any direction, it seemed a prettygood bet that Scoots would head that way.

Riding a coupla Merv's horses, we left right away. Irode out in front on this crazy lookin' horse with awild gleam in its eyes. Merv was next on a beautifulmare. Last was the slow kid, who's name I didn'tknow on account of him not being able to sayanything besides, "Sloop sloop," so we just called him

Sloop Sloop. He seemed to like it.


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Sloop Sloop, who, as it turned out, was one heck of a

rider, rode this hideous looking thing that must'vebeen a cross-breed of a mule and something in thellama family, but he seemed happy.

It was nearly a three day ride to Albaloosa, and Scootsalready had a day and a half lead, so we decided totake a short cut. Instead of going all the way 'round,we'd go right through Grinkle Canyon.


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Chapter 5Grinkle Canyon

Grinkle Canyon was named after Carla Grinkle, alocal schoolteacher who wasn't completely right in thehead.

One afternoon Ms. Grinkle was leaving theschoolhouse, talking to herself about some randomtopic, like sponges or poems or something like that.

Having been slowly driven insane by near thirty yearsof teaching the unruly, uninspired, and unsmartchildren of Calabert County, she often carried onboth sides of entire conversations about sponges andpoems while walking back home.

On one particularly windy day a few Octobers back,

Ms. Grinkle was walking home, debating thecomplexities of poems about sponges with herself,when a sudden gust of wind blew all of the children'sarithmetic lessons out of her hand. Now, of coursethere were no witnesses to the events of that day, sothere are several different accounts as to whathappened next.

Some say Ms. Grinkle was so maddened by the papersand the poor mathing and the wind blowing and the


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sponge poems that she simply ran over and threw

herself into the canyon.

Others claim that she'd spent so much time trying toget little Sammy Peekabake to understand thefractions, that when he finally did get it right, and theproof blew away, she chased after it, right off thatcliff.

Many recount completely different versions, butregardless of why or how, Ms. Grinkle, insane schoolteacher, and lover of poetic sponges, wound up at thebottom of 'Big Canyon Over There,' as it was knownbefore we had a dead person to name it after.

Ever since that fateful October day, however, it's been

known as Grinkle Canyon. There was a modest pushto name it after little Sammy Peekabake, but I guessGrinkle Canyon sounded more foreboding andominous to folks. Besides, Sammy went on to goodthings in life. Well, better things than falling down acanyon anyway.

*Going down Grinkle Canyon wasn't all that hard. Itwas slow moving and the trail was slippery andnarrow, but it was a steady ride. Sloop Sloop, in fact,fell most of the way down, bouncing along the rockypath. He was pretty darn resilient though, and hewasn't hurt at all. He just waited down there at the

bottom for me and Merv, waving at us like a maniacthe whole time. "Are you alright down there, Sloop?"I called out to him.


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"Sloop sloop," he shouted back, flashing a toothy

smile. That kid had some awful pretty teeth I gottatell ya.

Winks, that's what I'd taken to calling the dog,bounded down the path behind us with an energy Inever would have imagined form something thatlooked like it'd died already.

While Sloop and Winks were bouncing and boundingdown the path, I was busy tryin' not to soil mybritches. I never was too fond of ridin' down canyonson horses I didn't know. Old Steve was different.You see, me and Old Steve, we had an understanding.I wouldn't make him run or work hard or pull heavystuff, and he wouldn't let me go tumblin' off the side

of a canyon, not ever. A good agreement for a man tohave struck up with his horse, if I do say so.

Old Steve being gone, I wasn't too sure about thishorse, not havin' any agreements struck up and all. Asuneasy as this horse seemed, I was starting to getmighty concerned about this wild-eyed old nag havin'

something to do with Grinkle Canyon beingrechristened Billy Thickub Ravine or some such thing.

Merv, on the other hand, was pretty dang comfortableriding. He was checkin' out the scenery and lookin'all around, keeping a constant eye out for any trouble.As mostly deaf as he was, Merv still had good eyes,

and suddenly it looked to him like some trouble hadfound us, but he didn't say nothing until we were allthe way down. He told me when we got down to the


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canyon floor that he "done spotted a few injuns

peekin' over the ridge at us a couple times."

"Goshdurn injuns peekin' over ridges at folks, gonnashoot me some injuns if'n I seem me any come near,yes sir I am," Merv shout-shouted, either to me, or asa warning to any injuns that happened to be nearbyand peekin'.

As soon as he started ranting, silently hoped he wasn'tgettin' loud enough for any injuns to hear, but whenMerv's shout-shouting echoed back at us a coupletimes off the canyon walls I was pretty sure that mydead Grandmother and most of Cleveland, let aloneany peekin' injuns, had heard Merv's 'goshdurn injuns'tirade.

Thinkin' on my feet, I quickly reacted by shoutingback, "Me, myself, I never had any problems withinjuns. In fact, I like and respect injuns very much.Yes sir, some of my favorite people is injuns." Then Istarted shouting out any injun sounding name I couldthink of, pretending I was friendly with them all,"Squato is a good pal of mine, and Satchmo, I love

that guy Satchmo. Li'l Wigwam and Flowin' Riverand Poopin' Moose, all them boys and me go wayback."

I hoped that did the trick and any peekin' injunslistening in on us would at least think one of us wasinjun friendly.

While we were riding down, I figured we'd bunk forthat first night right there at the bottom of GrinkleCanyon. Now that we were down there, I was


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convinced that was the best idea. The wind up on top

was howlin' around like some sort of coyoteconvention had found themselves a whole flock ofmoons to yelp at; it was rustlin' and shakin' the treessomething awful, not to mention that there was astrong possibility of there bein a big group of peekin'injuns hidin' out up there. All those troubles,combined with the idea that the canyon wall wasgonna be dang near impossible to navigate with thenight comin' real quick, made setting up camp downthere seem like a real good plan.

Down there below, though, it was peaceful almost.One of them, trickly little trickle streams ran rightdown the center of the ravine, making soothingsounds that could lull you right to sleep. The ground

was soft and comfortable, and a fire would be simpleas pie to get started with all them dried sticks andscraps of wood that'd blown down there from upabove. I was convinced.

Merv, on the other hand, wanted to keep moving, butI didn't think we had enough daylight left to get out

of the canyon, especially with Sloop Sloop bouncin'and fallin' and such. "I think we best stay put. Idon't want to be stuck halfway up when night falls," Iexplained to Merv.

"What? Why you always insistin' on whisperin',boy?" Merv replied. "Why can't you speak up ya no

good mumble-mumbler?"

I wasn't whispering, but I didn't want to screamneither, on account of the echoing and the peekin' and


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the injuns, so I figured Old Merv would just get the

idea if I started settin' us up a little camp.

"Hey Sloop, would ya go ahead and gather up somewood for a fire?" I asked.

"Sloop sloop," he said, cuz that's all he ever said.This time I took it to mean, "Sure, I'd be happy togather up some wood right away," cuz, with a biggoofy smile on his face, that's exactly what he did.

I started arrangin' some river stones in a circle for afire pit while Merv watched me. "Oh, I see. Yawanna bed down here? Gettin' too dark for the littlebaby mumble-mumbler to try the canyon wall? Yayella bellied chicken," Merv shout-shouted, and the

canyon shouted right back a few times. I didn't muchcare for the yellin' or the insultin', but I was right. Iknew he'd get my point if I just started settin' upcamp.

"Sloop sloop," I heard echoing back as well, guessingthat Sloop either agreed with Merv or was sayin'

something else.

That night we had ourselves a good supper of beansand some bread that I'd brung along. Somethingabout eatin' beans and bread around a campfire underthe stars is just plain relaxin', except when Merv wasshout-shouting ridiculous things at me, then it wasn't.

As far as I know though, we all slept pretty well downthere in the canyon, peekin' injuns or not.


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Chapter 6Injuns, Injuns

EverywhereIt was still dark when I woke up the next morning toMerv yellin', "Holy heck," or "Injuns, injunseverywhere," or something along those lines. Ijumped up and realized that , holy heck, there wereinjuns, injuns everywhere, and I could tell by theunpleasant looks on their faces that they weren't thereto have breakfast with us and they didn't seem terriblyimpressed with me claimin' to know Lil' Wigwam andSquato. In fact, I figured that these angry lookin'fellas were the same peekin' injuns Merv had spottedthe night before, and all Merv's carryin' on had got

'em all riled up.

Sloop Sloop did exactly what I would have done if Ihad not been so busy panicking. He grabbed up theempty bean tin from last night's supper and hurled itat the lead injun, conking him square on his injunhead, then he ran like a jackrabbit set on fire bein'

chased by a demonic bobcat.


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In case you were wonderin, a set on fire jackrabbit

with a demonibobcat after him runs real fast.

Real fast.

That lead injun didn't take too kindly to bein' conkedsquare on the head with an empty bean tin, and heshouted something in injunese at the others. Iassumed he was probably telling' them to kill thesehere white folks or something, but I didn't plan onstickin' around long enough to find out what OleBean Tin Head was all worked up about.

I ran.

I figured in my head that if I ran the same direction as

Sloop, then all of them injuns would be chasin' bothof us, so I thought it'd be best if I went the otherdirection and split 'em up, so I did.

That was a lot of figurin' and thinkin' to be doingwhile at the same time trying to run, and strategize,and contemplate dying at the hands of some awful

angry savage folks, and consider Sloop and hisstrategization, and worry about an old man like Merv,and wonder where that crazy dog had gone off to cuzI hadn't seen it around this morning.

All that stuff going through my brain while my bodywas trying to start running got me all mixed up, and

instead of running away, all I could manage to do wasfall down. Then I figured that I should stop all thefiguring and just run, so I did.


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Both.

I stopped figuring and started running.

I grabbed Old Merv by the arm and tried to drag himwith me, but he wouldn't have none of it. He wantedto stay and fight. I let him. That crazy old geezercould get hisself scalped. That was his choice, but me,I ran, cuz I like my scalp attached to my scalp spot,and I didn't feel like tryin' my luck with half a dozenornery injuns.

I guess I kinda surprised them when I ran. Theylaughed when I fell down, but when I got back up andsprinted off they didn't react at all. They probablyjust figured on us staying put and beggin' for our lives

or something, but I never was too good at begging.

I think I made the right choice though. I was gettingaway. Then I started to worry. Why weren't theychasing me? I wasn't expectin' the injuns to not comeafter me right away. Not so concerned about it that Istopped running, but wonderin' just the same.

Now, ya got to realize, it was still dark, bein' so earlyin the morning, and I'm not talking dark outside likeyou folks got now a days with all the street lights andthe cars and the big cities. I'm talking dark outsidelike an albino monkey could mosey on up to me andbite me on my forehead, and I wouldn't even see him

doing it, which would be a darn shame, cuz if Imgonna get my forehead bit by an albino monkey Idsure as heck like to at least see it.


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I did my best to follow the little stream for a while.

Seein' as how the water reflectin' the moonlight wasjust about the only thing I could see out there, itwasn't that hard. Plus, hearing it make it's tricklylittle trickle noises helped out quite a bit.

While I was runnin', I started thinking again, whichprobably wasn't too good an idea. I was thinking, ifthem injuns was followin' me, the trickly little tricklenoise was most likely covering up the walking onrocks and dried sticks noises that I was making. Itsounded like I was walking on Cocoa Crispies, only Ididn't know that at the time, seein' as how CocoaCrispies hadn't been invented yet, and that's a goodthing, or I woulda been laughin' like a madman aboutall that snappin' and cracklin' and poppin' going on,

thinking all the while about them little sugar saturatedcereal gnomes tryin' to sell me on their idea of ahealthy breakfast.

As it was though, all I could think about was theracket I was making and tryin' to decide if the trickletrickle trickle covered up the poppin', cracklin', and

snappin' of them sticks and rocks. I didn't thinkabout nothing else for about a long time, not evenabout running somewhere else that didn't make noise.

After about an hour of running, I was dead tired andparched like nobody's business. My whole head feltlike it was gonna go and shrivel up into my dry

mouth, which reminded me of Scoots and just mademe mad again. My eyes were watering and my lungswere burning from running so hard. I had to stop andget a drink from the stream.


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Kneeling on the soft bank, I splashed some water on

my face, cupped my hands and drank. The cool waterrushing down my throat was just about the bestfeeling I ever did have. That is, until one of themdang injuns went and shot an arrow right into my rearend. I squealed like a kicked dog and ran around incircles hollerin' like crazy about my injun injuredbuttock, tryin' like heck to get away from the river oranything that reflected the light.

I found out many years later that I hadn't actuallybeen shot in the butt by an arrow. In fact, Old BeanTin Head and his boys didn't even bother chasingafter me that night. See, what had happened was Ibent over to drink and stuck my rear out in doing so.As I drank, I backed my scrawny butt right into the

waiting branch of a thorny bush. Any injuns sittin' upthere on the ridge mustve been having themselves alaughing fit looking and me runnin' and hollerin' forno reason.

Now I know how I injured my rear my own self thatmorning, but at the time, there was no conceivable

explanation other than injun arrows, so I took offrunning away from the stream. I ran, and I ran, and Iran some more, somehow winding up on the verysame path that Ole Scoots McGinty had used toclimb out of the canyon a few days earlier. OleScoots knew the land pretty well, much better than meor Merv or Sloop, and he knew the easiest and

quickest way in and out of that and every stickysituation. Me, I got lucky.


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I thought I was safe when I reached the top of the

ridge, but in the dark I couldn't see well enough to besure. The land flattened out up there and I ran likeheckfire.

I'd like to say that I knew the plains and had a placein mind to hide.

I'd like to say that I took off into that prairie and hidin a cave I'd known about all along.

I'd like to say a lot of things.

I wouldn't like to say that an armadillo creeped outtasome brush and scarred the poops outta me.

I wouldn't like to say that I ran from that 'dillo,thinking it may be a tiny little injun.

I also wouldn't like to say that I ran full speed, facefirst, into a grazing buffalo out there and knocked myown self unconscious.

I wouldn't like to say any of those things, but theyhappened.

I don't think most people realize this, but slammin'face first into buffalos in the dark while runnin' fromtiny injuns was half the danger of livin' in the OldWest.


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Chapter 7Post Rub, A

Little Known

Ailment of the

Old WestI woke up, I don't know how much later, tied to apost in the middle of an empty field, and I got to tellya - a post isn't exactly the most comfortable thing inthe world to be tied to. There's many things I'd much

rather be tied to if I had to be tied to something, butstanding against a post with my hands bound behindme is definitely not the choice I would make. It'stiring and irritating. You get rope burn and you getpost rub, a little known ailment of the Old West thatwas the downfall of many a hardened cowboy.

And, it was hot. If I'd been tied to a tree maybe atleast I woulda had some shade, but a post providesvery little of that. I don't mean to whine andcomplain about it; it was a very long time ago, but I


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just want you to understand how cumbersome being

tied to a post really is. The bottom line: I reallywould have to recommend, if you have a choice, avoidbeing tied to a post.

Merv was there too, all tied up to his own post. Iguess all his shout-shoutin' didn't deter them injunsfrom takin' him captive as well.

"Goshdurn post rub, all irritatin' and itchin'.Golldang injuns." he was shout-muttering tohimself. I have to say, his feistiness and volume weredecreasin' quite quick. I guess the heat and the postand the ropes were gettin' to him. I was worriedabout the crazy old coot.

There was a third post there between me and Merv.That made me think about Sloop, hoping that he gotaway and would find some help, but before too longsome of them injuns came along, draggin' Ole Sloopbehind 'em, and they tied him to that there emptypost.

I was pretty disappointed at first that he didn't getaway to get help, but, on the other hand, at least helooked like he'd put up a pretty good fight. I guess Igotta admit that I was kinda glad to see him, at leastthen I'd sorta have someone to talk to. Merv couldn'thear a word I was sayin' and I didn't feel all that muchlike shouting at that moment.

Shoutin' to be heard while tied to a post is muchworse that just plain being tied to a post.


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Eager for some conversatin', I asked Sloop how they

caught him. "Sloop sloop," he answered back,sounding kinda sad. I figured that just meant thathe'd ran face first into a buffalo and knocked hisselfout cold too, and then I didn't feel so bad aboutdoing that myself.

After my brief talk with Sloop, I was startin' to hopethem injuns would capture someone else. Sloop reallywasn't much of a conversationalist. Right when I wasthinking that, one of them injuns rode up over theridge and came to keep an eye on us. I guess theminjuns was afraid we might pull our posts up outta theground and go running off, all hunched over, ninefoot posts strapped to our backs, into the prairie.

I'm not gonna complain though, cuz I got to talkingto Sampawoompie - at least that's what I think he saidhis name was. I didn't want to seem rude and ask himto repeat hisself. I wasn't sure how these particulartypes of injuns took to rudeness or what kindadisposition Ole Sampawoompie had.

He spoke pretty good English, Ole Sampa did. Betterthan Sloop Sloop anyway. Plus, he wasn't near ascranky as Merv and I didn't have to keep shoutin' totalk to him.

Right away, I tried to butter him up, trying to get himto like me with some of that injun name droppin' I'd

tried before. I figured it couldn't hurt. He didn'tseem to know Poopin' Moose or Satchmo, but heseemed to think it was pretty dang funny when Iasked about Pokemyhontas, so after that, every once


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in a while in our conversatin' I'd just say

"Pokemyhontas" for no other reason than to makehim laugh. I'd always heard it was a good idea to keepruthless savages that were holding you captive in acheerful mood if you could. It may seem silly orstupid, but if doin' something as dumb as sayin'Pokemyhontas over and over again can keep an injunfrom killin' ya, then by all means, Pokemyhontas 'tilyou can't Pokemyhontas no more.

Sampawoompie and me talked for quite a while. Fortime spent tied to a post, it was pretty enjoyable. Atfirst Merv kept shout-shoutin' about savages and dirtythievin' post tying injuns and how I shouldn't talk tothem, but we kept ignorin' him, and after a while hejust gave up.

Sampa asked me about where I came from and myjob, and I asked him about his family and all sorts ofinjuny things, and I said "Pokemyhontas" about ahundred and fifty-two times. When I told him that Ididn't have any family, he didn't understand. Iexplained to him that my parents had both passed on

right about the time that I was born and that I neverreally had no one else.

He asked why I didn't have any grandparents or auntsor uncles or cousins or brothers or sisters or anyone. Itold him I didn't know why, I just didn't.

He said he didn't understand white people, whitepeople made him sad. I said "Pokemyhontas" a fewmore times and both of us laughed about it. Even Ole


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Sloop Sloop was laughin' along with us, although I

don't think he knew why.

Then I told Sampawoompie about Old Steve and howhe was my family and my best pal, and how that dirtyold cheat Scoots McGinty swindled me. The more Itold him, the more worked up he got. He was gettin'awful mad, and he said again that he didn'tunderstand white men and the things they did. I guessI was too absorbed in my own story to notice howangry ole Sampa was gettin'.

Merv noticed. He was listening in as best he could.He couldn't hear well enough to understand why, buthe could tell old Sampa was gettin' all riled up."Pokemyhontas, Pokemyhontas," Merv started shout-

shoutin', tryin' to calm Sampa down, but I guess itwas only funny when I said it.

I honestly didn't realize that I was causin' Sampa toget all worked up, otherwise I woulda just said"Pokemyhontas" myself and cracked him up, but Ididn't.

By the time I figured out what was goin' on, Merv wasshout-shoutin', Sloop was gettin' all agitated and tryin'to get himself loose from the ropes, and Sampa hadhopped up on his horse and disappeared over theridge. None of us figured that him taking off all madlike that could be a good thing, so we all started trying

to pull our posts up outta the ground so we stood achance at outrunning them injuns.


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*Now you may be thinking that that's not all that hard,but you try it. Right now, go out in your backyardand pound a nine-foot post into the lawn. Now, havea buddy tie you to it. Then you try and pull it upoutta the ground. It's not easy, and it gets even harderwhen you see a couple dozen angry looking injuns

ridin' up over the ridge towards ya, but you'dprobably have to get a whole bunch of your friends tosimulate that. Not so simple is it? Now have someone untie you and get yerself some lotion for thatrope burn.

*They got up to us pretty quick. Seein' as how wewere tied to posts, it probably wasn't all that hard tocatch up.

My heart was beatin' inside my chest about twohundred and thirty-eight times too fast, and I wasmore scared than Id ever been in my whole life, evenmore scared than the time my neighbor Early Websterwent around his yard setting ground squirrel trapsthat didnt work too well, unless his objective was tomake a whole extended family full of ground squirrelsangrier than you can imagine a scurry of groundsquirrels getting, and them ground squirrels decidedto start up their violent ground squirrel revolt at theexact moment I chose to wander into Earlys yard to

say hello.


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Merv, on the other hand, seemed unreasonably calm.

I was expectin him to go crazy any second, but forsome reason he just wouldn't.

Sloop Sloop was muttering something under hisbreath, but I couldn't make out what he was sayin',but I think it was some kind of Sloop prayer.

The injuns stopped right in front of us. The Chiefwas in the middle of them, all high up on his horse,looking' right at us, bein' all scary and injun chiefy."Pokemyhontas," I tried, but Sampa, who was rightnext to the Chief, shook his head to tell me no,though he couldn't help but smile a little. I don'tthink The Chief caught what I'd said anyway; heseemed to be a pretty serious fella. Actually, I don't

think all the Pokemyhontases in the world wouldamade him crack a smile outta Senor Sober Sides rightthen and there.

Then he spoke. The other injuns looked to him likehe was some sort of god, they got all silent and hardlymoved. "Sampawoompie told me of your quest," he

said. (See I told you, even though it doesn't soundlike a very good injun name, I swear to you he saidSampawoompie.) He continued, "Sampawoompietold me you are good men who have been done aninjustice."

I looked over at Sampa and he signaled for me to stay

quiet. "Your love for your friend Steve is admirable.Your companions loyalty to you is admirable as well.Love for animals and honor are not qualities oftenfound in the white man."


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I glanced over at Sampa again and he was looking

away, down at the ground now. I didn't think thiscould be a good sign. The Chief spoke again."Because of the honor you three possess, I will giveyou an opportunity to win your freedom."

"Sloop sloop," Sloop yelled out, sounding kindaexcited. I guess he understood what The Chief hadsaid.

"Dirty rotten injun tricks," Merv shout-shouted. Iguess ole hard of hearin' Merv understood what TheChief was sayin' too. Luckily, The Chief ignoredMerv.

"If good is truly on your side, you will continue your

quest," The Chief explained.

"Dirty rotten injun tricks," Merv shout-shoutpeated.

"You have my word that if you pass our trial, you willbe allowed to continue on your way."

I didn't know what he meant. I started to speak up,but I wasn't sure that I should, I looked to Sampa,who nodded for me to go ahead. "What trial?" Iasked.


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Chapter 8now, Im

gonna take a

break from this

story and tell alittle bit about

Sloop Sloopand How He got

to be the Way

he is


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When Sloop Sloops Mama had just given birth toSloop, she turned to the doctor and asked, Is my boyalright?

The doctor, as nicely as he could just said, Maam, Idont think this boy is ever gonna be right?

He was right.

Sloop aint.


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Chapter 9I Never Was

No Good at

Injun Rastlin'

The chief didn't say nothing.

Next thing I knew, three injuns were cutting us loose.The Chief stepped aside and the other injuns movedwith him, parting down the middle to let someone orsomething through.

The sun was just above the horizon right behind theinjuns. When they split like that, the sunlight wasshining right in my eyes, so that all I could see wasbright white light and weird little circley thingsdarting all about. Slowly, as I squinted and blinkedand squinted some more, I could start to make outsome shadows coming towards us.

Then, I realized that it wasn't shadows after all; it wasshadow.


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Just one.

One enormous shadow, and before I knew it, it wasblocking out the entire sun.

With the sun blocked out, my seeing started to getbetter, but all I saw was this giant silhouette movingtowards us, the edges of the sun shinin' behind it likeit was some sort of angel or a big giant grizzly ghostthat was on fire.

I guess Merv was able to register what in the heck theflaming bear angel really was before I could, cuz all ofa sudden he shout-shouted, "See? I told you this wasnothing but dirty rotten injun tricks. That's thebiggest gosh-durn injun I ever did see."

That was an injun? I thought for certain it was alocomotive or the side of a house walking towards us,but Merv seemed pretty dang sure that it was aperson.

I blinked and squinted and blinked some more to try

and make out for sure that it was a person. I rubbedmy eyes and shook my head real quick to make sureand jostle my brain enough to make any seein mix-ups goin on up there clear them selves out. It was nouse, what I was seein was what I was seein, theworlds biggest injun headin right for us.

That couldnt be good.

When he got close enough, the rest of the injunsclosed in behind him, forming a circle around us, and


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blocking the sun again. I could now see that this

particular injun was roughly the size of them walrussythings I once read about in a book, and this was noordinary walrussy thing, this was the biggest of thesuper-sized walrussy things, and it looked as if hedrecently eaten a locomotive and the side of a house.He was as fat as you might imagine a building eatingwalrus-man to be and at least nine and a half feet tall.His legs were like trees, not tree trunks mind you -trees, entire trees and the feet attached to the ends of'em looked like they could stomp a battleship. Hisarms were as big around as me, and his hands were somassive it looked like he could crush all three of us inone paw at the same time.

I'd a probably thunk he was a Samoan or one of them

Japany Sumo Rastlers if I'd a knowed back then whata Samoan or a Sumo Rastler was. But right there andthen I only knew two things; he was bigger than thethree biggest people I'd ever seen combined, and whatThe Chief told us, "For your freedom you must fightPooping Moose."

See, I knew that was an injun sounding name.

On a side note, one thing about injun rastlin' - Iwasn't very good at it.

Sure, it was three against one, but the three was me,and I'm just a little fella; Merv, who's age was a bigger

number than his weight; and Sloop Sloop, who was agood sized boy, but well, I wasn't too sure he knewexactly what was goin' on. And after all, the three ofus had been tied to posts for most of a day, not really


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a good way to get all limbered up for a rastlin' match.

I was wrong about Sloop Sloop at least. He knewwhat was goin' on and he wanted to get the heck awayfrom these injuns and their post tyin' ways no matterwhat it took.

He didn't wait one second before lungin' at olePoopin' Moose. He was screamin' at the top of hislungs, "SSSLLLOOOOPPPP," as he ran at thatinjun, gnashin' his teeth and kinda snarly growlin' ashe ran. I didn't even have time to think about thinkin'about a plan of attack and good ole Sloop was alreadyright on top of that big monster. It was like he wasfearless, didn't care how gigantic that injun boy was,Sloop just knew that that mountain of a man stood in

his way of freedom. He didn't care about life or limb,just about the fight. Death or freedom, those wereSloop's options, he wanted one, but wasn't afraid ofthe other.

Unfortunately, Sloop Sloop fared about as well as Idid runnin' blindly at that buffalo the night before.

That left me and Merv to fight Poopin' Moose andavoid stepping on an unconscious Sloop Sloop at thesame time.

Merv had about the same intensity as Sloop Sloopdid; he just wasn't near as quick or as strong, but man

was he ever determined. He went in there like arattlesnake stuck in the middle of a wild mustangstampede, thrashin' about, tryin' to avoid bein'


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stepped on, and bitin' at any leg that came near him.

Pretty soon, Ole Merv had hold of Poopin' Moose'sleft leg. He had that ankle in a death grip and hewasn't letting go for nothing. Poopin' Moose wastryin' to shake him off and kick him off and hop himoff, but Merv would not let go. After a little while, hestopped payin' attention to Merv and came after me.That didn't make me happy.

I ran around the circle, round and round, tryin' toavoid him. Because of my size, and the fact that Ididn't have a hundred and seven year old ornerycowboy attached to my left leg, I was much quickerthan him.

I thought maybe I could outlast him, run around andthrow a quick punch every now and again, but thatdidn't work. I did manage to sneak my way aroundhim once, he was distracted cuz Sloop Sloop wasfinally tryin' to stand up, and I reached up andpunched him right in the back of his thigh. Hemustve thought a ladybug landed on him or

something, cuz he didn't pay me no mind at first, so Istarted wailing away on his buttockular area with myfists and at the same time kickin' his ankle furiously.

Poopin' Moose eventually turned to swat at me, andSloop Sloop attacked again.

Sloop figured Merv had the left leg under control, sohe went for the right side. He got hold of it just asPoopin' Moose saw me back there behind him. I wasso busy concentratin' on my butt punching that I


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didn't even realize he'd turned around. Ole Poop

grabbed me up like I was a sack of feathers and tossedme across the ring like discarding some old fruit. Ahalf a second later Ole Sloop landed right on top ofme and Poopin' Moose went right back to hoppingand shaking and kicking to try and get rid of Merv. Ido have to give Ole Merv a lot of credit, Poopin'Moose never was able to shake him.

This went on for about twenty minutes, Me an SloopSloop getting' throwed around like a couple a rottencabbages, flailin' our arms about whenever we weren'tlyin' in the dirt, hopin' just to catch a ticklish spot orsomething, just to distract that big injun fromthrowin' us again. The whole time I kept screamin'out "Pokemyhontas," figurin' that it might endear me

to them injuns as the funniest dang white man they'dever met.

After a while, I noticed that the chief and Sampa andall them other injuns gathered around were laughin'like a pack of wild hyenas (even though I didn't knowa hyena from a rotted cabbage back in those days) and

I wondered why. The chief was really enjoyin' hisself,laughin' so dang hard tears was flowin down his face.Sampawoompie and some of the others were holdin'their stomachs they was laughin' so hard. I lookedaround at the other injuns the next time I was flyin'through the air and saw that near all of them washavin' laughin' fits. Even Ole Poopin' Moose was

grinning from ear to ear, and he'd probably wouldabeen laughin' too had there not been an old man'sdentures sinkin' into his calf.


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I even started laughin' myself despite the beatin' we

were takin'. I couldn't help it; it was contagious.

The more I thought about the sight them injuns wereseein' the funnier it became to me. I mean thinkabout it, a gigantic Samoan lookin' injun stompin'around with a crazy old man latched on to his leg, allthe while a tiny little cowboy and a slow-headed boyrunnin' in circles around them. I know I lookedridiculous laughin' my head off and continuin' tocharge at Poopin' Moose and bein' throwed again andagain across the ring, but what was I supposed to do,just let some him stomp me?

Before too long, The Chief just couldn't take itanymore. I thought he was gonna bust a gut he was

laughin' so hard. He called off Poopin' Moose, who'sreal name it turned out was somethin' else I don'tremember. They were just callin' him Poopin' Mooseto make fun of all that injun name droppin' I'd donethe night before.

The Chief, still barely able to speak from all the

laughin', had Sampawoompie explain to us that theywas just playin' a little joke on us. It turned out thatthey were the same injuns

billy guttered

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