Bearly Reasonable

by W. C. Tuttle

Bearly Reasonable

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Magpie, Diplomat,” and “Sixteen to One on Friday,” etc.

“Ike,” sez Magpie Simpkins, pointin’ down th’ trail, “th’ feller what said, ‘Th’ worst is yet to come,’ must ’a’ meant that outfit comin’ our way.”

I takes uh good look and agrees. In th’ lead is Ricky Henderson, on his calico bronc, and behind him is three figgers on burrows. Th’ leadin’ one looks like uh cross between uh Holy Roller proselyte and uh fence picket. Th’ legs of th’ critter is bent back at th’ knees to keep its feet off th’ ground, an th’ rest of its body ’pears to have been soaked in starch before it seasoned.

It’s wearin’ uh swaller-tailed coat, buttoned at th’ top, makin’ it swell in th’ breeze like th’ wings of uh turkey-buzzard, and th’ peaked, side-whiskered face which bobs at th’ top is crowned with uh hard hat. It is also wearin’ black-rimmed specs, and enough black ribbon floats from th’ top to furnish mournin’ fer uh wake.

Th’ next in line is uh fe-male person, and uh glance shows that she ain’t built fer neither speed nor comfort. Th’ pore li’l burrow she’s ridin’ is wig-waggin’ uh distress signal with its ears, and threatens to cave in at th’ knees in uh short time.

Th’ next in line is one uh them human carbuncles. He’s so danged fat that his clothes ache, and he has to lift his yaller eyebrows plumb to th’ top of his bald head to git his eyes open. When I first sees his face I’m inclined to git th’ skin of uh aig to put on it and draw it to uh head.

Behind this caravan loiters five burros and they’re so danged loaded down with plunder that all yuh can see is their ears. While me and Magpie stands on th’ steps of our cabin, at th’ Silver Threads mine, this aggregation peerades to uh standstill before us, and that she-packin’ burro hee-haws with relief.