"The curse of drink"

by W. C. Tuttle

I got one flash of the committee goin’ out the door on the heels of that stampedin’ mob, when somebody threw a chair, which landed on my head like a crown. It shore made me see a lot of stars, but I kept my presence of mind, as Tequila whirled around and went buck-jumpin’ straight to the back of the stage, knockin’ down everythin’ in sight, with me still out over his ears—and then we hit that treadmill.

Did we go? Man, that Tequila horse never ran so fast in his life. Why, he never had time to cross his legs. We wasn’t goin’ no place, but we was sure goin’ fast. Out from a pile of busted lumber I sees Peewee raise up, his eyes wide at what he sees.

“Can’tcha stop this?” I yells at him. He picks up a busted two-by-four, staggers over and shoves it down in the treadmill. They told me afterward that it throwed Peewee plumb against the back of the buildin’, but it shore stopped the machine.

I’m only about ten feet from the rear of the stage, which is covered with a black cloth, and this rear of the stage is the front of the room.

Wham-blam! We went off that treadmill like a skyrocket. I hears the crash of glass, the rippin’ of a cloth, and there I am out over the main street of San Pablo, two stories high, with nothin’ but air above, below and on all sides.

I spread my arms like the wings of a turkey buzzard, turned over once and landed settin’ down on a buckboard seat, which smashed like a egg under the impact. It also knocked me a little colder than I was, but I knowed the team busted loose and was runnin’ away. But I didn’t care. What was one little runaway beside what I’d been through? The rush of night air was coolin’ to my fevered brow.

And all of a sudden we went high-wide and handsome. Rippety-bing-bang-boom! There’s a bell ringin’, somethin’ roarin’, and then I landed on the seat of my pants on the depot platform and almost skidded into the train, which was ready to move. The team and buckboard was just leavin’ the other end of the platform.

I’m knocked kinda silly, but I heard a woman scream, as she ran past me and onto that train. The depot agent’s boots are stickin’ up from behind a trunk, where the runaway knocked him. I sets there and watches the train go out of sight. Beside me is a lady’s handbag, jist a little one with a white handkerchief stickin’ out of it. I put the thing in my pocket and got to my feet. I say “my feet” merely because they was hooked onto me. I didn’t have no feelin’ in ’em.

Then I wandered back down the street, stoppin’ now and then to get my toes pointed right, and finally got to the No-Limit Saloon. For a while I ain’t recognized, even if I have got most of the enamel knocked off my face. There’s Judgment Jones, talkin’ with Dog-Rib, and they come over to look me over.

“It’s all right, Hozie,” says Judgment. “Oasis and Alkali are satisfied we done our best. Dog-Rib says they expected more action, but I been tellin’ him it was jist a little rural play. Next time we’ll do better—I hope. But, take it all in all, we got our money’s worth—but no money.