The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Devil’s Dooryard, by W. C. Tuttle THE DEVIL’S DOORYARD A Complete Novelette by W. C. Tuttle Author of “Figures of Speech,” “No Wonder,” etc. “I has to disagree with yuh, cowboy. There is some romance left. A little barb-wire and a few sheep don’t cut the romance out of the cow-land. She’s there, Sleepy.” “Where?” I asks politely. “Me and you ain’t found none of it, Hashknife. Since we shook loose from Willer Crick we ain’t done nothin’ more romantic than gettin’ bucked off or lettin’ a gun go off accidental. There ain’t a man left in the cow-country that would get ambition if somebody called him a liar, and the villains has gone plumb out of the female-stealin’ business.” “Well, get off your bronc, Sleepy. Folks’ll think you’re a statoo on a horse. I’m too hungry to argue. Git off and look for romance, cowboy.” “In this town? Shucks. False fronts, licensed gamblin’-house, livery-stable, general merchandise store and a barber-shop. Romance ----!” “We-e-e-ll, get off. Some ham and eggs looks plenty romantic to me.” I gets off my bronc, limbers up my legs and looks around. The sign on the store proclaims it to be the Sundown Mercantile Company. “Sundown City,” says Hashknife. “She’s a cow-town, pure and simple.” “Pure and simple ----!” says I. “Why argue?” he says, sarcastic-like. “All day long you finds fault. You’d kick if yuh was goin’ to get hung, Sleepy Stevens. Ain’t nothin’ right in your eyes?” “Pure and simple ----” I reckon the argument had gone far enough, but that wasn’t no way to bust it up. A bullet splinters the top of the tie-rack, another one busts the glass in the store-window and another one scorches a lousy dog which was asleep in the shade of the saloon porch, and it went _ki-yi-ing_ off down the street. Three punchers comes gallivantin’ out of the saloon-door, sifting lead back inside, while several more oozes out the back door, hunting for a place to get behind. I never seen so much lead wasted and nobody saturated. Somebody heezes more bullets in our direction, and I stands there with my mouth wide open until Hashknife kicks my feet from under me, drops a rifle in my lap and then does a dive across the sidewalk. “Yuh might do a little somethin’ for yourself,” says he, as I sits there digging dirt out of my eyes from the last bullet. Then he yells: “Sleepy, you ---- fool, get under cover! Ain’tcha got no sense?” I crawls under the sidewalk and sprawls beside him. “Yuh ain’t got the sense that ---- gave geese in Ireland,” says he. “Watcha settin’ over there for? You ain’t got no brains a-tall.” “I never got hit,” says I. “You never got-- Saya-a-y! Oh, you didn’t get hit, eh? Well, that’s too bad!” “Well, what they shootin’ at me for?” “We might ask ’em--some time. Dang yuh!”