TIED UP FOR TOMBSTONE by W. C. Tuttle Author of “Loco or Love,” “Making Good for Muley,” etc. “Lodestone, you flea-bitten, long-eared ancestor of a jack-rabbit, take a look at the best place the Lord ever made, and rejoice with me.” Lodestone wiggles his ears, kicks at a hoss-fly, narrowly missing my head, and looks with sad eyes down at the city of Piperock. Then he goes to sleep. Which shows that a burro ain’t got no finer feelings. We been away for quite a while—me and Lodestone. We pilgrims up the Bitter Root range to where old Blue Nose sticks into the clouds, crosses over and pilgrims back the other side, all of which takes up several months, and don’t net me nothing but blisters and blasphemy. I misses “Magpie” Simpkins a heap, and I welcomes the day when I can shake the hand of that long, loose-jointed hombre. Magpie is one of the leading citizens of Piperock, and until a few months ago, my pardner. When I left to make my fortune he was setting there in his office—Magpie is the sheriff—and wondering how he can square things with the populace to get reelected. He’s of the lodge-pole type, and wears a goodly length of hair on his upper lip. He pleads with me not to leave him but for once in my life I turns a deaf ear to his siren voice, and herds my burro out of hearing. Piperock ain’t what a stranger would call a paradise on earth, and she don’t qualify for the milk and honey, but she’s a man’s town—all up and down the street. Me and Lodestone pilgrims through the dust up to “Buck” Masterson’s saloon, and I goes inside. Buck and “Tellurium” are there, and they welcomes me like a lost brother. Buck salutes me with the proper ingredients, and we exchanges pleasantries. After we sort of gets used to each other again Buck hauls out a sheet of paper, and smooths it out on the bar. “Take a look at that, Ike,” says he. “There’s something new.” I sizes her up. It’s what resembles a newspaper—in some respects—but I can’t seem to read it none to speak of. The label across the top resembles this— TOLIP KCOREPIP EHT The rest of the page is smears and blots. “Looks like a Russian proclamation, Buck,” says I. “Where did it come from?” “Right here, Ike; that ex-pardner of yours published it.” “Magpie?” I asks, and they both nods. “That’s his first edition,” replies Buck. “He took over the office when a few of the local boys ran the editor across the border for slandering the community. That paper invades this here country about a month after you leaves, and she runs high along until the editor gets a call to uplift the community. Yesterday he beat the posse across the line, and Magpie gets out his maiden sheet. This here feller speaks feelingly of lawlessness, and even goes so far as to make personal remarks about our morals. What he said about the town of Paradise was awful.” “Is Magpie still sheriff?” I asks.