Dirty Work for Doughgod
by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “For the Parson of Paradise,” “Jay Bird’s Judgment,” etc.
“No, sir,” says Mike Pelly. “No more female teachers for Paradise. ’Cause why? ’Cause all the fool punchers fall in love with her and ruin her educational qualities—that’s why. We don’t no more than get a she teacher, until all the saddle-slickers around here quit working and prevents her from teaching the young idea how to shoot straight.”
“This here miss, who writes me from Great Falls, orates that she’s the goods,” states “Doughgod” Smith. “She slings a good hand.”
“Let her sling it—in Great Falls,” says Mike. “As chairman of the Board of Trustees of Paradise, I hereby open and above board objects to anything but a male teacher.”
“I places my bet with yours,” says J. B. Whittaker, owner of the Cross J outfit. “Women has always been the bane of my existence, and in a case like this I opens my mouth like a wolf and openly howls for a man. Lignum vitæ.”
“E pluribus unum,” says Mike, and the session is over.
Me and “Chuck” Warner sets there on the saloon steps and listens to those words of wisdom. Chuck wiggles his ears a lot at the decision and watches them adjourn for a drink.
“Confounded old coots,” says Chuck sad-like. “Only one of them is married, and he ain’t got no kids. I don’t blame Mike for harboring resentment against the weaker sex—after seeing his wife, but them other two loveless lunatics ain’t got no cause to boycott calico for educational purposes. I figured on a woman teacher, Henry.”
“You and me both,” says I. “According to fiction, a puncher has to fall in love with a school-teacher.”
Old Doughgod Smith wanders out and comes over to us, wiping his mustache.
“You’re three lovely old joy-killers, Doughgod,” says Chuck. “Regular old race-suiciders.”
“Now, now, Chuck,” says Doughgod, setting down with us. “Don’t blame me. It’s two against one, and I’m the one. Also, I’m sort of up against it. I didn’t know them snake-huntin’ cohorts of mine were so bitter against women—honest to gosh! That Miss—” Doughgod scratched his head—“I don’t know her name right now—well, she sounds on paper like a regular teacher; so I told her to come and take the job. She’s on her way now, and I don’t know how to head her off.”
“Two ways out,” states Chuck. “Either shoot J. B. or Mike and get a warmhearted man in their place, or meet the train and send her back from whence she comes.”
“Meet her at the train? Me? Not Doughgod Smith! Not me, Chuck. I got rheumatism in the vocal cords when it comes to denying a female anything. I can stand without hitching long enough to meet a lady in a crowd, but I don’t walk right up and speak to one. Reckon I’ll have to pay her way back.”
“I could meet her if I was properly coaxed,” observes Chuck. “Me—I ain’t scared of no female woman.”
“Would you do that, Chuck?” asks Doughgod anxious-like. “Honestly, would you?”
“Yeah. Give me the money for the ticket.”
“By grab, Chuck, you and me are friends for life. Here’s twenty. I don’t know what the ticket costs, but I ain’t asking questions. If she asks for me, you tell her—what’ll you tell her?”
“I never rehearse, Doughgod. I’ll tell her something—you gamble on that.”
Doughgod wanders away, hugging himself, so me and Chuck buys a drink. We meets “Muley” Bowles and “Telescope” Tolliver, and Chuck tells them about the trustee meeting.
“That’s a danged shame,” states Telescope. “This here country is pining for the touch of a woman’s gentle hand. Now, when sh