"That's whatever," observed Cimarron Bill, who came up. "Which we sh.o.r.e wouldn't take that much trouble with any gent onless we liked him."

During his last year at Harvard Higginson Peabody edited the college paper, and that, when he landed in Dodge, had been the whole of his journalistic experience. While he conducted that vehicle of college information his one notable triumph was an article on Bible reading, in which he urged that all Bibles be bound in red. He pointed out an inherent interest to abide in red and quoted its effect on turkey gobblers. On the other hand, black, the usual cover-colour of Bibles, was a hue sorrowful and repellant; so far from inviting human interest, it daunted it. Higginson Peabody insisted that were every copy of the scriptures bound in red a score would read where only one perused them in their black uniform of gloom. This article gained him the compliment of a reprimand from the university heads and an accusation on the part of rivals that he was trying to promote an importance for his college colours.

Notwithstanding this meagre apprenticeship in journalism Higginson Peabody, from its initial issue, made the _Weekly Planet_ a highly readable paper. This was peculiarly the case after he, on Mr.

Masterson's endors.e.m.e.nt, had added Jack to his staff. It was Jack who brought in those spicy personal items which told in complimentary fashion the daily or rather nightly doings at Mr. Kelly's Alhambra, Mr.

Short's Long Branch, Mr. Webster's Alamo, and Mr. Peac.o.c.k's Dance Hall, to say nothing of the Dodge Opera House and Mr. Wright's store, and which caused every reader to pick up the paper with pleasure and lay it down with regret. Also, it was Jack who taught Higginson Peabody the money value of a line of advertising that published cattle brands and set forth the boundaries of ranges, so that round-up outfits might intelligently hold the herds and cut out each ranchman's cattle in what regions they belonged. Indeed, with Jack at his elbow Higginson Peabody carried the _Weekly Planet_ to a point where it almost paid.

It was when the _Weekly Planet_ had counted its thirteenth issue that Higginson Peabody took up the question of a circulation. At that time the paper owned but thirty-four subscribers. Dodge was small; the paper could be pa.s.sed from hand to hand; those thirty-four copies, during the seven days when they were fresh, were read and appreciated by every eye in Dodge. Under such circ.u.mstances thirty-four copies would be enough; the demands of Dodge did not call for any more. Clearly, some argument beyond the argument of mere news was required to build up a _Weekly Planet_ circulation.

Higginson Peabody, in conference with Jack, said that he thought of starting a baby contest. The paper would offer a prize for the most beautiful baby in Dodge.

Jack stood like a rock against this proposition. He showed how in all Dodge there were but two babies, and that the mother in each marvellous instance held her darling to be a cherub fresh descended from on high.

That mother would make trouble for the _Weekly Planet_ and all connected therewith if any rival infant were pitched upon as that cherub's superior.

"The mother," said Jack, ominously, "whose young one got beat would let her hair down her back, give her war-yell, and simply leave the _Weekly Planet_ on both sides of the Arkansaw. Besides, that gent don't jingle a spur in Dodge who's game to act as judge. But," continued Jack, when Higginson Peabody, impressed by the serpent-like wisdom of his young a.s.sistant, had abandoned every notion of a baby contest, "I've thought up a play that ought to make the paper as popular as tortillas with a Mexican. How about a pie contest? Wouldn't that meet the needs of the hour?" And Jack's mouth took on an unctuous expression.

Jack explained his scheme. The _Weekly Planet_ would offer a five-years'

subscription, free, for the best pie, any sort or species, sent to its editorial rooms, accompanied by the name of the auth.o.r.ess, within four calendar weeks of the announcement.

"We want to personally interest the ladies," said Jack, "and a pie contest will do it."

Higginson Peabody was struck by the original force of Jack's suggestion.

Hailing from what Mr. Warner called "the region of perpetual pie," he could appreciate its merits. He put but one question:

"Whom shall we name as judge?" Higginson Peabody also added that it was beyond his own genius to act in that capacity, alleging a dyspepsia.

Jack's eyes lit up like the windows of a hurdy-gurdy on the evening of a fandango.

"I'll be judge," said Jack.

The value of a pie contest as a spur to circulation gained immediate exhibition. The _Weekly Planet_ jumped from thirty-four to one hundred and ten, and new subscriptions coming every hour.

Also, pies began to appear-pies of every kind. There was the morose mince, the cheerful dried apple, the sedate pumpkin, the consoling custard, the flippant plum; every variety of dried or canned goods on Mr. Wright's broad shelves was drawn upon to become the basis of pie.

Since no limit had been placed upon her labours, every fair contestant sent ardent scores of entries. Lest one baking had been slightly burned on the under crust, each lady broke forth in further bakings, and by the end of the second day of that rivalry pies had acc.u.mulated on the premises of the _Weekly Planet_ by the gross. They were stacked up in tiers of twelve on the editorial table, they covered printing-press and make-up stones, there were no chairs left and hardly room remained to move about among the cases because of pies. And the end was not yet; the third day opened with an aggregate consignment of eighty pies, and each confection a hopeful claimant of that five-years' free subscription.

When Jack evolved a pie contest he had no foreknowledge of what would be its fatal popularity. In proposing to act as judge of that pastry compet.i.tion he in no wise foresaw the pie-deluge which would set in.

Still, being of the material from which heroes are made, Jack bore himself doughtily. The first day he ate twenty-eight pies; the second day he got no further than twenty; on the third day, with two hundred untouched pies awaiting his sampling tooth, Jack fell ill.

"Of course," said Jack, feebly, "I could go on, I s'ppose, and I'll sell my life dearly; but what's the use? What could one boy do against two hundred pies?"

Jack was undeniably ill, but as one whose spirit remains unconquerable, he would not go to bed. Although he could not look at a pie, he appeared about the office, like some criminal ghost obliged to haunt the scenes of its malefactions. And Jack was still capable of a suggestion. It was by his word that the three printers were named as an auxiliary commission to aid in forming an official judgment of those pies.

It was of scant avail. At the close of the fifth day the foreman came to Higginson Peabody wearing a look of defeat. Even three printers had been powerless before that storm of pie.

"Bill's down an' out," said the foreman, dejectedly. Bill was one of the two journeymen printers. "It was a lemon pie Miss Casey made that floored him. To get the kinks out o' Bill I had to give him a gallon of Kelly's best Old Jordan, an' at that he ain't been the same man since."

"What shall we do?" queried Higginson Peabody, desperately. "We'll be buried alive beneath an avalanche of pie!"

The foreman was a fertile printer, and thought he might find a purchaser for those pies. Higginson Peabody recklessly authorised him in that behalf. Borrowing a pony from Mr. Trask's corral, the foreman went to Cimarron and arranged for the disposal of present as well as future pies at the rate of a dollar the dozen pies, to Mr. Ingalls of the Golden Rod restaurant. The following evening the premises of the _Weekly Planet_ were happily free from pies, and the greenish cast in Jack's cheek was giving way to the old-time hue of boyish health.

No harm would have come, and the _Weekly Planet_ might have continued in its useful orbit undisturbed, had it not been for a visit that Aunt Nettie Dawson paid to Cimarron. Aunt Nettie was sedately walking in Cimarron's only thoroughfare, intent on naught save a social hour with a valued friend, resident of that hamlet, when her glance was arrested by a certain pie in the window of the Golden Rod. It was of the mince family, and its top crust was ornamented with sundry nicks and flourishes, made by the point of a knife, and which in their whole effect resembled the remains of a pair of centipedes that had met a violent death. Aunt Nettie put on her gla.s.ses, took a second look to make sure, and then stalked into the Golden Rod, demanding its proprietor by name.

"Wherever did you-all get my pie, Bill Ingalls?" was the question which Aunt Nettie put. The frown that darkened her brow was like a threat.

Mr. Ingalls, commonly, was a brave and truthful man, and yet he told Aunt Nettie that he didn't know. Mr. Ingalls said that the particular pie to which she pointed was a mystery and its origin wrapped in fog.

Aunt Nettie snorted.

"You needn't lie to me, Bill Ingalls," she retorted; "you got it of that beanstalk editor. I'll show that cheap Yankee who he's foolin' with as soon as ever I see Dodge ag'in."

Higginson Peabody was discussing some subject of _Weekly Planet_ economy with Jack when Aunt Nettie came in. Jack, being a frontier lad and keen to every sign of danger, realised the storm in its approach and fled for Mr. Masterson. His chief, less alive to the peril, turned pleasantly on Aunt Nettie.

"What can I do, Miss Dawson?" he said.

"Where's that mince I sent y' yisterday?" demanded Aunt Nettie, manner as brittle and as hard as gla.s.s. "It's got two fern leaves marked on the kiver."

Higginson Peabody said never a word; panting like some trapped animal, he could only look at Aunt Nettie. Then Aunt Nettie unfurled the story of his perfidy.

"An' so," said Aunt Nettie, in sour conclusion, "you allowed you'd dee-fraud us ladies of Dodge into bakin' onlimited pies for them drunkards over in Cimarron!"

Aunt Nettie made a house to house canva.s.s and told each lady the story of their mutual wrongs. There was a scurrying round-up of shawls and shakers. Within thirty minutes fourscore pie contestants, Aunt Nettie at their angry head, were moving on the office of the _Weekly Planet_. They found the door closed and locked. Mr. Masterson, urged by Jack and realising the danger, had been before them. By advice of that tried strategist Higginson Peabody had barricaded his portals. He dragged the office counter across the locked door and then cowered behind double defences, fearing the worst.

"Never mind," said Aunt Nettie, addressing her injured sisters, "he's simply got to come out, an' we'll jest nacherally camp on his doorstep till he does." This last ferociously.

The _Weekly Planet_ was in a state of siege, and word of that beleaguerment went through Dodge like wildfire. With scared faces Mr.

Wright, Mr. Masterson, Mr. Short, Mr. Trask, Mr. Kelly and others among the town's bravest spirits, gathered for conference in the Long Branch.

"What are we to do?" asked Mr. Masterson, anxiously. "I don't want to be understood as shirking a duty, but if I'd known there was to be any such feminine uprising as this I'd never been sheriff of Ford."

Mr. Wright made a despairing gesture.

"I haven't," said Mr. Wright, "felt so he'pless an' unprotected since Mr. Lee's surrender."

"What be we to do?" and Mr. Kelly repeated Mr. Masterson's question.

Then, as though making reply: "Whatever can we do? Thar's them ladies on the warpath, an' Aunt Nettie at their head! She's that inflexible, granite's easy to her! An' as for courage, Aunt Nettie teaches it.

Thar's nothin' she's feared of on four legs or two."

"Yes thar is," interjected Cimarron Bill, who stood listening. "Which Aunt Nettie's timid of cows."

There was a suggestion in the remark; strung like a bow by the difficulties of the situation Mr. Masterson seized upon it. Two words to Cimarron Bill and in another moment that hard-riding gentleman and a dozen hard-riding companions were cinching the hulls onto their ponies in Mr. Trask's corral. Once in the saddle, away they tore for the river and began scrambling across, through deeps and shallows, with dire riot and uproar.

On the south side of the river, up to their stolid knees in the rank gra.s.ses, were from fifty to one hundred head of cattle. These tossed wondering horns and blew loudly through their noses as Cimarron Bill and his mates came charging across. Their ruminations suffered further disturbance when, with headlong speed, those charging ones fell bodily upon them, rounded them up, hurled them into the river and sent them for the north bank on the jump. With bellow of protest the outraged cattle were rushed along. Once on the north bank they were cleverly bunched and, still on the canter, swung down on the office of the _Weekly Planet_.

The first to observe the approach of that horned phalanx, with the urgent riders whooping and dashing about in the rear, was Miss Casey of the lemon pies.

"Oh, look at them awful cows, Miss Dawson, dear!" she screamed, and pointed with horrified finger.

Not alone Aunt Nettie, but every lady looked. It was enough; there was a chorus of squeaks, a vast flutter of skirts, and the fair vigilantes, gathered to revenge their betrayed pies, had scattered like a flock of blackbirds. Aunt Nettie was the last to go. She gazed at the oncoming cattle as they swept down upon the _Weekly Planet_, with lowered horn and steamy nostril; she identified her recreant nephew, Cimarron Bill, and knew the whole as a masterpiece of Mastersonian diplomacy.