When the Loop Ranch sent the shipment of cattle to Montreal from Standoff, Alberta, Finn Moran was appointed official feeder.
Finn Moran was a kind of broncho man, one who generally knocks the corners off furniture, and uses his animal force to move the wrong object.
In Montreal Finn pervaded many saloons, and “shoved the city round a bit,” as he termed it.
Fate is always on the lookout for restless humans to give them occupation, and, one day, because of this influence, Moran, with Ted Goad, who was Fate's agent, went to a sale of unclaimed luggage held by the Canadian Pacific Railway. It was as good as faro, this buying a hidden treasure; and when an antique, oblong box—the appearance of which suggested wealth—was put up, Moran became its possessor for seven dollars. Then, joyous in their speculation, the two friends, with the box, were transported to Finn's quarters.
It lay heavy in their arms as they toiled up the stairs; but the depressing weight caused their spirits to rise in cheery optimism.
Finn hoped that it might contain stolen silver—some burglar's box, perhaps. The contents might even be old wine or liquor—the antique box had a foreign aspect; that would be all right. Goad, who had been on the southern ranges, declared that some hieroglyphics on the case were Mexican, and that it was a case of Mexican saddles, chaps, riding gear, and all the rest of it. However, investigation would prove the pudding.
One side of the lid was held by three strong hinges; the other was fastened down with screw-nails. A screw-driver was borrowed from the landlady, the secret-hiding lid thrown back, and in the treasure cavern of their purchase lay the tarred form of an Egyptian mummy The partners in the speculation had craned their necks eagerly. Now the screw-driver clattered from Finn's huge hand to the floor, and he gasped: “Holy smoke! We're stuck with a rooster's been up 'gainst a knife-play!”
But Goad had a nebulous memory of mummies; just now it was in his mind, as he searched for the truth, that they cured the defunct inhabitants in this way in Mexico.
“'Tain't no knife-play, Finn; that's a greaser from Mexico. I seen thousands of them down there. He's been dead more'n forty years.”
“But what's he doin' here?” asked Finn indignantly.
“We freighted him here, didn't we?”
“It'll be hell to get shut of it without gettin' the laugh throwed into us good an' plenty,” Finn muttered dejectedly.
Moran meditated over this problem, and Ted waited for the solution.
“You remember my old pard, Jack Halsted?” Finn asked presently.
“He took this bit out of my ear,” Goad offered as conclusive proof of acquaintanceship.
“Yes,” concurred Finn, “that was to the Tea-Dance at Whisky Hollow. But Jack's now pizinin' the boys to Fort Lonesome, an' I sorter feel as if I orter make him a present of this—what'd you call the greaser, Ted?”
“Lemme see, ah” Goad scratched his head with vehemence as if he would dig the name of the silent one of the box from the roots of his hair. “Mum—mum—mummy, that's it, he's a mummy.”
“Jack keeps a store to Fort Lonesome, an' I'll load this on one of them freighters runnin' from Big Medicine. I allow as Jack pretty near sabed a good thing when he euchred me on the whisky deal, an' he'll hug himselt big when this case is dumped at the door an' nothin' to pay but the freightin'. I'll get a artist to write 'smoked bacon' on the lid. I reckon Jack will get stark, starin' hostile when this parceled-up greaser's brought out onto the landscape.
“You see, Ted, me an' Jack we allus got along pretty well runnin' bug juice, and there wasn't no hitch as to the manner of a hold-up by the mounted police till Ducky Glover edges in to Jack's good feelin's with a palaver about bein' set afoot by men as he'd lent money to. Soon's he's about our camp to Whisky Hollow the police nips me twice. The second time 'twas most uncertain how long this Ducky Glover'd be breathin' the anti-consumption air in Alberta, but Jack he ups an' takes the disarrangement of ideas on himself, an' says as how I got to quarrel with him fust. That settled it, Ted; I pulls out of the firm, an' hits the trail for Standoff, where I'm broncho-bustin', bull-punchin', an' gener'ly makin' an honest livin'. Now Jack he's dry-goods merchant to Fort Lonesome, at which city of desolation, accordin' to the last census, was Jack's shack at the ford on Belly River, an' such transients as was paralyzingly boozed on the floor.”
“What become of this Ducky Glover?” Goad queried.
“He's with Jack till such times as I happen to meet him on the trail. Yes, I'll tote this greaser to the plains just for love of Jack.”