The Moon, the Maid, and the Winged Shoes Page #2

"The Moon, the Maid, and the Winged Shoes" by Rex Ellingwood Beach is a captivating adventure novel that intertwines elements of fantasy and romance. The story follows an intrepid protagonist who embarks on a quest that leads him through mystical realms and encounters with enchanting characters. As he navigates challenges and confronts obstacles, the tale explores themes of love, bravery, and the pursuit of one's dreams. With vivid descriptions and imaginative storytelling, Beach crafts a whimsical narrative that transports readers to a world where the extraordinary meets the sublime.

• Short story

								

finally I tied his hair around the head-rest and we had him. His mane
was long and I put a hard knot in it, then I set on his moccasins
while Doctor Butters pried into his innermost secrets.

"There she is--that big one." Mike pointed out a tooth that looked
like the corner monument to a quartz claim.

"You're on the wrong side," I told him.

"Mebbe I am. Here's one that looks like it would come loose easier."
Mike got a half-Nelson over in the east-half-east quarter-section of
the buck's mouth and throwed his weight on the pliers.

The Injun had pretty well wore himself out by this time, and when
he felt those ice-tongs he just stiffened out--an Injun's dead game
that-away; he won't make a holler when you hurt him. His squaw was
hangin' around with her eyes poppin' out, but we didn't pay no
attention to her.

Somehow Mike's pinchers kept jumpin' the track and at every slip a new
wrinkle showed in the patient's face--patient is the right word, all
right--and we didn't make no more show at loosenin' that tusk than as
if we'd tried to pull up Mount Bill Williams with a silk thread. At
last two big tears come into the buck's eyes and rolled down his
cheeks. First time I ever seen one cry.

Now that weakness was plumb fatal to him, for right there and then he
cracked his plate with his missus. Yes, sir, he tore his shirt-waist
proper. The squaw straightened up and give him a look--oh, what a
look!

"Waugh!" she sniffed. "Injun heap big squaw!" And with that she
swished out of the office and left him flat. Yes, sir, she just blew
him on the spot.

I s'pose Mike would have got that tooth somehow--he's a perseverin'
party--only that I happened to notice something queer and called him
off.

"Here, wait a minute," said I, and I loosened him from the man's
chest. Mike was so engorsed in the pursuit of his profession that he
was astraddle of his patient's wishbone, gougin' away like a quartz
miner. "Take your elbow out of his mouth and lemme talk to him a
minute." When the savage had got his features together, I said to him,
"How you catch um bump, hey?" And I pointed to his jaw.

"Bzz-zz-zz!" said he.

I turned to Doctor Butters. "Hornet!" I declared.

When Mike had sized up the bee-sting he admitted that my diagnosis
was prob'ly correct. "That's the trouble with these patients," he
complained. "They don't take you into their confidence. Just the same,
I'm goin' to attend to his teeth, for there's no tellin' when I'll
catch another one."

"What's wrong with his teeth?" I questioned. "They look good to me,
except they're wore down from eatin' camus. If he was a horse I'd
judge him to be about a ten-year-old."

"You never can tell by lookin' at teeth what's inside of 'em. Anyhow,
a nice fillin' would set 'em off. I ain't tried no fillin's yet. Gimme
that Burley drill."

I wheeled out a kind of sewing-machine; then I pedaled it while Mike
dug into that Injun's hangin' wall like he had a round of holes to
shoot before quittin'-time. This here was more in my line, bein' a
hard-rock miner myself, and we certainly loaded a fine prospect of
gold into that native's bi-cuspidor. We took his front teeth because
they was the easiest to get at.

It was just like I said, this Injun's white keys was wore off short
and looked like they needed something, so we laid ourselves out to
supply the want. We didn't exactly fill them teeth; we merely riveted
on a sort of a plowshare--a gold sod-cutter about the size of your
finger-nail. How Mike got it to stick I don't know, but he must have
picked up quite a number of dentist's tricks before I came. Anyhow,
there she hung like a brass name-plate, and she didn't wabble hardly
at all. You'd of been surprised to see what a difference it made in
that redskin's looks.

We let our patient up finally and put a lookin'-glass in his hand. At
first he didn't know just what to make of that fillin'; but when he
seen it was real gold a grin broke over his face, his chest swelled
up, and he walked out of the office and across the street to a novelty
store. In a minute out he came with a little round lookin'-glass and a
piece of buckskin, and the last we seen of him he was hikin' down the
street, grinnin' into that mirror as happy as a child and polishin'
that tusk like it had started to rust.

"Which I sure entitle a gratifyin' operation," said Mike.

"I'm in no ways proud of the job," I told him. "I feel like I'd salted
a mine."

Well, me and Mike lived in them dental parlors for a couple of weeks,
decoyin' occasional natives into it, pullin', spilin', fillin', and
filin' more teeth than a few, but bimeby the sport got tame.

One day Mike was fakin' variations on his guitar, and I was washin'
dishes, when I said: "This line is about as excitin' as a game of
jack-straws. D'you know it's foot-racin' time with the Injuns?"

"What?"

"Sure. They're gettin' together at old Port Lewis to run races this
week. One tribe or the other goes broke and walks home every year. If
we could meet up with the winnin' crowd, down on the La Plata--"

I didn't have to say no more, for I had a hackamore on Mike's
attention right there, and he quit climbin' the "G" string and put up
his box.

The next day we traded out of the tooth business and rode south down
the old Navajo trail. We picked a good campin' spot--a little "flat"
in a bend of the river where the grazin' was good--and we turned the
ponies out.

We didn't have to wait long. A few evenings later, as we et supper we
heard a big noise around the bend and knew our visitors was comin'.
They must of had three hundred head of horses, besides a big outfit of
blankets, buckskin, baskets, and all the plunder that an Injun outfit
travels with. At sight of us in their campin'-place they halted, and
the squaws and the children rode up to get a look at us.

I stepped out in front of our tent and throwed my hand to my forehead,
shading my eyes--that's the Injun sign of friendship. An old chief and
a couple of warriors rode forrad, Winchester to pommel, but, seein' we
was alone, they sheathed their guns, and we invited 'em to eat.

It didn't take much urgin'. While we fed hot biscuits to the head men
the squaws pitched camp.

They was plumb elated at their winnin' up at Fort Lewis, and the
gamblin' fever was on 'em strong, so right after supper they invited
us to join 'em in a game of Mexican monte. I let Mike do the
card-playin' for our side, because he's got a pass which is the
despair of many a "tin-horn." He can take a clean Methodist-Episcopal
deck, deal three hands, and have every face card so it'll answer to
its Christian name. No, he didn't need no lookout, so I got myself
into a game of "bounce the stick," which same, as you prob'ly know, is
purely a redskin recreation. You take a handful of twigs in your hand,
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