Whistlin' Bill and the Camels

FIRST TIME I laid eyes on Whistlin' Bill he came driftin' into Tucson with one of these here one-horse road shows that trail a mixed pack of painted Injuns, hairy-panted vaqueros, a couple of snaky-eyed Arabs whose combined duty it was to make all the noise they could so's you wouldn't notice what a rotten show they foisted on the public.

Plaintive, Lilting Melody Performs Miracle of the Desert

BY RAY HOWLAND

It was there, while battin' for one of these Arab mahouts that Bill learned to whistle that plaintive, lilting melody that he was always chirpin' as he trudged his weary way about the vicinity of Eagle Tanks, south of Sentinel where an Indian he had bribed with a quart of hootch told him the fabledpoured into Bill's gullet in copious potions until Bill yelled for help. Bill said he guessed that chili was not just what he needed, but smelin' something that closely resembled stale beer he opined that the Mex was in some nefarious business closely resemblin' contraband hootch. Bill kept hintin' around until the Mex extracted a solemn promise outa him that he'd keep his trap shut, then he proceeded to get Bill drunker'n a biled owl. The Mex told Bill he'd better hang around camp till next day, but Bill would not lissen; he was out after that gold and nothin' could stop him. He gathered himself up a bottle of high proof Mescal and with a canteen of water and his meager pack on his hump he started south towards the Granites, tellin' the Mex that he'd be back in a couple of days, or sooner if he saw anything that looked like prohibition officers prowlin' around.

Mesquital placers had been mislaid by some peyote chewin' cholos. The last time I saw Bill was when I was prospecting the Granite range for gold, and for company I camped with some of Childs' vaqueros. We'd just turned in when Whistlin' Bill came tearin' into camp like the Devil was after him. He was plum' tuckered out but didn't seem to realize it he was that locoed from fright. He smelled pretty strong of licker and that set us to wonderin' for Bill never hit it up much. He took to cavin' around like a yearlin' bull full of loco-weed and yellin' for us to save him from somethin' or other. We finally had to hogtie him to keep him from hurtin' hisself or one of us.

Seems like Bill had started for this lost diggin's and stoppin' at Sheep Tanks he's found the water fouled by the carcass of a pizened coyote, but he'd had to take some of the water which made him sick as two dogs before he fetched up at Eagle Tanks where he'd hightailed it as soon as he found himself out of agua.

Time Bill had got to the little canyon below Eagle Tanks he was danged nigh dead from thirst and bad water. He didn't notice the Mex that ran out on the desert to see who it was weavin' around out there on the flat until that kind-hearted hombre caught Bill in his arms just as he was about to take a header in the sand.

The Mex drug Bill irto camp and not havin' any other antidote fer rotten water he drained the water off some chilis he was stewin' preparitory to seasonin' his frijoles, this fiery liquid he hike he would whistle; when he was thinking he would whistle, and it was always that infernal melody. He topped a long ridge and sat down on a rock to cogitate and rest a bit. One drink yelled for another until finally the quart of liquid fire was exhausted. Bill looked at the bottle ruefully, then pitched it down hill where it crashed on a rock.

Bill's whistle was workin'. Suddenly the air was rent with the most ungodly sound Bill had ever heard, comin' from just below him on the hillside. Bill looked down. My Gawd; Was that a camel he saw down there or was it that hanged mescal he had drunk?

Bill had heard of folks seein' pink elephants, and snakes with hair on and even frogs climbin' electric light wires but he'd never heard anyone say anything about seein' camels. He meditated a minute or two; he was still happy even if he was seein' things so he started whistlin' again. At that, that cussed camel came lopin' up the hill towards him, kinda sizin' Bill up as he came. This startled Bill so he started wavin' his fins, tryin' to shoo the darned thing away. Bill never packs a gun so he couldn't shoot the varmint and the more he waved his arms and hollered the faster the humped beast came.

He couldn't stand this so he curled his tail and took out over the hill towards the Mex's camp at a dead run. He'd run a few rods and stop to look (Continued on Page 19)