Free Yellow Back Radio Broke-Down by Ishmael Reed Page A

snow. All the things you’ve done for me, Cadillac, buckboard and cooperative mules, all a girl could desire, Fire Island in the summer!
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    O yes Royal I’m all yours, she said leaning over and bussing the furtrapper on the cheek. He was nothing but a jeffing con. When Diane went uptown, me and Sal hat up too. I think she’s still in love with him, that Sal, maybe Diane too but I’ll fix the nigger. I’ll have him subpoenaed and thrown in jail if I see him again. The way he used to brand me and beat me leaving those welts in the shape of bats on my fine yellow frame.
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    Down below is the town of Yellow Back Radio, Drag’s town, Gooseman pointed out. He said we can stay there for free in his Hotel. As long as we want. Some old dame gives out the weather reports and runs down the produce scores. Sometimes she indulges in astrological predictions.
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    The two rode down Blackfoot Mountain until they came into view of the buildings lined up. Behind the Executioneer’s display, hogs with armored jaws were chewing on some metal scraps. Before they came to the road that connected with Main Street, Royal Flush looked over his shoulder and took inventory of his stock: furs, quack-bottles, saddles, carbines, kitchen knives, calico dresses, sun bonnets, snuff, tobaccy, photographic equipment. He flapped his stirrups against the mule’s side and spat out a long cigar, and rubbed his hands. O.K. doll, let’s go get these palookas.
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    O Royal Flush you’re so cute, Mighty Dike cooed, pecking the merchant on his shiny head.
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    The saddle stiffs from the Purple Bar-B were congregated in Big Lizzy’s Rabid Black Cougar drinking Rot-Gut and Two-Bits-Per-Throw. Some of the cowpokes were seated at tables playing poker or being entertained by the hurdy gurdy girls.
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    Skinny McCullough the foreman was at the bar conversing with Sam the bartender.
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    Man, that boss is really getting timid in the noggin, Skinny said.
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    Can you blame him? Monstrous births, weird parties, his nag stolen, herd wiped out by mysterious animals, toes, fingers and hindlegs rotting away, I mean how can you blame the guy? But I don’t care if he turns into black straw so long as he coughs up the deeds he promised us.
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    He brings us up there every Sun, and he reads those awful words from the good book. Sometimes I feel so skerry I go back to my bunk and have dreams in which blank-eyed and stupid demons do handsprings on my chest. I think as soon as this season comes to an end I’m going to take my roll and go over to join the Lincoln County forces against that anarchist bandit Billy the Kid. It’s nice and peaceful on the front.
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    Did you see his latest symptoms? the bartender said. Sits up there on the hill. Got all the servants building a monument he designed for himself. Said he might kick off any day now. Case he feels it coming and wants to get it over with quick. And to add to that each night the coyote howls outside his house and he raises himself and sez: Who’s that! Who’s that howling about my door?
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    Good evening Marshal.
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    Good evening Sam, Skinny. Damn, what time of day is it? Looks half and half, like a land assessor’s coffee break. Let’s have something special today. Hows about some of that imported Lacrymose Christi?
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    Marshal, Skinny said, I was just telling the bartender that Drag is getting spookier than a son of a bitch. He’s a mere whisper of his former self. Each morning we find those effigies on the doorstep. Before you know it he’ll be making an appearance before the Riders of Judgment. He thinks the Loop Garoo Kid has put some kind of so-called magical spell on him or something. While he’s out there building his tomb that new mail order bride of his plays with them funny cards.
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    Poker?
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    No, some kind of weird cards, one of em had death on it, with a scythe cutting across the grim reaper’s