...And Away!

By Unknown Author

Initially published in Campus Humor in 1957

"Ah, yes," said Smedley Carrothers, as he turned his instep toward the fire, and burrowed an increment further into the overstuffed chair always kept for him at The Grange.

"Go on," said Mrs. Hawthorne with a nearly imperceptible movement of her peripatetic fingers, thus voicing the unexpressed sentiment which pervaded the room, teeter-tottered on the chandelier, cascaded down the mantle, and rubbed its back against the windowpane.

"Well then," was the staccato reply, which, with its unfamiliar rhythm, caused a ripple of awareness to travel the length of the recumbent form of the oldest member.

Following this introductory reparte, invariably the custom before one of the celebrated raconteur's narratives, in a style incapable of being reproduced here, Smedley Carrothers related the following vignette.

It was evening in Serenity Gulch, the fabulous, fabled reactionary, pioneering town in the heart of the legendary old west. At the nerve center of the community, The First Chance, Last Chance Gentlemen's Bar and Grill, a wild celebration was in progress. All the boys were there: Hopalong, in his usual corner table; Tom Mix, already under his table; and, of course, good old Grool, behind the bar.

The reason for the celebration, which at the time our story begins was in full swing, was the return, earlier that day, of two of the town's favorite sons. They had strode into town, shooting out streetlights as they came, and made straight for Grool's establishment. Unrecognized they ordered a bottle of scotch and two straws. While they sat sipping, looking just like a Saturday Evening Post cover, an adorable little six-year-old boy wandered by.

Suddenly Gene Autry began screaming, "Look at the sniveling little brat; my God, how I hate them with their popcorn-stained greasy little hands, always clutching at you." And at that, he began to froth at the mouth, finally subsiding until he lay curled up in a corner moaning softly to himself.

"Weakling," said the taller of the two newcomers derisively, drawing trusty six-shooter and pumping six bullets into the cute little tyke. "You just have to handle them right," he explained to the admiring crowd which had immediately gathered.

"Look, it's a silver bullet," shouted a voice from the crowd. "The Lone Ranger," said the crowd in unison, and the celebration began.

Meanwhile back at the Five Star, Red Crescent, Eagle Ranch, a dope-crazed hoss wrangler, after he had stared at a brutally murdered body, mounted his mount and rode hell-for-leather to town. When he reached Grool's place, he staggered in, looked Grool straight in the eye, and said, "It's the Sioux, Sam — on the warpath again."

As he sank to the barroom floor for the last time, while his soul prepared for its trip to that great pasture out yonder, Grool kicked his deformed body aside and muttered, "It's about time that damn Garcia got his."

Ordinarily, such a message would have meant that all the occupants of the tavern would spring to their horses, shout for cameramen, and ride; but this night nobody was in any shape to spring. After about ten minutes, the Lone Ranger's companion pulled himself to his feet and tottered toward the door. "Come, Kemosabe," he managed, and fell on his horse.

The two rode together in the togetherness of the enveloping darkness. Fearless, they rode as they had ridden on uncountable similar occasions. Finally, they sighted in the distance eighteen hundred and fifty-three wild-eyed savages.

"Discretion is the better part of valor," mumbled the Lone Ranger, as they turned with one motion and rode back toward whence they had come. It was too late; they were surrounded.

On all sides shone the lithe naked bodies of the red men. The Lone Ranger and Tonto prepared to give battle, but somehow the old spirit was lacking. The Lone Ranger fired seventeen silver bullets and one copper one in a row without hitting anything.

With a grand sweeping gesture of finality he flung his gun aside; and, courageous to the end, proclaimed, "It looks like this is the end of the trail, pardner."

Tonto turned to him; "Too bad, pale face," he said.

- Voo Doo