Wherein: Jelly Roll Rogers Has a Laugh

The Porridge Boys were tough. There were nine of them, all brothers, led by a gritty sharpshooter named Ponk. Townspeople would call him Paunch behind his back (and his formidable belly), but jibing didn’t ease their fear.

It was said that the Porridge Boys could stand open-eyed in a Montana sandstorm. It was said they could snatch a rattler’s tail clean off before the snake could flick its tongue even once. It was said the Porridge Boys drank formaldehyde INSTEAD of moonshine.

“It’s been said that the Porridge Boys drink formaldehyde instead of moonshine,” said Mincemeat Max from his position on the floor. “Do you reckon that’s true?”

“No,” said Jelly Roll Rogers.

He squinted his eye. The sun, slanting in from high overhead, was glancing off one of the Porridge Boys’ belts. Jelly Roll looked closer at the belt. He could see that new notches had been bored in it. Either the wearer had lost weight or…

“Hello, boys,” said Jelly Roll as he sauntered out of the hotel, casually brushing dirt off his pants. “I see you’re one shorrrrt this afternoon. Now why would that be?”

“For one thing, we’s here for our haul,” said a voice from the Porridge crowd.

“What haul would that be?” Jelly Roll asked, careful to hock his oily glob without moving his eyes from the mass of glinting holsters in front of him.

“The loot you and the rest of the Bakers Dozen took from us down in Deadwood. That was our legal property and we’re prepared to go to the law to get it back.

“Cain’t be legal if you’re the ones who stole it,” muttered Mincemeat from behind Jelly Rolly’s right shoulder.

“You shut up, you mangy stick insect,” said the Porridge Boy with the belt. Jelly Roll raised his eyebrows — he wasn’t sure if it was the natural history knowledge or the aggression, but this behavior was not what he expected from a Porridge Boy, other than Ponk.

“You never did say where Ponk rrrran off to,” Jell Roll said coolly.

“Well,” stammered the other man, “that’s part and partially why we’re here.” There was a pause and some uncomfortable resetting of hats on heads and clinking of spurs in the dirt. “Ponk’s gone to Oregon. He said he wants to grow vegetables.”

Jelly Roll Rogers couldn’t believe his ears. “Vegetables?!”

“Organic only,” the man mumbled.

All the way across town, at least three false fronts over, The Chicago Confectioner heard Jelly Roll Rogers’ distinct laugh and wondered what all the fuss was about. He put down his black coffee, slicked his finger through a can of lard by the door, smoothing his dark eyebrows into place as he set off to find out the news.

…..Stay tuned for more adventures of the Bakers Dozen!

By Acacia Jones