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Wolfville

by Alfred Henry Lewis · English · Gutenberg #3732 · 443,304 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Wolfville

Author: Alfred Henry Lewis


        
Release date: February 1, 2003 [eBook #3732]
                Most recently updated: October 19, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3732

Credits: Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WOLFVILLE ***
WOLFVILLE

BY

ALFRED HENRY LEWIS
(Dan Quin)




TO
WILLIAM RANDOLPH HEARST




CONTENTS

    CHAPTER I.   WOLFVILLE'S FIRST FUNERAL
   CHAPTER II.   THE STINGING LIZARD
  CHAPTER III.   THE STORY OF WILKINS
   CHAPTER IV.   THE WASHWOMAN'S WAR
    CHAPTER V.   ENRIGHT'S PARD, JIM WILLIS
   CHAPTER VI.   TUCSON JENNIE'S HEART
  CHAPTER VII.   TUCSON JENNIE'S JEALOUSY
 CHAPTER VIII.   THE MAN FROM RED DOG
   CHAPTER IX.   CHEROKEE HALL
    CHAPTER X.   TEXAS THOMPSON'S "ELECTION"
   CHAPTER XI.   A WOLFVILLE FOUNDLING
  CHAPTER XII.   THE MAN FROM YELLOWHOUSE
 CHAPTER XIII.   JACKS UP ON EIGHTS
  CHAPTER XIV.   THE RIVAL DANCE-HALLS
   CHAPTER XV.   SLIM JIM'S SISTER
  CHAPTER XVI.   JAYBIRD BOB'S JOKE
 CHAPTER XVII.   BOGGS'S EXPERIENCE
CHAPTER XVIII.   DAWSON & RUDD, PARTNERS
  CHAPTER XIX.   MACE BOWMAN, SHERIFF
   CHAPTER XX.   A WOLFVILLE THANKSGIVING
  CHAPTER XXI.   BILL HOSKINS'S COON
 CHAPTER XXII.   OLD SAM ENRIGHT'S "ROMANCE,"
CHAPTER XXIII.   PINON BILL'S BLUFF
 CHAPTER XXIV.   CRAWFISH JIM




PREFACE.

These tales by the Old Cattleman have been submitted to perhaps a
dozen people. They have read, criticised, and advised. The advice
was good; the criticism just. Some suggested a sketch which might in
detail set forth Toffville; there were those who wanted something
like a picture of the Old Cattleman; while others urged an
elaboration of the personal characteristics of Old Man Enright, Doc
Peets, Cherokee Hall, Moore, Tutt, Boggs, Faro Nell, Old Monte, and
Texas Thompson. I have, how-ever, concluded to leave all these
matters to the illustrations of Mr. Remington and the imaginations
of those who read. I think it the better way-certainly it is the
easier one for me. I shall therefore permit the Old Cattleman to
tell his stories in his own fashion. The style will be crude,
abrupt, and meagre, but I trust it will prove as satisfactory to the
reader as it has to me.

     A. H. L.
     New York, May 15,1897.






CHAPTER I.

WOLFVILLE'S FIRST FUNERAL.


"These yere obsequies which I'm about mentionin'," observed the Old
Cattleman, "is the first real funeral Wolfville has."

The old fellow had lighted a cob pipe and tilted his chair back in a
fashion which proclaimed a plan to be comfortable. He had begun to
tolerate--even encourage--my society, although it was clear that as
a tenderfoot he regarded me with a species of gentle disdain.

I had provoked the subject of funeral ceremonies by a recurrence to
the affair of the Yellowhouse Man, and a query as to what would have
been the programme of the public-spirited hamlet of Wolfville if
that invalid had died instead of yielding to the nursing of Jack
Moore and that tariff on draw-poker which the genius of Old Man
Enright decreed.

It came in easy illustration, as answer to my question, for the Old
Cattleman to recall the funeral of a former leading spirit of
Southwestern society. The name of this worthy was Jack King; and
with a brief exposition of his more salient traits, my grizzled
raconteur led down to his burial with the remark before quoted.

"Of course," continued the Old Cattleman, "of course while thar's
some like this Yallerhouse gent who survives; thar's others of the
boys who is downed one time an' another, an' goes shoutin' home to
heaven by various trails. But ontil the event I now recalls, the
remainders has been freighted east or west every time, an' the camp
gets left. It's hard luck, but at last it comes toward us; an' thar
we be one day with a corpse all our'n, an' no partnership with
nobody nor nothin'.

"'It's the chance of our life,' says Doc Peets, 'an' we plays it.
Thar's nothin' too rich for our blood, an' these obsequies is goin'
to be spread-eagle, you bet! We'll show Red Dog an' sim'lar villages
they ain't sign-camps compared with Wolfville.'

"So we begins to draw in our belts an' get a big ready. Jack King,
as I says before, is corpse, eemergin' outen a game of poker as
sech. Which prior tharto, Jack's been peevish, an' pesterin' an'
pervadin' 'round for several days. The camp stands a heap o' trouble
with him an' tries to smooth it along by givin' him his whiskey an'
his way about as he wants 'em, hopin' for a change. But man is only
human, an' when Jack starts in one night to make a flush beat a tray
full for seven hundred dollars, he asks too much.

"Thar ain't no ondertakers, so we rounds up the outfit, an' knowin'
he'd take a pride in it, an' do the slam-up thing, we puts in Doc
Peets to deal the game unanimous.

"'Gents,' he says, as we-alls turns into the Red Light to be
refreshed, 'in assoomin' the present pressure I feels the
compliments paid me in the seelection. I shall act for the credit of
the camp, an' I needs your help. I desires that these rites be a
howlin' vict'ry. I don't want people comin' 'round next week
allowin' thar ain't been no funeral, an' I don't reckon much that
they will. We've got the corpse, an' if we gets bucked off now it's
our fault.'

"So he app'ints Old Monte an' Dan Boggs to go for a box for Jack,
an' details a couple of niggers from the corral to dig a tomb.

"'An' mind you-alls,' says Peets, `I wants that hole at least a mile
from camp. In order to make a funeral a success, you needs distance.
That's where deceased gets action. It gives the procession a chance
to spread an' show up. You can't make no funeral imposin' except
you're plumb liberal on distances.'

"It all goes smooth right off the reel. We gets a box an' grave
ready, an' Peets sticks up a notice on the stage-station door,
settin' the excitement for third-drink time next day. Prompt at the
drop of the hat the camp lets go all holds an' turns loose in a body
to put Jack through right. He's laid out in splendid shape in the
New York Store, with nothin' to complain of if he's asked to make
the kick himse'f. He has a new silk necktie, blue shirt an' pearl
buttons, trousers, an' boots. Some one--Benson Annie, I reckons--has
pasted some co't plaster over the hole on his cheek-bone where the
bullet gets in, an' all 'round Jack looks better than I ever sees
him.

"'Let the congregation remove its hats,' says Peets, a-settin' down
on a box up at Jack's head, 'an' as many as can will please get
somethin' to camp on. Now, my friends," he continues, "thar ain't no
need of my puttin' on any frills or gettin' in any scroll work. The
objects of this convention is plain an' straight. Mister King, here
present, is dead. Deceased is a very headstrong person, an' persists
yesterday in entertainin' views touchin' a club flush, queen at the
head, which results in life everlastin'. Now, gents, this is a
racket full of solemnity. We wants nothin' but good words. Don't
mind about the trooth; which the same ain't in play at a funeral,
nohow. We all knows Jack; we knows his record. Our information is
ample that a-way; how he steals a hoss at Tucson; how be robs a gent
last fall at Tombstone; how he downs a party at Cruces; how that
scar on his neck he gets from Wells-Fargo's people when he stands up
the stage over on the Lordsburg trail. But we lays it all aside to-
day. We don't copper nary bet. Yesterday mornin', accompanied by the
report of a Colt's forty-five, Mister King, who lies yere so cool
an' easy, leaves us to enter in behind the great white shinin' gates
of pearl an' gold, which swings inward to glory eternal. It's a
great set back at this time thar ain't no sky-pilot in the camp.
This deeficiency in sky-pilots is a hoss onto us, but we does our
best. At a time like this I hears that singin' is a good, safe
break, an' I tharfore calls on that little girl from Flagstaff to
give us "The Dyin' Ranger."

"So the little Flagstaff girl cl'ars her valves with a drink, an'
gives us the song; an' when the entire congregation draws kyards on
the last verse it does everybody good.

   "'Far away from his dear old Texas,
     We laid him down to rest;
     With his saddle for a pillow,
     And his gun across his breast.'

"Then Peets gets out the Scriptures. 'I'm goin' to read a chapter
outen these yere Testaments,' he says. 'I ain't makin' no claim for
it, except it's part of the game an' accordin' to Hoyle. If thar's a
preacher yere he'd do it, but bein' thar's no sech brand on this
range I makes it as a forced play myse'f.'

"So he reads us, a chapter about the sepulcher, an' Mary Magdalene,
an' the resurrection; an' everybody takes it in profound as prairie-
dogs, for that's the lead to make, an' we knows it.

"Then Peets allows he'd like to hear from any gent onder the head of
'good of the order.'

"'Mister Ondertaker an' Chairman,' says Jim Hamilton, 'I yields to
an inward impulse to say that this yere play weighs on me plumb
heavy. As keeper of the dance-hall I sees a heap of the corpse an'
knows him well. Mister King is my friend, an' while his moods is
variable an' oncertain; an' it's cl'arly worth while to wear your
gun while he's hoverin' near, I loves him. He has his weaknesses, as
do we all. A disp'sition to make new rooles as he plays along for
sech games of chance as enjoys his notice is perhaps his greatest
failin'. His givin' way to this habit is primar'ly the cause of his
bein' garnered in. I hopes he'll get along thar, an' offers a side
bet, even money, up to five hundred dollars, he will. He may alter
his system an' stand way up with the angels an' seraphs, an' if
words from me could fix it, I'd shorely stack 'em in. I would say
further that after consultin' with Billy Burns, who keeps the Red
Light, we has, in honor of the dead an' to mark the occasion of his
cashin' in, agreed upon a business departure of interest to all.
This departure Mister Burns will state. I mournfully gives way to
him for said purpose.'

"'Mister Peets, an' ladies an' gents,' says Burns, 'like Mister
Hamilton, who I'm proud to meet yere as gent, citizen, an' friend, I
knows deceased. He's a good man, an' a dead-game sport from 'way
back. A protracted wrastle with the remorseless drinks of the
frontier had begun to tell on him, an' for a year or so he's been
liable to have spells. Referrin' to the remarks of Mister Hamilton,
I states that by agreement between us an' in honor to departed, the
quotations on whiskey in this yere camp, from now on, will be two
drinks for two bits, instead of one as previous. We don't want to
onsettle trade, an' we don't believe this will. We makes it as a ray
of light in the darkness an' gloom of the hour.

"After this yere utterance, which is well received, we forms the
procession. Doc Peets, with two buglers from the Fort, takes the
lead, with Jack an' his box in one of the stage coaches comin' next.
Enright, Tutt, Boggs, Short Creek Dave, Texas Thompson, an' me,
bein' the six pallbearers, is on hosses next in line; an' Jack Moore
commandin' of the rest of the outfit, lines out permiscus.

"'This is a great day for Wolfville," says Peets, as he rides up an'
down the line. 'Thar ain't no camp this side of St. Looey could turn
this trick. Which I only wishes Jack could see it himse'f. It's more
calculated to bring this outfit into fav'rable notice than a
lynchin'.'

"At the grave we turns in an' gives three cheers for King, an' three
for Doc Peets; an' last we gives three more an' a tiger for the
camp. The buglers cuts loose everythin' they knows, from the 'water-
call' to the 'retreat,' an' while the niggers is a-shovelin' in the
sand we bangs away with our six-shooters for general results
delightful. You can gamble thar ain't been no funeral like it before
or since.

"At the last Peets hauls outen the stage we uses for Jack, a
headboard. When it's set up it looks like if Jack ain't satisfied,
he's shorely hard to suit. On it in big letters is:

     JaCK KinG
     LIfE AiN'T
     IN
     HOLDiNG A GOOD HAND
     BUT
     In PLAYiNG A PORE HANd
     WeLL.

"'You sees, we has to work in a little sentiment,' says Doc Peets.

"Then we details the niggers to stand watch-an'-watch every night
till further orders. No; we ain't afraid Jack'll get out none, but
the coyotes is shore due to come an' dig for him, so the niggers has
to stand gyard. We don't allow to find spec'mens of Jack spread
'round loose after all the trouble we takes."




CHAPTER II.

THE STINGING LIZARD.


"Thar's no sorter doubt to it," said the Old Cattleman after a long
pause devoted to meditation, and finally to the refilling of his cob
pipe, "thar ain't the slightest room for cavil but them ceremonies
over Jack King, deceased, is the most satisfactory pageant Wolfville
ever promotes."

It was at this point I proved my cunning by saying nothing. I was
pleased to hear the old man talk, and rightly theorized that the
better method of invoking his reminiscences just at this time was to
say never a word.

"However," he continued, "I don't reckon it's many weeks after we
follows Jack to the tomb, when we comes a heap near schedoolin'
another funeral, with the general public a-contributin' of the
corpse. To be speecific, I refers to a occasion when we-alls comes
powerful close to lynchin' Cherokee Hall.

"I don't mind on bosomin' myself about it. It's all a
misonderstandin'; the same bein' Cherokee's fault complete. We don't
know him more'n to merely drink with at that eepock, an' he's that
sly an' furtive in his plays, an' covers his trails so speshul, he
nacherally breeds sech suspicions that when the stage begins to be
stood up reg'lar once a week, an' all onaccountable, Cherokee comes
mighty close to culminatin' in a rope. Which goes to show that you
can't be too open an' free in your game, an' Cherokee would tell you
so himse'f.

"This yere tangle I'm thinkin' of ain't more'n a month after
Cherokee takes to residin' in Wolfville. He comes trailin' in one
evenin' from Tucson, an' onfolds a layout an' goes to turnin' faro-
bank in the Red Light. No one remarks this partic'lar, which said
spectacles is frequent. The general idee is that Cherokee's on the
squar' an' his game is straight, an' of course public interest don't
delve no further into his affairs.

"Cherokee, himse'f, is one of these yere slim, silent people who
ain't talkin' much, an' his eye for color is one of them raw grays,
like a new bowie.

"It's perhaps the third day when Cherokee begins to struggle into
public notice. Thar's a felon whose name is Boone, but who calls
himse'f the 'Stingin' Lizard,' an' who's been pesterin' 'round
Wolfville, mebby, it's a month. This yere Stingin' Lizard is thar
when Cherokee comes into camp; an' it looks like the Stingin' Lizard
takes a notion ag'in Cherokee from the jump.

"Not that this yere Lizard is likely to control public feelin' in
the matter; none whatever. He's some onpop'lar himself. He's too
toomultuous for one thing, an' he has a habit of molestin' towerists
an' folks he don't know at all, which palls on disinterested people
who has dooties to perform. About once a week this Lizard man goes
an' gets the treemers, an' then the camp has to set up with him till
his visions subsides. Fact is, he's what you-alls East calls 'a
disturbin' element,' an' we makes ready to hang him once or twice,
but somethin' comes up an' puts it off, an' we sorter neglects it.

"But as I says, he takes a notion ag'in Cherokee. It's the third
night after Cherokee gets in, an' he's ca'mly behind his box at the
Red Light, when in peramb'lates this Lizard. Seems like Cherokee,
bein' one of them quiet wolves, fools up the Lizard a lot. This
Lizard's been hostile an' blood-hungry all day, an' I reckons he all
at once recalls Cherokee; an', deemin' of him easy, he allows he'll
go an' chew his mane some for relaxation.

"If I was low an' ornery like this Lizard, I ain't none shore but
I'd be fooled them days on Cherokee myse'f. He's been fretful about
his whiskey, Cherokee has,--puttin' it up she don't taste right,
which not onlikely it don't; but beyond pickin' flaws in his nose-
paint thar ain't much to take hold on about him. He's so slim an'
noiseless besides, thar ain't none of us but figgers this yere
Stingin' Lizard's due to stampede him if he tries; which makes what
follows all the more impressive.

"So the Lizard projects along into the Red Light, whoopin' an'
carryin' on by himse'f. Straightway he goes up ag'inst Cherokee's
layout.

"I don't buy no chips," says the Lizard to Cherokee, as he gets in
opposite. "I puts money in play; an' when I wins I wants money
sim'lar. Thar's fifty dollars on the king coppered; an' fifty
dollars on the eight open. Turn your kyards, an' turn 'em squar'. If
you don't, I'll peel the ha'r an' hide plumb off the top of your
head."

"Cherokee looks at the Lizard sorter soopercillus an' indifferent;
but he don't say nothin'. He goes on with the deal, an', the kyards
comin' that a-way, he takes in the Lizard's two bets.

"Durin' the next deal the Lizard ain't sayin' much direct, but keeps
cussin' an' wranglin' to himse'f. But he's gettin' his money up all
the time; an' with the fifty dollars he lose on the turn, he's shy
mebby four hundred an' fifty at the close.

"'Bein' in the hole about five hundred dollars,' says the Lizard, in
a manner which is a heap onrespectful, ' an' so that a wayfarin'
gent may not be misled to rooin utter, I now rises to ask what for a
limit do you put on this deadfall anyhow?'

"'The bridle's plumb off to you, amigo,' says Cherokee, an' his
tones is some hard. I notices it all right enough, 'cause I'm doin'
business at the table myse'f at the time, an' keepin' likewise case
on the game. `The bridle's plumb off for you,' says Cherokee, 'so
any notion you entertains in favor of bankruptin' of yourse'f quick
may riot right along.'

"'You're dead shore of that?' says the Lizard with a sneer. `Now I
reckons a thousand-dollar bet would scare this puerile game you
deals a-screechin' up a tree or into a hole, too easy.'

"`I never likes to see no gent strugglin' in the coils of error,'
says Cherokee, with a sneer a size larger than the Lizard's; `I
don't know what wads of wealth them pore old clothes of yours
conceals, but jest the same I tells you what I'll do. Climb right
onto the layout, body, soul, an' roll, an' put a figger on your
worthless se'f, an' I'll turn you for the whole shootin'-match.
You're in yere to make things interestin', I sees that, an' I'll
voylate my business principles an' take a night off to entertain
you.' An' yere Cherokee lugs out a roll of bills big enough to choke
a cow.

"'I goes you if I lose,' says the Stingin' Lizard. Then assoomin' a
sooperior air, he remarks: 'Mebby it's a drink back on the trail
when I has misgivin's as to the rectitood of this yere brace you're
dealin'. Bein' public-sperited that a-way, in my first frenzy I
allows I'll take my gun an' abate it a whole lot. But a ca'mer mood
comes on, an' I decides, as not bein' so likely to disturb a peace-
lovin' camp, I removes this trap for the onwary by merely bustin'
the bank. Thar,' goes on the Stingin' Lizard, at the same time
dumpin' a large wad on the layout, 'thar's even four thousand
dollars. Roll your game for that jest as it lays.'

"'Straighten up your dust,' says Cherokee, his eyes gettin' a kind
of gleam into 'em, 'straighten up your stuff an' get it some'ers.
Don't leave it all spraddled over the scene. I turns for it ready
enough, but we ain't goin' to argue none as to where it lays after
the kyard falls.'

"The rest of us who's been buckin' the game moderate an' right
cashes in at this, an' leaves an onobstructed cloth to the Stingin'
Lizard. This yere's more caution than good nacher. As long as folks
is bettin' along in limits, say onder fifty dollars, thar ain't no
shootin' likely to ensoo. But whenever a game gets immoderate that
a-way, an' the limit's off, an' things is goin' that locoed they
begins to play a thousand an' over on a kyard an' scream for action,
gents of experience stands ready to go to duckin' lead an' dodgin'
bullets instanter.

"But to resoome: The Stingin' Lizard lines up his stuff, an' the
deal begins. It ain't thirty seconds till the bank wins, an' the
Stingin' Lizard is the wrong side of the layout from his money. He
takes it onusual ugly, only he ain't sayin' much. He sa'nters over
to the bar, an' gets a big drink. Cherokee is rifflin' the deck, but
I notes he's got his gray eye on the Stingin' Lizard, an' my respect
for him increases rapid. I sees he ain't goin' to get the worst of
no deal, an' is organized to protect his game plumb through if this
Lizard makes a break. "'Do you--all know where I hails from?' asks
the Stingin' Lizard, comin' back to Cherokee after he's done hid his
drink.

"'Which I shorely don't;' says Cherokee. 'I has from time to time
much worthless information thrust upon me, but so far I escapes all
news of you complete.'

"'Where I comes from, which is Texas,' says the Lizard, ignorin' of
Cherokee's manner, the same bein' some insultin', `they teaches the
babies two things,-never eat your own beef, an' never let no kyard-
thief down you:

"'Which is highly thrillin',' says Cherokee, 'as reminiscences of
your yooth, but where does you-all get action on 'em in Arizona?'

"'Where I gets action won't be no question long,' says the Lizard,
mighty truculent. 'I now announces that this yere game is a skin an'
a brace. Tharfore I returns for my money; an', to be frank, I
returns a-shootin':

"It's at this p'int we-alls who represents the public kicks back our
chairs an' stampedes outen range. As the Lizard makes his bluff his
hand goes to his artillery like a flash.

"The Lizard's some quick, but Cherokee's too soon for him. With the
first move of the Lizard's hand, he searches out a bowie from
som'ers back of his neck. I'm some employed placin' myse'f at the
time, an' don't decern it none till Cherokee brings it over his
shoulder like a stream of white light.

"It's shore great knife-work. Cherokee gives the Lizard aige an
p'int, an' all in one motion. Before the Lizard more'n lifts his
weepon, Cherokee half slashes his gun-hand off at the wrist; an'
then, jest as the Lizard begins to wonder at it, he gets the nine-
inch blade plumb through his neck. He's let out right thar.

"'It looks like I has more of this thing to do,' says Cherokee, an'
his tone shows he's half-way mournin' over it, ` than any sport in
the Territory. I tries to keep outen this, but that Lizard gent
would have it.'

"After the killin', Enright an' Doc Peets, with Boggs, Tutt, an'
Jack Moore, sorter talks it over quiet, an' allows it's all right.

"'This Stingin' Lizard gent,' says Enright, has been projectin'
'round lustin' for trouble now, mebby it's six weeks. It's amazin'
to me he lasts as long as he does, an' it speaks volumes for the
forbearin', law-abiding temper of the Wolfville public. This
Lizard's a mighty oppressive person, an' a heap obnoxious; an' while
I don't like a knife none myse'f as a trail out, an' inclines to
distrust a gent who does, I s'pose it's after all a heap a matter of
taste an' the way your folks brings you up. I leans to the view,
gents, that this yere corpse is constructed on the squar'. What do
you-all think, Peets?'

"'I entertains ideas sim'lar,' says Doc Peets. 'Of course I takes it
this kyard-sharp, Cherokee, aims to bury his dead. He nacherally
ain't look. in' for the camp to go 'round cleanin' up after him
none.' "That's about how it stands. Nobody finds fault with
Cherokee, an' as he ups an' plants the Stingin' Lizard's remainder
the next day, makin' the deal with a stained box, crape, an' the
full regalia, it all leaves the camp with a mighty decent
impression. By first-drink time in the evenin' of the second day, we
ain't thinkin' no more about it.

"Now you-all begins to marvel where do we get to the hangin' of
Cherokee Hall? We're workin' in towards it now.

"You sees, followin' the Stingin' Lizard's jump into the misty
beyond--which it's that sudden I offers two to one them angels notes
a look of s'prise on the Stingin' Lizard's face as to how he comes
to make the trip-Cherokee goes on dealin' faro same as usual. As I
says before, he ain't no talker, nohow; now he says less than ever.

"But what strikes us as onusual is, he saddles up a pinto pony he's
got over to the corral, an' jumps off every now an' then for two an'
three days at a clatter. No one knows where he p'ints to, more'n he
says he's due over in Tucson. These yere vacations of Cherokee's is
all in the month after the Stingin' Lizard gets downed. "It's about
this time, too, the stage gets held up sech a scand'lous number of
times it gives people a tired feelin'. All by one party, too. He
merely prances out in onexpected places with a Winchester; stands up
the stage in an onconcerned way, an' then goes through everythin'
an' everybody, from mail-bags to passengers, like the grace of
heaven through a camp-meetin'. Nacheral, it all creates a heap of
disgust. "'If this yere industrious hold-up keeps up his lick,' says
Texas Thompson about the third time the stage gets rustled, `an'
heads off a few more letters of mine, all I has to say is my wife
back in Laredo ain't goin' to onderstand it none. She ain't lottin'
much on me nohow, an' if the correspondence between us gets much
more fitful, she's goin' p'intin' out for a divorce. This deal's
liable to turn a split for me in my domestic affairs.' An' that's
the way we-alls feels. This stage agent is shorely in disrepoot some
in Wolfville. If he'd been shakin' up Red Dog's letter-bags, we
wouldn't have minded so much.

"I never does know who's the first to think of Cherokee Hall, but
all at once it's all over camp Talkin' it over, it's noticed mighty
soon that, come right to cases, no one knows his record, where he's
been or why he's yere. Then his stampedin' out of camp like he's
been doin' for a month is too many for us.

"'I puts no trust in them Tucson lies he tells, neither,' says Doc
Peets. 'Whatever would he be shakin' up over in Tucson? His game's
yere, an' this theery that he's got to go scatterin' over thar once
a week is some gauzy.'

"'That's whatever,' says Dan Boggs, who allers trails in after Doc
Peets, an' plays the same system emphatic. An' I says myse'f, not
findin' no fault with Boggs tharfor, that this yere Peets is the
finest-eddicated an' levelest-headed sharp in Arizona.

"'Well,' says Jack Moore, who as I says before does the rope work
for the Stranglers, 'if you-alls gets it settled that this faro
gent's turnin' them tricks with the stage an' mail-bags, the sooner
he's swingin' to the windmill, the sooner we hears from our loved
ones at home. What do you say, Enright?'

"'Why,' says Enright, all thoughtful, 'I reckons it's a case. S'pose
you caper over where he feeds at the O.K. House an' bring him to us.
The signs an' signal-smokes shorely p'ints to this yere Cherokee as
our meat; but these things has to be done in order. Bring him in,
Jack, an', to save another trip, s'pose you bring a lariat from the
corral at the same time.'

"It don't take Moore no time to throw a gun on Cherokee where he's
consoomin' flapjacks at the O. K. House, an' tell him the committee
needs him at the New York Store. Cherokee don't buck none, but comes
along, passive as a tabby cat.

"'Whatever's the hock kyard to all this?' he says to Jack Moore. 'Is
it this Stingin' Lizard play a month ago?'

"'No,' says Moore, "t'ain't quite sech ancient hist'ry. It's stage
coaches. Thar's a passel of people down yere as allows you've been
rustlin' the mails.'

"Old Man Rucker, who keeps the O. K. House, is away when Moore
rounds up his party. But Missis Rucker's thar, an' the way that old
lady talks to Enright an' the committee is a shame. She comes over
to the store, too, along of Moore an' Cherokee, an' prances in an'
comes mighty near stampedin' the whole outfit.

"'See yere, Sam Enright,' she shouts, wipin' her hands on her bib,
'what be you-alls aimin' for to do? Linin' up, I s'pose to hang the
only decent man in town?'

"'Ma'am,' says Enright, 'this yere sharp is 'cused of standin' up
the stage them times recent over by Tucson. Do you know anythin'
about it?'

"'No; I don't,' says Missis Rucker. 'You don't reckon, now, I did it
none, do you? I says this, though; it's a heap sight more likely
some drunkard a-settin' right yere on this committee stops them
stages than Cherokee Hall.'

"'Woman's nacher's that emotional,' says Enright to the rest of us,
'she's oncapable of doin' right. While she's the loveliest of
created things, still sech is the infirmities of her intellects,
that gov'ment would bog down in its most important functions, if
left to woman.'

"'Bog down or not,' says Missis Rucker, gettin' red an' heated, 'you
fools settin' up thar like a band of prairie-dogs don't hang this
yere Cherokee Hall. 'Nother thing, you ain't goin' to hang nobody to
the windmill ag'in nohow. I has my work to do, an' thar's enough on
my hands, feedin' sech swine as you-alls three times a day, without
havin' to cut down dead folks outen my way every time I goes for a
bucket of water. You-alls takes notice now; you don't hang nothin'
to the windmill no more. As for this yere Cherokee, he ain't stopped
no more stages than I be.'

"'But you sees yourse'f, ma'am, you hasn't the slightest evidence
tharof,' says Enright, tryin' to soothe her down.

"'I has, however, what's a mighty sight better than evidence,' says
Missis Rucker, 'an' that's my firm convictions.'

"'Well, see yere,' says Cherokee, who's been listenin' all peaceful,
'let me in on this. What be you-alls doin' this on? I reckons I'm
entitled to a look at your hand for my money.'

"Enright goes on an' lays it off for Cherokee; how he's outen camp
every time the stage is robbed, an' the idee is abroad he does it.

"'As the kyards lay in the box,' says Cherokee, 'I don't reckon
thar's much doubt but you-alls will wind up the deal by hangin' me?'

"'It's shorely five to one that a-way,' says Enright. 'Although I'm
bound to say it ain't none decisive as yet.'

"'The trooth is,' says Cherokee, sorter thoughtful, 'I wasn't aimin'
to be hung none this autumn. I ain't got time, gents, for one thing,
an' has arranged a heap diff'rent. In the next place, I never stands
up no stage.'

"'That's what they all says,' puts in Boggs, who's a mighty
impatient man. 'I shorely notes no reason why we-alls can't proceed
with this yere lynchin' at once. S'pose this Cherokee ain't stood up
no stage; he's done plenty of other things as merits death. It
strikes me thar's a sight of onnecessary talk yere."

"'If you ain't out working the road,' says Doc Peets to Cherokee,
not heedin' of Bogg's petulance, 'them stage-robbin' times, s'pose
you onfolds where you was at?"

"Well, son, not to string this yere story out longer'n three drinks,
yere is how it is: This Cherokee it looks like is soft-hearted that
a-way,--what you calls romantic. An' it seems likewise that shovin'
the Stingin' Lizard from shore that time sorter takes advantage an'
feeds on him. So he goes browsin' 'round the postmaster all casooal,
an' puts questions. Cherokee gets a p'inter about some yearlin' or
other in Tucson this Stingin' Lizard sends money to an' makes good
for, which he finds the same to be fact on caperin' over. It's a
nephy or some sech play. An' the Stingin' Lizard has the young one
staked out over thar, an' is puttin' up for his raiment an' grub all
reg'lar enough.

"'Which I yereafter backs this infant's play myse'f,' says Cherokee
to the barkeep of the Oriental Saloon over in Tucson, which is the
party the Stingin' Lizard pastures the young one on. 'You're all
right, Bill,' goes on this Cherokee to the barkeep,' but now I goes
back of the box for this infant boy, I reckons I'll saw him off onto
a preacher, or some sharp sim'lar, where he gets a Christian
example. Whatever do you think?'

"The barkeep says himse'f he allows it's the play to make. So he an'
Cherokee goes surgin' 'round, an' at last they camps the boy--who's
seven years comin' grass--on the only pulpit-sharp in Tucson. This
gospel-spreader says he'll feed an' bed down the boy for some sum;
which was shore a giant one, but the figgers I now forgets.

"Cherokee gives him a stack of blues to start his game, an' is now
pesterin' 'round in a co't tryin' to get the young one counter-
branded from the Stingin' Lizard's outfit into his, an' given the
name of Cherokee Hall. That's what takes him over to Tucson them
times, an' not stage-robbin'.

"Two days later, in fact, to make shore all doubts is over, Cherokee
even rings in said divine on us; which the divine tells the same
story. I don't reckon now he's much of a preacher neither; for he
gives Wolfville one whirl for luck over in the warehouse back of the
New York Store, an' I shore hears 'em as makes a mighty sight more
noise, an' bangs the Bible twice as hard, back in the States. I says
so to Cherokee; but he puts it up he don't bank none on his
preachin'.

"'What I aims at,' says Cherokee, 'is someone who rides herd on the
boy all right, an' don't let him stampede off none into vicious
ways.'

"'Why don't you keep the camp informed of this yere orphan an' the
play you makes?' says Enright, at the time it's explained to the
committee,--the time they trees Cherokee about them stages.

"'It's that benev'lent an' mushy,' says Cherokee, 'I'm plumb ashamed
of the deal, an' don't allow to go postin' no notices tharof. But
along comes this yere hold-up business, an', all inadvertent, tips
my hand; which the same I stands, however, jest the same.'

"'It's all right,' says Enright, some disgusted though; 'but the
next time you makes them foundlin' asylum trips, don't walk in the
water so much. Leave your trail so Wolfville sees it, an' then folks
ain't so likely to jump your camp in the dark an' take to shootin'
you up for Injuns an' sim'lar hostiles.'

"'But one thing more,' continues Enright, an' then we orders the
drinks. Jack Moore is yereby instructed to present the compliments
of the committee to Rucker, when he trails in from Tucson; which he
also notifies him to hobble his wife yereafter durin' sessions of
this body. She's not to go draggin' her lariat 'round loose no more,
settin' law an' order at defiance durin' sech hours as is given to
business by the Stranglers."




CHAPTER III.

THE STORY OF WILKINS


"No; I don't reckon I ever cuts the trail of this yere Wilson you
mentions, once. If I does, the fact's done pulled its picket-pin an'
strayed from my recollections."

I had recalled the name of a former friend, one Wilson, who, sore
given to liquor, had drifted to Arizona many years before and
disappeared. Suggesting "Wilson" to the Old Cattleman, I asked if he
had met with such a name and character in his Wolfville rambles.

As often chanced, however, the question bore fruit in a story. It
frequently needed but a slight blow from the rod of casual inquiry,
and the fountains of my old friend's reminiscences gushed forth.

"No, I never crosses up with him," observed the old Cattleman; "but
speakin' of Wilson puts in my mind a gent by the name of Wilkins,
who it's some likely is as disrepootable as your old pard Wilson."

"What about Wilkins?" I asked.

"Nothin' thrillin', "answered the old gentleman; "nothin' you'd stay
up nights to hear, I don't reckon. It's Wilkins's daughter who is
the only redeemin' thing about the old Cimmaron; an' it's a heap
likely right now it's her I remembers about instead of him.

"Not at all," he continued, "I don't mind onfoldin' as to Wilkins,
nor yet of an' concernin' his daughter. You see this Wilkins is
herdin' 'round Wolfville when I first trails in. I never does know
where he hails from. I don't reckon' though, he ever grades no ways
high, an' at the crisis I'm mentionin' his speshul play is gettin'
drunk mostly; an' not allowin' to hurt himse'f none with work.

"'Workin' with your fins,' says this Wilkins, 'is low an'
onendoorin' to a gent with pride to wound. It ain't no use neither.
I knows folks as works, an' folks as don't, an' you can't tell one
from which. They gets along entirely sim'lar.

"'But how you goin' to live?' says Dave Tutt, when he makes this
remark, an' who is fussin' with Wilkins for bein' so reedic'lous an'
shiftless.

"'That's all right about my livin',' says Wilkins; 'don't you-all
pass no restless nights on my account. Go read your Scriptures; read
that bluff about feedin' the young ravens an' sparrers. Well, that's
me this trip. I'm goin' to rap for a show-down on them promises an'
see what's in 'em.'

"'This camp ain't strong on Holy Writ, nohow,' says Dave Tutt, 'an'
I'm partic'lar puny that a-way. It's your game though, an' your
American jedgement goes soopreme as to how you plays it.'

"This Wilkins lives in a wickeyup out on the aige of the town, an' a
girl, which she's his daughter, about 19 years old, keeps camp for
him. No one knows her well. She stays on her reservation mighty
close, an' never seems visible much. I notices her in the New York
Store once, buyin' some salt hoss, an'she ain't no dream of
loveliness neither as to looks.

"Her face makes you feel she's good people though, with her big soft
eyes. They has a tired, broke-down look, like somehow she's been
packed more'n she can carry, an' has two or three notions about
layin' down with the load.

"It's mebby two weeks after Dave Tutt's talk with Wilkins, when
we're all in the Red Light takin' our forty drops, an' Sam Enright
brings up this yere Wilkins.

"'It has been a question with me,' he says, 'how this old shorthorn
and his girl manages for to make out; an' while I care none whatever
for Wilkins, it ain't no credit to a live camp like this to permit a
young female to suffer, an' I pauses yere to add, it ain't goin' to
occur no more. Yesterday, allowin' to bushwhack some trooth about
'em, I waits till old Wilkins drifts over to the corral, an' then I
goes projectin' 'round for facts. I works it plenty cunnin', an'
sorter happens up to the old man's tepee. I calls the girl out an'
puts it up I wants to see her paw a heap on some business.

"'"I wants to see him speshul,"' I says.

"'"Well, he ain't here now,"' says the girl, "so whatever'll you
do?"'

"'"I don't reckon you could prance 'round some an' find him for me,
could you, Miss?"' I says.

"'So the girl,' continues Enright, 'which her name is Susan, puts on
her shaker an' goes stampedin' off; an' while she's gone I injuns
an' spies 'round a whole lot; an', comin' down to the turn, Wilkins
an' that girl ain't got nothin' to eat. The question now is, what
action does Wolfville 'naugerate at a juncture sech as this?'
"'What's the matter with takin' up a donation like they does for a
preacher, an' saw it onto the girl?' says Dan Boggs.

"'You couldn't open your game that a-way, nohow,' says Doc Peets.
'That's accordin' to Hoyle for sky-pilots an' missionary people; but
a young female a-hoidin' of herse'f high spurns your money. Thar's
nothin' ketches me like a female of my species in distress, an' I
recalls offerin' to stake a lady, who's lost her money somehow, back
in St. Looey once. This yere female was strange to me entire, but if
she'd knowed me from 'way back she couldn't a-blazed up more
frightful. The minute I pulls my bankroll on her, she goes cavortin'
off too hostile to talk. It takes ten minutes to get her back to the
agency to hear me 'pologize, an' even then she glares an' snorts
like she's liable to stampede ag'in. No; you don't want to try an'
give this girl no money. What we-alls needs is to hunt up somethin'
for her to work at an' pay her.'

"'The Doc's right,' says Enright, 'an' the thing is to find
somethin' for this yere lady to do. Any gent with a notion on the
subject can't speak too quick.'

"'No party need take my remarks as personal,' says Burns, who runs
the Red Light, 'as nothin' invidjous is intended; but I rises to say
that a heap of my business is on credit. A gent comes in free an'
sociable, names his sozodont, an' gets it. If he pays cash, all
right; if he wants credit, all right. "You names your day to drink,
an' you names your day to pay," is my motto, as you-alls knows. This
bein' troo, onder present exigences what for a scheme would it be
for me to get an outfit of books,--day-books, week-books, ledgers,
an' the rest of the layout,--an' let this yere maiden keep 'em a
whole lot? I throws this out as a su'gestion.'

"'I ain't meanin' nothin' ag'inst Burns's su'gestion,' says Texas
Thompson, 'but in my opinion this camp ain't ripe for keepin' books
as yet. Things like that has to be come to by degrees. I've knowed a
heap of trouble arise from keepin' books, an' as long as this yere's
a peaceful camp let's keep it that a-way.'

"'That settles it,' says Burns, 'thar's enough said, an' I don't
keep no books.'

"'You-alls present knows me,' says Cherokee Hall, who, as I says
previous, is turnin' faro in the Red Light, 'an' most of you has met
me frequent in a business way. Thar's my game goin' every night
reg'lar. Thar's nothin' tin-horn about it. It ain't no skin game
neither. Any gent with doubts can step over an' test my box, which
he'll find all comfortable on the layout awaitin' his convenience.
It ain't been usual for me to blow my own bazoo to any extent, an' I
only does it now as bein' preliminary to the statement that my game
ain't no deadfall, an' is one as a respectable an' virchus female
person could set in on with perfect safetytood to her reputation.
This yere lady in question needs light, reg'lar employment, an' I
lets it fly that if she wants in on any sech deal I'll go her a blue
stack a week to hold down the chair as look-out for my game.'

"'Cherokee's offer is all right,' says Enright; 'it's good talk from
a squar' man. Women, however, is partic'lar, an' like hosses they
shies at things thar ain't no danger in. You sees how that is; a
woman don't reason nothin', she feels an' mighty likely this young
person is loaded to the gyards with sech notions ag'in gamblin' as
would send her flyin' at the bare mention. The fact is, I thinks of
somethin' sim'lar, but has to give it up. I figgers, first dash out
o' the box, that a safe, easy trail to high ground is to give her a
table an' let her deal a little stud for the boys. This yere
wouldn't be no resk, an' the rake is a shore thing for nine or ten
dollars a night. Bein' a benev'lence, I knows the boys would set in
mighty free, an' the trouble would be corraled right thar. With this
yere in my mind I taps her gently about our various games when I
calls for her paw; an' to put it straight, she takes it reluctant
an' disgusted at the mere hint. Of course we-alls has to stand these
things from woman, an' we might as well p'int up some other way an'
no time lost.'

"'Don't you-alls reckon for to make a speshul rake on all poker
goin', same as about that Yallerhouse gent, might be an ondefeasible
way to get at the neck of this business?' says Dave Tutt. 'I merely
asks it as a question.'

"'That wouldn't do,' says Doc Peets, 'but anyhow yere comes Wilkins
how, an' if, as Enright says, the're out of chuck up his way, I
reckons I'll lose a small bet to the old shorthorn ontil sech times
as we devises some scheme all reg'lar.'

"'Howdy, Wilkins?' says Doc, mighty gay an' genial, 'how's things
stackin' up?'

"'Mighty ornery,' says Wilkins.

"'Feel like makin' a little wager this A. M.?' says Doc.

"'What do you-all want to gamble at?' says Wilkins.

"'Oh,' says Doc, 'I'm feelin' a heap careless about what I do gamble
at. S'pose I goes you ten dollars's worth of grub the Lordsburg
buckboard don't show up none to-day?'

"'If I had ten dollars I'd about call you a lot on that,' says
Wilkins, 'but I'm a pore cuss an' ain't got no ten dollars, an'
what's the use? None of you-alls ain't got no Red Light whiskey-
chips you ain't usin', be you? S'pose you-alls gropes about in your
war-bags an' sees. I'm needin' of a drink mighty bad.'

"Old Wilkins looks some queer about the eyes, an' more'n usual
shaky, so we gives him a big drink an' he sorter braces up.

"'I'll back Wilkins's end of that bet you offers, Doc,' says Tutt,
'so consider it made, will you?'

"'You was offerin' to bet grub,' says the old man, powerful peevish
an' fretful. 'What for do you want to bet grub? Why don't you bet
money, so I gets what I wants with it? It's my money when I wins.
Mebby I don't want no grub. Mebby I wants clothes or whiskey. You
ain't no sport, Doc, to tie up a play with a string like that. Gimme
another drink some one, I'm most dyin' for some.'

"The old man 'pears like he's mighty sick that a-way, so thar's
nothin' for it but to give him another hooker, which we does
accordin'.

"'I'm feelin' like I was shot hard by somethin',' he says, 'an' I
don't like for to go home till I'm better, an' scare Sue. I reckon
I'll camp down on this yere monte table for an hour till I comes
'round.'

"So Wilkins curls up on the table, an' no one notices him for about
twenty minutes, when along comes rattlin' up the Lordsburg mail.

"'You win, Wilkins,' says Peets; 'come over to the New York Store
an' cut out your stuff.' "The old man acts like he don't hear, so
Doc shakes him up some. No use, thar ain't no get up in him.

"'Looks like he's gone to sleep for good,' says Doc.

"Then he walks 'round him, shakes him, an' takes a look at his eye,
a-openin' of it with his finger. Finally he stands back, sticks his
thumb in his belt, an' whistles.

"'What's up?' says Cherokee Hall. 'He ain't tryin' to work us for
another drink I hopes.'

"Well, this is a deal,' says Doc, 'an' no humbug neither. Gents, I'm
blessed if this yere old prairie-dog ain't shorely up an' died.'

"We-alls comes up an' takes a look at him, an' Doc has called the
turn. Shore enough the old man has cashed in.

"`This is a hoss on us, an' no doubt about it,' says Enright. 'I
ain't worryin' for Wilkins, as he most likely is ahead on the deal;
but what gets me is how to break the news to this yere maiden. It's
goin' to be a hair-line play. I reckons, Doc, it's you an' me.'

"So they goes over to Wilkins's wickeyup an' calls the young Sue
girl out, an' Enright begins tellin' her mighty soft as how her paw
is took bad down to the Red Light. But the girl seems to get it as
right as if she's scouted for it a month.

"'He's dead!' she says; an' then cripples down alongside of the door
an' begins to sob.

"'Thar ain't no use denyin' it, Miss,' says Enright, 'your paw
struck in on the big trail where the hoof-prints all p'ints one way.
But don't take it hard, Miss, thar ain't a gent don't give you
sympathy. What you do now is stay right yere, an' the camp'll tend
to the funeral, an' put it up right an' jest as you says, you bein'
mourner-in-chief. You can trust us for the proper play; since we
buries Jack King, obsequies is our long suit.'

"The little Sue girl struggles through somehow, an' has her nerve
with her. The funeral, you bet, is right. This time we ropes in a
preacher belongin' to some deep-water outfit over in Tucson. He
somehow is strayed, an' happens along our way, an' we gets him
squar' in the door. He jumps in an' gives them ceremonies a
scientific whirl as ain't possible nohow to amatures. All 'round we
wouldn't have put on more dog if we'd been plantin' Enright; all of
course on the little Sue girl's account. Next day the outfit goes
over to find out whatever she allows to do.

"'You sees, Miss; says Enright, 'anythin' you says, goes. Not
waitin' to learn its name, even, I'm directed to state as how the
camp backs your play an' makes good.'

"'I'm allowin' to go to the States,' says the girl, 'an' I'm
obleeged to you.'

"'We was hopin',' says Enright, 'as you'd stay yere. We-alls sorter
figgers you'd teach us a school. Of course thar ain't no papooses
yet, but as a forced play we arranges to borrow a small herd from
Tombstone, an' can do it too easy. Then, ag'in, a night-school would
hit our needs right; say one night a week. Thar's a heap of
ignorance in this yere camp, an' we needs a night-school bad. It
would win for fifty dollars a week, Miss; an' you thinks of it.'

"No, the pore girl couldn't think of it nohow.

"'Of course, Miss, says Enright, 'we alls ain't expectin' you to
open this yere academy the first kyards off the deck. You needs time
to line up your affairs, an' am likewise wrung with grief. You takes
your leesure as to that; meanwhile of course your stipend goes on
from now.'

"But the little Sue girl couldn't listen. Her paw is dead, an' now
she's due in the States. She says things is all right thar. She has
friends as her paw never likes; but who's friends of hers, an'
she'll go to them.

"'Well, Miss,' says Enright, mighty regretful, 'if that's how it
lays, I reckons you'll go, so thar's nothin' for us to do but settle
up an' fork over some dust we owes your paw. He bein' now deceased,
of course you represents.'

"The girl couldn't see how any one owes her paw, ''cause he's been
too sick to work,' she says.

"'We owes him all the same,' says Enright, mighty ferocious. 'We
onderstands well enough how we comes to owe him, don't we, Doc?'

"'You can stack in your life we do,' says Doc, plenty prompt an'
cheerful. 'We-alls owes for his nailin' them hoss-thiefs when they
tries to clean out the corral.'

"'That's it,' says Enright, 'for ketchin' of some rustlers who lays
for our stock. It's all right, Miss; you needn't look so doubtful.
You wouldn't if you knowed this camp. It's the last outfit on earth
as would go an' give money to people. It's a good straight camp,
Wolfville is; but business is business, an' we ain't pirootin'
'round none, givin' nothin' away, be we, Doc?'

"'Not much,' says Doc. 'It's enough for a gent to pay debts, without
stampedin' 'round makin' presents of things.'

"'That's whatever,' says Enright; 'so Miss, me an Doc'll vamos over
to the Red Light an' get the dust, an' I reckons we'll be back in an
hour. I s'pose we owes Mister Wilkins about 'five hundred dollars,
don't we, Doc?'

"'Tain't so much,' says Doc, who's guileful that a-way. As he sees
the little Sue girl archin' for another buck, he pulls out a paper
an' makes a bluff. 'Yere it is,--four hundred an' ninety-three
dollars an' seventy-four cents. I puts it down all accurate, 'cause
I don't allow no sharp to come 'round an' beat me none.'

"We-alls throws 'round an' makes up the pot to come to Doc's figger-
-which I wants to say right yere, Doc Peets is the ablest gent I
ever sees--an' the little Sue girl has to take it.

"Which this money lets her out right, an' she cries an' thanks us,
an' the next day she takes the stage for Tucson. We're thar to say
'good-by' an' wish the little Sue girl luck.

"'Adios,' says Peets, takin' off his hat to her; 'it ain't down on
the bills none, but if you-all could manage to kiss this yere outfit
once apiece, Miss, it would be regarded. You needn't be afraid. Some
of 'em looks a little off, but they're all right, an' b'ar huggin'
is barred.'

"So the little Sue girl begins with Enright an' kisses us all, a-
sobbin' meantime some free. As the affection proceeds, Cherokee
sorter shoves back an' allows he'll pass.

"'Not any pass!' says Enright. 'Any gent who throws off on that thar
little Sue girl, she willin', needn't look for any luck but
lynchin'.'

"'That settles it,' says Cherokee, 'I saloots this yere lady.'

"So he ups an' kisses the little Sue girl like she's a hot flat-
iron, an' backs into the crowd.

"'Cherokee makes me tired,' says Peets, who's ridin' herd on the
play. When it comes his turn he kisses her slow an' rapturous, an'
is contemptuous of Cherokee.

"When she's in the stage a-startin', Cherokee walks up, all
respectful.

"'You've been away from the States some time, Miss,' he says, 'an'
it's an even break you won't find things the way you expects. Now,
you remember, shore; whatever game's bein' turned back thar, if it
goes ag'in you, raise the long yell for a sharp called Cherokee
Hall; an' his bank's yours to go behind your play.'"




CHAPTER IV.

THE WASHWOMAN'S WAR.


It was evening. The first dark foreshadowing of the coming night
clothed all in half obscurity. But I knew the way; I could have
travelled the little path at midnight. There he was, the Old
Cattleman, under a favorite tree, the better to avoid the heavy dew.
He sat motionless and seemed to be soaking himself, as one might
say, in the balmy weather of that hour.

My wisdom had ordered Jim, my black man, to attend my steps. The
laconic, half-sad salutation of my old friend at once gave Black Jim
a mission. He was dispatched in quest of stimulants. After certain
exact and almost elaborate commands to Black Jim, and that useful
African's departure, I gently probed my companion with a question.

"No, thar's nothin' the matter of me; sorter pensive, that's all,"
was my return.

The Old Cattleman appeared silent and out of sorts. Following the
coming of Black Jim, however, who brought a lusty toddy, he yielded
to a better mood.

"It simply means I'm gettin' old; my settin' 'round balky this a-
way. Thar's some seventy wrinkles on my horns; nothin' young or
recent about that. Which now it often happens to me, like it does to
old folks general, that jest when it begins to grow night, I gets
moody an' bad. Looks like my thoughts has been out on some mental
feed-ground all day, an' they comes stringin' in like cattle to get
bedded down for the night. Nacheral, I s'pose they sorter mills an'
stands 'round oneasy like for a while before they lies down all
comfortable. Old people partic'lar gets dissatisfied. If they's
single-footers like me an' ain't wedded none; campin' 'round at
taverns an' findin' of 'em mockeries; they wishes they has a wife a
whole lot. If they be, they wish she'd go visit her folks. Gettin'
old that a-way an' lonely makes folks frequent mighty contrary.

"No, as I imparts to you yeretofore,--mebby it's a month,--I never
marries nothin'. I reckons too, I'm in love one round-up an' another
mighty near a dozen times. But somehow I allers lose the trail an'
never does run up with none of 'em once.

"Down in the Brazos country thar was a little blue-eyed girl,--back
forty years it is,--an' the way I adores her plumb tires people. I
reckons I ropes at her more'n fifty times, but I never could fasten.
Thar comes a time when it looks powerful like I'm goin' to run my
brand onto her; but she learns that Bill Jenks marks 150 calves the
last spring round-up, an' me only forty, an' that settles it; she
takes Jenks.

"It's astonishin' how little I deems of this yere maiden after Bill
gets her. Two months before, I'd rode my pony to death to look once
in her eyes. She's like sunshine in the woods to me, an' I dotes on
every word she utters like it's a roast apple. But after she gets to
be Bill's wife I cools complete.

"Not that lovin' Bill's wife, with his genius for shootin' a pistol,
is goin' to prove a picnic,--an' him sorter peevish an' hostile
nacheral. But lettin' that go in the discard, I shore don't care
nothin' about her nohow when she's Bill's.

"I recalls that prior to them nuptials with Bill I gets that locoed
lovin' this girl I goes bulgin' out to make some poetry over her. I
compiles one stanza; an' I'm yere to remark it's harder work than a
June day in a brandin' pen. Ropin' an' flankin' calves an' standin'
off an old cow with one hand while you irons up her offspring with
t'other, from sun-up till dark, is sedentary compared to makin'
stanzas. What was the on I makes? Well, you can bet a hoss I ain't
forgot it none.

"'A beautiful woman is shorely a moon, The nights of your life to
illoomine; She's all that is graceful, guileful an' soon, Is woman,
lovely woman.'

"I'm plumb tangled up in my rope when I gets this far, an' I takes a
lay-off. Before I gathers strength to tackle it ag'in, Jenks gets
her; so bein' thar's no longer nothin' tharin I never makes a
finish. I allers allowed it would have been a powerful good poem if
I'd stampeded along cl'ar through.

"Yes, son; women that a-way is shorely rangy cattle an' allers on
the move. Thar's a time once when two of 'em comes mighty near
splittin' Wolfville wide open an' leavin' it on both sides of the
trail. All that ever saves the day is the ca'm jedgement an'
promptitood of Old Man Enright.

"This is how Wolfville walks into this petticoat ambush. The camp is
gettin' along all peaceful an' serene an' man-fashion. Thar's the
post-office for our letters; thar's the Red Light for our bug-juice;
thar's the O. K. Restauraw for our grub; an' thar's the stage an'
our ponies to pull our freight with when Wolfville life begins to
pull on us as too pastoral, an' we thirsts for the meetropolitan
gayety of Tucson.

"As I says we alls has all that heart can hunger for; that is hunger
on the squar'.

"Among other things, thar's a Chink runnin' a laundry an' a-doin' of
our washin'. This yere tub-trundler's name is Lung, which, however.
brands no cattle yere.

"It's one afternoon when Doc Peets gets a letter from a barkeep over

in Tucson sayin': Dear Doc:

Thar's an esteemable lady due in Wolfville on to-morrer's stage.
She's p'intin' out to run a laundry. Please back her play. If thar's
a Chinaman in town, run him out.

And obleege, yours,

Dick.

"'Whatever do you think, Enright?' says Doc Peets after readin' us
the letter.

"'That's all right,' says Enright, 'the Chink goes. It's onbecomin'
as a spectacle for a Caucasian woman of full blood to be contendin'
for foul shirts with a slothful Mongol. Wolfville permits no sech
debasin' exhibitions, an' Lung must vamos. Jack,' he says, turnin'
to Jack Moore, 'take your gun an' sa'nter over an' stampede this
yere opium-slave. Tell him if he's visible to the naked eye in the
scenery yere-abouts to-morrow when this lady jumps into camp, he's
shore asked the price of soap the last time he ever will in this
vale of tears.'

"'What's the matter of lynchin' this yere Chink?' says Dan Boggs.
'The camp's deadly dull, an' it would cheer up things a whole lot,
besides bein' compliments to this young female Old Monte's bringin'
in on the stage.'

"'Oh no,' says Enright, 'no need of stringin him none. On second
thought, Jack, I don't reckon I'd run him out neither. It dignifies
him too much. S'pose you canter up to his tub-camp an' bring him
over, an' we'll reveal this upheaval in his shirt-burnin' destinies
by word of mouth. If he grows reluctant jest rope him 'round the
neck with his queue, an' yank him. It impresses 'em an' shows 'em
they're up ag'in the law. I s'pose, Peets, I voices your sentiments
in this?'

"'Shore,'" says Doc Peets--which this Peets is the finest-eddicated
man I ever meets. 'This Chinaman must pull his freight. We-alls owes
it not only to this Tucson lady, but to the lovely sex she
represents. Woman, woman, what has she not done for man! As Johanna
of Arc she frees the sensuous vine-clad hills of far-off
Switzerland. As Grace Darling she smooths the fever-heated pillow of
the Crimea. In reecompense she asks one little, puny boon--to fire
from our midst a heathen from the Orient. Gents, thar's but one
answer: We plays the return game with woman. This Chinaman must go.'

"When Jack comes back with Lung, which he does prompt, Enright
starts in to deal the game.

"'It ain't no use, Lung,' says Enright, 'tryin' to explain to you-
all what's up. Your weak Asiatic intellect couldn't get the drop
onto it no-how. You've been brought to a show-down ag'in a woman,
an' you're out-held. You've got to quit; savey? Don't let us find
you yere to-morrow. By third-drink time we'll be a-scoutin' for you
with somethin' besides an op'ry glass, an' if you're noticed as part
of the landscape you're goin' to have a heap of bad luck. I'd advise
you to p'int for Red Dog, but as to that you plays your hand
yourse'f."

"Next day that old drunkard Monte comes swingin' in with the stage;
the six hosses on the jump, same as he allers does with a woman
along. Over at the post-office, where he stops, a lady gets out, an'
of course we-alls bows p'lite an' hopes she's well an' frisky. She
allows she is, an' heads for the O. K. House.

"It floats over pretty soon that her name's Annie, an' as none of us
wants to call her jest 'Annie'--the same bein' too free a play--an'
hearin' she lives a year or two at Benson, we concloods to call her
Benson Annie, an' let it go at that.

"'The same bein' musical an' expressive,' says Doc Peets, as we all
lines up ag'in the Red Light bar, 'I su'gests we baptize this lady
"Benson Annie," an' yere's to her success.'

"So we-alls turns up our glasses, an' Benson Annie it is.

"The next day the fetid Lung is a thing of the past, an' Benson
Annie has the game to herse'f. Two days later she raises the tariff
to fifty cents on shirts, instead of twenty-five, as previous with
the Chink. But no one renigs.

"'A gent,' says Doc Peets, 'as holds that a Caucasian woman is goin'
to wash a shirt for the miserable stipend of a slave of the Orient
must be plumb locoed. Wolfville pays fifty cents for shirts an' is
proud tharof.'

"Things goes along for mighty like a month, an' then this yere
Benson Annie allows she'll have a visitor.

"'I'm plumb, clean sick,' she says, 'of seein' nothin' but a lot of
drunken, good-for-nothin' sots a-pesterin' 'round, an' I done
reckons I'll have my friend Sal come over from Tombstone an' see me
a whole lot. It'll be some relaxation.'

"Mebby it's four days after when this yere Sal hops outen the stage,
an' for the next week thar ain't no washin' done whatever, while
Benson Annie an' Sal works the wire aige offen their visit.

"`A gent as would begretch two pore, hard-workin' girls a lay-off of
a week,' says Enright, 'ain't clean strain, an' I don't want to know
sech a hoss-thief nohow'; an' we-alls feels likewise.

"But slap on the heels of all this yere gregar'ousness on the part
of Benson Annie an' Sal, the deal begins to come queer. At the end
of the week the two girls has a row, an' in the turn Sal goes to
t'other end of camp an' opens a laundry. That does settle it. Benson
Annie gives Sal fits, an' Sal shorely sends 'em back. Then they
quits speakin', an when they meets on the street they concocts
snoots at each other. This scares Enright, but he does his level
best an' tries to keep the boys from takin' sides.

"'In a play like this yere,' he says, 'this camp don't take no
kyards. For the first time Wolfville passes out, an' offers to make
it a jack'

"But as one day an' the next trails by, the boys sorter gets lined
up one way an' t'other; some for Benson Annie an' some for Sal, an'
things is shorely gettin' hot. Hamilton, over at the dance-hall, ups
an' names his place the 'Sal Saloon,' an' Burns takes down the sign
on the Red Light an' calls it the 'Benson Annie House.' Finally
things sorter culminates.

"Dan Boggs, who's a open, voylent Annie man, comes a-prancin' into
the Red Light one night, an' after stampin' an' rappin' his horns
'round a whole lot, allows his shirt is cleaner than Dave Tutt's.

"Tutt says he don't care nothin' for himse'f, an' none whatever for
the shirt; an' while he an' Dan's allers been friends an' crossed
the plains together, still he don't allow he'll stand 'round much
an' see a pore ondefended female, like Sal, maligned. So Tutt outs
with his gun an' gets Boggs in the laig.

"This yere brings things down to cases. Enright is worried sick at
it. But he's been thinkin' mighty arduous for quite a spell, an'
when Boggs gets creased, he sees somethin' must be done, an' begins
to line himse'f for a play for out.

"It's the next day after Boggs gets ag'in Tutt, an' Doc Peets has
plugged up the hole, when Enright rounds up the whole passel of us
in the Red Light. He looks that dignified an' what you-alls calls
impressive, that the barkeep, yieldin' to the gravity of the
situation, allows the drinks is on the house. We-alls gets our forty
drops, an' sorter stands pat tharon in silence, waitin' for Enright
to onfold his game. We shore knows if thar's a trail he'll find it.

"'I Gents,' he says at last,--an' it seems like he's sorry an' hurt
that a-way,--'I'll not drift into them harrowin' differences which
has rent asunder what was aforetimes the peacefullest camp in
Arizona. I wants you-alls, however, to take note of my remarks, for
what I says is shorely goin' to go.'

"Yere Enright pauses to take a small drink by himse'f, while we-alls
tarries about, some oneasy an' anxious as to what kyards falls next.
At last Enright p'ints out on the trail of his remarks ag'in.

"'It is with pain an' mortification,' he says--an' yere he fixes his
eye some hard an' delib'rate on a young tenderfoot named French,
who's been lost from the States somethin' like six months--'it is
with pain an' mortification, I says, that I notes for a week past
our young friend an' townsman, Willyum French, payin' marked an'
ondiscreet attentions to Benson Annie, a female person whom we all
respects. At all times, day an' night, when he could escape his
dooties as book-keep for the stage company, he has pitched camp in
her s'ciety. Wolfville has been shocked, an' a pure lady
compromised. Standin' as we-alls does in the light of a parent to
this pore young female, we have determined the wrong must be made
right, an' Mister French must marry the girl. I have submitted these
yere views to Benson Annie, an' she concurs. I've took the trouble
to bring a gospel-sharp over from Tucson to do the marryin', an'
I've set the happy event for to-night, to conclood with a blow-out
in the dance-hall at my expense. We will, of course, yereby lose
Benson Annie in them industrial walks she now adorns, for I pauses
to give Mister French a p'inter; the sentiments of this camp is
ag'in a married female takin' in washin'. Not to play it too low
down on Mister French, who, while performin' a private dooty, is
also workin' for a public good, I heads a subscription with fifty
dollars for a present for the bride. I'd say in closin' that if I
was Mister French I wouldn't care to object to this union. The lady
is good-lookin', the subscription is cash, an' in the present heated
condition of the public mind, an' with the heart of the camp set on
this weddin', I wouldn't be responsible if he does. Now, gents,
who'll follow my fifty dollars with fifty more? Barkeep, do your
dooty while the subscription-paper goes 'round.'

"The biddin' is mighty lively, an' in ten minutes seven hundred
dollars is raised for a dowry. Then French, who has been settin' in
a sort of daze, gets up:

"'Mister Enright an' gents,' he says, `this yere is a s'prise-party
to me, but it goes. It's a hoss on me, but I stands it. I sees how
it is, an' as a forced play I marries Benson Annie in the interests
of peace. Which the same bein' settled, if Benson Annie is yere,
whirl her up an' I'll come flutterin' from my perch like a pan of
milk from a top shelf, an' put an end to this onhealthful
excitement.

"We-alls applauds French an' is proud to note he's game.

"`An' to be free an' open with you, French,' says Texas Thompson, so
as to make him feel he's ahead on the deal; which he shore is, for
this yere Benson Annie is corn-fed, 'if it ain't for a high-sperited
lady back in Laredo who relies on me, I'd be playin' your hand
myse'f.'

"Well, no one delays the game. Enright brings over Benson Annie,
who's blushin' some, but ain't holdin' back; an' she an' French
fronts up for business. This yere preacher-sharp Enright's roped up
is jest shufflin' for the deal, when, whatever do you reckon takes
place? I'm a Mexican if this yere Sal don't come wanderin' in, a-
cryin' an' a-mournin' powerful. She allows with sobs if her dear
friend Annie's goin' to get married she wants in on the game as
bridesmaid.

"'Which you-all shorely gets a hand as sech,' says Doc Peets, who's
actin' lookout for the deal; an' so he stakes out Sal over by the
nigh side of Benson Annie, who kisses her quite frantic, an' unites
her wails to Sal's. Both of 'em weepin' that a-way shorely makes the
occasion mighty sympathetic an' damp. But Peets says it's the
reg'lar caper, an' you can gamble Peets knows. "'Thar,' says
Enright, when the last kyard's out an' the French fam'ly is
receivin' congratulations, 'I reckons that now, with only one
laundry, Wolfville sees a season of peace. It's all right, but I'm
yere to remark that the next lady as dazzles this camp with her
deebut, an' onfurls a purpose to plunge into work, ain't goin' to
keep a laundry none. Gents, the bridle's plumb off the hoss. We'll
now repair to the dance-hall, if so be meets your tastes, an' take
the first steps in a debauch from which, when it's over, this yere
camp of Wolfville dates time.'"




CHAPTER V.

ENRIGHT'S PARD, JIM WILLIS.


"If my mem'ry's dealin' a squar' game," remarked the Old Cattleman,
as he moved his chair a bit more into the shade, "it's some'ers over
in the foot-hills of, the Floridas when Enright vouchsafes why he
hates Mexicans."

The morning was drowsy. Conversation between us had in a sleepy way
ranged a wide field. As had grown to be our habit we at last settled
on Wolfville and its volatile inhabitants. I asked to be enlightened
as to the sage Enright, and was informed that, aside from his
courage and love of strict justice, the prominent characteristic of
our Wolfville Lycurgus was his wrath against Mexicans.

"Not that Enright loathes so much as he deplores 'em, "continued the
old gentleman. "However, I don't aim to be held as sayin' he
indorses their existence a little bit; none whatever.

"Enright's tellin' of this tale arises outen a trivial incident
which a Mexican is the marrow of. We're out on the spring round-up,
an' combin' the draws an' dry ARROYAS over between the cow springs
an' the Floridas, when one night a Mexican runs off a passel of our
ponies. The hoss-hustler is asleep, I reckons, at the time this
Mexican stacks in. He says himse'f he's lyin' along the back of his
bronco gazin' at the stars when this robber jumps at the ponies an'
flaps a blanket or somethin', an' away patters every hoof in the
band.

"This yere Mexican don't run off with only about a handful; I takes
it he can't round up no more in the dark. When you-all stampedes a
bunch of ponies that a-way they don't hold together like cattle, but
plunges off diffusive. It's every bronco for himse'f, disdainful of
all else, an' when it's sun-up you finds 'em spattered all over the
scene an' not regardin' of each other much.

"But this yere Mexican, after he stampedes 'em, huddles what he can
together--as I says mebby it's a dozen--an' p'ints off into the
hills.

"Of course it ain't no time after the sun shows the tracks when
Enright, Jack Moore, an' myse'f is on the trail. Tutt an' Dan Boggs
wants in on the play, but we can't spar' so many from the round-up.

"It's one of the stolen ponies tips this Greaser's hand. It's the
second day, an' we-alls loses the trail for mebby it's fifteen
minutes. We're smellin' along a canyon to find it ag'in, when from
over a p'int of rocks we hears a bronco nicker. He gets the scent of
an acquaintance which Moore's ridin' on, an' says 'How!' pony-
fashion.

"Thar's no need goin' into wearyin' details. Followin' the nicker we
comes surgin' in on our prey, an' it's over in a minute. Thar's two
Mexicans,--our criminal trackin' up with a pard that mornin'. But of
course we-alls knows he's thar long hours back by the tracks, so it
ain't no s'prise.

"This yere second Mexican is downed on the run-in. He shows a heap
of interest in our comin', an' takes to shootin' us up mighty vivid
with a Winchester at the time; an' so Enright, who's close in, jumps
some lead into him an' stretches him. He don't manage to do no harm,
nohow, more'n he creases my hoss a little. However, as this yere
hoss is amazin' low-sperited, an' as bein' burnt that a-way with a
bullet sorter livens him up a heap, I don't complain none. Still
Enright's all-wise enough to copper the Greaser, for thar ain't no
sayin' what luck the felon has with that little old gun of his if he
keeps on shootin'. Which, as I observes, Enright downs him, an' his
powder-burnin' an' hoss-rustlin' stops immediate.

"As for the other Mexican, which he's the party who jumps our ponies
in the first place, he throws up his hands an' allows he cashes in
his chips for whatever the bank says.

"We-alls ropes out our captive; sorter hog-ties him hand an' foot,
wrist an' fetlock, an' then goes into camp all comfortable, where we
runs up on our game.

"Jack Moore drops the loop of his lariat over the off moccasin of
the deceased Mexican, an' canters his pony down the draw with him,
so's we ain't offended none by the vision of him spraddled out that
a-way dead. This yere's thoughtful of Jack, an' shows he's
nacherally refined an' objects to remainders lyin' 'round loose.

"'No, it ain't so much I'm refined,' says Jack, when I compliments
him that he exhibits his bringin' up, an' him bein' too modest that
a-way to accept; 'it ain't that I'm refined none--which my nacher is
shore coarse--I jest sorter protests in my bosom ag'in havin' a
corpse idlin' 'round that a-way where I'm camped. Tharfore I takes
my rope an' snatches deceased off where he ain't noticeable on the
scenery.'

"Jack does it that gentle an' considerate, too, that when we passes
the Mexican next day on our way in, except he's some raveled an'
frayed coastin' along where it's rocky, an' which can't be he'ped
none, he's as excellent a corpse as when he comes off the shelf,
warm as the rifle Enright throws him with.

"'Whatever be we goin' to do with this yere hoss-thief pris'ner of
ours?' says Jack Moore to Enright the next day, when we're saddlin'
up an' organizin' to pull our freight. 'He's shore due to bother us
a lot. We're plumb sixty miles from Tutt an' the boys, an' ridin'
herd on this yere saddle-colored gent, a-keepin' of him from lopin'
off, is mighty likely to be a heap exhaustin'. I knows men,' Jack
remarks at the close, lookin' wistful at Enright, 'as would beef him
right yere an' leave him as a companion piece to that compadre of
his you downs.'

"'Nachers as would execute a pris'ner in cold blood,' says Enright,
'is roode an' oncivilized. Which I don't mean they is low neither;
but it's onconsiderate that a-way to go an' ca'mly kill a pris'ner,
an' no co't nor committee authorizin' the same. I never knows of it
bein' done but once. It's Mexicans who does it then; which is why
they ain't none pop'lar with me since.'

"'It's shore what you calls a mighty indurated play,' says Jack,
shakin' his head, 'to go shootin' some he'pless gent you've took;
but, as I states, it's a cinch it'll be a heap fatiguin' keepin'
cases on this yere Mexican till we meets up with a quorum of the
committee. Still it's our dooty, an' of course we don't double-deal,
nor put back kyards on what's our plain dooty.'

"'What you-all states,' says Enright,'`is to your credit, but I'll
tell you. Thar ain't no harm mountin' this marauder on a slow pony
that a-way; an' bein' humane s'fficient to leave his hands an' feet
ontied. Of course if he takes advantage of our leniency an' goes
stampedin' off to make his escape some'ers along the trail, I
reckons you'll shorely have to shoot. Thar's no pass-out then but
down him, an' we sadly treads tharin. An',' goes on Enright, some
thoughtful, if this yere Mexican, after we-alls is that patient an'
liberal with him, abuses our confidences an' escapes, we leaves it a
lone-hand play to you. My eyes is gettin' some old an' off, any way;
an' besides, if we three takes to bangin' away simooltaneous, in the
ardor of competition some of us might shoot the pony. So if this
yere captive runs--which he looks tame, an' I don't expect none he
will--we leaves the detainin' of him, Jack, to you entire."

"In spite of Enright's faith it shore turns out this Mexican is
ornery enough, where the trail skirts the river, to wheel sudden an'
go plungin' across. But Jack gets him in midstream. As he goes over
the bronco's shoulder, hat first, he swings on the bridle long
enough with his dyin' hand to turn the pony so it comes out ag'in on
our side.

"Which I'm glad he lives s'fficient to head that hoss our way,' says
jack. "It saves splashin' across after him an' wettin' your leggins
a lot."

"It's that night in camp when jack brings up what Enright says about
the time the Mexicans downs a pris'ner, an' tharby fixes his views
of 'em.

"'It's a long trail back,' says Enright,' an' I don't like this yarn
enough to find myse'f relatin' it to any excessive degrees. It draws
the cinch some tight an' painful, an' I don't teach my mind to dwell
on it no more'n is necessary.

"'This is all when I'm a boy; mebby I ain't twenty years yet. It's
durin' the Mexican war. I gets a stack of white chips an' stands in
on the deal in a boyish way. All I saveys of the war is it's ag'in
the Mexicans, which, while I ain't got no feud with 'em personal at
the time, makes it plenty satisfactory to me.

"'It's down off two days to the west of Chihuahua, an' seven of us
is projectin' 'round seein' whatever can we tie down an' brand, when
some Mexicans gets us out on a limb. It ain't a squar' deal; still I
reckons it's squar' enough, too; only bein' what you-alls calls
strategic, it's offensive an' sneakin' as a play.

"'This yere lieutenant who's leadin' us 'round permiscus, looks like
he's some romantic about a young Mexican female, who's called the
Princess of Casa Grande. Which the repoote of this yere Princess
woman is bad, an' I strikes a story several times of how she's that
incensed ag'in Americans she once saws off a thimbleful of loco on a
captain in some whiskey he's allowin' to drink, an' he goes plumb
crazy an' dies.

"'But loco or no loco, this yere Princess person is shore that good
lookin' a pinto pony don't compare tharwith; an' when she gets her
black eyes on our lieutenant,

that settles it; we rounds up at her hacienda an' goes into camp.
"'Besides

the lieutenant thar's six of us. One of 'em's a shorthorn who
matches me for age; which his name's Willis--Jim Willis. "'Now I
ain't out

to make no descriptions of the friendship which goes on between this
yere Willis an' me. I sees a show one time when I'm pesterin' 'round
back in St. Looey--an' I'm yere to remark I don't go that far east

no more--which takes on about a couple of sports who's named Damon
an' Pythias. Them two people's all right, an' game. An' they shore
deems high of one another. But at the time I sees this yere Damon
an'

Pythias, I says to myse'f, an' ever since I makes onhesitatin'
assertion

tharof, that the brotherly views them two gents entertains ain't a

marker to Jim Willis an' me. "'This yere Jim I knows since we're
yearlin's. We-alls jumps outen the corral together back in
Tennessee, an' goes off into this Mexican war like twins. An' bein'
two boys that a-way

among a band of men, I allows thar ain't nothin' before, nor then,
nor after. which I loves like Jim. "'As I observes, Jim an' me's in

the outfit when this yere lieutenant comes trackin' 'round that
Princess of Casa Grande; which her love for him is a bluff an' a
deadfall; an' the same gets all of us before we're through. An' it
gets my Jim Willis speshul. "Mebby it's the third mornin' after we-
alls meanders into this nest of Mexicans, an' the lieutenant gets
lined out for that Princess of Casa Grande. We ain't been turnin'
out early nohow, thar bein' nothin'

to turn out about; but this third mornin' somebody arouses us a heap
vigorous, like they aims to transact some business with us. Which
they shorely does; it's an outfit of Greaser guerillas, an' we-alls
ain't nothin' more or less than captives. "'The ornery an'
ongrateful part is that the Princess sends one of her own peonies
scoutin' 'round in the hills to bring in this band of cattle-eaters
onto us. "'When the lieutenant hears of the perfidy of the Princess
female, he's that mortified he gets a pistol the first jump he makes
an' blows off the top of his head; which if he only blows off the
top of hers it would have gone a heap further with the rest of us.
If he'd consulted any of us, it would have shorely been advised. But
he makes an impulsive play that

a-way; an' is that sore an' chagrined he jest grabs a gun in a
frenzied way an' cashes his chips abrupt. "'No, as I states,' says
Enright, musin' to himse'f, 'if the lieutenant had only downed that
Princess who plays us in as pris'ners so smooth an' easy, it would
have been

regarded. He could have gone caperin' over the brink after her with
the bridle off the next second, an' we-alls would still talk well of
him. "'As it is, however, this riotous female don't last two months.
Which it's also a fact that takin' us that time must have been a
heap

on. lucky for them Greasers. Thar's nine of 'em, an' every last man
dies in the next five months; an' never a one, nor yet the Princess,
knows what they're ag'inst when they quits; or what breeze blows
their light out. I knows, because me an' a party whose name is Tate-
-Bill Tate--never leaves them hills till the last of that outfit's
got his heap of rocks piled up, with its little pine cross stickin'
outen the peak tharof, showin' he's done jumped this earthly game
for good. "'This Bill Tate an' me breaks camp on them Greasers
together while they're tankin' up on mescal, mebby it's two days
later; an' they never gets their lariats on us no more. "'"You ain't
got no dates, nor speshul engagements with nobody in the States,
have you?" says Tate to me when

we're safe outen them Mexican's hands. "'"No,"says I,"whatever makes
you ask? "'"Oh, nothin',"says Tate lookin' at the sky sorter black
an' ugly, "only since you-all has the leesure, what for a play would
it be to make a long camp back in these hills by some water-hole
some'ers,

an' stand pat ontil we downs these yere Greasers--squaws an' all--
who's had us treed? It oughter be did; an' if we-ails don't do it
none, it's a heap likely it's goin' to be neglected complete. It's
easy as a play; every hoss-thief of 'em lives right in these yere
valleys, for I hears 'em talk. All we has to do is sa'nter back in
the hills, make a camp; an' by bein' slow an' shore, an' takin' time
an' pains, we bushwhacks an' kills the last one." "'The way I feels
about Willis makes the prospect

mighty allurin,' an' tharupon Tate an' me opens a game with them
Mexicans it takes five months to deal. "'But it's plumb dealt out,
an' we win. When Tate crosses the Rio Grande with the army goin'
back, he shorely has the skelp of every Mexican incloosive of said
Princess. "'But I wanders from Willis. Where was I at when I bogs
down? As I says, this

lieutenant nabs a pistol an' goes flutterin' from his limb. But this
don't do them Greasers. They puts up a claim that some Americans
tracks up on one of their outfit an' kills him off, they says, five
days before.

They allows that, breakin' even on the deal, one of us is due to
die. Tate offers to let 'em count the lieutenant, but they shakes
their heads till the little bells on their sombreros tinkles, an'
declines the lieutenant emphatic. "'They p'ints out this yere
lieutenant dies in his own game, on his own deal. It's no racket of
theirs, an' it don't go to match the man they're shy. "`One of us
six who's left has to die to count even for this Greaser who's been
called in them five days ago. Tate can't move 'em; all he says is no
use; so he quits,

an' as he's been talkin' Spanish--which the same is too muddy a
language for the rest of us--Tate turns in an' tells us how the
thing sizes up. "`"One of us is shorely elected to trail out after
the lieutenant,"says Tate. "The rest they holds as pris'ners. Either
way it's a hard, deep crossin', an' one's about as rough a toss as
the other." "'This last

Tate stacks in to mebby win out a little comfort for the one the
Mexicans cuts outen our bunch to kill. "`After a brief pow-wow the
Greaser who's actin' range-boss for the outfit puts six beans in a
buckskin bag. Five is white an' one's black. Them Greasers is on the
gamble bigger'n wolves, an' they crowds up plenty gleeful to see us
take a gambler's chance for our lives. The one of us who draws a
black bean is to p'int out after the lieutenant. "`Sayin' somethin'
in Spanish which most

likely means" Age before beauty,"the Mexicans makes Willis an' me
stand back while the four others searches one after the other into
the bag for his bean. "`Tate goes first an' wins a white bean.
"`Then a shiftless, no-account party whom we-alls calls "Chicken
Bill" reaches in. I shorely hopes, seein' it's bound to be somebody,
that this Chicken Bill acquires the black bean. But luck's ag'in us;
Chicken Bill backs off with a white bean. "`When the third gent
turns out a white bean the shadow begins to fall across Jim Willis
an' me. I looks at Jim; an' I gives it to you straight when I says
that I ain't at that time thinkin' of myse'f so much as about Jim.
To see this yere deal, black as midnight, closin' in on Jim, is
what's hurtin'; it don't somehow occur to me I'm likewise up ag'in
the iron my se'f. "`"Looks like this yere amiable deevice is out to
run its brand onto one of us,"says Jim to me; an' I looks at him.
"`An' then, as the fourth finds a white bean in the bag, an' draws a
deep sigh an' stands back, Jim says: "Well, Sam, it's up to us."
Then Jim looks at me keen an' steady a whole lot, an' the Mexicans,
bein' rather pleased with the situation, ain't goadin' of us to
hurry up none.

"`When it's to Jim an' me they selects me out as the one to pull for
the next bean. Jim's still lookin' at me hard, an' I sees the water
in his eye.'

"`"Let me have your draw, Sam," he says.

"`"Shore,"I replies, standin' a step off from the bag." It's yours
too quick."

"` But the Mexicans don't see it that a-way. It's my turn an' my
draw, an' Jim has to take what's left. So the Mexicans tells Tate to
send me after my bean ag'in.

"`"Hold on a second, Sam," says Jim, an' by this time he's steady as
a church. "Sam," he goes on, "thar's no use you--all gettin' the
short end of this. Thar's reasons for you livin', which my case is
void tharof. Now let me ask you: be you up on beans? Can you tell a
black from a white bean by the feel? "

"`"No," I says, "beans is all a heap the same to me."

"'"That's what I allows," goes on this Jim. "Now yere's where my
sooperior knowledge gets in. If these Mexicans had let me draw for
you I'd fixed it, but it looks like they has scrooples. But listen,
an' you beats the deal as it is. Thar's a difference in beans same
as in ponies. Black beans is rough like a cactus compared to white
beans, which said last vegetable is shorely as smooth as glass. Now
yere's what you--all does; jest grp[e an' scout 'round in that bag
until you picks out the smooth bean. That's your bean; that's the
white bean. Cinch the smooth bean an' the black one comes to me."

"When Jim says all this it seems like I'm in a daze an' sorter
woozy. I never doubts him for a moment. Of course I don't take no
advantage of what he says. I recalls the advice my old mother gives
me; it's long enough ago now. The old lady says: "Samyool, never let
me hear of you weakenin'. Be a man, or a mouse, or a long-tail rat."
So when Jim lays it off about them two beans bein' smooth an' rough
that a-way, an' the white bein' the smooth bean, I nacherally
searches out the rough bean, allowin' she'll shore be black; which
shows my intellects can't cope with Jim's none.

"`The bean I brings to the surface is white. I'm pale as a ghost. My
heart wilts like water inside of me, an' I feels white as the bean
where it lays in my hand. Of course I'm some young them days, an' it
don't need so much to stagger me. "`I recollects like it was in a
vision hearin' Jim laugh. "Sam," he says, "I reads you like so much
sunshine. An' I shorely fools you up a lot. Don't you reckon I
allows you'll double on the trail, p'intin' south if I says 'north'
at a show like this? The white bean is allers a rough, sandy bean;
allers was an' allers will be; an' never let no one fool you that a-
way ag'in. An' now, Sam, ADIOS."

"'I'm standin' lookin' at the white bean. I feels Jim grip my other
hand as lie says "ADIOS," an' the next is the" bang! "of the
Mexicans's guns. Jim's dead then; he's out in a second; never bats
an eye nor wags a y'ear.

"'Which now,' says Enright at the end, as he yanks his saddle 'round
so he makes a place for his head, 'which now that you-alls is fully
informed why I appears averse to Greasers, I reckons I'll slumber
some. I never does see one, I don't think of that boy, Jim Willis;
an' I never thinks of Jim but I wants to murder a Mexican.'

"Enright don't say no more; sorter rolls up in his blankets, drops
his head on his saddle, an' lays a long time quiet, like he's
asleep. Jack Moore an' me ain't sayin' nothin'; merely settin' thar
peerin' into the fire an' listenin' to the coyotes. At last Enright
lifts his head off the saddle.

"'Mebby it's twenty years ago when a party over on the Rio Grande
allows as how Jim's aimin' to cold-deck me when he onfolds about the
habits of them beans. It takes seven months, a iron constitootion,
an' three medicine-sharps--an' each as good as Doc Peets,--before
that Rio Grande party is regarded as outen danger.'"




CHAPTER VI.

TUCSON JENNIES HEART.


"'Whyever ain't I married?' says you." The Old Cattleman repeated
the question after me as he settled himself for one of our many
"pow-wows," as he described them. "Looks like you've dealt me that
conundrum before. Why ain't I wedded? The answer to that, son, is a
long shot an' a limb in the way.

"Now I reckons the reason why I'm allers wifeless a whole lot is
mainly due to the wide pop'larity of them females I takes after.
Some other gent sorter gets her first each time, an' nacherally that
bars me. Bill Jenks's wife on that occasion is a spec'men case.
That's one of the disapp'intments I onfolds to you. Now thar's a
maiden I not only wants, but needs; jest the same, Bill gets her.
An' it's allers sim'lar; I never yet holds better than ace-high when
the stake's a lady.

"It's troo," he continued, reflectively puffing his pipe. "I was
disp'sitioned for a wife that a-way when I'm a colt. But that's a
long time ago; I ain't in line for no sech gymnastics no more; my
years is 'way ag'in it.

"You've got to ketch folks young to marry 'em. After they gets to be
thirty years they goes slowly to the altar. If you aims to marry a
gent after he's thirty you has to blindfold him an' back him in.
Females, of course, ain't so obdurate. No; I s'pose this yere bein'
married is a heap habit, same as tobacco an' jig-juice. If a gent
takes a hand early, it's a good game, I makes no sort of doubt. But
let him get to millin' 'round in the thirties or later, an' him not
begun none as yet; you bet he don't marry nothin'.

"Bar an onexplainable difference with the girl's old man," he went
on with an air of thought, "I s'pose I'd be all married right now. I
was twenty, them times. It's 'way back in Tennessee. Her folks lives
about 'leven miles from me out on the Pine Knot Pike, an' once in
two weeks I saddles up an' sorter sidles over. Thar's jest her old
pap an' her mother an' her in the fam'ly, an' it's that far I allers
made to stay all night. Thar's only two beds, an' so I'm put to camp
along of the old man the times I stays.

"Them days I'm 'way bashful an' behind on all social plays, an' am
plenty awe-struck about the old foiks. I never feels happy a minute
where they be. The old lady does her best to make me easy an' free,
too. Comes out when I rides up, an' lets down the bars for my hoss,
an' asks me to rest my hat the second I'm in the door.

"Which matters goes on good enough ontil mebby it's the eighth time
I'm thar. I remembers the night all perfect. Me an' the girl sets up
awhile, an' then I quits her an' turns in. I gets to sleep a-layin'
along the aige of the bed, aimin' to keep 'way from the old man,
who's snorln' an' thrashin' 'round an' takin' on over in the middle.

"I don't recall much of nothin' ontil I comes to, a-holdin' to the
old man's y'ear with one hand an' a-hammerin' of his features with
t'other. I don't know yet, why. I s'pose I'm locoed an' dreamin', an
allows he's a b'ar or somethin' in my sleep that a-way, an' tries to
kill him. "Son, it's 'way back a long time, but I shudders yet when
I reflects on that old man's language. I jumps up when I realizes
things, grabs my raiment, an', gettin' my hoss outen the corral,
goes p'intin' down the pike more'n a mile 'fore I even stops to
dress. The last I sees of the old man lie's buckin' an' pitchin' an'
tossin', an' the females a-holdin' of him, an' he reachin' to get a
Hawkins's rifle as hangs over the door. I never goes back no more,
'cause he's mighty tindictive about it. He tries to make it a
grandjury matter next co't-time.

"Speakin' of nuptials, however, you can't tell much about women.
Thar's a girl who shorely s'prises us once in a way out in
Wolfville. Missis Rucker, who runs the O. K. Restauraw, gets this
female from Tucson to fry flap-jacks an' salt hoss, an' he'p her
deal her little gastronomic game. This yere girl's name is Jennie-
Tucson Jennie. She looks like she's a nice, good girl, too; one of
them which it's easy to love, an' in less'n two weeks thar's half
the camp gets smitten. "It affects business, it's that bad. Cherokee
Hall tells me thar ain't half the money gets changed in at faro as
usual, an' the New York Store reports gents goin' broke ag'in biled
shirts, an' sim'lar deadfalls daily. Of course this yere first
frenzy subsides a whole lot after a month. "All this time Jennie
ain't sayin' a word. She jest shoves them foolish yooths their
enchiladas an' ckile con carne, an' ignores all winks an' looks
complete.

"Thar's a party named Jim Baxter in camp, an' he sets in to win
Jennie hard. Jim tries to crowd the game an' get action. It looks
like he's due to make the trip too. Missis Rucker is backin' his
play, an' Jennie herse'f sorter lets him set 'round in the kitchen
an' watch her work; which this yore is license an' riot itse'f
compared with how she treats others. Occasionally some of us sorter
tries to stack up for Jim an' figger out where he stands with the
the game.

"'How's it goin', Baxter?' Enright asks one day.

"'It's too many for me,' says Jim. 'Some-times I thinks I corrals
her, an' then ag'in it looks like I ain't in it. Jest now I'm
feelin' some dejected.'

"'Somethin' oughter be schemed to settle this yere,' says Enright.
'It keeps the camp in a fever, an' mebby gets serious an' spreads.'

"'If somebody would only prance in,' says Doc Peets, 'an' shoot Jim
up some, you'd have her easy. Females is like a rabbit in a bush-
pile; you has to shake things up a lot to make 'em come out. Now, if
Jim is dyin' an' she cares for him, she's shorely goin' to show her
hand.'

"I wants to pause right yere to observe that Doc Peets is the best-
eddicated sharp I ever encounters in my life. An' what he don't know
about squaws is valueless as information. But to go on with the
deal.

"'That's right,' says Cherokee Hall, 'but of course it ain't goin'
to do to shoot Jim up none.'

"'I don't know,' says Jim; 'I stands quite a racket if I'm shore it
fetches her.'

"'What for a game,' says Cherokee, 'would it be to play like Jim's
shot? Wouldn't that make her come a-runnin' same as if it's shore
'nough?'

"'I don't see why not,' says Enright.

"Well, the idee gains ground like an antelope, an' at last gets to
be quite a conspir'cy. It's settled we plays it, with Dave Tutt to
do the shootin'.

"'An' we makes the game complete,' says Jack Moore, 'by grabbin'
Dave immediate an' bringin' of him before the committee, which
convenes all reg'lar an' deecorous in the Red Light for said
purpose. We-alls must line out like we're goin' to hang Dave for the
killin'; otherwise it don't look nacheral nohow, an' the lady
detects it's a bluff.'

"We gets things all ready, an' in the middle of the afternoon, when
Jennie is draggin' her lariat 'round loose an' nothin' much to do--
'cause we ain't aimin' to disturb her none in her dooties touchin'
them flapjacks an' salt hoss--we-alls assembles over in the New York
Store. As a preliminary step we lays Jim on some boxes, with a
wagon-cover over him, like he's deceased.

"'Cl'ar things out of the way along by Jim's head,' says Jack Moore,
who is takin' a big interest. 'We wants to fix things so Jen can
swarm in at him easy. You hear me! she's goin' to come stampedin' in
yere like wild cattle when she gets the news.'

"When everythin's ready, Tutt an' Jack, who concloods it's well to
have a good deal of shootin', bangs away with their guns about four
times apiece.

"'Jest shootin' once or twice,' says Jack, 'might arouse her
s'picions. It would be a heap too brief for the real thing.'

"The minute the shootin' is ceased we-alls takes Tutt an' surges
over to the Red Light to try him; a-pendin' of which Dan Boggs
sa'nters across to the O. K. Restauraw an' remarks, all casooal an'
careless like:

"'Dave Tutt downs Jim Baxter a minute back; good clean gun-play as
ever I sees, too. Mighty big credit to both boys this yere is. No
shootin' up the scenery an' the bystanders; no sech slobberin' work;
but everythin' carries straight to centers.'

"'Where is he?' says Jennie, lookin' breathless an' sick.

"'Jim's remainder is in the New York Store,' says Dan.

"'Is he hurt?' she gasps.

"'I don't reckon he hurts none now,' says Dan, ''cause he's done
cashed in his stack. Why! girl, he's dead; eighteen bullets, caliber
forty-five, plumb through him.'

"'No, but Dave! Is Dave shot?' Tucson Jennie says, a-wringin' of her
small paws.

"'Now don't you go to feelin' discouraged none,' says Dan, beginnin'
to feel sorry for her. 'We fixes the wretch so his murderin' sperit
won't be an hour behind Jim's gettin' in. The Stranglers has him in
the Red Light, makin' plans to stretch him right now.'

"We-alls has consoomed drinks all 'round, an' Enright is in the
chair, an' we're busy settin' up a big front about hearin' the case,
when Tucson Jennie, with a scream as scares up surroundin' things to
sech a limit that five ponies hops out of the corral an' flies,
comes chargin' into the Red Light, an' the next instant she drifts
'round Tutt's neck like so much snow.

"'What for a game do you call this, anyhow?' says Jack Moore, who's
a heap scand'lized. 'Is this yere maiden playin' anythin' on this
camp?'

"'She's plumb locoed with grief,' says Dan Boggs, who follers her
in, 'an' she's done got 'em mixed in her mind. She thinks Dave is
Baxter.'

"'That's it,' says Cherokee. 'Her mind's stampeded with the shock.
Me an' Jack takes her over to Jim's corpse, an' that's shore to
revive her.' An' with that Cherokee an' Jack goes up to lead her
away.

"'Save him, Mister Enright; save him!' she pleads, still clingin' to
Tutt's neck like the loop of a lariat. 'Don't let 'em hang him! Save
him for my sake!'

"'Hold on, Jack,' says Enright, who by now is lookin' some
thoughtful. 'Jest everybody stand their hands yere till I counts the
pot an' notes who's shy. It looks like we're cinchin' the hull onto
the wrong bronco. Let me ask this female a question. Young woman,'
he says to Tucson Jennie, 'be you fully informed as to whose neck
you're hangin' to?'

"'It's Dave's, ain't it?' she says, lookin' all tearful in his face
to make shore.

"Enright an' the rest of us don't say nothin', but gazes at each
other. Tutt flushes up an' shows pleased both at once. But all the
same he puts his arms 'round her like the dead-game gent he is.

"'What'll you-alls have, gents?" Enright says at last, quiet an'
thoughtful. 'The drinks is on me, barkeep.'

"'Excuse me,' says Doc Peets, 'but as the author of this yere plot,
I takes it the p'ison is on me. Barkeep, set out all your bottles.'

"'Gents,' says Jack Moore, 'I'm as peaceful a person as ever jingled
a spur or pulled a gun in Wolfville; but as I reflects on the active
part I takes in these yere ceremonies, I won't be responsible for
results if any citizen comes between me an' payin' for the drinks.
Barkeep, I'm doin' this myse'f.'

"Well, it's hard enoomeratin' how many drinks we do have. Jim Baxter
throws away the wagon cover an' comes over from the New York Store
an' stands in with us. It gets to be a orgy.

"'Of course it's all right,' says Enright, 'the camp wins with Tutt
instead of Baxter; that's all. It 'lustrates one of them beautiful
characteristics of the gentler sex, too. Yere's Baxter, to say
nothin' of twenty others, as besieges an' beleaguers this yere
female for six weeks, an' she scorns 'em. Yere's Tutt, who ain't
makin' a move, an' she grabs him. It is sech oncertainties, gents,
as makes

the love of woman valuable.' "'You-alls should have asked me,' says
Faro Nell, who comes in right then an' rounds up close to Cherokee.
'I could tell you two weeks ago Jennie's in love with Tutt. Anybody
could see it. Why! she's been feedin' of him twice as good grub as
she does anybody else.'"




CHAPTER VII.

TUCSON JENNIE'S JEALOUSY.


"No; Dave an' his wife prospers along all right. That is, they
prospers all but once; that's when Jennie gets jealous."

The Old Cattleman was responding to my question. I was full of an
idle interest and disposed to go further into the affairs of Tutt
and Tucson Jennie.

"Doc Peets," continued the old gentleman, "allers tells me on the
side thar's nothin' in Dave's conduct onbecomin' a fam'ly man that
a-way, an' that Jen's simply barkin' at a knot. But, however that
is, Dave don't seem to gain no comfort of it at the time. I can see
myse'f she gets Dave plumb treed an' out on a limb by them
accusations when she makes 'em. He shorely looks guilty; an' yet,
while I stands over the play from the first, I can't see where Dave
does wrong.

"However, I don't put myse'f for'ard as no good jedge in domestic
affairs. Bein' single myse'f that a-way, females is ondoubted what
Doc Peets calls a 'theery' with me. But nevertheless, in an
onpresoomin', lowly way, I gives it as my meager jedgement, an' I
gives it cold, as how a jealous woman is worse than t'rant'lers.
She's plumb locoed for one thing; an' thar's no sech thing as
organizin' to meet her game. For myse'f, I don't want no
transactions with 'em; none whatever.

"This yere domestic uprisin' of Dave's wife breaks on Wolfville as
onexpected as a fifth ace in a poker deck; it leaves the camp all
spraddled out. Tucson Jennie an' Dave's been wedded goin' on six
months. The camp, as I relates, attends the nuptials in a body, an',
followin' of the festivities, Tucson Jennie an' Dave tumbles into
housekeepin' peaceful as two pups in a basket.

"Wolfville's proud of 'em, an'every time some ign'rant bein' asks
about Wolfville an' the social features of the camp, we allers
mentions Tutt an' his wife, an' tells how they keeps house, sorter
upholsterin' our bluff.

"That's how the deal stands, when one day up jumps this Tucson
Jennie, puts on her sunbunnit, an' goes stampedin' down to the U. K.
House, an' allows to Missis Rucker that she's done lived with Dave
all she aims to, an' has shore pulled her picket pin for good. She
puts it up Dave is a base, deceitful sharp that a-way, an' informs
Missis Rucker, all mixed up with tears, as how she now desires to go
back in the kitchen an' cook, same as when Dave rounds her up for
his wife.

"Yere's the whole story, an' while I nurses certain views tharon, I
leaves it to you entire to say how much Tucson Jennie is jestified.
I knows all about it, for I'm obleeged to be in on the deal from
soda to hock.

"It's mighty likely a month before the time Tucson Jennie breaks
through Dave's lines this a-way. Dave an' me's due to go over
towards the Tres Hermanas about some cattle. Likewise thar's an
English outfit allowin' they'll go along some, to see where they've
been stackin' in heavy on some ranch lands. They was eager for Dave
an' me to trail along with 'em, an' sorter ride herd on' em, an'
keep 'em from gettin' mixed up with the scenery--which the same is
shorely complicated in the foot-hills of the Tres Hermanas--an'
losin' themse'fs a heap.

"'Which you'd better do it, boys,' says Enright. 'S'pose them folks
be some trouble. It's a mighty sight better than havin' 'em go
p'intin' off alone that a-way. They would shore miss the way if they
does; an' the first we-alls knows, these yere Britons would be
runnin' cimmaron in the hills, scarin' up things a lot, an' a-
stampedin' the cattle plumb off the range. It's easier to go along
careful with 'em an' bring'em back.'

"It comes, then, that one mornin' Dave an' me an' these yere aliens
lines out for the hills. They've got ponies, an' wagons, an' camp-
outfit to that extent a casooal onlooker might think they aims to be
away for years.

"As we p'ints out from the O.K. House, where them Britons has been
wrastlin' their chuck pendin' the start, Tucson Jennie is thar
sayin' 'goodby' to Dave. I notes then she ain't tickled to death
none about somethin', but don't deem nothin' speshul of it.

"The Britons is made up of two gents, mebby as old as Enright--
brothers is what they be--an' a female who's the daughter of one of
'em. Which thar's nothin' recent about this yere lady, though; an' I
reckons she's mighty likely forty years old. I learns later,
however, it's this female which Tucson Jennie resents when she says
"adios" to Dave.

"It shore strikes me now, when years is passed, as some marv'lous
how a han'some, corn-fed female like Tucson Jennie manages to found
a fight with Dave over this yere towerist woman. I'm nacherally slow
to go decidin' bets ag'in a lady's looks, but whatever Tucson Jennie
sees in the appearance of this person which is likely to inviggle
Dave is too many for me. I softens the statement a heap when I says
she's uglier than a Mexican sheep.

"However, that don't seem to occur to Tucson Jennie; an' Doc Peets--
who's the wisest sharp in Arizona--allows to me afterwards as how
Tucson Jennie is cuttin' the kyards with herse'f desp'rate to see
whether she declar's war at the very time we makes our start. If she
does, she turns the low kyard, for she don't say nothin', an' we
gets away, an' all is profound peace.

"Four days later we're in camp by a water-hole in the frill of the
foot-hills. The Britons has got up a wall tent an' is shorely havin'
a high an' lavish time. Dave an' me ain't payin' no attention to 'em
speshul, as we don't see how none is needed. Besides, we has some
hard ridin' to do lookin' up places for a line of sign camps.

"It's the second day when we notices an outfit of Injuns camped down
the valley from us. They's all serene an' peaceful enough; with
squaws, papooses, an' dogs; an' ain't thinkin' no more of bein'
hostile than we be.

"Of course, no sooner does these yere Britons of ours behold this
band of savages than they has to go projectin' round 'em. That's the
worst thing about a towerist; he's that loaded with cur'osity, an'
that gregar'ous an' amiable, he has to go foolin' 'round every
stranger lie tracks up with. In their ign'rance they even gets that
roode an' insultin' at times, that I knows 'em who's that regardless
an' imp'lite as to up an' ask a rank stranger that a-way to pass'em
his gun to look at.

"An' so, as I says, no sooner does them Injuns get near us, than
them three blessed foreigners is over after 'em; ropin' at em' with
questions an' invadin' of 'em, an' examinin' of 'em like the whole
tribe's for sale an' they aims to acquire 'em if figgers is
reasonable.

"I never does know what the female towerist says or does to that
partic'lar aborigine-nothin' most likely; but it ain't a day when
one of them Injuns settles it with himse'f he wants to wed her. The
towerists is in ign'rance of the views of this savage, who goes
about dealin' his game Injun fashion.

"It's this a-way: Dave an' me trails in one evenin' some weary an'
played; it's been a hard ride that day. Which the first thing we
lays eyes on at the camp shorely livens us up a lot. Thar, tied to
the wagon-wheels, is nine ponies, which the same belongs to the
Injuns.

"'Whatever be these y ere broncos doin' yere?' says Dave, for we
allows, the first dash outen the box, mebby the Britons makes a
purchase.

"One of the towerists tells a long an' delighted story about the
gen'rosity of the Injuns.

"'Actooally,' says this towerist,"them gen'rous savages leads up
these yere nine ponies an' donates 'em.'

"Dave an' me asks questions; and all thar is to the deal--which it's
shore enough to bust Dave's fam'ly before it's over--them Injuns
brings up the nine ponies all respectful, an' leaves 'em hobbled
out, mebby it's a hundred yards from the Britons, an' rides away.
The Britons, deemin' this bluff as in the line of gifts, capers over
an' possesses themse'fs of the ponies an' leads 'em in. That's the
outside of the store.

"'Well, stranger,' says Dave in reply, takin' of the towerist one
side, 'I ain't aimin' to discourage you none, but you-alls has gone
an' got all tangled up in your lariat.'

"'What for an ontanglement is it?' asks the towerist.

"'Nothin',' says Dave, sorter breakin' it to him easy, 'nothin',
only you've done married your daughter to one of them Injuns.'

"When Dave announces this yere trooth it shore looks like the
Briton's goin' to need whiskey to uphold himse'f. But he
reorganizes, an' Dave explains that the Injuns, when they trails in
with the ponies, is simply shufflin' for a weddin'; they's offerin'
what they-alls calls a 'price' for the woman.

"'An' when you-alls leads in the ponies,' says Dave,'that settles
it. You agrees to deal right thar. To-morrow, now, this yere buck,
whoever he is, will come surgin' in with his relations plumb down to
third cousins; an' he expects you'll be dead ready to feed 'em, an'
wind up the orgy by passin' over the bride.'

"You can bet them reecitals of Dave's is plenty horrible to the
towerist. He allows we must keep it from his daughter; an' then he
puts hip whole outfit in Dave's hands, to get 'em safe onto high
grounds.

"'Can't we pull our freight in the night?'says the towerist, an'
he's shorely anxious.

"'Too much moon,' says Dave; 'an' then, ag'in, the whole Injun
outfit's below us in the draw, an' we never gets by once in a
thousand times. No,' goes on Dave, 'one shore thing we can't back
out nor crawl off. We-alls has to play the hand plumb through:

"Then Dave tells the towerist him an' me talks over this yere
weddin' which he done goes into so inadvertent; an' if thar's a
chance to save him from becomin' a father-in-law abrupt, we'll play
it to win.

"'This yere is the only wagon-track out; says Dave to me, after we
pow-wows an hour. 'You go down to them Injuns, an' find the right
buck that a-way, an' tell him the squaw's got a buck now. Tell him
he's barred. Which at this p'int in your revelations he's due to
offer a fight, an' of course you takes him. Tell him at first-drink
time to-morrow mornin' he finds me ready to fight for the squaw.'

"'This whole business makes metired, though,' says Dave, a heap
disgustad. ' If these eediots had let them Injuns alone-, or even if
they disdains the ponies when they was brought up, this yere could
be fixed easy. But now it's fight or give up the woman, so you go
down, as I says, an' arrange for the dance.'

"Of course thar's no explainin' nothin' to Injuns. You might as well
waste time expoundin' to coyotes an' jack-rabbits. All that's left
for me to do is trail out after my savage, as Dave says, an' notify
him that this weddin' he pro. poses is postponed an' all bets is
off.

"I finds him easy enough, an' saws it off on him in Spanish how the
game stacks up. But he ain't cheerful about it, an' displays a
mighty baleful sperit. Jest as Tutt allows he's out to shoot for the
squaw in a minute, an' as thar's no gettin' away from it, I tells
him to paint himse'f for war an' come a-runnin'.

"I has to carry a hard face; for we're shorely in for it. Yere we be
four days from Wolfville, an' the Injuns--an' I reckons thar's
twenty bucks in the outfit-is camped in between us an' he'p.

"This Injun who's after the woman is named Black Dog. The next
mornin' Tutt saddles up an' rides off to one side of our camp, mebby
it's a quarter of a mile, an' then gets offen his pony an' stands
thar. We-alls don't onfold to the towerists the details of the deal,
not even to the Injun's father-in-law. The towerist female is that
ign'rant of what's going' on, she's pesterin' 'round all
onconscious, makin' bakin'-powder biscuit at the time. I looks at
her close, an' I wonders even yet what that Black Dog's thinkin' of.
But I don't get much time to be disgusted over this Black Dog's
taste before he comes p'intin' out from among his people.

"The sun's jest gettin' over the hills to the east, an', as it
strikes him, he's shore a fash'nable lookin' Injun. He ain't got
nothin' on but a war-bunnit an' a coat of paint. The rest of his
trousseau he confines to his Winchester an' belt. He's on his war-
pony, an' the bronco's stripped as bare as this Black Dog is; not a
strap from muzzle to tail. This bridegroom Injun's tied its mane
full of ribbons, an' throws a red blanket across his pony's withers
for general effects. Take it all over, he's a nifty-lookin' savage.

"So far as the dooel goes, Dave ain't runnin' no resk. He stands
thar on the ground an' keeps his hoss between him an' this yere
Black Dog. It's a play which forces the bridegroom's hand, too. He's
due, bein' Injun, to go cirelin' Dave an' do his shootin' on the
canter.

"An' that's what this weak-minded savage does. He breaks into a lope
an' goes sailin' 'round Dave like a hawk. Durin' them exercises he
lays over on the shoulder of his hoss an' bangs away from onder its
neck with one hand, permiscus.

"This is mere frivolity. Thar ain't no white gent who could shoot
none onder sech conditions; an' Injuns can't shoot nohow. They don't
savey a hind sight. An', as I remarks, if Dave's hit any, it's goin'
to shorely be an accident, an' accidents don't happen none in
Arizona; leastwise not with guns.

'Mebby this Black Dog's banged away three times, when Dave, who's
been followin' of him, through the sights for thirty seconds,
onhooks his rifle, an' the deal comes to a full stop. Dave's
shootin' a Sharp's, with a hundred an' twenty grains of powder, an'
the way he sends a bullet plumb through that war-pony an' this yere
Black Dog, who's hangin' on its off side, don't bother him a bit.
The pony an' the Black Dog goes over on their heads.

"Dave rides in, an' brings the blanket an' war-bunnit. Even then,
the female towerist, which is the object of the meetin', don't seem
informed none of the course of events. The fact is, she never does
acquire the rights of it till we-alls is two days back on the return
trail.

"Thar's no more bother. Injuns is partic'lar people, that a-way,
about etiquette as they saveys it, an' followin' Dave's downin' this
Black Dog they ain't makin' a moan or a move. They takes it plenty
solemn an' mute, an' goes to layin' out the Black Dog's obsequies
without no more notice of us. It's a squar deal; they sees that; an'
they ain't filin' no objections. As for our end of the game, we
moves out for Wolfville, makin' no idle delays whatever.

"Goin' in, Dave, after thinkin' some, su'gests to me that it's
likely to be a heap good story not to tell Tucson Jennie.

"'Females is illogical, that a-way,' says Dave, 'an' I ain't goin'
to have time to eddicate Jennie to a proper view of this yere. So I
reckons it's goin' to be a crafty play not to tell her.'

"The Britons has been gone two weeks when Tucson Jennie learns the
story. Them towerists is plumb weary of Arizona when we trails into
Wolfville, an' don't seem to tarry a second before they lines out
for Tucson.

"'They jest hits a high place or two,' says Jack Moore, after he
hears of them designs of the Black Dog, 'an' they'll be 'way yonder
out of the country. I don't reckon none of 'em'll ever come back
soon, neither.'

"But it's the towerist woman makes the trouble from start to finish.
It's a letter from her which she writes back to Dave, allowin'
she'll thank him some more as her preserver, that brings the news to
Jennie. Tucson Jennie gets this missive, an' ups an' rifles an'
reads it to herse'f a whole lot. It's then Tucson Jennie gives it
out cold, Dave is breakin' her heart, an' tharupon prances 'round
for her shaker an' goes over to Missis Rucker's.

"The whole camp knows the story in an hour, an' while we-ails
sympathizes with Dave of course, no one's blamin' Tucson Jennie.
She's a female, an' onresponsible, for one thing; an' then, ag'in
Dave's a heap onlikely to stand any condemnations of his wife.

"'She's as good a woman as ever wears a moccasin,' says Dave, while
he's recoverin' of his sperits at the Red Light bar.

"An' we-alls allows she shorely is; an' then everybody looks pensive
an' sincere that a-way, so's not to harrow Dave none an' make his
burdens more.

"'But whatever can I do to fetch her back to camp?' asks Dave,
appealin' to Enright mighty wretched. 'I goes plumb locoed if this
yere keeps on.'

"'My notion is, we-alls better put Missis Rucker in to play the
hand,' says Enright. 'Missis Rucker's a female, an' is shorely due
to know what kyards to draw. But this oughter be a lesson to you,
Dave, not to go romancin' 'round with strange women no more.'

"'It's a forced play, I tells you,' says Dave. 'Them Injuns has us
treed. It's a case of fight or give up that she-towerist, so what
was I to do?'

"`Well,' says Enright, some severe,' you might at least have
consulted with this yere towerist woman some. But you don't. You
simply gets a gun an' goes trackin' 'round in her destinies, an'
shootin' up her prospects like you has a personal interest. You
don't know but she deplores the deal complete. Peets, an' me, an'
Boggs, an' all the rest of us is your friends, an' nacherally
partial on your side. We-alls figgers you means well. But what I
says is this: It ain't no s'prisin' thing when Tucson Jennie, a-
hearin' of them pronounced attentions which you pays this towerist
lady, is filled with grief. This shootin' up an Injun, cause he's
plannin' to wed this female some, is what I shorely calls pronounced
attentions. What do you think yourse'f, Peets?'

"'Why! I readily concedes what Dave says,' remarks Peets.
'Ondoubtedly he acts for the best as he sees it. But jest as you
puts it: s'pose Dave ain't hungerin' none for this towerist woman
himse'f, the headlong way he goes after this yere Black Dog, settin'
of the war-jig the next sun-up, an' all without even sayin' "Let me
look at your hand," to this female, jestifies them inferences of
yours. Of course I don't say--an' I don't reckon none--Dave thinks
of this old-maid maverick once; but, he sees himse'f, ht shore goes
to war a heap precipitate an' onconsiderate, an' Tucson Jennie has
ondoubted grounds to buck.

"'Which, when you-alls puts it so cl'ar, I thinks so too,' says
Dave, who's listenin' to Enright an' Peets a mighty sight dejected.
I But I ain't been wedded long--ain't more'n what you might call an
amature husband. What you-alls oughter do now is he'p me to round
her up. If Tucson Jennie's a bunch of cattle, or a band of ponies as
has stampeded, you'd be in the saddle too quick.'

"Missis Rucker shore does all she knows to soften Tucson Jennie. She
reminds her how in the old times, when Dave gets his chile con carne
at the O. K. House, and the party from the States takes to reprovin'
of Missis Rucker about thar bein' nothin' but coffee an' beans to
eat, Dave onlimbers his six-shooter an' goes to the front.

"'The grub's dealt down,' says Dave, explainin' to this obnoxious
tenderfoot, 'till thar's nothin' left in the box but beans, coffee,
an' beans. It's a cat-hop, but it can't be he'ped none.'

"'Cat-hop or no cat-hop,' says this tenderfoot, 'I'm dead ag'in
beans; an' you can gamble I ain't out to devour no sech low
veg'tables; none whatever.'

"'You jest thinks you don't like beans,' says Dave, an' with that he
sorter dictates at the tenderfoot with his gun, an' the tenderfoot
thar-upon lays for his frijoles like he's actooally honin' tharfor.

"'Which it all shows Dave's got a good heart,' says Missis Rucker to
Tucson Jennie.

"'That's nothin' to do with his makin' love to the British woman,'
says Tucson Jennie, grittin' her teeth like she could eat the sights
offen a six-shooter.

"'He never makes no love to this yere woman,' says Missis Rucker.

"'When he ketches her flirtin' with that Injun,' demands Tucson
Jennie, 'don't Dave shoot him up a lot? What do you-all call makin'
love? He never downs no Injuns for me, an' I'm his lawful wife.' An'
yere Missis Rucker allows, when she reports to Enright an' Dave an'
the rest of the outfit in the Red Light, Tucson Jennie weeps like
her heart is shorely broke.

"'Which the pore girl's to be pitied,' says Enright. 'Dave,' he goes
on, turnin' to Tutt some fierce, 'you don't deserve no sech devotion
as this.'

"'That's whatever,' says Dan Boggs, lookin' red an' truculent, 'this
yere Tucson Jennie's a angel.'

"But thar we be, up ag'inst it, an' not a man knows a thing to do to
squar' the deal with Dave's wife. We-alls, calls for drinks all
'round, an' sets about an' delib'rates. At last Dave speaks up in a
low-sperited way.

"'I reckons she done jumps the game for good,' he says. 'But if
she's goin', I wants her to have a layout. If you-alls cares to go
over to the New York Store, I allows I'll play in a blue stack or
two an' win her out some duds. I wants her to quit the deal ahead.'

"So Dave sets out for the New York Store, an' the rest of us sorter
straggles along. Thar's nothin' gay about us. Dave gets a shawl an'
a dress; nothin' gaudy; it's a plain red an' yaller. Missis Rucker
packs 'em over to Tucson Jennie an' gets that wrapped up in the deal
she forgets utter to rustle us our grub.

"Which, it's the onexpeeted as happens in Wolfville same as
everywhere else. The minute Tucson Jennie sees the raiment, an'
realizes how Dave loves her, that settles it. Her heart melts right
thar. She ain't sayin' nothin'; jest ropes onto the dry-goods an'
starts sobbin' out for the 'doby where she an' Dave lives at.

"Dave, when he observes this yere from 'cross the street, shakes
hands all 'round, but don't trust himse'f with no remarks. He gives
our paws a squeeze like he knows he can rely on our friendship an'
hunts his way across to Tucson Jennie without a word.

"'It's all right about bein' yoothful an' light, that a-way,' says
Enright, after Dave pulls his freight, 'but Tutt oughter remember
yereafter, before he goes mixin' himse'f up with sech vain things as
towerists an' Injuns an' British, that he's a married man.'"




CHAPTER VIII.

THE MAN FROM RED DOG.


"Let me try one of them thar seegyars."

It was the pleasant after-dinner hour, and I was on the veranda for
a quiet smoke. The Old Cattleman had just thrown down his paper; the
half-light of the waning sun was a bit too dim for his eyes of
seventy years.

"Whenever I beholds a seegyar," said the old fellow, as he puffed
voluminously at the principe I passed over, "I thinks of what that
witness says in the murder trial at Socorro.

"'What was you-all doin' in camp yourse'f,' asks the jedge of this
yere witness, 'the day of the killin'?'

"'Which,' says the witness, oncrossin' his laigs an' lettin' on he
ain't made bashful an' oneasy by so much attentions bein' shown
hire, 'which I was a-eatin' of a few sardines, a-drinkin' of a few
drinks of whiskey, a-smokin' of a few seegyars, an' a-romancin'
'round.'"

After this abrupt, not to say ambiguous reminiscence, the Old
Cattleman puffed contentedly a moment.

"What murder trial was this you speak of?" I asked. "Who had been
killed?"

"Now I don't reckon I ever does know who it is gets downed," he
replied. "This yere murder trial itse'f is news to me complete. They
was waggin' along with it when I trails into Socorro that time, an'
I merely sa'nters over to the co't that a-way to hear what's goin'
on. The jedge is sorter gettin' in on the play while I'm listenin'.

"'What was the last words of this yere gent who's killed?' asks the
jedge of this witness.

"'As nearly as I keeps tabs, jedge,' says the witness, `the dyin'
statement of this person is: "Four aces to beat."'

"'Which if deceased had knowed Socorro like I does,' says the jedge,
like he's commentin' to himse'f, 'he'd shorely realized that sech
remarks is simply sooicidal.'"

Again the Old Cattleman relapsed into silence and the smoke of the
principe.

"How did the trial come out?" I queried. "Was the accused found
guilty?"

"Which the trial itse'f," he replied, "don't come out. Thar's a
passel of the boys who's come into town to see that jestice is done,
an' bein' the round-up is goin' for'ard at the time, they nacherally
feels hurried an' pressed for leesure. Theyalls oughter be back on
the range with their cattle. So the fifth day, when things is
loiterin' along at the trial till it looks like the law has hobbles
on, an' the word goes round it's goin' to be a week yet before the
jury gets action on this miscreant who's bein' tried, the boys
becomes plumb aggravated an' wearied out that a-way; an', kickin' in
the door of the calaboose, they searches out the felon, swings him
to a cottonwood not otherwise engaged, an' the right prevails.
Nacherally the trial bogs down right thar."

After another season of silence and smoke, the Old Cattleman struck
in again.

"Speakn' of killin's, while I'm the last gent to go fosterin' idees
of bloodshed, I'm some discouraged jest now by what I've been
readin' in that paper about a dooel between some Eytalians, an' it
shorely tries me the way them aliens plays hoss. It's obvious as
stars on a cl'ar night, they never means fight a little bit. I
abhors dooels, an' cowers from the mere idee. But, after all,
business is business, an' when folks fights 'em the objects of the
meetin' oughter be blood. But the way these yere European shorthorns
fixes it, a gent shorely runs a heap more resk of becomin' a angel
abrupt, attendin' of a Texas cake-walk in a purely social way.

"Do they ever fight dooels in the West? Why, yes--some. My mem'ry
comes a-canterin' up right now with the details of an encounter I
once beholds in Wolfville. Thar ain't no time much throwed away with
a dooel in the Southwest. The people's mighty extemporaneous, an'
don't go browsin' 'round none sendin' challenges in writin', an'
that sort of flapdoodle. When a gent notices the signs a-gettin'
about right for him to go on the war-path, he picks out his meat,
surges up, an' declar's himse'f. The victim, who is most likely a
mighty serious an' experienced person, don't copper the play by
makin' vain remarks, but brings his gatlin' into play surprisin'.
Next it's bang! bang! bang! mixed up with flashes an' white smoke,
an' the dooel is over complete. The gent who still adorns our midst
takes a drink on the house, while St. Peter onbars things a lot an'
arranges gate an' seat checks with the other in the realms of light.
That's all thar is to it. The tide of life ag'in flows onward to the
eternal sea, an' nary ripple.

"Oh, this yere Wolfville dooel! `Well, it's this a-way. The day is
blazin' hot, an' business layin' prone an' dead--jest blistered to
death. A passel of us is sorter pervadin' 'round the dance-hall, it
bein' the biggest an' coolest store in camp. A monte game is
strugglin' for breath in a feeble, fitful way in the corner, an'
some of us is a-watchin'; an' some a-settin' 'round loose a-
thinkin'; but all keepin' mum an' still, 'cause it's so hot.

"Jest then some gent on a hoss goes whoopin' up the street a-yellin'
an' a-whirlin' the loop of his rope, an' allowin' generally he's
havin' a mighty good time.

"'Who's this yere toomultuous man on the hoss?' says Enright, a-
regardin' of him in a displeased way from the door.

"'I meets him up the street a minute back,' says Dan Boggs, 'an' he
allows he's called "The Man from Red Dog." He says he's took a day
off to visit us, an' aims to lay waste the camp some before he goes
back.'

"About then the Red Dog man notes old Santa Rosa, who keeps the
Mexican baile hall, an' his old woman, Marie, a-fussin' with each
other in front of the New York Store. They's locked horns over a
drink or somethin', an' is pow-wowin' mighty onamiable.

"'Whatever does this yere Mexican fam'ly mean,' says the Red Dog
man, a-surveyin' of 'em plenty scornful, 'a-draggin' of their
domestic brawls out yere to offend a sufferin' public for? Whyever
don't they stay in their wickeyup an' fight, an' not take to puttin'
it all over the American race which ain't in the play none an' don't
thirst tharfor? However, I unites an' reeconciles this divided
household easy.'

"With this the Red Dog man drops the loop of his lariat 'round the
two contestants an' jumps his bronco up the street like it's come
outen a gun. Of course Santa Rosa an' Marie goes along on their
heads permiscus.

"They goes coastin' along ontil they gets pulled into a mesquite-
bush, an' the rope slips offen the saddle, an' thar they be. We-alls
goes over from the dance-hall, extricatin' of 'em, an' final they
rounds up mighty hapless an' weak, an' can only walk. They shorely
lose enough hide to make a pair of leggin's.

"'Which I brings 'em together like twins,' says the Red Dog man,
ridin' back for his rope. 'I offers two to one, no limit, they don't
fight none whatever for a month.'

"Which, as it shorely looks like he's right, no one takes him. So
the Red Dog man leaves his bluff a-hangin' an' goes into the dance-
hall, a-givin' of it out cold an' clammy he meditates libatin'.

"'All promenade to the bar,' yells the Red Dog man as he goes in.
'I'm a wolf, an' it's my night to howl. Don't 'rouse me, barkeep,
with the sight of merely one bottle; set 'em all up. I'm some
fastidious about my fire-water an' likes a chance to select.'

"Well, we-alls takes our inspiration, an' the Red Dog man tucks his
onder his belt an' then turns round to Enright.

"'I takes it you're the old he-coon of this yere outfit?' says the
Red Dog man, soopercillious-like.

"'Which, if I ain't,' says Enright, 'it's plenty safe as a play to
let your wisdom flow this a-way till the he-coon gets yere.'

"'If thar's anythin',' says the Red Dog man, 'I turns from sick,
it's voylence an' deevastation. But I hears sech complaints constant
of this yere camp of Wolfville, I takes my first idle day to ride
over an' line things up. Now yere I be, an' while I regrets it, I
finds you-alls is a lawless, onregenerate set, a heap sight worse
than roomer. I now takes the notion--for I sees no other trail--that
by next drink time I climbs into the saddle, throws my rope 'round
this den of sin, an' removes it from the map.'

"'Nacherally,' says Enright, some sarcastic, 'in makin' them schemes
you ain't lookin' for no trouble whatever with a band of tarrapins
like us.'

"'None whatever,' says the Red Dog man, mighty confident. 'In thirty
minutes I distributes this yere hamlet 'round in the landscape same
as them Greasers; which feat becomin' hist'ry, I then canters back
to Red Dog.'

"'Well,' says Enright, 'it's plenty p'lite to let us know what's
comin' this a-way.'

"'Oh! I ain't tellin' you none,' says the Red Dog man, 'I simply
lets fly this hint, so any of you-alls as has got bric-a-brac he
values speshul, he takes warnin' some an' packs it off all safe.'

"It's about then when Cherokee Hall, who's lookin' on, shoulders in
between Enright an' the Red Dog man, mighty positive. Cherokee is a
heap sot in his idees, an' I sees right off he's took a notion ag'in
the Red Dog man.

"'As you've got a lot of work cut out,' says Cherokee, eyein' the
Red Dog man malignant, 's'pose we tips the canteen ag'in.'

"'I shorely goes you,' says the Red Dog man. 'I drinks with friend,
an' I drinks with foe; with the pard of my bosom an' the shudderin'
victim of my wrath all sim'lar.'

"Cherokee turns out a big drink an' stands a-holdin' of it in his
hand. I wants to say right yere, this Cherokee's plenty guileful.

"'You was namin',' says Cherokee, 'some public improvements you aims
to make; sech as movin' this yere camp 'round some, I believes?'

"'That's whatever,' says the Red Dog man, 'an' the holycaust I
'nitiates is due to start in fifteen minutes.'

"'I've been figgerin' on you,' says Cherokee, 'an' I gives you the
result in strict confidence without holdin' out a kyard. When you-
all talks of tearin' up Wolfville, you're a liar an' a hoss-thief,
an' you ain't goin' to tear up nothin'.'

"'What's this I hears!' yells the frenzied Red Dog man, reachin' for
his gun.

"But he never gets it, for the same second Cherokee spills the glass
of whiskey straight in his eyes, an' the next he's anguished an'
blind as a mole.

"'I'll fool this yere human simoon up a lot,' says Cherokee, a-
hurlin' of the Red Dog man to the floor, face down, while his nine-
inch bowie shines in his hand like the sting of a wasp. 'I shore
fixes him so he can't get a job clerkin' in a store,' an' grabbin'
the Red Dog man's ha'r, which is long as the mane of a pony, he
slashes it off close in one motion.

"'Thar's a fringe for your leggin's, Nell,' remarks Cherokee, a-
turnin' of the crop over to Faro Nell. 'Now, Doc,' Cherokee goes on
to Doc Peets, 'take this yere Red Dog stranger over to the Red
Light, fix his eyes all right, an' then tell him, if he thinks he
needs blood in this, to take his Winchester an' go north in the
middle of the street. In twenty minutes by the watch I steps outen
the dance-hall door a-lookin' for him. P'int him to the door all
fair an' squar'. I don't aim to play nothin' low on this yere gent.
He gets a chance for his ante.'

"Doc Peets sorter accoomilates the Red Dog man, who is cussin' an'
carryin' on scand'lous, an' leads him over to the Red Light. In a
minute word comes to Cherokee as his eyes is roundin' up all proper,
an' that he's makin' war-medicine an' is growin' more hostile
constant, an' to heel himse'f. At that Cherokee, mighty ca'm, sends
out for Jack Moore's Winchester, which is an 'eight-squar',' latest
model.

"'Oh, Cherokee!' says Faro Nell, beginnin' to cry, an' curlin' her
arms 'round his neck. 'I'm 'fraid he's goin' to down you. Ain't thar
no way to fix it? Can't Dan yere settle with this Red Dog man?'

"'Cert,' says Dan Boggs, 'an' I makes the trip too gleeful. Jest to
spar' Nell's feelin's, Cherokee, an' not to interfere with no gent's
little game, I takes your hand an' plays it.'

"'Not none,' says Cherokee; 'this is my deal. Don't cry, Nellie,' he
adds, smoothin' down her yaller ha'r. 'Folks in my business has to
hold themse'fs ready to face any game on the word, an' they never
weakens or lays down. An' another thing, little girl; I gets this
Red Dog sharp, shore. I'm in the middle of a run of luck; I holds
fours twice last night, with a flush an' a full hand out ag'in 'em.'

"Nell at last lets go of Cherokee's neck, an', bein' a female an'
timid that a-way, allows she'll go, an' won't stop to see the
shootin' none. We applauds the idee, thinkin' she might shake
Cherokee some if she stays; an' of course a gent out shootin' for
his life needs his nerve.

"Well, the twenty minutes is up; the Red Dog man gets his rifle
offen his saddle an' goes down the middle of the street. Turnin' up
his big sombrero, he squar's 'round, cocks his gun, an' waits. Then
Enright goes out with Cherokee an' stands him in the street about a
hundred yards from the Red Dog man. After Cherokee's placed he holds
up his hand for attention an' says:

"'When all is ready I stands to one side an' drops my hat. You-alls
fires at will.'

"Enright goes over to the side of the street, counts 'one,' 'two,'
'three,' an' drops his hat. Bangety! Bang! Bang! goes the rifles
like the roll of a drum. Cherokee can work a Winchester like one of
these yere Yankee 'larm-clocks, an' that Red Dog hold-up don't seem
none behind.

"About the fifth fire the Red Dog man sorter steps for'ard an' drops
his gun; an' after standin' onsteady for a second, he starts to
cripplin' down at his knees. At last he comes ahead on his face like
a landslide. Thar's two bullets plumb through his lungs, an' when we
gets to him the red froth is comin' outen his mouth some plenteous.

"We packs him back into the Red Light an' lays him onto a monte-
table. Bimeby he comes to a little an' Peets asks him whatever he
thinks he wants.

"'I wants you-alls to take off my moccasins an' pack me into the
street,' says the Red Dog man. 'I ain't allowin' for my old mother
in Missoury to be told as how I dies in no gin-mill, which she
shorely 'bominates of 'em. An' I don't die with no boots on,
neither.'

"We-alls packs him back into the street ag'in, an' pulls away at his
boots. About the time we gets 'em off he sags back convulsive, an'
thar he is as dead as Santa Anna.

"'What sort of a game is this, anyhow?' says Dan Boggs, who, while
we stands thar, has been pawin' over the Red Dog man's rifle. 'Looks
like this vivacious party's plumb locoed. Yere's his hind-sights
wedged up for a thousand yards, an' he's been a-shootin' of
cartridges with a hundred an' twenty grains of powder into 'em.
Between the sights an' the jump of the powder, he's shootin' plumb
over Cherokee an' aimin' straight at him.'

"'Nellie,' says Enright, lookin' remorseful at the girl, who colors
up an' begins to cry ag'in, 'did you cold-deck this yere Red Dog
sport this a-way?'

"'I'm 'fraid,' sobs Nell, 'he gets Cherokee; so I slides over when
you-alls is waitin' an' fixes his gun some.'

"'Which I should shorely concede you did,' says Enright. 'The way
that Red Dog gent manip'lates his weepon shows he knows his game;
an' except for you a-settin' things up on him, I'm powerful afraid
he'd spoiled Cherokee a whole lot.'

"'Well, gents,' goes on Enright, after thinkin' a while, 'I reckons
we-alls might as well drink on it. Hist'ry never shows a game yet,
an' a woman in it, which is on the squar', an' we meekly b'ars our
burdens with the rest.'"




CHAPTER IX.

CHEROKEE HALL.


"An' you can't schedoole too much good about him," remarked the Old
Cattleman. Here he threw away the remnant of the principe, and,
securing his pipe, beat the ashes there-out and carefully reloaded
with cut plug. Inevitably the old gentleman must smoke. His tone and
air as he made the remark quoted were those of a man whose
convictions touching the one discussed were not to be shaken. "No,
sir," he continued; "when I looks back'ard down the trail of life,
if thar's one gent who aforetime holds forth in Wolfville on whom I
reflects with satisfaction, it's this yere Cherokee Hall."

"To judge from his conduct," I said, "in the hard case of the
Wilkins girl, as well as his remark as she left on the stage, I
should hold him to be a person of sensibilities as well as
benevolent impulse."

It was my purpose to coax the old gentleman to further reminiscence.

"Benev'lent!" retorted the old man. "Which I should shore admit it!
What he does for this yere young Wilkins female ain't a marker.
Thar's the Red Dog man he lets out. Thar's the Stingin' Lizard's
nephy; he stakes said yooth from infancy. 'Benev'lent!' says you.
This party Cherokee is that benev'lent he'd give away a poker hand.
I've done set an' see him give away his hand in a jack-pot for two
hundred dollars to some gent 'cross the table who's organizin' to go
ag'in him an' can't afford to lose. An' you can onderscore it; a
winnin' poker hand, an' him holdin' it, is the last thing a
thoroughbred kyard-sharp'll give away. But as I says, I sees this
Cherokee do it when the opp'sition is settin' in hard luck an'
couldn't stand to lose.

"How would he give his hand away? Throw it in the diskyard an' not
play it none; jest nacherally let the gent who's needy that a-way
rake in the chips on the low hand. Cherokee mebby does it this
fashion so's he don't wound the feelin's of this yere victim of his
gen'rosity. Thar's folks who turns sens'tive an' ain't out to take
alms none, who's feelin's he spar's that a-way by losin' to 'em at
poker what they declines with scorn direct. "'Benev'lent,' is the
way you puts it! Son, 'benev'lent' ain't the word. This sport
Cherokee Hall ain't nothin' short of char'table.

"Speakin' wide flung an' onrestrained, Cherokee, as I mentions to
you before, is the modestest, decentest longhorn as ever shakes his
antlers in Arizona. He is slim an' light, an' a ondoubted kyard-
sharp from his moccasins up. An' I never knows him to have a peso he
don't gamble for. Nothin' common, though; I sees him one night when
he sets ca'mly into some four-handed poker, five thousand dollars
table stake, an' he's sanguine an' hopeful about landin' on his feet
as a Cimmaron sheep. Of course times is plenty flush in them days,
an' five thousand don't seem no sech mammoth sum. Trade is eager an'
values high; aces-up frequent callin' for five hundred dollars
before the draw. Still we ain't none of us makin' cigarettes of no
sech roll as five thousand. The days ain't quite so halcyon as all
that neither.

"But what I likes speshul in Cherokee Hall is his jedgement. He's
every time right. He ain't talkin' much, an' he ain't needin' advice
neither, more'n a steer needs a saddle-blanket. But when he
concloodes to do things, you can gamble he's got it plenty right.

"One time this Cherokee an' Texas Thompson is comin' in from Tucson
on the stage. Besides Cherokee an' Texas, along comes a female,
close-herdin' of two young-ones; which them infants might have been
t'rant'lers an' every one a heap happier. Sorter as range-boss of
the whole out. fit is a lean gent in a black coat. Well, they hops
in, an' Cherokee gives 'em the two back seats on account of the
female an' the yearlin's.

"'My name is Jones,' says the gent in the black coat, when he gets
settled back an' the stage is goin', I an' I'm an exhortin'
evangelist. I plucks brands from the burnin'.'

"'I'm powerful glad to know it,' says Texas, who likes talk. 'Them
games of chance which has vogue in this yere clime is some various,
an' I did think I shorely tests 'em all; but if ever the device you
names is open in Wolfville I overlooks the same complete.'

"'Pore, sinkin' soul!' says the black-coat gent to the female; 'he's
a-flounderin' in the mire of sin. Don't you know,' he goes on to
Texas, 'my perishin' friend, you are bein' swept downward in the
river of your own sinful life till your soul will be drowned in the
abyss?"

"'Well, no,' says Texas, 'I don't. I allows I'm makin' a mighty dry
ford of it.'

"'Lost! lost! lost!' says the black-coat gent, a-leanin' back like
he's plumb dejected that a-way an' hopeless. 'It is a stiff-necked
gen'ration an' sorely perverse a lot.'

"The stage jolts along two or three miles, an' nothin' more bein'
said. The black-coat gent he groans occasionally, which worries
Texas; an' the two infants, gettin' restless, comes tumblin' over
onto Cherokee an' is searchin' of his pockets for mementoes. Which
this is about as refreshin' to Cherokee as bein' burned at the
stake. But the mother she leans back an' smiles, an' of course he's
plumb he'pless. Finally the black. coat gent p'ints in for another
talk.

"'What is your name, my pore worm?' says the black-coat gent,
addressin' of Texas; 'an' whatever avocation has you an' your lost
companion?'

"I Why,' says Texas, 'this yere's Hall--Cherokee Hall. He turns faro
in the Red Light; an',' continues Texas, a-lowerin' of his voice,
'he's as squar' a gent as ever counted a deck. Actooally, pard, you
might not think it, but all that gent knows about settin' up kyards,
or dealin' double, or anv sech sinful scheme, is mere tradition.'
"'Brother,' says the female, bristlin' up an' tacklin' the black-
coat gent, 'don't talk to them persons no more. Them's gamblers, an'
mighty awful men;' an' with that she snatches away the yearlin's
like they's contam'nated.

'This is relief to Cherokee, but the young-ones howls like coyotes,
an' wants to come back an' finish pillagin' him. But the mother she
spanks 'em, an' when Texas is goin' to give 'em some cartridges
outen his belt to amoose 'em, she sasses him scand'lous, an' allows
she ain't needin' no attentions from him. Then she snorts at Texas
an' Cherokee contemptuous. The young-ones keeps on yellin' in a
mighty onmelodious way, an' while Cherokee is ca'm an' don't seem
like he minds it much, Texas gets some nervous. At last Texas lugs
out a bottle, aimin' to compose his feelins', which they's some
harrowed by now.

"`Well, I never!' shouts the woman; 'I shorely sees inebriates ere
now, but at least they has the decency not to pull a bottle that a-
way

before a lady.' "This stampedes Texas complete, an' he throws the
whiskey

outen the stage an' don't get no drink. "It's along late in the
mornin' when the stage strikes the upper end of Apache Canyon. This
yere canyon

is lately reckoned some bad. Nothin' ever happens on the line, but

them is the days when Cochise is cavortin' 'round plenty loose, an'
it's mighty possible to stir up Apaches any time a-layin' in the
hills

along the trail to Tucson. If they ever gets a notion to stand up
the stage, they's shore due to be in this canyon; wherefore Cherokee
an' Texas an' Old Monte who's drivin' regards it s'picious. "'Send
'em through on the jump, Monte,' says Cherokee, stickin' out his
head. "The six hosses lines out at a ten-mile gait, which rattles
things, an' makes the black-coat gent sigh, while the young-ones
pours forth some appallin' shrieks. The female gets speshul mad at
this, allowin'

they's playin' it low down on her fam'ly. But she takes it out in
cuffin' the yearlin's now an' then, jest to keep 'em yellin', an'
don't say nothin'. "Which the stage is about half through the
canyon, when up on both sides a select assortment of Winchesters
begins to bang an' jump permiscus; the same goin' hand-in-hand with
whoops of onusual merit. With the first shot Old Monte pours the
leather into the team, an' them hosses surges into the collars like
cyclones. "It's lucky aborigines ain't no shots. They never yet gets
the phelosophy of a

hind sight none, an' generally you can't reach their bullets with a
ten-foot pole, they's that high above your head. The only thing as

gets hit this time is Texas. About the beginnin', a little cloud of
dust flies outen the shoulder of his coat, his face turns pale, an'
Cherokee knows he's creased. "'Did they get you, Old Man?' says
Cherokee, some anxious. "'No,' says Texas, tryin' to brace himse'f.
'I'll be

on velvet ag'in in a second. I now longs, however, for that whiskey
I hurls overboard so graceful.' "The Apaches comes tumblin' down
onto the trail an' gives chase, a-shootin' an' a-yellin' a heap
zealous. As they's on foot, an' as Old Monte is makin' fifteen miles
an hour by now, they merely manages to hold their own in the race,
about forty yards to the r'ar.

"This don't go on long when Cherokee, after thinkin', says to Texas,
'This yere is the way I figgers it, If we-alls keeps on, them Injuns
is that fervent they runs in on us at the ford. With half luck
they's due to down either a hoss or Monte--mebby both; in which
event the stage shorely stops, an' it's a fight. This bein' troo,
an' as I'm 'lected for war anyhow, I'm goin' to caper out right
yere, an' pull on the baile myse'f. This'll stop the chase, an'
between us, pard, it's about the last chance in the box this pore
female an' her offsprings has. An' I plays it for 'em, win or lose.'

"'Them's my motives; says Texas, tryin' to pull himse'f together.
'Shall we take this he-shorthorn along?' An' he p'ints where them
four tenderfoots is mixed up together in the back of the stage.

"'He wouldn't be worth a white chip,' says Cherokee, 'an' you-all is
too hard hit to go, Texas, yourse'f. So take my regards to Enright
an' the boys, an' smooth this all you know for Faro Nell. I makes
the trip alone.'

"'Not much,' says Texas. 'My stack goes to the center, too.'

"But it don't, though, 'cause Texas has bled more'n he thinks. The
first move he makes he tips over in a faint.

"Cherokee picks up his Winchester, an', openin' the door of the
stage, jumps plumb free, an' they leaves him thar on the trail.

"'It's mebby an hour later when the stage comes into Wolfville on
the lope. Texas is still in a fog, speakin' mental, an' about bled
to death; while them exhortin' people is outen their minds entire.

"In no time thar's a dozen of us lined out for Cherokee. Do we
locate him? Which I should say we shorely discovers him. Thar's a
bullet through his laig, an' thar he is with his back ag'in a rock
wall, his Winchester to the front, his eyes glitterin', a-holdin'
the canyon. Thar never is no Injun gets by him. Of course they
stampedes prompt when they hears us a-comin', so we don't get no
fight.

"'I hopes you nails one, Cherokee,' says Enright; 'playin' even on
this yere laig they shoots.'

"'I win once, I reckons', says Cherokee, 'over behind that big rock
to the left.'

"'Shore enough he's got one Injun spread out; an', comin' along a
little, Jack Moore turns up a second.

"'Yere's another,' says Jack, 'which breaks even on the bullet in
Texas.'

"'That's right,' says Cherokee, 'I remembers now than is two. The
kyards is comin' some Tast, an' I overlooks a bet.'

"We-alls gets Cherokee in all right, an' next day 'round comes the
female tenderfoot to see him.

"'I wants to thank my defender,' she says.

"'You ain't onder no obligations, whatever, ma'am', says Cherokee,
risin' up a little, while Faro Nell puts another goose-h'ar piller
onder him. 'I simply prefers to do my fightin' in the canyon to
doin' it at the ford; that's all. It's only a matter of straight
business; nothin' more'n a preference I has. Another thing, ma'am;
you-all forgives it, seein' I'm a gent onused to childish ways: but
when I makes the play you names, I simply seizes on them savages
that a-way as an excuse to get loose from them blessed children of
your'n a whole lot.'"




CHAPTER X.

TEXAS THOMPSON'S "ELECTION."


"An' between us," remarked the Old Cattle man, the observation being
relevant to the subject of our conversation on the occasion of one
of our many confabs, "between you an' me, I ain't none shore about
the merits of what you-all calls law an' order. Now a pains-takin'
an' discreet vig'lance committee is my notion of a bulwark. Let any
outfit take a bale of rope an' a week off, an' if their camp ain't
weeded down to right principles an' a quiet life at the end tharof,
then I've passed my days as vain as any coyote which ever yelps.

"Of course thar dawns a time when Wolfville has to come to it, same
as others. They takes to diggin' for copper; an' they builds the
Bird Cage Op'ry House, an' puts in improvements general. We even
culminates in a paper, which Doc Peets assures us is the flower of
our progress. Nacherally on the heels of all them outbursts we gives
up our simple schemes, organizes, an' pulls off an 'lection. But as
Old Man Enright is made alcalde tharby, with Jack Moore marshal, the
jolt is not severe nor the change so full of notice.

"It's not long prior to these yere stampedes into a higher
moonicipal life, however, when quite a b'ilin' of us is in the Red
Light discussin' some sech future. Our rival, Red Dog, is allowin'
it's goin' to have a mayor or somethin', an' we sorter feels like
our hands is forced.

"'For myse'f,' says Old Man Enright, when the topic is circ'latin',
with the whiskey followin' suit, an' each gent is airin' his idees
an' paintin' his nose accordin' to his taste, 'for myse'f, I can see
it comin'. Thar's to be law yere an' 'lections; an' while at first
it's mighty likely both is goin' to turn out disturbin' elements,
still I looks on their approach without fear. Wolfville is too
strong, an' Wolfville intelligence is too well founded, to let any
law loco it or set it to millin'.'

"'Still,' says Dan Boggs, 'I must remark I prefers a dooly
authorized band of Stranglers. A vig'lance committee gets my game
right along. They's more honest than any of these yere lawsharps
who's 'lected to be a jedge; an' they's a heap more zealous, which
last is important.'

"'Boggs is right,' replies Enright. 'It may not become me, who is
head of the local body of that sort, to make boasts of the
excellence of a vig'lance committee; but I ain't bluffin' on a four-
flush when I challenges any gent to put his tongue to an event where
a vig'lance committee stretches a party who ain't in need tharof; or
which goes wastin' its lariats on the desert air. I puts it to you-
alls without heat or pride, gents; Jedge Lynch is right every time.'

"'Put me down,' says Doc Peets, at the same time makin' signs for
the barkeep to remember his mission on earth, 'put me down as
coincidin' in them sentiments. An' I says further, that any party
who's lookin' for the place where the bad man is scarce, an' a law-
abidin' gent has the fullest liberty, pegged out to the shorest
safetytood, let him locate where he finds the most lynchin's, an'
where a vig'lance committee is steadily engaged discriminatin'
'round through the community.

Which a camp thus provided is a model of heavenly peace.'

"'You can
 gamble, if anybody's plumb aware of these yore trooths, it's me,'
says Texas Thompson.

'When I'm down in the South Paloduro country, workin' a passel of
Bar-K-7 cattle, I aids in an effort to 'lect a jedge an' institoot
reg'lar shore-'nough law; an' the same comes mighty near leavin' the
entire hamlet a howlin' waste. It deciminates a heap of our best
citizens.

"'This yere misguided bluff comes to pass peculiar; an' I allers
allows if it ain't for the onforeseen way wherein things stacks up,
an' the muddle we-alls gets into tryin' to find a trail, the Plaza
Paloduro would have been a scene of bleatin' peace that day, instead
of a stric'ly corpse-an'-cartridge occasion. The death rate rises to
that degree in fact that the next roundup is shy on men; an' thar
ain't enough cartridges in camp, when the smoke blows away, to be
seed for a second crop. On the squar', gents, that 'lection day on
the South Paloduro was what you-alls might term a massacre, an' get
it right every time.'

"'Well, what of this yere toomultuous 'lection?' demands Dave Tutt,
who gets impatient while Texas refreshes himse'f in his glass. 'You-
all reminds me a mighty sight, Texas, of the Tucson preacher who
pulls his freight the other day. They puts it to him, the Tucson
folks do, that he talks an' he talks, but he don't p'int out; an' he
argufies an' he argufies, but he never shows wherein. A party who's
goin' to make a pulpit-play, or shine in Arizona as a racontoor, has
done got to cult'vate a direct, incisive style.'

"'That's all c'rect,' remarks Texas, some savage, as he recovers his
nose outen his glass; 'never you fret me none about my style not
bein' incisive. Thar be other plays where any gent who comes puttin'
it all over me with roode an' intemp'rate remarks will find me
plenty incisive; not to say some soon:

"'Yere!' interrupts Enright, quick an' sharp. 'This is plumb outside
the line. Texas ain't got no call to wake up so malignant over
what's most likely nothin' worse than humor on Tutt's part; an',
Tutt, it ain't up to you none neither, to go spurrin' Texas in the
shoulder in the midst of what I'm yere to maintain is a mighty
thrillin' narration.'

"'Texas is good people,' says Dave, 'an' the last gent with which I
thirsts to dig up the war-axe. Which I'm proud to be his friend; an'
I means no offense when I su'gests that he whirl a smaller loop when
he onbosoms himse'f of a tale. I yere tenders Texas my hand,
assurin' of him that I means my language an' ain't holdin' out
nothin'. Shake!' An' at this Dave reaches his pistol-hand to Texas
Thompson, an' the same is seized prompt an' friendly.

"`This yere is my fault,' says Texas. 'I reckons now my wife
recoverin' that Laredo divorce I'm mentionin' to you-alls, sorter
leaves me a heap petulant, that a-way. But to go back to this war-
jig I was relatin' about down at Plaza Paloduro.

"'It's this a-way: No, Nellie; thar's no female in it. This yere
grows from a business transaction; an' the effort tharfrom to
improve on present conditions, institoot a reign of law, an' lect a
jedge.

"'Which the comin' of a miscreant named Cimmaron Pete, from some'ers
over near the 'Doby Walls, is the beginnin' of the deal. This
Cimmaron Pete comes trailin' in one day; an' a shorthorn called
Glidden, who runs a store at the ford, comes ropin' at Cimmaron Pete
to race ponies. "'"What for stakes do you-all aim to race for?"
demands this Cimmaron Pete.

"'"I'll run you for hoss an' saddle," says Glidden.

"'"Say hoss ag'in hoss," says Cimmaron Pete, "an' I'm liable to go
you. Saddles is hard to get, an' I won't resk mine. Ponies, however,
is easy. I can get 'em every moonlight night."

"'When them sports is racin',--which the run is to be a quarter of a
mile, only they never finishes,--jest as Cimmaron begins to pull
ahead, his pony bein' a shade suddener than Glidden's, whatever does
the latter do but rope this Cimmaron Pete's pony by the feet an'
down him.

"'It's shore fine work with a lariat, but it comes high for Glidden.
For, as he stampedes by, this Cimmaron turns loose his six-shooter
from where he's tangled up with his bronco on the ground; an' as the
first bullet gets Glidden in the back of his head, his light goes
out like a candle.

"'When the committee looks into the play they jestifies this
Cimmaron. "While on the surface," they says, "the deal seems a
little florid; still, when a gent armed with nothin' but a cold
sense of jestice comes to pirootin' plumb through the affair with a
lantern, he's due to emerge a lot with the conviction that Glidden's
wrong." So Cimmaron is free in a minute.

"'But thar's Glidden's store! Thar's nobody to claim it; thar bein'
no fam'ly to Glidden nohow; not even a hired man.

"'"Which, as it seems to be a case open to doubt," observes this
yere Cimmaron, "I nacherally takes this Glidden party's store an'
deals his game myse'f."

"'It ain't much of a store; an' bein' as the rest of us is havin'
all we-alls can ride herd on for ourse'fs, no gent makes objections,
an' Cimmaron turns himse'f loose in Glidden's store, an' begins to
sell things a whole lot. He's shorely doin' well, I reckons, when
mebby it's a week later he comes chargin' over to a passel of us an'
allows he wants the committee to settle some trouble which has cut
his trail.

"'"It's about the debts of this yere Glidden, deceased," says
Cimmaron. "I succeeds to the business of course; which it's little
enough for departed ropin' my pony that time. But you-alls can
gamble I ain't goin' 'way back on this yere dead person's trail, an'
settle all his gray an' hoary indebtnesses. Would it be right,
gents? I puts it to you-alls on the squar'; do I immerse myse'f, I'd
like for to be told, in deceased's liabilities merely for resentin'
of his wrongs ag'in me with my gun? If a gent can go blindly
shootin' himse'f into bankruptcy that a-way, the American gov'ment
is a rank loser, an' the State of Texas is plumb played out."

When we-alls proceeds to ferret into this yere myst'ry, we finds
thar's a sharp come up from Dallas who claims that Cimmaron's got to
pay him what Glidden owes. This yere Dallas party puts said
indebtednesses at five stacks of blues.

"'An' this yere longhorn's got 'em to make good, "says the Dallas
sharp, p'intin' at Cimmaron, "'cause he inherits the store."

"'Now, whatever do you-alls think of that?" says Cimmaron, appealin'
to us. "Yere I've told this perverse sport that Glidden's done
cashed in an' quit; an' now he lays for me with them indebtednesses.
It shorely wearies me."

"'It don't take the vig'lance committee no time to agree it ain't
got nothin' to say in the case.

"'" It's only on killin's, an' hoss-rustlin's, an' sim'lar breaks."
explains Old Monroe, who's chief of the Paloduro Stranglers, "where
we-alls gets kyards. We ain't in on what's a mere open-an'-shet case
of debt."

"'But this Dallas sharp stays right with Cimmaron. He gives it out
cold he's goin' to c'lect. He puts it up he'll shore sue Cimmaron a
lot.

"'You-alls don't mean to say thar ain't no jedge yere?" remarks the
Dallas sharp, when Old Monroe explains we ain't organized none for
sech games as law cases. "Well, this yere Plaza Paloduro is for
certain the locodest camp of which I ever cuts the trail! You-alls
better get a hustle on right now an' 'lect a jedge. If I goes back
to Dallas an' tells this story of how you-alls ain't got no jedge
nor no law yere, they won't let this Plaza Paloduro get close enough
to 'em in business to hand 'em a ripe peach. If thar's enough sense
in this camp to make bakin'-powder biscuit, you-alls will have a
jedge 'lected ready for me to have law cases with by second-drink
time to-morrow mornin'."

"'After hangin' up this bluff the Dallas sharp, puttin' on a heap of
hawtoor an' dog, walks over to the tavern ag'in, an' leaves us to
size up the play at our lcesure.

"'What this obdurate party from Dallas says," finally remarks Old
Monroe, "is not with. out what the Comanches calls tum-tum. Thar's
savey an' jestice in them observations. It's my idee, that thar
bein' no jedge yere, that a-way, to make a money round-up for a gent
when his debtor don't make good, is mighty likely a palin' offen our
fence. I shorely thinks we better rectify them omissions an' 'lect a
jedge at once."

"'Which I'm opposed to these proceedin's," interrupts Cimmaron. "I'm
plumb adverse to co'ts. Them law-wolves gets into 'em, an' when they
can't find no gate to come at you, they ups an' pushes down a panel
of fence, an' lays for you, cross-lots. I'm dead ag'in these
proceedin's."

"'See yere," says Old Monroe, turnin' on this Cimmaron," you-all is
becomin' too apparent in this camp; what I might describe as a heap
too obvious. Now if you gets your stack in ag'in when it ain't your
turn; or picks up anybody's hand but your own, I'll find a short way
of knockin' your horns off. You don't seem gifted enough to realize
that you're lucky to be alive right now."

"'Bar Cimmaron, who lapses into silence after Old Monroe gives him
notice, the entire camp lines up fav'rable on the idee to 'lect a
jedge. They sends over to the corral an' gets a nose-bag for to
deposit the votes; an' it's decided that Old Monroe an' a Cross-Z
party named Randall has got to do the runnin'. Randall is plenty
p'lite, an' allows he don't want to be jedge none nohow, an' says,
give it to Old Monroe; but the latter gent, who is organizin' the
play, insists that it wouldn't be legal.

"'"Thar's got to be two gents to do the runnin'," so Old Monroe
says, "or it don't go. The 'lection ain't legal that a-way onless
thar's two candidates."

"'They puts Bronco Charlie an' a sport named Ormsby in to be
'lection supervisors. They was to hold the nose-bag; an' as votes is
dropped in, they's to count 'em out accordin' to Hoyle, so we-alls
can tell where the play's headin'. Bronco Charlie is jedge for
Randall, an' Ormsby fronts up all sim'lar for Old Monroe. The
'lection we-alls decides to hold in the Lone Star Saloon, so's to be
conducted with comfort.

"'"Make your game, now, gents," says Old Monroe, when everythin' is
shorely ready. "Get in your votes. These yere polls is open for one
hour."

"'"One for Randall," says Bronco Charlie as Old Monroe votes.

"'"An' one for Old Monroe," remarks Ormsby when Randall votes next.

"'This gives the deal tone to have Randall an' Old Monroe p'int out
by votin' for each other that a-way, and thar ain't one of us who
don't feel more respectable by it.

"'It's the opinion of level-headed gents even yet, that the Plaza
Paloduro could have pulled off this 'lection an' got plumb away, an'
never had no friction, if it ain't for a Greaser from San Antonio
who tries to ring in on us. Thar's twenty-one of us has voted, an'
it stands nine for Randall an' twelve for Old Monroe; when up lopes
this yere Mexican an' allows he's locoed to vote. "'Who do you-all
think you're goin' to vote for?" asks Ormsby.

"'"Senior Monroe," says the Mexican, p'intin' at Old Monroe.

"'Stop this deal," yells Bronco Charlie, "'I challenges that vote.
Mexicans is barred."

"'Which Mexicans is not barred," replies Ormsby. "An' the vote of
this yere enlightened maverick from south of the Rio Grande goes.
Thirteen for Old Monroe."

"'Twelve for Old Monroe," remonstrates Bronco Charlie, feelin' for
his gun.

"'Thirteen for Old Monroe," retorts Ormsby, as his Colt's comes into
action an' he busts Bronco's arm at the elbow.

"'As his obstinacy has destroyed the further efficiency of my
colleague," goes on Ormsby, as he shakes down the ballots in the
nose-bag, "I'll now conduct these yere polls alone. Gents who
haven't voted will please come a-runnin'. As I states a moment ago,
she stands thirteen for Old Monroe."

"'An' I says she's twelve for Old Monroe," shouts Red River Tom,
crowdin' for'ard. "'You-all can't ring in Mexicans an' snake no play
on us. This yere 'lection's goin' to be on the squar', or it's goin'
to come off in the smoke."

"'With this, Red River, who's been sorter domineerin' at Ormsby with
his six-shooter while he's freein' his mind, slams her loose. Red
River over-shoots, an' Ormsby downs him with a bullet in his laig.

"'Thirteen for Old Monroe," says Ormsby.

"'But that's where the 'lection ends. Followin' the subsidence of
Red River Tom, the air is as full of lead as a bag of bullets.
Through the smoke, an' the flashes, an' the noise, you can hear
Ormsby whoopin'

"'Thirteen for Old Monroe."

"'You can gamble Ormsby's as squar' a 'lection jedge as any gent
could ask. You gets a play for your money with Ormsby; but he dies
the next day, so he never is 'lection jedge no more. Five gents gets
downed, an' a whole corralfull is hurt. I, myse'f, reaps some lead
in the shoulder; an' even at that I never goes nearer than the
suburbs of the fight.

"'No; Cimmaron Pete claws off all sound, an' no new holes in him.
But as the Dallas party, who comes caperin' over with the first
shot, is layin' at the windup outside the Lone Star door, plumb
defunct, thar's an end to the root of the disorder.

"'The 'lection itse'f is looked on as a draw. Old Monroe allows
that, all things considered, he don't regard himse'f as 'lected
none; and Randall, who a doctor is feelin' 'round in for a bullet at
the time, sends over word that he indorses Old Monroe's p'sition;
an' that as long as the Dallas sharp hits the trail after Glidden,
an' is tharby able to look after his debts himse'f, he, Randall,
holds it's no use disturbin' of a returned sereenity, an' to let
everythin' go as it lays.

"'An' that,' concloods Texas Thompson, as he reaches for his licker,
'is what comes of an effort at law an' order in Plaza Paloduro. I
ain't over-statin' it, gents, when I says, that that 'lection leaves
me plumb gun-shy for over a year.'"




CHAPTER XL.

A WOLFVILLE FOUNDLING.


"Does Jack Moore have sand? Son, is this yere query meant for humor
by you? Which for mere sand the Mohave desert is a fool to Jack."

The Old Cattleman's face was full of an earnest, fine sincerity. It
was plain, too, that my question nettled the old fellow a bit; as
might a doubt cast at an idol. But the sharpness had passed from his
tone when he resumed

"Not only is Jack long on sand that a-way, but he's plumb loaded
with what you-alls calls 'nitiative. Leastwise that's what one of
these yere fernologists allows, who straggles into camp an' goes to
thumbin' our bumps one day.

"'Which this young person,' says the bumpsharp, while his fingers is
caperin' about on Jack's head, I is remarkable for his 'nitiative.
He's the sort of gent who builds his fire before he gets his wood;
an' issues more invites to drink than he receives. Which his
weakness, speakin' general, is he overplays.'

"Which this yere bump party might have gone wrong in his wagers a
heap of times; but he shorely calls the turn on Jack when he says
he's some strong on 'nitiative.

"An' it's this yere proneness for the prematoor, an' nacheral
willin'ness to open any pot that a-way, that makes Jack sech a slam-
up offishul. Bein' full of 'nitiative, like this fernologist states,
Jack don't idle along ontil somethin's happened. Not much; he abates
it in the bud.

"Once when most of the outfit's over in Tucson, an' Jack is sorter
holdin' down the camp alone, a band of rustlers comes trackin' in,
allowin' they'll run Wolfville some. Which, that's where Jack's
'nitiative shows up big. He goes after 'em readily, like they's
antelope. Them hold-ups is a long majority over Jack, an' heeled;
but that Jack stands thar--right up ag'in the iron--an' he tells 'em
what he thinks an' why he thinks it for; makes his minority report
onto 'em all free, like he outnumbers 'em two to one; an' winds up
by backin' the game with his gun in a way that commands confidence.

"'You-alls hears my remarks,' he says at the close, briefly flashin'
his six-shooters on the outfit; 'thar ain't no band of bad men in
Arizona can tree this town an' me informed. Now go slow, or I'll
jest stretch a few of you for luck. It's sech consoomin' toil, a-
diggin' of sepulchers in this yere rock-ribbed landscape, or I'd do
it anyhow.'

"An' tharupon them rustlers, notin' Jack's got the drop on 'em,
kicks up a dense cloud of dust an is seen no more.

"But bein' replete with sand an' 'nitiative, that a-way, don't state
all thar is good of Jack. Let any pore, he'pless party cut Jack's
trail, an' he's plumb tender. On sech times Jack's a dove; leastwise
he's a dove a whole lot.

"One hot afternoon, Enright an' Doc Peets is away about some cattle
I reckons. Which the rest of us is noomerous enough; an' we're
sorter revolvin' 'round the post-office, a-waitin' for Old Monte an'
the stage. Yere she comes, final, a-rattlin' an' a-creakin'; that
old drunkard Monte a-poppin' of his whip, the six hosses on the
canter, an' the whole sheebang puttin' on more dog than a Mexican
officer of revenoo. When the stage draws up, Old Monte throws off
the mailbags an' the Wells-Fargo box, an' gets down an' opens the
door. But nobody emerges out.

"'Well, I'm a coyote! ' says Monte, a heap disgusted, `wherever is
the female?'

"Then we-alls peers into the stage an' thar's only a baby, with
mebby a ten-months' start down this vale of tears, inside; an' no
mother nor nothin' along. Jack Moore, jest as I says when I begins,
reaches in an' gets him. The baby ain't sayin' nothin', an' sorter
takes it out in smilin' on Jack; which last pleases him excessive.

"'He knows me for a hundred dollars!' says Jack. 'I'm an Apache if
he ain't allowin' he knows me! Wherever did you get him, Monte?'

"'Give me a drink,' says Monte, p'intin' along into the Red Light.
'This yere makes me sick.'

"After Old Monte gets about four fingers of carnation onder his
belt, he turns in an' explains as how the mother starts along in the
stage all right enough from Tucson. The last time he sees her, so he
puts it up, is at the last station back some twenty miles in the
hills; an' he s'poses all the time later, she's inside ridin' herd
on her progeny, ontil now.

"'I don't reckon,' says Old Monte, lookin' gloomy-like at the
infant, 'that lady is aimin' to saw this yore young-one onto the
stage company none?'

"'Don't upset your whiskey frettin' about the company,' says Jack,
a-plantin' of the infant on the bar, while we-alls crowds in for a
look at him. `The camp'll play this hand; an' the company ain't
goin' to be in it a little bit.'

"'I wish Enright an' Peets was yere,' says Cherokee Hall, 'to be
heard hereon; which I shore deems this a grave occasion. Yere we-
alls finds ourse'fs possessed of an onexpected child of tender
years; an' the question nacheral enough is, whatever'll we do with
it?'

"'Let's maverick it,' says Dan Boggs, who's a mighty good man, but
onthinkful that a-way.

"'No,' says Cherokee; 'its mother'll come hoppin' along to-morrow,
a-yellin'. This yere sot Monte has jest done drove off an' left her
some'ers up the trail; she'll come romancin' along in time.'

"'Meanwhile,' says Jack, 'the infant's got to be took care of, to
which dooty I volunteers. Thar's a tenderfoot a-sleepin' in the room
back of the dance-hall, an' he's that 'feminate an' effeet, he's got
a shore-'nough bed an' some goose-ha'r pillers; which the same I do
yereby confiscate to public use to take care of this yearlin'. Is
the sentiment pleasin'?'

"'Jack's scheme is right,' says Boggs; 'an' I'm present to announce
he's allers right. Let the shorthorn go sleep onder a mesquite-bush;
it'll do him good a whole lot.'

"'I'm some doobersome of this play,' says Cherokee. 'Small infants
is mighty myster'ous people, an' no livin' gent is ever onto their
game an' able to foresee their needs. Do you-all reckon now you can
take care of this yere young-one, Jack? Be you equal to it?'

"'Take care of a small baby like this' says Jack, plenty scornful;
'which the same ain't weighin' twenty pounds? Well, it'll be some
funny if I can't. I could break even with him if he's four times as
big. All I asks is for you-alls to stand by in crisises an' back the
play; an', that settled, you can go make side bets we-alls comes out
winners on the deal.'

'I ain't absolootly shore,' says Dave Tutt, 'bein' some shy of
practice with infants myse'f, but jedgin' by his lookin' smooth an'
silky, I offers fifty dollars even he ain't weaned none yet.'

"'I won't bet none on his bein' weaned complete; says Jack, 'but
I'll hang up fifty he drinks outen a bottle as easy as Old Monte!

"'I'll go you once,' says Tutt; 'it's fifty dollars even he grows
contemptuous at a bottle, an' disdains it.'

"Which we-alls talks it over an' decides that Jack's to nurse said
infant; after which a passel of us proceed's to make a procession
for the tenderfoot's bed, which he shorely resigns without a
struggle. We packs it back to Jack; an' Cherokee Hall an' Boggs then
goes over to the corral an' lays for a goat to milk her. This yere
goat is mighty reluctant, an' refuses to enter into the sperit of
the thing; but they swings an' rastles with her, makes their p'int
right along, an' after a frightful time comes back with'most a
dipper-full.

"'That's all right,' says Jack, who's done camped in a room back of
the Red Light, 'now hop out an' tell the barkeep to give you a pint
bottle. We-alls has this yere game payin' div'dends in two minutes.'

"Jack gets his bottle an' fills her up with goat's milk; an' makes a
stopper outen cotton cloth an' molasses for the infant to draw it
through. Which it's about this time the infant puts up a yell, an'
refuses peace ag'in till Jack gives him his six-shooter to play
with.

"'Which shows my confidence in him,' says Jack. 'Thar's only a few
folks left I'll pass my gun to.'

"Jack gets along with him first-rate, a-feedin' of him the goat's
milk, which he goes for with avidity; tharby nettin' Jack that fifty
from Dave Tutt. Boggs builds a fire so Jack keeps the milk warm.
Jack turns loose that earnest he don't even go for no grub; jest
nacherally has 'em pack it to him.

"'We-alls'll have to stand night gyards on this yere foundlin' to-
night, I reckons?" asks Boggs of Jack, when he's bringin' Jack
things.

"'I s'pose most likely we'll have to make a play that a-way,' says
Jack.

"'All right,' says Boggs, tappin' his shirt with his pistol-finger;
'you-all knows me an' Cherokee. We're in on this yere any time you
says.'

"So a band of us sorter camps along with Jack an' the infant ontil
mebby it's second-drink time at night. The infant don't raise the
war-yell once; jest takes it out in goat's milk; an' in laughin',
an' playin' with Jack's gun.

"'Excuse me, gents,' finally says Jack, mighty dignified, 'but I've
been figgerin' this thing, an' I allows it's time to bed this yere
young-one down for the night. If you-alls will withdraw some, I'll
see how near I comes to makin' runnin' of it. Stay within whoopin'
distance, though; so if he tries to stampede or takes to millin' I
can get he'p.'

"We-alls lines out an' leaves Jack an' the infant, an' turns in on
faro an' poker an' sim'lar devices which is bein' waged in the Red
Light. Mebby it's an hour when Jack comes in.

"'Boggs,' he says; 's'pose you-all sets in an' plays my hand a
minute with that infant child, while I goes over an' adjourns them
frivolities in the dance-hall. It looks like this yere camp is
speshul toomultuous to-night.'

"Boggs goes in with the infant, an' Jack proceeds to the baile house
an' states the case.

"'I don't want to onsettle the reg'lar programme,' says Jack, 'but
this yere young-one I'm responsible for, gets that engaged in the
sounds of these yere revels, it don't look like he's goin' to sleep
none. So if you-alls will call the last waltz, an' wind her up for
to-night, it'll shorely be a he'p. The kid's mother'll be yere by
sun-up; which her advent that a-way alters the play all 'round, an'
matters then goes back to old lines.'

"'Enough said,' says Jim Hamilton, who runs the dance-hall. 'You can
gamble this temple of mirth ain't layin' down on what's right, an'
tonight's shindig closes right yere. All promenade to the bar. We
takes a drink on the house, quits, an' calls it a day.'

"Then Jack comes back, a heap grave with his cares, an' relieves
Boggs; who's on watch, straddled of a chair, a-eyein' of the infant,
who, a-settin' up ag'in a goose-ha'r piller, is likewise a-eyein' of
Boggs.

"'He's a 'way up good infant, Jack,' says Boggs, givin' up his seat.

"'You can bet your life he's a good infant,' says Jack; 'but it
shore looks like he don't aim to turn in an' slumber none. Mebby the
goat's milk is too invigeratin' for 'him, an' keeps him awake that
a-way.'

"About another hour goes by, an' out comes Jack into the Red Light
ag'in.

"'I ain't aimin' to disturb you-alls none,' he says, 'but, gents, if
you-alls could close these games yere, an' shet up the store, I'll
take it as a personal favor. He can hear the click of the chips, an'
it's too many for him. Don't go away; jest close up an' sorter camp
'round quiet.'

"Which we-alls does as Jack says; closes the games, an' then sets
'round in our chairs an' keeps quiet, a-waitin' for the infant to
turn in. A half-hour later Jack appears ag'in.

"'It ain't no use, gents,' he says, goin' back of the bar an'
gettin' a big drink; 'that child is onto us. He won't have it. You
can gamble, he's fixed it up with himse'f that he ain't goin' to
sleep none to-night. I allows it's 'cause he's among rank strangers,
an' he figgers it's a good safe play to lookout his game for
himse'f.'

"'I wonder couldn't we sing him to sleep,' says Cherokee Hall.

"'Nothin' ag'in a try,' says Jack, some desp'rate, wipin' his lips
after the drink.

"'S'pose we-alls gives him "The Dyin' Ranger" an' "Sandy Land" for
an hour or so, an' see,' says Boggs.

"In we trails. Cherokee lines up on one side of the infant, an' Jack
on t'other; an' the rest of us takes chairs an' camps 'round, We
starts in an' shore sings him all we knows; an' we keeps it up for
hours. All the time, that child is a-settin' thar, a-battin' his
eyes an' a-starin', sleepless as owls. The last I remembers is
Boggs's voice on 'Sandy Land'

"'Great big taters on sandy land,
 Get thar, Eli, if you can.'

"The next thing I'm aware of, thar's a whoop an' a yell outside. We-
alls wakes up--all except the infant, who's wide awake all along--
an' yere it is; four o'clock in the mornin', an' the mother has
come. Comes over on a speshul buckboard from the station where that
old inebriate, Monte, drove off an' left her. Well, son, everybody's
plumb willin' an' glad to see her. An' for that matter, splittin'
even, so's the infant."




CHAPTER XII.

THE MAN FROM YELLOWHOUSE.


"That's straight, son; you shorely should have seen Jack Moore,"
continued the Old Cattleman, after a brief pause, as he hitched his
chair into a comfortable position; "not seein' Jack is what any gent
might call deeprivation.

"Back in the old days," he went on, "Jack Moore, as I relates, is
kettle-tender an' does the rope work of the Stranglers. Whatever is
the Stranglers? Which you asks Borne late. I mentions this assembly
a heap frequent yeretofore. Well, some folks calls 'ern the
'vig'lance committee'; but that's long for a name, so in Wolfville
we allers allooded to 'em as `Stranglers.' This yere is brief, an'
likewise sheds some light.

"This Jack Moore--which I'm proud to say he's my friend--I reckons
is the most pro bono publico gent in the Southwest. He's out to do
anythin' from fight to fiddle at a dance, so's it's a public play.

"An' then his idees about his dooties is wide. He jest scouts far
an' near, an' don't pay no more heed to distance an' fatigue than a
steer does to cobwebs.

"'A offishul," says Jack, 'who don't diffuse himse'f 'round none,
an' confines his endeavors to his own bailiwick, is reestricted an'
oneffectooal, an' couldn't keep down crime in a village of prairie-
dogs.' An' then he'd cinch on his saddle, an' mebby go curvin' off
as far north as the Flint Hills, or east to the Turkey-track.

"That's right; when it comes to bein' active, Jack is what you might
call an all-round seelection. An' clean strain? Game as hornets.
Never knowed him to quit anythin' in his life--not even whiskey. I
says to him myse'f one time: 'Jack; whyever don't you renig on
whiskey? Looks like it's sorter gettin' behind you some, ain't it?
Some day mebby it outholds you when you can't stand to lose.'

"'Sometimes I thinks I'll pass it up, myse'f,' says Jack, 'but don't
you know, I can't do it. I'm too sperited, that a-way, an'
chivalrous. That's whatever! I'm too chivalrous.' An' I shore
reckons he was.

"But as for doin' his dooty! Which the same is simply relaxation to
Jack Moore. I recalls one instance speshul. One day thar comes
trailin' along into Wolfville a party from down 'round Yallerhouse
some'ers. This yere Yallerhouse gent looks disperited an' off color
as to health. But of course we-alls don't refer none to it; for
whether this stranger's sick or well is his business, not ours;
leastwise in its first stages. This yere's before Doc Peets inhabits
Wolfville or he'd informed us touchin' this party's that a-way.

"Which the Yallerhouse gent tracks along into the Red Light, an'
tells the barkeep to set out the nose-paint. He drinks alone, not
invitin' of the pop'lace, whereby we knows for shore he's offen his
feed.

"Well, after he corrals his forty drops, this invalid camps down in
one corner of the stage station, an' next mornin' he wakes up outen
his head an' plumb locoed.

"'This yere Yallerhouse man,' says Dan Boggs, comin' along into the
Red Light about first-drink time the same mornin', an' speakin'
general, 'is what conserv'tive opinion might call "some sick." I
stops a minute ago an' asks him how he's stackin' up like, but it
ain't no use. He's plumb off his mental reservation, an' crazy as a
woman's watch.'

"'Whatever do you allow is the matter of him, Boggs?' asks Old Man
Enright.

"'Smallpox,' says Boggs, mighty confident.

"'Smallpox!' repeats Enright; 'be you shore?'

"'That's what I says,' answers Boggs; 'an' you can gamble my long
suit is pickin' out smallpox every time. I knows the signal smoke
like my own campfire.'

"'Well, see yere,' says Dave Tutt, who's come in, 'I jest now rounds
up them symptoms of this Yallerhouse gent; an' talkin' of smallpox,
I offers a hundred dollars even he ain't got no smallpox. Bein' out
solely for legit'mate sport,' continues Tutt, 'an' not aimin' to
offend Boggs none, I willin'ly calls it fifty to one hundred he
ain't got nothin'.'

"'Which I takes both bets,' says Boggs, 'an' deems 'em easy. Which
both is like robbin' a bird's-nest. Yere's the circ'latin' medium.
Thar; cover it an' file it away with the barkeep to wait results.'
So Tutt an' Boggs makes their bets mighty eager, an' the barkeep
holds the stakes.

"As soon as it gets blown through Wolfville this Yallerhouse party
has smallpox, everybody comes canterin' over to the Red Light, gets
a drink, an' wants to hold a mass meetin' over it. By partic'lar
request Enright takes the chair an' calls 'em to order.

"'This yere meetin',' says Enright, meanwhile beatin' with the butt
of his six-shooter on the poker-table, 'is some sudden an'
permiscus; but the objects is easy an' plain. We-alls convenes
ourse'fs to consider the physical condition of this party from
Yallerhouse, which report says is locoed an' can't talk none for
himself. To make this inquiry a success, we-alls oughter see this
Yallerhouse gent; an' as thar is fewer of him than of us, I app'ints
Jack Moore, Dan Boggs, an' Short Creek Dave, a committee, of three,
to bring him before us in a body. Pendin' the return of the
committee the meetin' will take a drink with the chair.'

"In about no time back comes the outfit, packin' the Yallerhouse man
all easy enough in a blanket, an' spreads him out on the floor. He
looks sorter red 'round in spots, like somethin's been stingin' of
him, but it's evident, as Boggs says, he's locoed. He lays thar,
rollin' his eyes an' carryin' on to himse'f, but he don't address
the chair or offer to take no part in the meetin'. Enright quaffs
his drink all slow an' dignified, an' gazes at the Yallerhouse man
on the floor.

"'Well, gents,' says Enright at last, settin' down his glass, an'
givin' the poker-table a little tap with his gun, 'yere's the party,
an' the question is now: "What's he got?" Do I hear any remarks?'

"'Bein' in the lines, Mister Pres'dent,' says Boggs, 'of previous
assertion, an' for the purpose of bringin' the question squar'
before this house, I now moves you this yere Yallerhouse party has
the smallpox. I ain't aimin' herein at playin' it low on Tutt, an'
su'gests that the chair, in puttin' the question, also informs the
meetin' as to them wagers; which the money tharof is now in the war-
bags of the barkeep. I believes in givin' every gent all necessary
light wherein to make up his mind; an', as I says, to open the game
all logical, I ag'in moves this Yallerhouse man has the smallpox.'

"'Yo tambien,' yells a Mexican over near the door.

"'Put that Greaser out!' shouts Enright, at the same time bangin'
the table. 'This ain't no international incident at all, an' nothin'
but the clean-strain American wolf is eligible to howl.'

"The Greaser goes out on his saddle-colored head, an' Enright puts
Boggs's motion.

"'Every gent,' says Enright, 'in favor of this Yallerhouse man
havin' the smallpox, say "Aye"; contrary "No."'

"Everybody shouts 'Aye!'

"'Which the "Ayes" has it unanimous,' says Enright. 'The Yallerhouse
party has the smallpox, an' the next chicken on the parliamentary
roost is the question: "Whatever is to be done to make this yere
malady a success?" Is thar any su'gestions?'

"'Mister Pres'dent,' says Texas Thompson, risin' in his place, 'I've
done took no hand in these proceedin's so far, through ignorance of
the purposes of this yere convocation. Said purposes bein' now for
the first time lined out all right in my mind, an' the question
bein', "What's to be done with our captive?" I asks your indulgence.
My first idee is that our dooty an' our path is plain; the same
bein' simply to take a lariat an' hang this Yallerhouse person to
the dance-hall windmill; but this course, on second thought, seems
prematoor an' the offsprings of nacheral impulse. Still, somethin'
must be done; an' while my mind is by no means cl'ar, I su'gests we
turn the gent over to Jack Moore, which is the marshal hereof, to
ride herd on him till further orders; an' I makes a motion to that
effect.'

"'Seconds the motion!' says Short Creek Dave.

"'You don't have to put that motion, Mister Pres'dent,' says Jack;
'I've been cirelin' the idee some myse'f, an' I reckons it's my
dooty to take charge of this Yallerhouse gent. You can bet anythin'
which gets sawed onto me as my dooty goes, an' don't make no doubt
about it. Yere's how I trails out on this: If it ain't my dooty to
take care of this person, whose dooty is it? 'Tain't nobody's.
Tharfore I plays the hand.'

"'Which the same bein' eminent satisfactory,' says Dave Tutt,
risin', as if he thinks of somethin' speshul, 'I now inquires
whether this yere is held decisive of them bets I makes with Boggs.
I holdin', meanwhile, contrary views emphatic.'

"'This bein' a question of priv'lege,' says Enright, 'the chair will
answer it. These proceedin's decides your bets with Boggs, an' the
barkeep pays Boggs the dinero. This is a gov'ment of the people, for
the people, by the people, an' founded on a vox populi bluff. The
voice of the majority goes. You tharfore lose your bets to Boggs;
drinks on Boggs, of course. Thar is another matter,' continues
Enright, 'a bet we overlooks. Takin' care of this Yallerhouse gent
will cost a stack or two, an' means must be provided. I tharfore
makes as an order that yereafter thar's to be a rake on tens-up or
better, showed, to make a fund to back this play; said rake to go
ontil Mister Moore reports said Yallerhouse gent as safe or ceased
to be.'

"Jack takes this Yallerhouse party over to the calaboose an' lays
him away on some blankets. The calaboose is dry, an' what you-alls
might call, commodious. It's a slam-up camp; yes indeed! Never has
but Steve Stevenson in it. Puts Steve in one night when he's dead-
drunk. The calaboose is new then, an' we-alls is that proud an'
anxious to try it an' put it to some use, we couldn't resist, so in
Steve goes.

"About four hours later Steve comes back up to the Red Light,
hotter'n a burnt boot. Seems like he comes to, an' is that outraged
an' indignant about bein' corralled that a-way, he busts the corner
outen the calaboose an' issues forth a whole lot to find who does
it.

"When he comes into the Red Light he revives himse'f with a drink,
an' then inquires whether it's humorous, or do we mean it? Seein'
how speshul low Steve takes it, we-alls allows it's a joke; an'
Steve, while he evident feels some fretted, concloods to let it go
at that.

"But on account of the hole through which Steve emerges, an' which
he makes liberal an' big, the calaboose is a mighty commodious
place. So Jack beds down the Yallerhouse man all right an' starts in
to bringin' him through. The rest of us don't crowd 'round none to
watch the play, don't hover over it that a-way, 'cause we ain't
aimin' to acquire nothin' ourse'fs.

"Jack has a heap of trouble an' worry. Never sees no smallpox do
you? Folks locoed most usual,--clean off up in the air an' pitchin'
on their ropes. Of course the Yallerhouse gent has all he needs.
That rake on tens-up them days would have took care of a fam'ly. But
he keeps Jack herdin' him all the time. Otherwise, not bein'
watched, an' crazy that a-way, he's liable to come stampedin' over
to the Red Light, or some'ers else, any time, an' skeer us up some.

"'He's a world-beater,' says Jack one day, when he comes over for a
drink. 'He's shorely four kings an' an ace. You can't ride him with
buckin'-straps an' a Spanish bit. It's got so now--his disease bein'
at a crisis like--that I simply has to be with this Yallerhouse
party day an' night. He'd shorely lay waste this camp if I didn't.'

"At last the Yallerhouse party an' Jack somehow beats the smallpox,
but Yallerhouse comes out shy an eye. The smallpox gouges it out one
of them times when Jack ain't lookin' out his game sharp. It's his
pistol eye, too; which makes him feel the loss more keen, an'
creates general sympathy. The Yallerhouse man gets some morose over
it, which ain't, after all, onnacheral. A gent ain't got so many
eyes he can afford to go short one on every little game he plays. So
he finds fault with Jack a lot, an' allows if he has him back in the
States he'd sue him for neglect of dooty.

"'Which, I shorely likes that!' says Jack to the Yallerhouse party,
gettin' peevish over his fault-findin'. 'Don't you know it's merely
owin' to the mercy of hell an' my watchful care, you-all ain't
bustin' your harp-strings an' raisin' all round discord among the
heavenly hosts on high right now, instead of bein' safe an' well
yere in Wolfville? You don't act like a gent who saveys when he
makes a winnin'. S'pose you be an eye out; you're still lookin' at
things terrestrial with the other. You talks of gross neglect of
dooty! Now let me inform you of somethin': You come pesterin' 'round
me some more an' I'll bend a gun over your head.'

"'Which if it ain't my six-shooter eye which's out,' says the
Yallerhouse party, mighty ugly, 'do you know what I'd do? Well, this
yere would be the basis of a first-class gun-play. You can gamble
thar wouldn't be no jim-crow marshal go pirootin' 'round, losin' no
eye of mine an' gettin' away with it, an' then talk of bendin' guns
on me; none whatever.'

"But it all preys on Jack. An' a-seein' of this Yallerhouse gent
'round camp a-lookin' at him in a fault-findin' way outen his one
eye sorter aggravates Jack like it's a nightmare.

"'I wouldn't mind it so much,' says Jack to me, confidential, 'if
this Yallerhouse gent quits a laig or an arm behind, 'cause in which
event we pieces him out with wood, easy. But about eyes, it's
different. An eye out is an eye out; an' that settles it.'

"One day Jack can't b'ar it no longer, an', resolvin' to end it, he
walks up to the Yallerhouse party in the Red Light, all brisk an'
brief.

"'It's a rough deal on a one-eyed gent,' says Jack, 'an' I shore
asks pardon an' states regrets in advance. But things has got to a
show-down. I'm slowly becomin' onfit for public dooty. Now yere's an
offer, an' you can have either end. You-all can get a hoss an' a
hundred dollars of me, an' pull your freight; or you can fix
yourse'f with a gun an' have a mighty stirrin' an' eventful time
with me right yere. As an outcome of the last, the public will have
one of us to plant, an' mebby a vacancy to fill in the post of
kettle-tender. Which is it, an' what do you say?'

"'What for a hoss is she?' asked the Yallerhouse party.

"'Which she's a pinto,' says Jack; 'as excellent a paint pony as
ever is roped.'

"'Does this yere threat you-all makes incloode a saddle an' spurs?'
asks the Yallerhouse party.

"'It shorely does,' replies Jack. 'Is it a go?'

"'Well,' says the Yallerhouse man, after ponderin' it up one way an'
down the other, 'this idee of settlin' for eyes for a hoss an' a
hundred dollars is far from bein' usual with me. If I has my eye
ag'in, I'd shorely stay an' shoot it out, an' admire to be present.
But now sech thoughts is vanity. So round up your money an' your
pony at the Red Light in fifteen minutes by the watch, an' as soon
as I gets a bottle filled I'm ready to go. I shorely should not
regret leavin' an' outfit which puts folks in jail for bein' sick,
an' connives by reckless an' criminal neglect of dooty at their
bein' blinded for life.'"




CHAPTER XIII.

JACKS UP ON EIGHTS.


"No; you can hazard your wealth a lot, thar's no sooperstition
lurkin' 'round in me or my environs; none whatever. I attaches no
importance to what you-all calls omens."

Somebody had undertaken a disquisition on dreams, and attempted to
cite instances where the future had been indicated in these hazy
visions of our sleep. This had served to turn the Old Cattleman's
train of thought upon the weird.

"Thar's signs, of course, to which I'd shorely bow, not to say pay
absorbin' heed. If some gent with whom I chooses to differ touchin'
some matter that's a heap relevant at the time, ups an' reaches for
his gun abrupt, it fills me full of preemonitions that the near
future is mighty liable to become loaded with lead an' interest for
me. Now thar's an omen I don't discount. But after all I ain't
consentin' to call them apprehensions of mine the froot of no
sooperstition, neither. I'm merely chary; that's all.

"It's Cherokee Hall who is what I onhesitatin'ly describes as
sooperstitious. Cherokee is afflicted by more signs an' omens in
carryin' on his business than an almanac. It's a way kyardsharps
gets into, I reckons; sorter grows outen their trade. Leastwise I
never creeps up on one yet who ain't bein' guided by all sorts of
miracles an' warnin's that a-way. An' sometimes it does look like
they acquires a p'inter that comes to 'em on straight lines. As
'llustratin' this yere last, it returns to me some vivid how
Cherokee an' Boggs gets to prophesyin' one day, an' how they calls
off the play between 'em so plumb c'rrect that a-way, it's more than
amazin'; it's sinister.

"It's a hot August day, this occasion I has in mind, an' while not
possessin' one of them heat-gauges to say ackerate, I'm allowin'
it's ridin' hard on sech weather as this. A band of us is at the
post-office a-wrastlin' our letters, when in trails Cherokee Hall
lookin' some moody, an' sets himse'f down on a box.

"'Which you-all no doubt allows you'll take some missives yourse'f
this mornin',' says Doc Peets, a-noticin' of his gloom, an' aimin'
to p'int his idees up some other trail. Doc, himse'f, is feelin'
some gala. 'Pass over them documents for Cherokee Hall, an' don't
hold out nothin' onto us. We-alls is 'way too peevish to stand any
offishul gaieties to-day.'

"'Thar's no one weak-minded 'nough to write to me none,' says
Cherokee. `Which I remarks this yere phenomenon with pleasure. Mail-
bags packs more grief than joy, an' I ain't honin' for no hand in
the game whatever. It's fifteen years since I buys a stamp or gets a
letter, an' all thirst tharfor is assuaged complete.'

"'Fifteen years is shore a long time,' says Enright, sorter to
himse'f, an' then we-alls hops into our letters ag'in. Finally
Cherokee breaks in once more.

"` I ain't aimin' to invest Wolfville in no sooperstitious fears,'
says Cherokee, 'an' I merely chronicles as a current event how I was
settin' into a little poker last night, an' three times straight I
picks up "the hand the dead man held," jacks up on eights, an' it
wins every time.'

"`Who lose to it?' asks Dan Boggs.

"'Why,' says Cherokee, 'it's every time that old longhorn as comes
in from Tucson back some two weeks ago.'

"'That settles it,' says Boggs, mighty decided. 'You can bet your
saddle an' throw the pony in, Death is fixin' his sights for him
right now. It's shorely a warnin', an' I'm plumb glad it ain't none
of the boys; that's all.'

"You see this yere stranger who Cherokee alloods at comes over from
Tucson a little while before. He has long white ha'r an' beard, an',
jedgin' from the rings on his horns, he's mebby a-comin' sixty. He
seems like he's plenty of money, an' we takes it he's all right. His
leavin' Tucson shows he has sense, so we cashes him in at his
figger. Of course we-alls never asks his name none, as askin' names
an' lookin' at the brands on a pony is speshul roode in the West,
an' shows your bringin' up; but he allows he's called 'Old Bill
Gentry ' to the boys, an' he an' Faro Nell's partic'lar friendly.

"'Talkin' to him,' says Nell, ' is like layin' in the shade. He
knows everythin', too; all about books an' things all over the
world. He was a-tellin' me, too, as how he had a daughter like me
that died 'way back some'ers about when I was a yearlin'. He feels a
heap bad about it yet, an' I gets so sorry for him; so old an'
white-ha'red.'

"'An' you can gamble,' says Dave Tutt, 'if Nell likes him, he's all
right.'

"'If Nell likes him, that makes hi

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