Friar Tuck
by Robert Alexander Wason · English · Gutenberg #41926 · 739,675 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Friar Tuck
Author: Robert Alexander Wason
Illustrator: Stanley L. Wood
Release date: January 27, 2013 [eBook #41926]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41926
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRIAR TUCK ***
[Illustration: He shot his hand across an’ pulled his gun quick as a
flash; but Horace didn’t move, he just sat still, with a friendly
smile on his face]
FRIAR TUCK
BEING THE CHRONICLES OF THE REVEREND
JOHN CARMICHAEL, OF WYOMING, U.S.A.,
AS SET FORTH AND EMBELLISHED BY
HIS FRIEND AND ADMIRER
HAPPY HAWKINS
AND HERE RECORDED BY
ROBERT ALEXANDER WASON
AUTHOR OF
HAPPY HAWKINS,
THE KNIGHT-ERRANT, ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
STANLEY L. WOOD
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1912
By Small, Maynard and Company
(Incorporated)
Entered at Stationers’ Hall
Published, September 7, 1912;
Sixth edition, November, 1912
Many there are who respond to the commonplace, monotonous call of
Duty, and year after year uncomplainingly spend their lives on the
treadmill of Routine; but who still feel in their hearts the call of
the open road, the music of the stars, the wine of the western wind,
and the thrilling abandon of a mad gallop out beyond speed limits and
grass signs to where life has ceased to be a series of cogs and—a man
is still a man.
To the members of this fraternity, whose emblem, hidden behind deep
and steadfast eyes, is often missed by man, but always recognized by
dogs and horses, I dedicate this book, in the hope that for an hour or
two it may lift the pressure a little.
R. A. W.
JUST BETWEEN YOU AND ME
Reviews are not infrequently colored by a temporary elevation of the
critic’s mind (or a temporary depression of the critic’s liver),
advertisements are not invariably free from bias; so, perhaps, a few
words of friendly warning will not be considered impertinent.
Whosoever is squeamishly sensitive as to the formal technique of
literary construction will save himself positive irritation by
avoiding this book. It is a told, rather than a written story; and
this is a compromise which defies Art and frankly turns to the more
elastic methods of Nature.
It is supposed to be told by an outdoor man in those delightful
moments of relaxation when the restraint of self-consciousness is
dropped, and the spirit flows forth with a freedom difficult to find,
outside the egoism of childhood. This general suggestion is easily
tossed out; but the reader must supply the details—the night camps
with the pipes sending up incense about the tiny fires, the winter
evenings when the still cold lurks at the threshold or the blizzard
howls around the log corners; or those still more elusive moments when
the riding man shifts his weight to a single thigh, and tells the
inner story which has been rising from his open heart to his closed
lips for many a long mile.
Nor will these details suffice to complete the atmosphere in which,
bit by bit, the story is told. The greatest charm in the told story
comes direct from the teller; and, toil as we will over printed pages,
they obstinately refuse to reproduce the twinkle of bright, deep-set
eyes, the whimsical twist which gives character to a commonplace word,
the subtile modulations of a mellow voice, the discriminating accent
which makes a sentence fire when spoken, and only ashes when written;
or, hardest of all, those eloquent pauses and illuminating gestures
which convey a climax neither tongue nor pen dare attempt.
Happy Hawkins is complex, but the basic foundation of his character is
simplicity. His audience is usually a mixed one, men of the range and
an Easterner or two, fortunate enough to find the way into his
confidence. Occasionally he amuses himself by talking to the one group
over the heads of the other; but even then, his own simplicity is but
thinly veiled. The phases of life which he holds lightly are exploited
with riotous recklessness; but whoever would visit his private shrines
must tread with reverent step.
His exaggerations are not to deceive, but to magnify—an adjunct to
expression invariably found among primitive people. A brass monkey is
really not sensitive to variations of temperature; and yet, even among
the civilized, a peculiarly vivid impression is conveyed by stating
that a particular cold snap has had a disintegrating effect upon the
integrity of a brass monkey. There is a philosophy of exaggeration
which is no kin to falsehood.
Happy has an eager, hungry, active mind, a mind worthy of careful
cultivation; but forced by circumstances to gather its nourishment
along lines similar to those adopted by the meek and lowly sponge. A
sponge is earnest, patient, and industrious; but, fixed to a submerged
stone as it is, it is hampered by limitations which no amount of
personal ambition is quite able to overcome. As Happy himself was fond
of saying: “The thing ’at sets most strangers again each other, is the
fact that each insists on judgin’ everything from his own standpoint.
A cow-puncher gets the idee that because an Eastener can’t sit
comfortable on a bronco when it’s sunfishin’ or twistin’ ends, he jes
nachely ain’t fit to clutter up the surface o’ the earth; while the
Eastener is inclined to estimate the puncher an’ his pony as bein’ on
the same intellectual level. If they’d just open up an’ examine each
other impartial, they’d mighty soon see ’at the difference in ’em came
from what they did, instead o’ the choice o’ their lines o’ business
dependin’ on their natural make-up. I once had a no-account pinto
which refused to squat back on the rope, and I rejoiced exceeding when
I got seventy-five bucks for him; but the feller I took advantage of
clipped his mane, docked his tail, introduced him into swell-society,
and got three hundred for him as a polo pony; which all goes to
show—” (The finish of this is an expansive wave of the hand, a tilt
of the head to the right, and an indescribably droll expression.)
The above is a fair sample of the leisurely way in which Happy Hawkins
tells a story. This is not the proper way to tell a story. A story
should travel an air-line and not stop at the smaller stations, while
Happy prefers to take his bed along on a spare horse and camp out
wherever the mood strikes him. The reader who delights in a story
which speeds along like a limited, will probably be disappointed in
this book; while, on the other hand, the reader who enjoys the
intimate association which is lighted with the evening camp fire, runs
a risk of finding some relaxation in taking another little trip with
Happy Hawkins.
R. A. W.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE—THE MEETING
CHAPTER TWO—THE BETTIN’ BARBER O’ BOGGS
CHAPTER THREE—ABOVE THE DUST
CHAPTER FOUR—TY JONES
CHAPTER FIVE—THE HOLD-UP
CHAPTER SIX—A REMINISCENCE
CHAPTER SEVEN—HORACE WALPOLE BRADFORD
CHAPTER EIGHT—A CASE OF NERVES
CHAPTER NINE—TREATING THE CASE
CHAPTER TEN—INJUNS!
CHAPTER ELEVEN—BENEFITS OF FASTING
CHAPTER TWELVE—A COMPLETE CURE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN—AN UNEXPECTED CACHE
CHAPTER FOURTEEN—HAPPY’S NEW AMBITION
CHAPTER FIFTEEN—TENDER FEELINGS
CHAPTER SIXTEEN—THEMIS IN THE ROCKIES
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN—KIT MURRAY
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN—TESTING THE FRIAR’S NERVE
CHAPTER NINETEEN—OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS
CHAPTER TWENTY—QUARRELING FOR PEACE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE—PEACE TO START A QUARREL
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO—A PROGRESSIVE HUNT
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE—A LITTLE GUN-PLAY
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR—NIGHT-PROWLERS
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE—THE TRADE-RAT’S CHRISTMAS-GIFT
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX—A CONTESTED LIFE-TITLE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN—A STRANGE ALLIANCE
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT—THE HEART OF HAPPY HAWKINS
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE—THE LITTLE TOWN OF BOSCO
CHAPTER THIRTY—TY JONES GETS A WOMAN
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE—JUSTICE UNDELAYED
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO—THE FRIAR GOES ALONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE—THE FRIAR GIVEN TWO WEEKS
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR—A CROSS FOR EVERY MAN
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE—THE FRIAR A COMPLICATION
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX—A SIDE-TRIP TO SKELTY’S
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN—PROMOTHEUS IN THE TOILS
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT—OLAF RUNS THE BLOCKADE
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE—SKIRMISHES
CHAPTER FORTY—AN IRRITATING GRIN
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE—THE NIGHT-ATTACK
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO—HAND TO HAND
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE—THE GIFT OF THE DAWN
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR—TY JONES NODS HIS HEAD
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE—THE LITTLE GUST O’ WIND
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX—THE FINAL MOVES
CHAPTER ONE
THE MEETING
It’s a curious thing—life. Ya might just as well ask a kitten to
chase her own tail or a dog to bay at the evenin’ star, or a
periodical spring to run constant, as to ask a feller right out to
tell a story. Some things can only be done spontaneous.
Friar Tuck used to say ’at whenever he could cut it, he allus got on
the lee side o’ human nature and let it blow down on him natural; and
my way o’ gettin’ to the lee side o’ human nature in story-tellin’ is
not to ask for a story, but to start tellin’ one myself. And it’s a
good plan not to put over too good a one either; ’cause if it seems as
though a feller is short run on stories, some listener is likely to
take pity on him and fit him out with a new assortment so as he won’t
be such bad company for himself when he’s alone again. This is the way
I’ve picked up most o’ my stories.
Then again, it’s allus hard for me to tell what is the true beginnin’
of a story. It’s easy enough to tell cream from milk—after the milk
has stood long enough for the cream to rise to the top; but the great
trouble is, that a man’s own recollections haven’t stood long enough
for him to skim out just what part he might be in need of.
Without meanin’ the least mite o’ disrespect to any one, it does seem
to me that if I was able to plan out any sort of a memory at all, I
could have made a few improvements on the ones we now have.
My own memory is as stubborn as a mule and as grippy as a bulldog.
What it does remember, it calls up in the shape o’ pictures; and I see
old things just as plain as livin’, breathin’ beings; but try as I
would, I never could keep my memory from loadin’ herself down with so
many trifles that sometimes I’ve had to spade it over as many as six
times to turn up some important item which I was actually in need of.
When my memory’s in a good humor, I like to start a pipe and lean back
and just watch old scenes over again, the same as if I was in a
the-ater; and I can see every twinkle in a pair o’ well-known eyes,
which have been lookin’ up through six feet of earth for this many a
long year, and I can hear—actually hear—the half tones ripplin’
through voices which have no more part in my to-day than the perfume
o’ last year’s flowers; and then, like as not, my memory’ll lay her
ears back and refuse to confide what I did with my shavin’ soap.
When I look back at my own life and compare it with others, it seems
like a curious, patch-worky sort of affair, and not much more my own
than the lives o’ those others with which I compare it. I allus liked
my work, and yet it never attracted my attention much. Side-trips and
such-like stand out plain as figures in a hand-painted picture, such
as I’ve seen in hotels down at Frisco; but the work part is just a
blotchy, colorless sort of smudge, the same as the background o’ one
o’ these pictures.
When I first took on with Jabez—every one called him ol’ Cast Steel
Judson at this time—they wanted to know if I could ride. I was
nothin’ but a regular kid then, so I handed in a purty high average as
to my ridin’ ability; though, truth to tell, I wasn’t no bronco buster
those days. They gave me a genuwine mean one as a starter, and told me
to ride him clean or step off and walk.
At that time I didn’t even know how to discard a hoss when I couldn’t
stand the poundin’ any longer; so when I felt my backbone gettin’
wedged too far into my skull, I made a grab for the horn. My luck was
on the job that day and I got the quirt, instead. At his next pitch,
my hand went up as natural as ever, and I slammed down the quirt as
hard as I could. It landed on a ticklish spot and before he had time
to make up his mind, the cayuse had started to run, me whalin’ him at
every jump and givin’ thanks between ’em. I rode him good and out as
soon as he started to stampede, and they all thought I was a real
rider. Well, this gave me a lot o’ trouble—tryin’ to live up to my
reputation—but that’s a good sort o’ trouble for a kid to have.
Now I can feel all the sensations o’ this ride as plain as though it
was this mornin’; but the’s a thousand rides since then which have all
melted an’ run together. The same with most o’ the rest o’ my work: I
allus aimed to do my bit a little quicker and cleaner ’n the rest; but
as soon as I learned all the tricks of it, it fell into a rut, like
breathin’ and seein’. Easteners seem to have an idee that our life
must be as carefree and joyous as goin’ to a different circus every
day in the year; but it ain’t: it’s work, just like all other work.
We’re a good bit like our ridin’ ponies: when we’re in the thick of it
we’re too busy to take notice; and when we’re through, we’re
hungry—and that’s about the whole story.
Jabez Judson was a high peak, and once a feller knew him, he never ran
any risk o’ gettin’ him mixed up with any one else. He was the settest
in his ways of any man I ever had much doin’s with; but he didn’t
change about any—if he faced north on a question one day, he faced
north on it always; so a feller could tell just how any action would
strike him, and this made livin’ with him as accurate as workin’ out a
problem in multiplication, which I claim to hold qualities o’ comfort.
His daughter, Barbie, was a little tot when I first took on; and she
was the apple of ol’ Cast Steel’s eye; an’ his curb bit, and his spurs
as well. Barbie and I were pals from one end o’ the trail to the
other, and this explains a lot o’ my life which otherwise wouldn’t
have any answer. My ordinary work at the Diamond Dot wasn’t
out-standin’ enough to give me any special privileges; but I happened
to come back one time when the Brophy gang was about to clean things
out, and Jabez gave me credit for savin’ Barbie’s life; so ’at he
didn’t check up my time any and I did purty much as I pleased, only
quittin’ him when I couldn’t put up with his set ways any longer. I
aimed to play fair with Jabez, and he with me; but once in a while we
locked horns, though not often, takin’ everything into account.
It was shortly after ol’ Cast Steel had bought in the D lazy L brand,
an’ we was still pickin’ up strays here an’ there. Whenever he bought
up a brand he allus put the Diamond Dot on the stuff as soon as he
could, his mark commandin’ more respect than some o’ the little
fellers’.
When I’d get tired o’ loafing about the home place, I’d take one o’
the boys an’ we’d start out to look for stray hosses. Spider Kelley
was with me this time, an’ we had meandered here an’ there until we
had picked up a big enough string to stand as an excuse for our trip,
and were about minded to start back.
We had just forded a little crick when we heard a man’s voice singin’
off to the right. The’ was a mess o’ cottonwoods between us, an’ we
stopped to listen. Now I had never heard that voice before, an’ I had
never seen the man who was running it; but right then I was ready to
believe anything he had a mind to tell me. It was a deep, rich voice;
but mellow an’ tender, an’ a feller could tell that he was singin’
simply because he couldn’t help it.
Spider looked at me with his face shinin’, an’ I could feel a sort o’
pleasant heat in my own face. The’ was a lift an’ a swing, and a sort
of rally-around-the-flag to this voice which got right into ya, an’
made you want to do something.
“’T is thine to save from perils of perdition
The souls for whom the Lord His life laid down;
Beware, lest, slothful to fulfill thy mission,
Thou lose one jewel that should deck His crown.
Publish glad tidings; tidings of peace;
Tidings of Jesus, redemption and release.”
“That feller can sing some,” sez Spider Kelley; but just then the
ponies turned back on us an’ by the time we had started ’em on again,
the singer had passed on up the trail, so I didn’t make any reply.
I was tryin’ to figure out whether it was the words or the tune or the
voice, or what it was that had made my whole body vibrate like a
fiddle string. As I said before, I see things in pictures an’ I also
remember ’em in pictures: a sound generally calls up a picture to me
an’ it ain’t allus a picture anyways connected with the sound itself.
This song, for instance, had called to my mind a long procession of
marchin’ men with banners wavin’ an’ set faces, shinin’ with a glad
sort o’ recklessness. There ain’t no accountin’ for the human mind: I
had never seen such a procession in real life, nor even in a picture;
but that was what this song out there on the open range suggested to
me, an’ I hurried out o’ the cottonwoods eager to measure the singer
with my open eyes.
When we climbed up out of the woods, we saw him goin’ up the pass
ahead of us with our ponies followin’ behind as though they was part
of his outfit. We could just catch glimpses of him; enough to show
that he was a big man on a big roan hoss, an’ that he was a ridin’ man
in spite o’ the fact that he was wearin’ black clothes made up Eastern
style. He was still singin’ his song, an’ I straightened up in my
saddle, an’ beat time with my hand as though I held a genuwine sword
in it; which is a tool I’ve never had much doin’s with.
We scrambled on up the trail, an’ when we reached the top we found a
little park with the grass knee high an’ a fringe o’ spruce trees
about it. The song had come to a sudden end, an’ we found the singer
on foot with a noose about his neck an’ nine rather tough-lookin’
citizens holdin’ a parley with him. We came to the same sort of a stop
the song had, an’ Spider Kelley sez in a low tone, “What do ya suppose
this is?”
“I don’t know,” sez I, touchin’ my pony, “but I’m with the singer”; so
me an’ Spider rode on down to ’em.
I purty well sensed what it was: the’ was a heap o’ rebrandin’ bein’
done at that time, an’ stringin’ a man up was supposed to be the only
cure; but I was willin’ to bet my roll that this singer wasn’t a
rustler. The feller in charge o’ the posse was an evil-lookin’ cuss,
an’ if he’d ’a’ had the rope around his neck, it wouldn’t have looked
so misplaced. He was ridin’ a Cross brand hoss; so I guessed him to
belong to the Tyrrel Jones outfit. Most o’ the others in the posse was
ridin’ the same brand o’ hosses an’ wearin’ the same brand of
expressions. It was a tough-lookin’ bunch.
We came up to ’em an’ they looked our ponies an’ us over an’ nodded.
We nodded back an’ I asked ’em what seemed to be the trouble.
“We’ve finally got the feller who has been doin’ the rustlin’ out this
way,” sez the leader, whose name was Flannigan, Badger-face Flannigan.
“That’s good,” sez I; “but he don’t look the part.”
“He acts it all right,” growls Badger-face, showin’ his fangs in what
was meant for a grin. “He’s ridin’ one of our hosses, an’ leadin’ a
string o’ D lazy Ls.”
“Leadin’ ’em?” sez I.
“Yes, he’s got some sort of a charm in his voice. Whiskers, here, saw
him go up on foot an’ rope this colt an’ lead him off the same as a
plow hoss.”
“Did Whiskers, here, see him charm the loose string, too?” I asked.
“No, he came in an’ collected the posse, an’ we decided that this
would be a good place to try him; so we cut up the other pass an’
waited for him. When he came up, this bunch o’ ponies was taggin’
after him.”
I looked at the man with the noose about his neck, an’ he was grinnin’
as easy an’ comfortable as I ever saw a man grin in my life. He was
wearin’ a vest without buttons an’ a gray flannel shirt. He had a
rifle on his saddle an’ a sixshooter on his right hip. He had big gray
eyes set wide apart under heavy brows, an’ they were dancin’ with
laughter. I grinned into ’em without intendin’ to, an’ sez: “Well, I
don’t really think he charmed these loose ponies intentional. Me an’
Spider was takin’ ’em in to the Diamond Dot an’ we had a hard time
makin’ ’em ford the crick. I’m some thankful to him for tollin’ ’em up
the pass.”
Badger-face scowled. “Well, anyhow, he charmed the beast he’s ridin,
all right; an’ he has to swing for it.”
“Are you all done with tryin’ him,” sez I.
“What’s the use of a trial?” snarled Badger-face. “Ain’t he ridin’ a
Cross brand hoss, ain’t the brand unvented, don’t every one know that
we never sell a hoss without ventin’ the brand, an’ can’t any one see
’at this hoss was never rode before?”
“Got anything to say for yourself, stranger?” I asked.
“Not much,” sez the prisoner. “I have an appointment to keep at
Laramie; my hoss gave out; so I just caught a fresh one an’ started
on.”
“What more do you want?” asked Badger-face of me.
“Well, now, the’ ain’t any particular hurry; an’ I’m kind o’ curious
to learn a little more of his methods,” sez I impartial. “Don’t ya
know ’at this is what they call hoss-stealin’ out this way?” I asked
of the stranger.
“No, this is not stealin’,” he replied. “I turned another hoss loose
that I had picked up a hundred miles or so farther back; and I should
have turned this one adrift as soon as he had tired. They allus wander
back to their own range.”
This wasn’t no unheard-of custom to practice out our way; but it was a
new sort o’ defence for a man with a noose about his neck to put up,
an’ I see that some o’ the others was gettin’ interested. The big man
had a smile like a boy, an’ steady eyes, an’ a clear skin; an’ he
didn’t look at all the kind of a man to really need stretchin’.
“What’s your plan for earnin’ a livin’?” I asked.
“I am a kind of apostle,” sez he, “an’ I live on the bounty of
others.”
“Do you mean ’at you’re a preacher?” asked Badger-face.
“Yes,” the stranger replied with a smile.
[Illustration: We found the singer on foot with a noose about his neck
an’ nine rather tough-lookin’ citizens holdin’ a parley with him]
“Well, I never see a preacher with as short hair as yours, nor one who
carried so much artillery, nor one who made a practice o’ pickin’ up a
fresh hoss whenever he felt like it. Where’d you learn to ride, an’
where’d you learn to rope?”
“Eastern Colorado. I lived there four years, an’ travelled on
hossback,” sez the stranger.
“I’ll bet you left there mighty sudden,” sez Badger-face with an evil
leer.
“Yes,” replied the stranger, with a grin, “an’ I also left on
hossback.”
“Well, ya satisfied now?” grunted Badger-face to me.
Livin’ out doors the way I had, I naturally had a big respect for
brands. It’s mighty comfortin’ to feel that ya can turn your stuff
loose an’ know that it’s not likely to be bothered; so I was up
something of a stump about this new doctrine. “Where’d you get your
commission from to pick up a hoss whenever you feel like it?” sez I to
the stranger.
He had a little leather sack hangin’ from his saddle horn, an’ he
reached into it an’ fished out a small book with a soft leather cover.
The feller ’at was holdin’ his hoss eyed him mighty close for fear it
was some sort of a gun; but the stranger ran over the leaves with his
fingers as ready as a man would step into the home corral an’ rope his
favorite ridin’ pony.
“Here’s my commission,” sez he, as self-satisfied as though he was
holdin’ a government document; an’ then he read aloud with that deep,
mellow voice o’ his, the story of the time the Lord was minded to let
himself out a little an’ came into Jerusalem in state. He read it all,
an’ then he paused, looked about, holdin’ each man’s eyes with his own
for a second, an’ then he read once more the part where the Lord had
sent in a couple of his hands after the colt that no man had ever
backed before—an’ then he closed the book, patted it gentle an’
shoved it back into the leather bag. I looked around on the posse, an’
most of ’em was rubbin’ their chins, an’ studyin’. I’ve noticed that
while the earth is purty well cluttered up with pale-blooded an’
partially ossified Christians, the’s mighty few out an’ out atheists
among ’em.
“That don’t go,” sez Badger-face, after he’d taken time to pump up his
nerve a little.
No one said anything for a space, an’ then the stranger put a little
edge on his voice, but spoke in a lower tone than before: “That does
go,” he said. “No matter what else in life may be questioned, no
matter how hard and fast a title may stick, it must crumble to dust
when one comes and says, ‘The Lord hath need of this.’ It may be your
life or it may be your property or it may be the one being you love
most in all the world; but when the Lord hath need, your own needs
must fall away.
“Now, boys, I love the West, I glory in the fact that I can lay
something down and go on about my business an’ come back a month later
and find it just where I left it; and if I was takin’ these hosses to
sell or trade or use for my own selfish ends, why, I wouldn’t have a
word to say again’ your stringin’ me up. I brought my own hoss into
this country and when it gave out I didn’t have time to barter an’
trade for another one; so I just caught one, and when it grew weary, I
turned it adrift. I don’t claim the hosses I ride; I don’t want to own
them; I simply borrow them for a while because my Lord hath need of
them. I treat them well, and when they weary, send ’em back to their
own range with a pat, and pick up another. The next fellow who rides
that hoss will find it a little less trouble than if I hadn’t used it,
and there’s no harm done at all. I’m working with you, I’m going to
make your own work easier out here by raisin’ the respect for brands,
not by makin’ property rights any looser; and you are goin’ to work
with me—whether you want to or not. Now then, how much longer are you
goin’ to keep this fool noose about my neck?”
That posse wasn’t easy minded, not by a jugful. This stranger was
speakin’ as though he had power an’ authority an’ public opinion all
on his side, and they felt consid’able like the tenderfoot who’d roped
the buffalo—they was willin’ to quit any time he was.
The Cross brand boys were purty sullen an’ moody; but four o’ the
posse belonged to another outfit, an’ they couldn’t stand the strain.
One of ’em, a grizzled old codger with one lamp missin’, lifted the
noose from the prisoner’s neck, an’ sez most respectful: “Parson, I’m
an old man. I ain’t heard a sermon for forty years, an’ I’d be right
obliged to ya if you’d make us one.”
Badger-face, he snorted scornful; but the rest of the posse was
scattered all the way from repentance to sheepishness, an’ the
stranger he stepped to a little rise an’ he certainly did speak us a
sermon. First off, he sang us St. Andrew’s hymn—I got to learn a good
many of his songs after this, but o’ course at that time I was as shy
on hymns as the rest o’ the crowd.
I tell you it was wonderful up in that little park, with the lush
grass for a carpet, the spruce trees for panelin’, the bare peaks
stickin’ out for rafter-beams, the blue sky above for ceiling, and
that soft, deep voice fillin’ the whole place an’ yet stealin’ into a
feller’s heart as easy an’ gentle as a woman’s whisper. He sort o’
beat time as though playin’ on an instrument, until before he was
through we were all hummin’ in time with him—an’ then he preached.
He told us about the fisher folks an’ how they lived out doors under
the stars the same as we did; and that this was probably why the Lord
had chose ’em first to follow him. He said that city folks got to
relyin’ on themselves so much ’at they was likely to forget that the
whole earth was still held in the hollow of the hand which had created
it; but that men who lived with nature, out under the sun and the
stars, through the heat and the cold, the wind and the rain, the
chinook and the blizzard, felt the forces and the mysteries all about
them and this kept ’em in touch, even when they didn’t know it
themselves, with the great central Intelligence back o’ these forces
and mysteries. Then he told ’em how grand their lives might be if they
would only give up their nasty little habits of thought, and learn to
think broad and free and deep, the same as they breathed.
He told ’em ’at their minds could breathe the inspiration of God as
easy as their lungs could breathe the pure air o’ the mountains, if
they’d only form the habit. Then he talked to ’em friendly an’
confidential about their natural devilment. He didn’t talk like a
saint speakin’ out through a crack in the gates o’ Paradise, like most
preachers do. He called the turn on the actual way they cut up when
they went to town, and just how it hurt ’em body an’ soul; and his
face grew set and earnest, and his eyes blazed; and then he said a few
words about mothers an’ children and such, and wound up with a short
prayer.
Well two o’ those fellers owned up right out in public and said that
from that on they was goin’ to lead a decent sort of life; and one
other said ’at he didn’t have any faith in himself any longer; but he
insisted on signin’ the pledge, and said if that worked, why, he’d go
on an’ try the rest of it.
The preacher shook hands with ’em all around—he had a grip ’at
wouldn’t be no disgrace for a silver-tip—an’ then he sez that if any
of ’em has the notion that bein’ a Christian makes a weakling of a
man, why, he’s willin’ to wrastle or box or run a race or shoot at a
mark or do any other sort of a stunt to show ’at he’s in good order;
but they size him up and take his word for it.
“Now, boys,” sez he, “I hope we’ll meet often. I’m your friend, and I
want you to use me any time you get a chance. Any time or any place
that I can serve one of you, just get me word and I’ll do the best I
can. It don’t matter what sort o’ trouble you get into, get me word
and I’ll help—if I can find a way. And I wish ’at you’d speak it
around that I’m hard on hosses, so that the other fellows will
understand when I pick one up, and not cause any delay. I’ll have to
hurry along now. Good-bye; I’m sorry I’ve been a bother to ya.”
He swung up on the big roan, waved his hand and trotted out o’ the
park; and just as he went down the pass on the other side, it seemed
that he couldn’t hold it in any longer; so he opened up his voice in
his marchin’ song again, an’ we all stayed silent as long as we could
hear the sound of it.
“Well we are a lot of soft marks!” sez Badger-face at last.
“That there is a true man,” replied old Grizzly, shakin’ his head,
“an’ I’ll bet my boots on it.”
This seemed to be the general verdict, an’ the Cross brand fellers
went off discussin’ the parson, an’ me an’ Spider Kelley collected our
ponies an’ went along to the ranch, also discussin’ him.
That was the first time I ever saw Friar Tuck; I made up my mind about
him just from hearin’ his voice, an’ before I ever saw him; but I
never had to make it up any different. New lead an’ new steel look
consid’able alike; but the more ya wear on lead, the sooner it wears
out, while the more you wear on steel, the brighter it gets. The Friar
was steel, an’ mighty well tempered.
CHAPTER TWO
THE BETTIN’ BARBER O’ BOGGS
Yes, this was about the time I got interested in the bettin’ barber
over at Boggs. He hasn’t anything to do with this story I’m about to
tell ya, except that it was him ’at give the Friar his name; so I’ll
just skim through this part as hasty as possible. When a feller is
tellin’ me a story, I want him to stick to the trail of it; but it
seems like when I try to tell one, myself, some feller is allus askin’
me a question ’at takes me clear out o’ range.
All barbers are more or less different, except in what might be called
the gift o’ gab. This one came out to Boggs station, an’ started a
shop. His name was Eugene, an’ he was a little man with two rollin’
curls to his front hair, which he wore short behind. A curious thing
about little men is, that they don’t never find it out. A little man
produces more opinions ’n airy other kind, an’ being small, they
haven’t no place to store ’em up until they get time to ripen. A
little man gives out his opinion an’ then looks savage—just as if
he’d get a switch an’ make ya believe it, whether you wanted to or
not.
Eugene had come from every city the’ is in the world, an’ he used to
tell scandalous tales about the prominent people who lived in ’em
whose hair he had cut. He was also familiar with the other things
which had happened since they’ve begun to write history, an’ if any
one would doubt one of his statements, he’d whirl about holding up his
razor, an’ say: “I’ll bet ya a dollar I can prove it.”
All of us fellers used to go in as often as we got a chance to get our
chins shaved an’ our hair shampooed—just to hear Eugene get indignant
about things which wasn’t none of our business. We used to bet with
him a lot, just for the fun o’ makin’ him prove up things; which he
did by writin’ letters to somebody an’ gettin’ back the answers he
wanted. We didn’t have any way to prove our side; so Eugene got the
money an’ we had the fun.
Ol’ man Dort ran the general store and kept a pet squirrel in a
whirlabout cage, which was the biggest squirrel I ever see, an’ had
its tail gnawed off by a rat, or something, before Eugene came. Ol’
man Dort had a reputation for arguin’, which spread all over our part
of the earth. We had made a habit o’ goin’ to him to get our
discussions settled an’ when we began to pass him up for Eugene, he
foamed about it free an’ frank.
He wore a prodigious tangle o’ hair and a bunch o’ grizzled whiskers,
about as fine an’ smooth as a clump o’ grease-wood. He used to brag
that razor nor scissors hadn’t touched his hide for twenty years, an’
one of us boys would allus add, “Nor soap nor water, neither,” an’ ol’
man Dort would grin proud, ’cause it was a point of honor with him.
Eugene used to send out for his wearin’ an’ sech, so ol’ man Dort
didn’t get a whack at him in his store; ol’ man Dort batched, an’
Eugene boarded, so they didn’t clash up at their meals; an’ finally
ol’ man Dort swore a big oath that he was goin’ to be barbered. The
news got out an’ the boys came in for forty miles to see the fun—an’
it was worth it.
We went early to the shop an’ planted ourselves, lookin’ solemn an’
not sayin’ anything to put Eugene on his guard. When at last ol’ man
Dort hove in sight with his brows scowled down an’ his jaws set under
his shrubbery, we all bit our lips; an’ Eugene stopped tellin’ us
about the hair-roots o’ the Prince of Wales, an’ stood lookin’ at ol’
man Dort with his mouth gapped wide open.
The ol’ man came in, shut the door careful behind him, glared at
Eugene, as though darin’ him to do his worst, an’ said: “I want my
hair shamped, an’ my whiskers shaved off.”
“If you expected to get it all done in one day, you should ought to
have come earlier,” sez Eugene soberly, but tossin’ us a side wink.
“Well, you do as much as you can to-day, an’ we’ll finish up
to-morrow,” sez ol’ man Dort, not seein’ the joke.
Ol’ man Dort peeled off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, an’ climbed
into the chair as if he thought it was liable to buck him off. Then he
settled back with a grunt, an’ Eugene tucked the bib in around his
neck, combed his fingers through ol’ man Dort’s hair a minute, an’
sez; “Your hair’s startin’ to come out. You should ought to use a
tonic.”
“Tonic, hell!” snaps the ol’ man. “My hair sheds out twice a year,
same as the rest o’ the animals.”
“Then you should ought to comb it,” sez Eugene. “I’ve got some hair
here in my hand which was shed out two years ago. Leavin’ dead hair
an’ such rubbish as that layin’ around on your scalp is what kills the
hair globules.”
“It don’t either; it acts like fertilizer, the same as dead grass
does,” sez ol’ man Dort. He had made up his mind to take the contrary
side of everything ’at Eugene said, an’ it was more fun than a dog
fight.
Eugene started in by mowin’ away the whiskers, an’ it was a long an’
painful job; ’cause it was almost impossible to tell where they left
off an’ ol’ man Dort began, an’ then they was so cluttered up with
grit an’ dead hair and kindry deb-ris that his scissors would choke up
an’ pull, an’ then ol’ man Dort would bob up his head an’ yell out a
bunch o’ profanity, and Eugene would stand back an’ say that he was a
barber, not a clearer of new ground, an’ that the job ought to be done
with a scythe and hoe, not with scissors an’ razor. Eugene wasn’t
covetous of ol’ man Dort’s trade an’ didn’t care whether he insulted
him or not.
The most fun came, though, after Eugene had got down to where he could
tell the outline of ol’ man Dort’s face. First he soaked it with
lather, combin’ it in with a comb, an’ puttin’ hot towels on it to
draw out the alkalie grit an’ give his razors some show.
One of ol’ man Dort’s manias was, that a man ought to pay his debts,
whether it killed him or not; so as soon as Eugene had him steamin’
under the towels we begun to talk about a man’s first duty bein’
toward his kin, an’ that if he couldn’t pay his debts without bother,
he ought to let the debts go an’ show his relatives a good time while
they was still on earth an’ able to enjoy themselves.
Ol’ man Dort couldn’t stand it, an’ tried to answer back from under
the towels; but got his mouth full o’ suds, an’ choked on the corner
of a towel until Eugene said that if he couldn’t sit still an’ behave
himself he could go out to some alfalfa farmer to get his tonsoral
work completed.
It wasn’t the ol’ man’s fault—he simply couldn’t help it. Touch him
up on a ticklish subject, an’ he just had to come back at ya, same as
a rattler. Finally, however, Eugene had the stubble wore down an’
softened until he decided that he stood a chance again’ it, an’ then
he lathered an’ rubbed, an’ lathered an’ rubbed, until nothin’ stuck
out below ol’ man Dort’s eyes except the peak of his nose; an’ then us
boys pulled out our trump card an’ played it strong. We began to talk
about red squirrels.
Now, we didn’t know anything professional about squirrels, except what
ol’ man Dort had told us; but we slewed his talk around this way an’
that as if it was our own private opinions; an’ the ol’ man began to
groan audible. He gritted his teeth, though, an’ bore up under it like
a hero, until Eugene begin to chip in with what he knew about
squirrels.
Eugene was never content to just speak of a thing in a general
way—his main method of convincin’ us was to allus fall back on his
own personal experience; so this time he began to tell of squirrels
what he had been full acquainted with. He called ’em by name an’ told
how they would run to meet him an’ climb up on his shoulders an’
chatter for nuts, an’ so on; until the ol’ man’s ears turned red with
the strain he was under. And then, we got to discussin’ the size o’
squirrels.
We told about squirrels we had heard about, an’ contested again’ each
other to see which had heard o’ the biggest one; but we never even
mentioned ol’ man Dort’s squirrel. Eugene had shaved his way down to
below the lobe of ol’ man Dort’s right ear, slippin’ in a side remark
to our talk every minute or so; an’ purty soon he sez ’at he knows a
squirrel by the name o’ Daniel Webster back in Montpelier, Vermont,
which was a full half inch longer ’n airy red squirrel we had spoke
of. The ol’ man couldn’t stand this. His head bobbed up, cuttin’ a
gash on the crook of his jaw, and as soon as he could blow the foam
out of his mouth, he sez, “I’ll stake my life, the’ ain’t another
squirrel in this country as big as my own Ben Butler.”
Eugene put his hand on ol’ man Dort’s forehead an’ pushed him back
into the headrest. “You lie there,” sez he, “until I get done shavin’
ya. Then, I’ll bet ya a dollar that I can produce a livin’ squirrel
which’ll out-stand, outweigh, an’ out-fight your squirrel—an’ I ain’t
never seen your squirrel.”
“A dollar!” snorts the ol’ man, flickin’ up his head. “I wouldn’t
bother wakin’ Ben Butler up for a measly dollar. I’ll bet ya ten
dollars.”
“Get back on that headrest,” orders Eugene. “Ten dollars looks a heap
sight better to me than one, an’ I’ll be mighty glad to accommodate
ya.”
Eugene took his fire-stick an’ burned the ol’ man’s cut, an’ the ol’
man had to scruge up his shoulders with the pain of it; but he did it
without noticin’, ’cause his mind was on squirrels. “What breed o’
squirrels is yours?” he asked.
“If you don’t keep your head where I put it, I’ll throw up the job an’
let you go forth lookin’ like the lost Goog o’ Mayhan,” sez Eugene,
raisin’ his voice. Ol’ man Dort was a whalin’ big man, an’ it tickled
us a heap to see little Eugene givin’ him directions, like as if he
was nothin’ but a pup dog.
Ol’ man Dort settled back with a sigh, an’ Eugene leathered up his
razor without sayin’ anything for a minute or two. Then he sez, as he
begins shavin’ again: “That squirrel I have in mind for ring contests
is the short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrel; and it’s the biggest
breed of squirrels the’ is.”
“The’ ain’t no such a breed of squirrel as that!” yells ol’ man Dort,
springing erect in his chair, an’ dullin’ Eugene’s razor by the
operation.
Eugene stepped back an’ looked at the blood flowin’ from the fresh
cut, an’ he sez slow an’ sarcastic; “If it don’t make any difference
to you whether you have any skin on your face or not, why I’ll just
peel it off an’ tack it on a board to shave it; but hanged if I’m
goin’ to duck around tryin’ to shave you on the jump. The’ is too
grizzly ground-squirrels.”
Well, that’s the way they had it back and forth: every time they would
settle down to business an’ Eugene would get a square inch o’ the ol’
man’s face cleared up, one of us boys would speak something in a low
tone about there bein’ rumors of an uncommon big squirrel out at some
ranch house a hundred miles or so from there. Eugene would ask what
breed of squirrel it was, an’ then decide that it couldn’t be a
patchin’ on a genuwine short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrel, an’ then
ol’ man Dort couldn’t stand it no longer an’ he would forget what he
was doin’, bob up in his chair, an’ lose some more of his life fluid.
Eugene scraped down both sides o’ the ol’ man’s face, givin’ all of
his razors a chance to take part in the job, an’ then he set his lips
an’ started in on the chin.
“What does short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrels eat, Eugene?” asked
Spider Kelley, as innocent as an infant pigeon.
“They eat chickens,—” began Eugene, but ol’ man Dort flew clean out
o’ the chair an’ stood over Eugene shakin’ with rage.
“Chickens?” he roars. “Chickens! The’ never was a squirrel foaled into
this world what et chickens.”
Eugene looked at ol’ man Dort, an’ then he wiped his razor an’ sat
down on a chair, so full of disgust that he could hardly breathe.
“I wish you’d take off that apron an’ bleed into the spittoon,” he
said as calm as he could. “I’ve got customers whose patronage is what
makes up my living expenses; an’ I don’t want ’em to come in here an’
see the whole place a welter of gore.
“What do you think this shop is, anyway?” yelled Eugene springing to
his feet an’ entirely losin’ his patience. “Do you think that I make
my livin’ by grubbin’ down wire grass which has been let grow for
fifty years, an’ educatin’ ignoramuses in the knowledge of squirrels?
I don’t care whether you believe in short-tailed grizzly
ground-squirrels or not; but if you don’t let me tie your head down to
that chair, I won’t shave another sprout off your chin. I take some
pride in my profession, an’ I don’t intend to have no man go out o’ my
shop leavin’ a trail o’ blood which will draw all the dogs for miles
around. Now, you can take your choice.”
Ol’ man Dort had to give in that this was reasonable enough; so he
climbed back into the chair, an’ Eugene tied down his head an’
finished him off without any more trouble. As soon as he had stopped
the bleedin’ an’ put on the perfume an’ oil an’ powder, he sez: “Now,
what I am goin’ to do is to get some nourishment to recuperate back my
strength, an’ if you want the waste products washed out o’ your hair,
you come back here at one o’clock prompt.”
“I want to settle on that bet first,” said ol’ man Dort, who was just
as pernicious as Eugene, once you got him riled up.
“I’ll make that bet with you after dinner,” sez Eugene, “but first off
I got to have food; I’m faint with weakness. Now, I’m goin’ to lock up
my shop.”
After Eugene had marched off to his boardin’ house, we all gathered
around ol’ man Dort, an’ complimented him on his improved appearance,
though to be strictly honest, the’ was considerable doubts about it.
He had two teeth out in front, an’ the tobacco habit; and now, with no
shrubbery to catch the spray, he spluttered terrible when he tried to
talk fast. He said, though, that as long as he had started in he
intended to take the full course, an’ was comin’ back, as soon as he’d
had a bite to eat, to get his hair laundried an’ trimmed up some
around the edges; an’ then he was goin’ to make that bet about the
squirrels.
It was some amusin’ to see the ol’ man get his hair sluiced out, but
not near as much fun as seein’ him shaved. Whenever Eugene found any
stray product, he’d call us all over an’ show it to us, an’ this riled
the ol’ man up considerable; but the best joke was when Eugene found a
woman’s hairpin.
The ol’ man vowed an’ declared an’ carried on somethin’ fierce; but
there was the hairpin, an’ we made him pay for three rounds on the
strength of it. As soon as Eugene was all through, the ol’ man settled
the bill, payin’ for a full day’s work like a regular sport, an’ not
tryin’ to beg off at the ordinary retail price; and then he hardened
his face an’ sez: “Now I bet you ten dollars, that you can’t bring
forward a squirrel as big as my Ben Butler.”
“I’ll take that bet,” sez Eugene, “but you got to give me time to
locate a short-tailed grizzly. It’s the scarcest breed the’ is, an’
it’ll probably cost me twice the sum to get one, but I don’t care
about that. What I want is to vindicate myself. I’d like to see that
squirrel o’ yours.”
“You come right along,” sez ol’ man Dort, glowin’ with pride. “I
reckon when you see him, you’ll just hand over the money at once—That
is, if you know anything at all about squirrels.”
We all marched around to the general store, an’ ol’ man Dort pounded
on the cage. When Ben Butler sat up an’ looked around to see what was
up, the ol’ man waved his hand at him, looked down at Eugene, an’ sez:
“Well?” He said it just like that: “Wu-el?”
Ben Butler was rollin’ fat, an’ he certainly did look like some
squirrel to us; but Eugene merely glanced at him, an’ sez: “Hum, what
we call a dwarf red squirrel, up in Nova Scotia. They have tails,
though, up there.”
The ol’ man spluttered till we had to pound him on the back. “Dwarf?”
he chokes out. “Dwarf! You produce a squirrel to match him, will ya,
or else you pack up your truck an’ move on. I don’t intend to have
no—”
“See here, ol’ man,” sez Eugene, pointin’ a finger at him the same as
if he’d been a naughty child. “A short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrel
is from two to four times as big as this one, so if you want to
sidestep the bet, you can do it; but if you want to have some show for
your money, I bet you fifty to ten that I can get a squirrel three
times as big as this one. I own up that for its kind, this squirrel is
of fair, average growth; but—”
“I’ll take that bet!” yelled the old man. “We’ll put up our money with
Ike Spargle this minute; but I don’t want your odds. I’ll bet you even
money.”
Eugene shook his head as if he pitied the ol’ man, an’ he sez,
“Haven’t you never travelled none, or seen a zoological garden?”
“Yes, I’ve travelled some, an’ I’ve seen all kinds o’ gardens,” flares
back the ol’ man; “but what I want now is to fix up this bet.”
“Who’ll be the judges?” sez Eugene.
“I don’t care a snap. Any man who can see through the holes in a
ladder’ll be able to decide between the claims o’ two squirrels. Ike
Spargle an’ Bill Thompson can be the judges.”
“There has to be three,” sez Eugene. “We’ll have Dan Stedman be the
other.”
So they put up the money an’ Eugene was to have six weeks to get his
squirrel; an’ from that on we begun to divide up into rival camps.
The’ wasn’t any tree squirrels out in that neck o’ the woods, an’ we
had all forgot what wild squirrels really was like. We knew the’ was
ground-squirrels, red squirrels, gray squirrels, an’
flyin’-squirrels—although an argument was started about there bein’
flyin’-fish all right, but no flyin’-squirrels, which would have ended
in warfare if Eugene hadn’t been handy to settle it.
You wouldn’t think that a little thing like a bet about the size of a
squirrel would take the way it did; but Eugene was so confident on his
side, an’ ol’ man Dort was so dead sure of Ben Butler, that the rest
of us split up an’ we each had a little side bet on the outcome. It
seemed a tarnation long time while we was waitin’; but in a little
over a month, Eugene got a big box which he took into his back room
without lettin’ even the fellers who had backed his squirrel get a
peep at it.
From that on we got shaved twice a day an’ our heads washed till the
hair started to change color; so that Eugene’s trade was so improved
that even if he lost the bet, he was money ahead; but he scoffed the
idy o’ losin’ the bet, even after his squirrel arrived; and as he was
the only man who had seen both the contestants, he had the whole
country up in the air.
Ol’ man Dort had made his squirrel run around the wheel four hours a
day, pokin’ him up with a stick when he got lazy; an’ this gave Ben
Butler sech a prodigious appetite that the ol’ man had to set up late
at night to give him an extra meal. As the day o’ settlement came
closer, the ol’ man tapered off on the exercise, an’ doubled up on the
feed, until Ben Butler looked a full size larger, an’ us fellers who
had our money on Eugene’s squirrel began to get shaky. If it had been
just an even race, it would have been a fair deal; but to have to show
a squirrel three times larger than Ben Butler seemed an impossibility.
Eugene had been fussin’ over his entry too, an’ we used to sneak up
behind his shop at nights to listen to him. We could hear him snippin’
with scissors and pullin’ stoppers out o’ bottles and when he was
through he’d say: “Stand up there, Columbus”—which was the name of
his champion, an’ then he would seem to pass in a bunch o’ feed, an’
say—“Good boy, Columbus! that dwarf red squirrel can turn a double
handspring in your shadder.”
This used to hearten us up again, and we’d lay a little more money on
Eugene’s squirrel. Ike, an’ Bill, an’ Dan—the judges—said that they
didn’t claim to know anything about the breeds o’ squirrels, an’ all
they was to judge on was the size, which would be settled by weight if
the’ was any dispute. They got kind o’ nervous toward the end, ’cause
the fellers were all on edge, an’ a rank decision meant trouble in
bunches.
When the final day o’ settlement arrived, Boggs was seven deep with
fellers on edge to see the outcome. Most of us had all we could spare
hung up in bets; but the’ was still a lot o’ coin in the crowd, and a
crew came over from Cheyenne to take charge of it.
They had a game which certainly was attractive, I’ll say that much for
it. It was a round board full o’ numbers, and up the middle was a
tower with slopin’ sides covered with nails. A marble was dropped into
a hole at the top and bobbled on the nails until it went into a row of
holes at the bottom, and came out in a groove leadin’ to one o’ the
numbers. Some o’ these numbers doubled the player’s money, some of ’em
paid it over to the table; but most of ’em was neutral, and a feller
had to double what he already had up, in order to stand a show. It was
an innocent-appearin’ game, but deceptive. When a feller had up all he
could raise, some stranger would offer him two bits for his chance,
put up the doublin’ money—and win. This was a capper o’ course; but
crowds don’t have any sense when they start gamblin’, and this crew
was cleanin’ us out until, all of a sudden, I heard a clear, low-toned
voice say: “If one o’ you boys would upset that table, you’d see the
lever which controls the marble.”
I glanced up, and there was the Singin’ Parson, as cool as a frozen
fish. Ol’ Tom Williams, commonly known as “Tank,” had just lost six
dollars, and he upset the table and saw just how tight braced the
blame game was. Then he unlimbered his gun, and suggested that he
would feel calmer if he had the six dollars back, and the Cheyenne
gambler looked into Tank’s free eye, which was pointin’ at the
ceilin’, and he seconded Tank’s motion. After this the rest o’ the
boys collected what they felt was due ’em, and the Cheyenne crowd had
to fall back on charity for their noon lunch.
Just about one o’clock, the head crook saw the Singin’ Parson standin’
close to Eugene’s barber shop. The shop was locked, and the crowd
around was lookin’ at it. The crook didn’t want to attract any
attention; so, instead o’ usin’ a gun, he struck at the Parson with a
club. He miscalculated, and hit the shoulder instead o’ the head. The
Parson whirled, grabbed the club with his left hand, and the crook’s
shirt collar with his right. The crook started to pull; but we settled
down on him, and were all ready to serve out justice, when the Parson
interrupted to say that it was none of our business, and if we’d just
form a ring, he’d settle it to everybody’s satisfaction. He said he
expected to live among us for the rest of his life, and this would be
a good time to introduce his methods.
We took off the crook’s weapons, and then formed a big ring. The
Parson was smilin’ a business-like smile, while the crook was palin’
up noticeable. “I am convinced that a man must settle some things,
himself, in a new country,” sez the Parson. “I am larger than you, so
it is fair for you to use this club; but I warn you in advance that I
understand how to guard again’ clubs, so do your best. I’m ready,
begin.”
It was quite eddifyin’ to behold: the crook made a vicious smash at
the Parson’s head, the Parson bent his arm at the elbow, muscle out,
so the bone wouldn’t get bruised, stepped in, and hit the crook a
swing in the short ribs. Some say it lifted him ten feet, some say
only eight; but any way, when he lit, he gave a grunt like an empty
barrel, and the Parson had no trouble in layin’ him over his knee and
givin’ him the most liberal spankin’ with that club I ever was
spectator to; while the crowd howled itself hoarse in the throat.
Now the Parson wasn’t angry, he grinned all the way through, and when
he had taken as much exercise as he felt was good for him, he set the
crook on his feet, and talked fatherly advice to him as sober an’
dignified as was possible—considerin’ the fact that the crook was
dancin’ about like a spider on a hot skillet, and rubbin’ the part
which had got most intimate with the club.
Eugene had seen it all through his window, and when it was over, he
came out and shook the Parson’s hand, and said he was just the kind
needed in such an ungodly community, and that he reminded him for all
the world of Friar Tuck in Robin Hood. Now, we hadn’t none of us heard
of Friar Tuck up to that time; but it was a name well fitted to the
tongue, and from the way Eugene said it, we elected it was a
compliment; so we gave it to the Singin’ Parson on the spot, and it
soaked into his bones, and he hasn’t needed any other since.
This little incident kept us all in a good humor until three o’clock,
which was the fatal hour for the squirrel-contest.
Then ol’ man Dort marched to the center o’ the street, carryin’ his
cage as though it was full o’ diamonds; an’ Ben Butler sat up an’
chattered as if he was darin’ the whole race o’ squirrels to bring
forth his equal.
“I don’t reckon a squirrel could get three times as big as him without
explodin’,” sez Spider Kelley, who also had his money on Eugene’s
squirrel.
“Here comes Eugene with Columbus,” sez I, not carin’ to waste breath
on an opinion I had backed up with good money.
Eugene came down the street carryin’ one end of a box, with Doc Forbes
carryin’ the other. The box was covered with a clean apron, an’ Eugene
wasn’t lookin’ down in the mouth or discouraged.
“From the size o’ that box, we’re goin’ to have a run for our money,”
sez Spider. “If Columbus just looks good enough to make ’em settle by
the scales, I haven’t any kick comin’.”
Well, as Eugene drew closer, that crowd fell into a silence until all
a body could hear was Ben Butler braggin’ about all the nuts he had
et, an’ what a prodigious big squirrel he was; but Eugene never
faltered. He walked up an’ set his box down careful, motioned Doc over
to the side lines, made a graceful motion to ol’ man Dort, an’ sez:
“As yours is the local champion you introduce him first, an’ make your
claim.”
Ol’ man Dort removed his tobacco, wiped his forehead, an’ sez: “Feller
citizens, I make the claim that Ben Butler is the biggest full-blooded
squirrel ever sent to enlighten the solitude of lonely humanity. This
is him.”
The ol’ man looked lovin’ly down at his squirrel, an’ we every one of
us gave a rousin’ cheer. It was all the family the ol’ man had, an’ it
meant more to him ’n a body who hadn’t never tried standin’ his own
company months at a time could realize. Ol’ man Dort thrust some new
tobacco into his face, bit his lips, winked his eyes rapid, an’ bowed
to us, almost overcome.
Then Eugene stepped a space to the front, bowed to the crowd in
several directions, an’ sez: “Gentlemen, an’ feller citizens—From
Iceland’s icy mountains to India’s coral strands an’ Afric’s sunny
fountains, every nation an’ every clime has produced some peculiar
product o’ nature which lifts it above an’ sets it apart from all the
other localities of the globe. When you speak of the succulent banana,
the golden orange, or the prickly pineapple, Nova Scotia remains
silent; but when you speak of varmints, she rears up on her hind legs
and with a glad shout of triumph, she hands forth the short-tailed
grizzly ground-squirrel, an’ sez, ‘Give me the blue ribbons, the gold
medals, an’ the laurel crowns of victory.’ I have the rare pleasure
an’ the distinctive honor of presenting to your notice Columbus, the
hugest squirrel ever exhibited within the confines of captivity.”
We was so took by Eugene’s eloquence that we hardly noticed him slip
the apron from in front of his cage; but when we did look, we could
hardly get our breath. I was standin’ close to the Friar; and at first
he looked puzzled, and then his face lit up with a regular boy’s grin;
but he didn’t say a word.
Columbus was certainly a giant; he stood full two feet tall as he sat
up an’ scrutinized around with a bossy sort of grin. He was dappled
fawn color on the sides with a curly black streak down the back an’
sort o’ chestnut-red below, with a short tail an’ teeth like chisels.
He won so blame easy that even us what had bet on him didn’t cheer.
Ol’ man Dort give a grin, thinkin’ Ben Butler must have won, an’ then
he stepped around an’ looked into Eugene’s cage. He looked first at
Columbus, an’ then at Ben Butler, then he looked again. “That damned
thing ain’t alive,” he sez. “It’s made up out o’ wool yarn. Poke it up
an’ let me see it move.”
“Poke it yourself,” sez Eugene. He was one o’ these cold-blooded
gamblers who ain’t got one speck o’ decent sentimentality; an’ he was
mad ’cause we hadn’t cheered.
Ol’ man Dort took a stick an’ poked Columbus, an’ Columbus give a
threatenin’ grin, chattered savage, an’ bit the stick in two. “Give
him the money, Ike,” sez ol’ man Dort. “I own up I never was in Nova
Scotia, an’ I never supposed that such squirrels as this grew on the
face o’ the whole earth. What’ll you take for him?” he sez to Eugene.
“It ain’t your fault that you didn’t know about him,” sez Eugene,
thawin’ a little humanity into himself. “I don’t want to rub it in on
nobody; and I’ll give you this here squirrel free gratis, ’cause I
admit that you know more about squirrels ’n anybody else what ever I
met; an’ you have the biggest red squirrel the’ is in the world.”
Then we did give Eugene a cheer, an’ everything loosened up, an’ we
all crowded into Ike Spargle’s so that them what won could spend a
little money on them what lost.
After a time, ol’ man Dort got up on a chair, an’ sez: “I want you
fellers to know that Columbus won’t never be my pet. Ben Butler has
been the squarest squirrel ever was, an’ he continues to remain my
pet; but I’ll study feedin’ this condemned foreign squirrel, an’ give
him a fair show; so that if any outsiders come around makin’ brags, we
will have a home squirrel to enter again’ ’em an’ get their money.”
Eugene led the cheerin’ this time, which made Eugene solider than ever
with the boys, an’ when Spider an’ me got ready to ride home, he an’
ol’ man Dort had their arms around each other tryin’ to sing the Star
Spangled Banner.
Spider talked about Columbus most o’ the way home, but I was still.
The’ was somethin’ peculiar about the Friar’s grin when he first
sighted Columbus, and the’ was somethin’ familiar about that squirrel,
an’ I was tryin’ to adjust myself. Just as we swung to the west on the
last turn, I sez to Spider: “Spider, I don’t know what I ought to do
about this?”
“About what?” sez Spider.
“About this bet?”
“Well, it was a fair bet, wasn’t it? Columbus is full four times as
big as Ben Butler.”
“Yes,” sez I, “but he ain’t no squirrel.”
Spider pulled up to a stop. “Ain’t no squirrel?” he sez. “What do you
take me for, didn’t I see him myself? What is he then?”
“He’s a woodchuck, that’s what he is,” sez I. “He’s a genuwine ground
hog with his hair cut stylish and died accordin’ to Eugene’s idy of
high art. I remember now that I used to see ’em when I was a little
shaver back on my dad’s farm in Indiana.”
Spider give a whoop, an’ then he laughed, an’ then he sobered up, an’
sez: “Well, you can’t do nothin’ now, anyway. The judges have decided
it, ol’ man Dort has give it up, it ain’t your game nohow, an’ if you
was to try to equal back those bets after they have been paid an’
mostly spent, you’d start a heap o’ blood-spillin’; an’ furthermore,
as far as I’m concerned, I ain’t right sure but what a woodchuck, as
you call it, ain’t some kind of a squirrel. We’ll just let this go an’
wait for a chance to put something over on Eugene.”
So that’s what we made up to do; but this gives you an idy of how fine
a line the Friar drew on questions o’ sport. He knew ’at we weren’t
full fledged angels, and that we had to have our little diversities;
but when any professional hold-up men tried to ring in a brace game on
us, he couldn’t see any joke in it, and he upset the money-changers’
tables, the same as they was upset that time, long ago, in the temple.
CHAPTER THREE
ABOVE THE DUST
I’m only about twice as old as I feel; but I’ve certainly seen a lot
o’ changes take place out this way. I can look back to the time when
what most of us called a town was nothin’ but a log shack with a
barrel of cheap whiskey and a mail-bag wanderin’ in once a month or
so, from goodness-knows-where. I’ve seen the cattle kings when they
set their own bounds, made their own laws, and cared as little for
government-title as they did for an Injun’s. Then, I’ve seen the sheep
men creep in an inch at a time until they ate the range away from the
cattle and began to jump claims an’ tyrannize as free and joyous as
the cattle men had. Next came the dry farmer, and he was as comical as
a bum lamb when he first hove into sight; but I reckon that sooner or
later he’ll be the one to write the final laws for this section.
We’re gettin’ a good many towns on our map nowadays, we’re puttin’ up
a lot o’ hay, we’re drinkin’ cow milk, and we’re eatin’ garden truck
in the summer. The old West has dried up and blown away before our
very eyes, and a few of us old timers are beginnin’ to feel like the
last o’ the buffalo. The’s more money nowadays in boardin’ dudes ’n
the’ is in herdin’ cattle, an’ that’s the short of a long, long story.
But still we hammered out this country from the rough, and no one can
take that away from us. The flag follers trouble, an’ business follers
the flag, an’ law follers business, an’ trouble follers the law; but
always the first trouble was kicked up by boys who had got so ’at they
couldn’t digest home cookin’ any longer and just nachely had to get
out an’ tussle with nature an’ the heathen.
They’re a tough, careless lot, these young adventurers; an’ they’re
always in a state of panic lest the earth get so crowded the’ won’t be
room enough to roll over in bed without askin’ permission; so they
kill each other off as soon as possible, and thus make room for the
patienter ones who follow after. From what I’ve heard tell of history,
this has been about the way that the white race has managed from the
very beginning.
As a general rule it has been purt’ nigh a drawn fight between the
dark-skins an’ the wild animals; then the lads who had to have more
elbow-room came along, and the dark-skins and the wild animals had to
be put onto reservations to preserve a few specimens as curiosities,
while the lads fussed among themselves, each one tryin’ to settle down
peaceable with his dooryard lappin’ over the horizon in all
directions. Room, room, room—that was their constant cry. As soon as
one would get a neighbor within a day’s ride, he’d begin to feel shut
in an’ smothered.
Tyrrel Jones was one o’ the worst o’ this breed. He came out at an
early date, climbed the highest peak he could find, and claimed
everything ’at his gaze could reach in every direction. Then he
invented the Cross brand, put it on a few cows, and made ready to
defend his rights. The Cross brand was a simple one, just one straight
line crossin’ another; and it could be put on in about one second with
a ventin’ iron, or anything else which happened to be handy. Tyrrel
thought a heap o’ this brand, an’ he didn’t lose any chances of
puttin’ it onto saleable property. His herd grew from the very
beginning.
His home ranch was something over a hundred miles northwest o’ the
Diamond Dot; but I allus suspicioned that a lot of our doggies had the
Cross branded on to ’em. Tyrrel was mighty particular in the kind o’
punchers he hired. He liked fellers who had got into trouble, an’ the
deeper they was in, the better he liked ’em. Character seeks its
level, the same as water; so that Tyrrel had no trouble in gettin’ as
many o’ the breed he wanted as he had place for. They did his
devilment free and hearty, and when they had a little spare time, they
used to devil on their own hook in a way to shame an Injun.
The sayin’ was, that a Cross brand puncher could digest every sort o’
beef in the land except Cross brand beef. Tyrrel used to grin at this
sayin’ as though it was a sort of compliment; but some o’ the little
fellers got purty bitter about it. When a small outfit located on a
nice piece o’ water, it paid ’em to be well out o’ Ty’s neighborhood.
No one ever had any luck who got in his road; but his own luck boomed
right along year after year. He allus kept more men than he needed;
an’ about once a month he’d knock in the head of a barrel o’ whiskey,
an’ the tales they used to tell about these times was enough to raise
the hair. Ty would work night an’ day to get one of his men out of a
scrape; but once a man played him false, he either had to move or get
buried. He wasn’t a bad lookin’ man, except that he allus seemed keyed
up an’ ready to spring.
His men all had to be top-notch riders, because he hadn’t any use for
a gentle hoss; he didn’t want his hosses trained, he wanted ’em
busted, an’ the cavey he’d send along for a round-up would be about as
gentle and reliable as a band o’ hungry wolves. If a man killed a
hoss, why Ty seemed to think it a good joke, an’ this was his gait all
the way along—the rougher the men were, the better they suited him.
He kept a pack o’ dogs, and the men were encouraged to kick an’ abuse
’em; but if one of ’em petted a dog, he was fired that instant—or
else lured into a quarrel. The’ didn’t seem to be one single soft spot
left in the man, an’ when they got to callin’ him Tyrant Jones instead
of Tyrrel, why, it suited him all over, an’ he used it himself once in
a while.
The next time I saw Friar Tuck, he recognized me at first glance, an’
his face lit up as though we had been out on some prank together an’
was the best pals in the world ever since. He wanted to know all I
knew about the crowd that had started to string him up; and when I had
finished paintin’ ’em as black as I could, what did he do but say that
he was goin’ up their way to have a talk with ’em.
I told him right out that it was simply wastin’ time; but he was set
in his ways, so I decided to ride part way with him. He had two hosses
along this trip, with his bed an’ grub tied on the spare one; and on
the second day we reached a little park just as the sun was setting.
It was one o’ the most beautiful spots I ever saw, high enough to get
a grand view off to the west, but all the rest shut in like a little
room. He jumped from his hoss, had his saddle off as soon as I did,
and also helped me with the pack. Then he looked about the place.
“What a grand cathedral this is, Happy!” he sez after a minute.
I didn’t sense what he meant right at first, and went on makin’ camp,
until I happened to notice his expression. He was lookin’ off to the
west with the level rays of the sun as it sank down behind a distant
range full in his face. The twilight had already fallen over the low
land and all the hazy blues an’ purples an’ lavenders seemed to be
floatin’ in a misty sea, with here an’ there the black shadows of
peaks stickin’ out like islands. It really was gorgeous when you
stopped to give time to it.
It had been gruelin’ hot all day, an’ was just beginnin’ to get cool
an’ restful, and I was feelin’ the jerk of my appetite; but when I
noticed his face I forgot all about it. I stood a bit back of him,
half watchin’ him, an’ half watchin’ the landscape. Just as the sun
sank, he raised his hands and chanted, with his great, soft voice
booming out over the hills: “The Lord is in His holy temple—let all
the earth keep silence before Him.”
He bent his head, an’ I bent mine—I’d have done it if the’d been a
knife-point stickin’ again’ my chin. I tell you, it was solemn! It
grew dark in a few moments an’ the evening star came out in all her
glory. It was a still, clear night without a speck in the air, and she
was the only star in sight; but she made up for it, all right, by
throwing out spikes a yard long.
He looked up at it for a moment, and then sang a simple little hymn
beginnin’, “Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh; shadows of the
evening steal across the sky.” It didn’t have the ring to it of most
of his songs; it was just close an’ friendly, and filled a feller with
peace. It spoke o’ the little children, and those watchin’ in pain,
and the sailors tossin’ on the deep blue sea, and those who planned
evil—rounded ’em all up and bespoke a soothin’ night for ’em; and I
venture to say that it did a heap o’ good.
Then he pitched in an’ helped me get supper. This was his way; he
didn’t wear a long face and talk doleful; he was full o’ life an’
boilin’ over with it every minute, and he’d turn his hand to whatever
came up an’ joke an’ be the best company in the world; but he never
got far from the Lord; and when he’d stop to worship, why, the whole
world seemed to stop and worship with him.
We had a merry meal and had started to wash up the dishes when he
happened to glance up again. He had just been tellin’ me a droll story
about the first camp he’d ever made, and how he had tied on his pack
so ’at the hoss couldn’t comfortably use his hind legs and had bucked
all his stuff into a crick, an’ I was still laughin’; but when he
looked up, my gaze followed his. It was plumb dark by now, an’ that
evening star was fair bustin’ herself, and the light of it turned the
peaks a glisteny, shadowy silver. He raised his hands again and
chanted one beginning: “Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is
within me, praise His holy name.”
The’ was a part in this one which called upon all the works o’ the
Lord to praise Him, and I glanced about to see what was happenin’. A
faint breeze had sprung up and the spruce trees were bowin’ over
reverently, the ponies had raised their heads and their eyes were
shinin’ soft and bright in the firelight as they looked curiously at
the singer; and as I stood there with a greasy skillet in my hand,
something inside of me seemed to get down on its knees, to worship
with the other works o’ the Lord.
It was one o’ those wonderful moments which seem to brand themselves
on a feller’s memory, and I can see it all now, and hear the Friar’s
voice as it floated away into the hills until it seemed to be caught
up by other voices rather than to die away.
Well, we sat up about the fire a long time that night. He didn’t fuss
with me about my soul, or gettin’ saved, or such things. I told him
the things I didn’t understand, and he told me the things he didn’t
understand; and I told him about some o’ my scrapes, and he told me
about some o’ his, and—well, I can’t see where it was so different
from a lot of other nights; but I suppose I’d be sitting there yet if
he hadn’t finally said it was bedtime.
He stood up and looked at the star again, and chanted the one which
begins: “Lord, now let thy servant depart in peace”; after which he
pulled off some of his clothes and crawled into the tarp. I crawled in
beside him about two minutes later; but he was already asleep, while I
lay there thinkin’ for the best part of an hour.
Next mornin’ he awakened me by singin’, “Brightest and best of the
sons of the morning”; and after that we got breakfast, and he started
on to Ty Jones’s while I turned back to the Diamond Dot. I didn’t
think he’d be able to do much with that gang; but after the talk I’d
had with him the night before, I saw ’at they couldn’t do much to him,
either. I had got sort of a hint at his scheme of life; and there
isn’t much you can do to a man who doesn’t value his flesh more ’n the
Friar did his.
CHAPTER FOUR
TY JONES
Ty stood in his door as the Friar rode up, and he recognized him from
the description Badger-face had turned in. Badger-face had been purty
freely tongue-handled for not havin’ lynched the Friar, and Ty Jones
was disposed to tilt his welcome even farther back than usual; so he
set his pack on the Friar. He had six dogs at this time, mastiffs with
a wolf-cross in ’em which about filled out his notion o’ what a dog
ought to be.
The Friar had noticed the dogs, but he didn’t have an idee that any
man would set such creatures on another man; so he had dismounted to
get a drink o’ water from the crick, it havin’ been a hot ride. The
pack came surgin’ down on him while he was lyin’ flat an’ drinkin’ out
o’ the crick. His ponies were grazin’ close by, and as soon as he saw
’at the dogs meant business, he vaulted into the saddle just in time
to escape ’em.
They leaped at him as fast as they came up, and he hit ’em with the
loaded end of his quirt as thorough as was possible. He was ridin’ a
line buckskin with a nervous disposition, and the pony kicked one or
two on his own hook; but as the Friar leaned over in puttin’ down the
fifth, the sixth jumped from the opposite side, got a holt on his arm
just at the shoulder, an’ upset him out of the saddle. In the fall the
dog’s grip was broke an’ he and the Friar faced each other for a
moment, the Friar squattin’ on one knee with his fists close to his
throat, the dog crouchin’ an’ snarlin’.
As the dog sprang, the Friar upper-cut him in the throat with his left
hand and when he straightened up, hit him over the heart with his
right. He says that a dog’s heart is poorly protected. Anything ’at
didn’t have steel over it was poorly protected when the Friar struck
with his right in earnest. The dog was killed. One o’ the dogs the
pony had kicked was also killed, but the other four was able to get up
and crawl away.
The Friar shook himself and went on to where Ty Jones and a few of his
men were standin’. “That’s a nice lively bunch o’ dogs you have,” sez
he, smilin’ as pleasant as usual; “but they need trainin’.”
“They suit me all right,” growls Ty, “except that they’re too blame
clumsy.”
The Friar looked at him a minute, and then said drily, “Yes, that’s
what I said; they need trainin’.”
Ty Jones scowled: “They don’t get practice enough,” sez he. “It’s most
generally known that I ain’t a-hankerin’ for company; so folks don’t
usually come here, unless they’re sure of a welcome.”
“I can well believe you,” said the Friar, laughin’, “and I hope the
next time I come I’ll be sure of a welcome.”
“It’s not likely,” sez Ty shortly.
The Friar just stood and looked at him curiously. He didn’t believe
that Ty could really mean it. The’ wasn’t a streak of anything in his
own make-up to throw light on a human actin’ the way ’at Ty Jones
acted; so he just stood and examined him. Ty stared back with a sneer
on his face, and I’m sorry I couldn’t have been there to see ’em
eyein’ each other.
“Do you really mean,” sez the Friar at last, “that you hate your
fellow humans so, that you’d drive a perfect stranger away from your
door?”
“I haven’t any use for hoss-thieves,” sez Ty.
The Friars face lighted. “Oh, that’s all right,” sez he in a relieved
tone. “As long as you have a special grievance again’ me, why, it’s
perfectly natural for you to act up to it. It wouldn’t be natural for
most men to act up to it in just this way, but still it’s normal;
while for a man to set his dogs on a total stranger would be
monstrous. I’m glad to know ’at you had some excuse; but as far as
hoss-stealin’ goes, that roan is back with your band again. I saw him
as I came along.”
Ty was somewhat flabbergasted. He wasn’t used to havin’ folks try out
his conduct and comment on it right to his face; and especially was he
shocked to have his morals praised by a preacher. He knew ’at such a
reception as had just been handed to the Friar would have taken the
starch out o’ most men an’ filled ’em with a desire for revenge ever
after; but he could see that the Friar was not thinkin’ of what had
been handed to him, he was actually interested in himself, Ty Jones,
and was honestly tryin’ to see how it was possible for such a
condition to exist; and this set Ty Jones back on his haunches for
true.
“For all time to come,” he sez slow and raspy, “I want you to leave my
stuff alone. If you ever catch up and ride one of my hosses again,
I’ll get your hide; and I don’t even want you on my land.”
Then the Friar stiffened up; any one in the world, or any thing, had
the right to impose upon the Friar as a man; but when they tried to
interfere with what he spoke of as his callin’, why, he swelled up
noticeable. The Friar’s humility was genuine, all right; but it was
about four times stiffer an’ spikier than any pride I’ve ever met up
with yet.
“I shall not ride your hosses,” sez he, scornful, “nor shall I tread
upon your land, nor shall I breathe your air, nor drink your water;
but in the future, as in the past, I shall use for the Lord only those
things which belong to the Lord. The things which are the Lord’s were
His from the beginning, the things which you call yours are merely
entrusted to your care for a day or an hour or a moment. I do not
covet your paltry treasures, I covet your soul and I intend to fight
you for it from this day forward.”
The Friar spoke in a low, earnest tone; and Ty Jones stared at him. Ya
know how earnest an insane man gets? Well, the’ was something o’ this
in the Friar when he was talkin’ business. You felt that he believed
that what he was sayin’ was the truth, and you felt that if it was the
truth, it was mighty well worth heedin’, and you also felt that in
spite of its bein’ so everlastin’ different from the usual view o’
things, it might actually be the truth after all and a risky thing to
pass up careless.
After waitin’ a minute without gettin’ a reply, the Friar turned on
his heel to walk away, stumbled, and slipped to the ground, and then
they noticed a pool of blood which had dripped from him as he stood.
He had forgotten that the dog had torn him, an’ the men had looked
into his eyes, as men always did when he talked, and they had forgot
it, too. Now, when he fell, Olaf the Swede stepped forward to help him
up.
Olaf was the best man ’at Ty Jones had, from Ty’s own standpoint. Ty
had happened to be over at Skelty’s one night when Skelty was givin’ a
dance. Skelty had six girls at this time, an’ he used to give a dance
about once a week. Along about midnight, they got to be purty lively
affairs. This night Skelty had bragged what a fine shot he was, an’
the boys were kiddin’ him about it, because Skelty wasn’t no shot at
all as a rule. It was a moonlight night, and while they was sheepin’
Skelty about his shootin’, two strangers rode up, tied their hosses to
the corral, an’ started up the path toward the door.
Skelty looked at ’em an’ sez, “Why, if I had a mind to, I could pick
one o’ those fellers off with this gun as easy as I could scratch my
nose.” He pulled his gun and held it over his shoulder.
All the boys fair hooted, an’ Skelty dropped his gun an’ shot one o’
the strangers dead in his tracks. The other came along on the run with
Skelty shootin’ at him as fast as he could pop; but he only shot him
once, through the leg, and he limped in an’ made for Skelty with his
bare hands. Skelty hit him in the forehead, knocked him down an’
jumped on him. He kept on beatin’ him over the head until the stranger
managed to get a grip on his wrists. He held one hand still, an’
puttin’ the other into his mouth, bit off the thumb.
The’s somethin’ about bein’ bit on the thumb which melts a man’s
nerve; and in about five minutes, the stranger had Skelty’s head
between his knees, and was makin’ him eat his own gun. It must have
been a hideous sight! Some say that he actually did make Skelty eat
it, and some say that he only tore through the throat; but anyway,
Skelty didn’t quite survive it, and Ty Jones hired the stranger, which
was Olaf the Swede.
Olaf was one o’ those Swedes which seem a mite too big for their
skins. The bones in his head stuck out, his jaws stuck out prodigious,
his shoulders stuck out, his hands stuck out—he fair loomed up and
seemed to crowd the landscape, and he was stouter ’n a bull. When he
let himself go he allus broke somethin’; but he had a soft streak in
him for animals, an’ Ty never could break him from bein’ gentle with
hosses, nor keep him from pettin’ the dogs once in a while. Olaf
hadn’t no more morals ’n a snake at this time, an’ when it came to
dealin’ with humans, he suited Ty to the minute; but he just simply
wouldn’t torture an animal, and that was the end of it. Olaf wasn’t a
talkin’ man; he never used a word where a grunt would do, and he was
miserly about them; but he certainly was set in his ways.
The Friar hadn’t fainted, he had just gone dizzy; so when Olaf gave
him a lift he got to his feet and walked to his horse. He allus
carried some liniment an’ such in his saddle bags, an’ he pulled off
his shirt and cleaned out the wound and tied it up, with Olaf standin’
by and tryin’ to help. Now, it made something of a murmur, when the
Friar took off his shirt. In the first place, the dog had give him an
awful tear, and for the rest, the Friar was a wonderful sight to
behold. He was as strong as Olaf without bein’ bulgey, and his skin
was as white and smooth as ivory. He was all curves and tapers with
medium small hands and feet, and a throat clean cut and shapely like
the throat of a high-bred mare. Olaf looked at him, and nodded his
head solemnly. Badger-face hated Olaf, because Olaf had a curious way
of estimatin’ things and havin’ ’em turn out to be so, which made Ty
Jones put faith in what Olaf said, over and above what any one else
said.
As soon as the Friar had finished tyin’ up the wound, he turned and
walked up to Ty Jones. “Friend,” he said, “I don’t bear you a grain o’
malice, and nothing you can ever do to me will make me bear you a
grain o’ malice. I know a lot about medicine, and perhaps I can help
you that way sometime. I want to get a start with you some way; I want
to be welcome here, and I wish ’at you’d give me a chance.”
“Oh, hell!” sneered Ty Jones. “Do you think you can soft-soap me as
easy as you did the boys? You’re not welcome here now, and you never
will be. I’ve heard all this religious chatter, and there’s nothin’ in
it. The world was always held by the strong, by the men who hated
their enemies and stamped them out as fast as they got a chance; and
it always will be held by the strong. Your religion is only for
weaklings and hypocrits.”
The Friar’s face lighted. “Will you discuss these things with me?” he
asked. “I shall not eat until this scratch is healed, I have my own
bed and will not bother you; won’t you just be decent enough to invite
me to camp here, give me free use of water, and grass for my hosses,
while you and I discuss these things fully?”
“I told you I didn’t want you about, and I don’t,” sez Ty. “The’s
nothin’ on earth so useless as a preacher, and I can’t stand ’em.”
“Let me work for you,” persisted the Friar. “All I ask is a chance to
show ’at I’m able to do a man’s work, and all the pay I ask is a
chance to hold service here on Sundays. If I don’t do my work well,
then you can make me the laughin’ stock o’ the country; but I tell you
right now that if you turn me away without a show, it will do you a
lot more harm than it will me.”
Ty thought ’at probably the Friar had got wind o’ some of his
devilment, and was hintin’ that his own neck depended on his men
keepin’ faith with him; so he stared at the Friar to see if it was a
threat.
The Friar looked back into his eyes with hope beamin’ in his own; but
after a time Ty Jones scowled down his brows an’ pointed the way ’at
the Friar had come. “Go,” sez he, stiff as ever. “The’ ain’t any room
for you on the Cross brand range; and if ya try anything underhanded,
I’ll hunt ya down and put ya plumb out o’ the way.”
So the Friar he caught his ponies and hit the back trail; but still it
had been purty much of a drawn battle, for Ty Jones’s men had used
their eyes and their ears, and they had to give in to themselves ’at
the preacher had measured big any way ya looked at him; while their
own boss had dogged it in the manger to a higher degree ’n even they
could take glory in.
As the Friar rode away, he sagged in his saddle with his head bent
over; and they thought him faint from his wound; but the truth was,
that he was only a little sad to think ’at he had lost. He was human,
the Friar was; he used to chide himself for presumptin’ to be
impatient; but at the same time he used to fidget like a nervous hoss
when things seemed to stick in the sand; and he didn’t sing a note as
long as he was on the Cross brand range—which same was an uncommon
state for the Friar to be in, him generally marchin’ to music.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE HOLD-UP
This was the way the Friar started out with us; and year after year,
this was the way he kept up. He was friendly with every one, and most
every one was friendly with him. Some o’ the boys got the idea that he
packed his guns along as a bluff; so they put up a joke on him.
They lay in wait for him one night as he was comin’ up the goose neck.
I, myself, didn’t rightly savvy just how he did stand with regard to
the takin’ of human life in self-defence; but I knew mighty well ’at
he wasn’t no bluffer, so I didn’t join in with the boys, nor I didn’t
warn him; I just scouted along on the watch and got up the hill out o’
range to see what would happen.
He came up the hill in the twilight, singin’ one of his favorite
marchin’ songs. I’ve heard it hundreds of times since then, and I’ve
often found myself singin’ it softly to myself when I had a long,
lonely ride to make. That was a curious thing about the Friar: he
didn’t seem to be tampin’ any of his idees into a feller, but first
thing the feller knew, he had picked up some o’ the Friar’s ways; and,
as the Friar confided to me once, a good habit is as easy learned as a
bad, and twice as comfortin’.
Well, he came up the pass shufflin’ along at a steady Spanish trot as
was usual with him when not overly rushed, and singin’:
“Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah!
Pilgrim through this barren land;
I am weak, but Thou art mighty;
Hold me with Thy powerful hand.”
He came up out of the pass with his head thrown back, and his boy’s
face shinin’ with that radiatin’ joy I haven’t ever seen in another
face, exceptin’ it first caught the reflection from the Friar’s; and
the notion about died out o’ the boys’ minds. They were all friends of
his and wouldn’t have hurt his feelin’s for a lot; but they had itched
about his weapons for such a spell that they finally had to have it
out; so when he rounded a point o’ rock, they stepped out and told him
to put his hands up.
They were masked and had him covered, and his hands shot up with a
jerk; but he didn’t stop his singin’, and his voice didn’t take on a
single waver. Fact was, it seemed if possible a shade more jubilant.
He had reached the verse which sez:
“Feed me with the heavenly manna
In this barren wilderness;
Be my sword and shield and banner,
Be the Lord my Righteousness”;
and as he sang with his hands held high above his head, he waved ’em
back and forth, playin’ notes in the air with his fingers, the way he
did frequent; and it was one o’ the most divertin’ sights I ever saw.
Those blame scamps had all they could do to keep from hummin’ time to
his song; for I swear to you in earnest that the Friar could play on a
man’s heart the same as if it was a fiddle. He kept on an’ finished
the last verse while I crouched above ’em behind a big rock, and
fairly hugged myself with the joy of it. Ol’ Tank Williams was a big
man and had been chosen out to be the leader an’ do the talkin’, but
he hadn’t the heart to jab into the Friar’s singin’; so he waited
until it was all over. Then he cleared his throat as though settin’
off a blast of dynamite, and growls out: “Here, you, give us your
money.”
Ten six-shooters were pointin’ at the Friar, but I reckon if he had
known it would of exploded all of ’em, he’d have had to laugh. He
threw back his head and his big free laugh rolled out into the hills,
until I had to gnaw at a corner o’ the stone to keep from joinin’ in.
“My money!” sez he as soon as he could catch his breath. “Well, boys,
boys, whatever put such a notion as that into your heads. Take it,
take it, you’re welcome to it; and if you are able to find more than
two bits, why, I congratulate you most hearty; because two bits was
all I could find this morning, and that will only be a nickle apiece,
and five cents is small pay for robbin’ a volunteer missionary.”
Ol’ Tank Williams was a serious-minded old relic, and he was feelin’
so sheepish just then that it seemed to him as though the Friar had
imposed on him by lurin’ him into such a fix; so he roars out in
earnest: “If you ain’t got no money, why the deuce do ya tote those
guns about with ya all the time?”
“Would you just as soon tie me to a tree, or take some other measures
of defence?” asked the Friar politely. “My arms are gettin’ weary and
I could talk more comfortable with ’em hanging’ down.”
“Aw put ’em down, and talk on,” sez George Hendricks.
“Thank you,” sez the Friar. “Well, now, boys, the man who doesn’t take
the time to put a value on his own life, isn’t likely to make that
life very much worth while. He mustn’t overvalue it to such an extent
that he becomes a coward, nor he mustn’t undervalue it to such an
extent that he becomes reckless—he must take full time to estimate
himself as near as he is able.
“I don’t know that I can allus keep from judgin’ my fellow men; but I
am sure that I would not judge one to the extent of sayin’ that my
life was worth more than his, so I should never use a gun merely to
save my own life by takin’ away the life of another man—much less
would I use a gun in defence of money; but I am a purty good shot, and
sometimes I can get a man interested by shootin’ at a mark with him.
This is why I carry firearms. Do you want the two bits?”
“Aw, go on,” yells ol’ Tank, madder at himself ’n ever. “We didn’t
intend to rob ya. All we wanted was to hear ya sing and preach a bit”;
and he pulled off his mask and shook the Friar’s hand. All the rest o’
the boys did the same; and I clumb up on my rock, flapped my wings,
and crowed like a rooster.
Well, we sat on the ground, and he sang for us; and then he sobered
and began to talk about cussin’. It used to hurt the Friar to hear
some o’ the double-jointed swear words we used when excited. He tried
not to show it, because he didn’t want anything to shut us away from
him at any time; but whiles his face would wrinkle into lines of
actual pain.
“Now, boys,” he began, “I know, ’at you don’t mean what you say in a
profane way. You call each other terrible names, and condemn each
other to eternal punishment; and if a man said these things in
earnest, his life would be forfeit; but you take it merely as a joke.
Now, I do not know just how wicked this is. I know that it is
forbidden to take the name o’ the Lord thy God in vain; so it is a
dangerous thing to be profane even in thoughtlessness; but I have
heard the Lord’s name used by the perfectly respectable in a way which
must have hurt his tender nature more.
“Once in the crowded slum district of a large eastern city, I saw a
freight car back down on a child and kill it. The mother was frantic;
she was a foreigner and extra emotional, and she screamed, and cursed
the railroad. A man had come to comfort her, and he put his hand on
her arm and said, ‘My dear woman, you must not carry on this way. We
must always bow our heads in submission to the Lord’s will.’
“For years the poor people o’ that neighborhood had begged protection
for their children; and I cannot believe that it was the Lord’s will
that even one o’ the least of ’em should have been slain in order to
drive the lesson a little deeper home; so, as I said before, I am not
going to talk to you of the wickedness of swearing—but I am goin’ to
talk about its foolishness, its vulgarity, and its brutality.”
He went on showin’ that swearin’ was foolish because it wasn’t givin’
a man’s thought on things in a man’s way; but merely howlin’ it out
the way wolves and wild-cats had to, on account o’ their not havin’ a
civilized language with which to express the devilment which was in
’em. He showed how it made a feller lazy; because instead of tryin’ to
sort out words which would tell exactly what he meant, he made a lot
of noises which had no more real meanin’ than a bunch o’
fire-crackers.
Then his voice got low and serious, and he said ’at the worst thing
about cussin’ was, that it led a feller into speakin’ lightly about
the sacred things of life. “When you speak the word ‘son,’” he said,
“you are bound to also call up the thought of ‘mother’; and I want to
say to you right now that any one who can be coarse and nasty in
thinkin’ or speakin’ about maternity, is not a man at all—or even a
decent brute—but has some sort of soul-sickness which is more
horrible than insanity. Always be square with women—all women, good
and bad. I know your temptations, and I know theirs. Woman has a heavy
cross to carry, and the least we can do, is to play fair.”
Then he sprang some of his curious theories on us: told us how the
body was full of poisons and remedies; and it depended on our plan of
livin’, whether we used the one or the other. He said he allus cut out
food and tobacco on Fridays, and if he didn’t feel bright and clear
and bubblin’ over with vitality, he fasted until he felt able to eat a
rubber boot, and then he knew he had cleaned all the waste products
out of him, and could live at top speed again. He finished up by
tellin’ of a cross old doctor he once knew, who used to say ’at cattle
and kings didn’t have to control themselves; but all ordinary men had
to use self-denial, even in matters of pleasure.
It was more the way the Friar said things than what he said; his voice
and his eyes helped a lot; but the thing ’at counted for most was the
fact ’at you knew it wasn’t none of it put on. He loved to joke when
it was a jokin’ matter; but he was stiff as stone with what he called
the foundations of life. A man, you know, as a rule, is mighty timid
about the things which lie close to his heart, no matter how bold and
free he’ll talk about other things; but the Friar was like a little
child, an’ he’d speak out as bold and frank as one, about the things
he loved and hated, until he finally put a few drops o’ this queer
brand o’ courage into our own hearts.
Of course we didn’t get to be troubled with wing-growth or anything
like that; but a short time after this fake hold-up, ol’ Tank Williams
went in to fill up with picklin’-fluid, and he started in on Monday
and kept fightin’ it all that week until Friday. Then he said that he
wouldn’t neither eat, drink, nor smoke on that day; and they couldn’t
make him do it. He started in on Saturday to continue what had started
out to be one o’ the best benders he had ever took; but the first
quart made him sick as a dog, and he came out to the ranch and said
’at the Friar had made him a temperate man, and for the rest of his
life he intended to set aside one day a week in the Friar’s favor.
After the boys had started for the ranch, the Friar invited me to
spend the night with him; so we unpacked his bed from the lead-hoss
and we built a little fire and had a right sociable time of it. Me and
him was good pals by this time. He had said to me once: “Happy, you do
more general thinkin’ than some varsity men I’ve known.”
“I reckon,” sez I, modest as I could, “that a man who has bossed a
dozen men and ten thousand cattle through a three days’ blizzard, has
to be able to think some like a general.”
Then he explained to me that general thinkin’ meant to think about
stars an’ flowers an’ the human race an’ the past an’ the future, an’
such things, and not to be all the time lookin’ at life just from the
way it touched a feller himself. This was another thing I liked about
him. Most Easteners is so polite that they haven’t the heart to set a
feller right when he has the wrong notion; but the Friar would divvy
up on his knowledge as free as he would on his bacon or tobacco; so I
opened myself up to him until he knew as much about me as I did
myself.
He didn’t have much use for the shut-eye this night, nor he wasn’t as
talky as common; so we sat smokin’ and lookin’ into the fire for a
long time. Once in a while he’d speak a verse about some big deed a
man had done years ago, or else one describin’ the mountains or
something like that; until finally I asked him how it came that a man
who loved adventure an’ fightin’ an’ feats of skill, the way he did,
had selected to be a preacher.
“We don’t select our lives, Happy,” sez he. “You’re surely philosopher
enough to see that. As far as we can see, it is like that gamblin’
game; we roll down through a lot o’ little pegs bobbin’ off from one
to another until finally we pop into a little hole at the bottom; but
we didn’t pick out that hole. No, we didn’t pick out that hole.”
So I up and asked him to tell me somethin’ about his start.
CHAPTER SIX
A REMINISCENCE
I pity the man who has never slept out doors in the Rocky Mountains.
Swingin’ around with the earth, away up there in the starlight, he
fills himself full o’ new life with every breath; and no matter how
tough the day has been, he is bound to wake up the next mornin’ plumb
rested, and with strength and energy fair dancin’ through his veins.
For it to be perfect, a feller has to have a pipe, a fire, and some
one close and chummy to chat with. This night me an’ the Friar both
went down to the crick and washed our feet. We sat on a log side by
side and made noises like a flock of bewildered geese when we first
stuck our feet into the icy water; but by the time we had raced back
and crawled into his bed, we were glowin’ all over.
We didn’t cover up right away, because the Friar just simply couldn’t
seem to get sleepy that night; and after a minute he put some more
wood on the fire, filled his pipe again, and said: “So you want me to
tell you about my story, huh? Well, I believe I will tell you about my
boyhood.”
So I filled my pipe, and we lay half under the tarp with our heads on
our hands and our elbows on our boots, which were waitin’ to be
pillows, and he told me about the early days, talkin’ more to himself
than to me.
“My mother died when I was six years old, my father divided his time
between cleanin’ out saloons, beatin’ me, an’ livin’ in the
work-house,” began the Friar, and it give me kind of a shock. I’d had
a notion that such-like kids wasn’t likely to grow up into preachers;
and I’d allus supposed ’at the Friar had had a soft, gentle youth. “I
was a tough, sturdy urchin,” he went on, “but I allus had a soft heart
for animals. I used to fight several times a day; but mostly because
the other kids used to stone cats and tie tin cans on dogs’ tails. I
used to shine shoes, pass papers, run errands, and do any other odd
job for a few pennies, and at night I slept wherever I could. I had a
big dry-goods-box all to myself for several months, once, and I still
look back to it as being a fine, comfortable bedroom.
“One morning I was down at the Union Depot when a farmer drove up a
big Norman hoss hitched to a surrey. Some o’ the other kids joshed
him, called the hoss an elephant and asked where the rest o’ the show
was. The man was big, well fed, and comfortable lookin’, same as the
hoss, and he didn’t pay any heed to the kids except to call one of ’em
up to hold the hoss while he went into the depot. The kid wanted to
know first what he was goin’ to be paid, and he haggled so long ’at
the farmer beckoned to me to come up. ‘Will you hold my hoss for me a
few minutes?’ he asked.
“That big gray hoss with the dark, gentle eyes seemed to me one of the
most beautiful things I had ever seen, and I was mighty anxious to
have charge of him, even for a few minutes; so I sez, ‘You bet I
will.’
“The other kids roasted me and made all manner o’ sport; but they knew
I would fight ’em if they got too superfluous, so after a bit they
went on about their business. The’s somethin’ about man’s love for a
hoss that’s a little hard to understand. I had never had no intimate
dealin’s with one before, yet somethin’ inside me reached out and
entwined itself all about this big, gray, velvet-nosed beauty left in
my charge. I reckon it must be in a man’s blood; that’s the only
explanation I can find. All the way back along the trail o’ history we
find the bones of men and hosses bleachin’ together in the same heap;
and about every worthwhile spot on the face o’ nature has been fought
over on hossback, so it’s small wonder if the feel of a hoss has got
to be part of man’s nature.
“The farmer had had a woman and a little girl in his care, to see off
on the train, and he was gone some time. I had a few pennies in my
pocket, and I bought an apple an’ fed it to the hoss, gettin’ more
enjoyment out of it than out of airy other apple I’d ever owned. I can
feel right now the strange movin’s inside my breast as his moist nose
sniffed at my fingers and his delicate lips picked up the bits of
apple, as careful an’ gentle as though my rough, dirty little hand had
been made o’ crystal.
“I was so interested in the hoss that I gave a start of surprise when
the farmer’s voice behind me sez: ‘You seem to like hosses, son.’
“‘I hadn’t no idee ’at a great big one like this could be so smooth
an’ gentle,’ I said, with my hand rubbin’ along the hoss’s throat. ‘I
think he’s a wonder.’
“‘Do you like other animals?’ asked the farmer.
“‘I reckon I must be an animal myself,’ sez I, ‘because I allus get
along well with them, while I have to fight a lot with humans.’
“‘What do you want for tendin’ to this hoss?’ he asked me.
“‘I don’t want nothin’,’ sez I. ‘We’ve got to be friends, an’ I don’t
charge nothin’ for doin’ favors for a friend. Besides, he’s got so
much sense, I doubt if he needs much watchin’.’
“The farmer grinned, looked into my eyes a long time, and gave me a
dollar. ‘Now tell me how you’ll spend your dollar,’ sez he.
“Well, I was purty well floored. I had never owned a dollar before in
my whole life, my father havin’ taken away every cent he had ever
found on me; and I stood lookin’ at the coin, and hardly knowin’ what
to do. The farmer stood lookin’ down at me with his eyes twinklin’,
and after a minute, I handed the dollar back to him. ‘This is too
much,’ I sez. ‘A dime would be plenty for the job, even if I didn’t
like the hoss; but if my old man would find a dollar on me, he’d give
me a beatin’ for hidin’ it from him, take it away, get drunk, and then
give me another beatin’ for not havin’ another dollar.’
“So he asked me all about my father; and I told about him and about my
mother bein’ dead, and the twinkle left his eyes and they grew moist,
so ’at he had to wink mighty fast.
“He told me that his own boy was dead and his girl married, and that
the’ wasn’t any children out at the big farm, and asked me if I
wouldn’t like to come and live with him. He told me about all the
hosses an’ the cows an’ the pigs, an’ that I could have a clean little
room to sleep in, an’ plenty o’ food and clothes, and could go to
school. It sounded like a fairy tale to me, and I sez, ‘Aw go on,
you’re just joshin’ me’; but he meant it; so I got on the seat beside
him, and as soon as we got out o’ town he let me drive the big gray
hoss—and I entered into a real world more wonderful than any fairy
tale ever was.
“When we drove up the shady lane and into the big barn lot, a little
old lady with sad eyes came to the door, and sez: ‘Now, John, who is
that with you?’ and my heart sank, for I thought she wasn’t goin’ to
stand for me; but he took me by the hand and led me up to the door,
put his arm about the little woman’s shoulder, and sez with a tremble
in his voice: ‘This here is a little feller I’ve brought out to be
company for ya, mother. He hasn’t any folks, and he is fond of
animals, and, and—his name is John, too.’
“At first she shook her head and shut her lips tight; but all of a
sudden the tears came to her eyes, and she put her arms about me—and
I had found a real home.
“Those were wonderful years, Happy, wonderful; and I have the
satisfaction o’ knowin’ that I did them about as much good as they did
me. Their hearts had been wrapped up in the boy, and he must have been
a fine feller; but just when he had been promoted out o’ the grammar
grade at the head of his class, he had took the scarlet fever an’
died. I wasn’t used to kindness when I went there; so I never noticed
’at they kept me out o’ the inner circle o’ their hearts at first. I
called the little woman Mrs. Carmichael for some time; but one day
after I’d brought home a good report from school, I called her this,
and she spoke to me sharp—I never knew any soft-hearted person in the
world who got so much solid satisfaction out of actin’ cross as she
did. Well, she spoke to me sharp, and sez: ‘John Carmichael, why don’t
you call me Mother?’
“I looked into her face, and it didn’t look old any longer, and the
sad look had left her eyes, and they were black and snappy an’ full o’
life; so I tried it; and we both broke into tears, but they were tears
o’ joy; and then he insisted that I call him Dad, and we became a
family; and about the happiest one in the world, I reckon.
“I rode the hosses bareback, shot hawks with my rifle, picked berries,
did a lot o’ chores, and worked hard with my books. It was a full,
round life with lots of love and happiness in it, and I grew, body and
mind and spirit, as free and natural as the big oak trees in the woods
pasture.
“Mr. Carmichael had looked up my blood father and had done what he
could for him; but it was no use, and one winter’s morning he was
found frozen in an alley. I didn’t learn of it until the next June
when he took me down to the city cemetery where my father and mother
lay side by side. I did feel downcast as we all do in the presence of
death; but it wasn’t my real father and mother who were lyin’ there
beneath the quiet mounds. Fatherhood and motherhood are somethin’ more
than mere physical processes. The real fathers and mothers are those
who put the best part o’ their lives into makin’ the big, gloomy world
into a tender home for _all_ the little ones; and after my visit
to the graveyard I felt drawn even closer to Dad and Mother than I had
before.
“Children ought to have dogs and hosses and plenty of air and soil
about ’em, Happy. We don’t learn from preachin’, we learn from
example; and we can learn a heap from the animals. We talk about our
sanitary systems; but we allus mean the sanitary systems outside our
bodies. Now, the animals have sanitary systems, but they are inside
their own skins, where they rightly belong. Look at the beautiful
teeth of a dog—These come from eatin’ proper food at the proper time
and in proper quantities. If a dog isn’t hungry, the dog won’t eat. If
a child isn’t hungry, it is fed candy in a lot o’ cases, and this is
downright wicked. Of course the animals find it hard to live, crowded
up the way man allus fixes things; but as a rule animals are temperate
and clean, patient and honest, wise and strong; and I wish we’d use
’em more as instructors for the young. Most mothers think a dog’s
tongue is dirty—Why, a dog’s tongue is chemically clean, and healin’
in its action; while the human mouth is generally poisonous—ask a
dentist.
“And a cow’s breath, after she has rolled in with sweetly solemn
dignity from the clover field—Ah, that’s a pleasant memory! I’ll
venture to say ’at mighty few monarchs have been as worthy o’ bein’
kissed before breakfast, as Nebukaneezer was while he was undergoin’
punishment for his sins. I had gone to that farm with my soul all
stunted and gnarly; but it straightened out and shot its little stems
up toward the blue, the same as the stalks o’ corn did.
“All I had as a start was a love of animals; and this is why I allus
try to find the one soft spot in a man’s nature—Even if it’s a secret
vice, it is something to work on. This is what makes such a problem of
Tyrrel Jones. I can’t find out a single soft place in him; but I’m
goin’ to get into the heart of him yet, if I can find the way.
“Well, Dad and Mother passed away within a week of each other a short
time after I had been graduated. I had made up my mind to stay on the
farm with ’em as long as they stayed; although all sorts of voices
were callin’ to me from the big outer world; but their daughter lived
in the city, and had been weaned away from the farm, so she sold it,
and I started on my pilgrimage.
“They had left me an income of three hundred and fifty dollars a year;
and I determined to go to college. When I thought of how rich and full
my own life had been made, after its stunted beginning, I wanted to do
all I could to make the whole earth like that farm had been, and it
seemed to me that the best way was to become a priest of the Lord. I
tried my best; but I have been consid’able of a failure, Happy. Now, I
hardly know where I stand. I am sort of an outcast now, and just doing
what seems best on my own hook.
“A lot of my ideals have been lost, a lot of my hopes have faded, a
lot of my work has seemed like sweeping back the waves of the sea; but
for all I have lost, new things have taken their place, and I have
never lost my faith in the Lord. Now, I am weak in doctrine and a
stranger to dogma; and the things for which I fight with all my soul
and heart and strength, are kindliness and decency.
“As long as one bein’ in the world is cold or hungry or diseased,
every other bein’ is liable to become hungry and cold and diseased.
What I am fighting for is a world without poverty. Most o’ the ills of
life spring from poverty, and poverty is the result of selfishness and
greed. The earth is reeking with riches, but its bounty is not divided
fairly.
“Happy, if I could only hold up the Lord, so that all men might see
the beauty and fullness of Him, the glory and grandeur of His simple
life and His majestic self-sacrifice, the fleeting cheapness of
material things would sink to their real value, and we would all
become one great family, workin’ together in peace and contentment.
Now, go on to sleep.”
It was purty late by this time sure enough, and I fell asleep soon
after this; but I awakened durin’ the night and found myself alone. It
was cold when I stuck my nose out from under the tarp, but it was a
wonderful night, clear and still, with the stars swingin’ big and
bright just above my reach.
As I lay there, I heard Friar Tuck singin’ softly to himself out where
the trail dipped down into the valley:
“The night is dark, and I am far from home,
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet: I do not ask to see
The distant scene,—one step enough for me.”
I had never heard his voice so wonderfully beautiful before; but, my
stars, the sadness of it made me choke! It wasn’t just a song, it was
a cry; and I knew that it came from a lonely, bleedin’ heart. I put my
head under the covers again, puzzlin’ over what was on his mind; but
first thing I knew I was awakened by the glad voice of the old Friar
Tuck, singin’ his favorite mornin’ hymn: “Brightest and best of the
sons of the morning”; so I cooked breakfast, and he went his way, and
I went mine.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HORACE WALPOLE BRADFORD
The Diamond Dot, while it was about the idealest ranch in the West
from most standpoints, was run a little loose. Jabez didn’t have any
luxurious tastes, and he wasn’t miserly; so he didn’t strain things
down to the last penny—not by a whole lot. All he asked was to have
his own way and be comfortable; and so he allus kept more punchers ’n
he had actual need of, and unless they got jubilant over imposin’ on
him, he just shut his eyes and grinned about it.
Takin’ his location and outfit into account, and he just simply
couldn’t help but make money; so we all had a fairly easy time of it
and grew tender feelin’s, the same as spoiled children; which is why
we sometimes quit, for we never had any other excuse for it.
Barbie was a notice-takin’ child, if ever the’ was one; and she stood
out for company as a general and standin’ order. Company didn’t affect
ol’ Cast Steel one way or the other; they were just the same to him as
a couple o’ hundred head o’ ponies, more or less; and so the news got
out that we allus had a lot of extra beds made up and any one was
welcome to stretch out in ’em who wanted to. The result o’ this was,
’at we drew visitors as easy as molasses draws flies. I lived at the
home house on account o’ bein’ Barbie’s pal, and so I got into the
habit o’ bein’ a sort of permanent reception committee. Some o’ these
visitors was a plague to me; but Jabez didn’t like to run any risk of
havin’ ’em ruined beyond repair, so it was generally understood that I
had to use ex-treme caution when I started in to file the clutch off
their welcome.
This spring ’at I have in mind, we had as visitor one o’ the
easternest dudes I was ever tangled up with. He came out for his
health, which is the excuse most of ’em gives; but this one took more
ways of avoidin’ health ’n airy other of ’em I ever saw. He smoked
cigars all day long, big black ones, strong enough to run a sawmill,
he ate fattenin’ food from mornin’ till night, and when he drove out
in the buckboard to take his exercise, he suffered from what he called
fatigue. He used to sit up as wide awake as an owl till along about
ten every night; and half the time he didn’t crawl out until near
seven in the mornin’. He certainly was a pest!
What he complained of most, was his nerves; and he’d sit for hours,
talkin’ about ’em to anything ’at had ears. He said the worst of it
was, he couldn’t sleep nights. I had, of course, heard o’ nerves
before ever I saw him; but I had never heard of ’em turnin’ to and
devilin’ a man, the way his did; so at first I was honestly
interested, and asked him all I could think up about ’em; but after a
day or so, I’d ’a’ been perfectly willin’ to put up the coin out o’ my
own pocket to have him go to a dentist and have every last one of his
nerves pulled.
I don’t begrudge sympathy to any afflicted individual; but the more I
sympathized with this feller, the more affectionate toward me he got;
and he used to trot about after me, warbilin’ out dirges about his
nerves until I was tempted to tie a stone around his neck and lose him
down the cistern.
He ran to language, too, this one did. His conversation was so full of
it that a feller could scarcely understand what he was tryin’ to say.
He was ferociously interested in the ancient Greeks; and if a man
succeeded in wedgin’ him away from his nerves, he began immediate to
discourse about these ancient Greeks. Now, I didn’t have a single
thing again’ any o’ these ancient Greeks before this Dude struck us,
none of ’em ever havin’ crossed my trail before; but they sure did
have a rotten outfit o’ names, and they were the most infernal liars
’at ever existed. Three-headed dogs, and women with snakes for hair,
were as common in their tales as thieves among the Sioux. Barbie
didn’t have any use for this Eastener either; so I decided to fit him
out with a deep-rooted desire for home influences.
I took ol’ Tank Williams into my confidence, he bein’ the most
gruesome lookin’ creature we had in our parts. He was a big man of
curious construction and he had one eye which ran wild. Tank never
knew what this free eye was up to; and while he would be examinin’ the
ground, the free eye would be gazin’ up at a tree as intent as though
he had set it to watch for a crow. Durin’ his younger days, Tank had
formed the habit of indulgin’ in gang fights as much as possible, and
all of his features had been stampeded out o’ their natural orbits;
but this free eye beat anything I ever see.
They had him down on his back one time, and he was gnawin’ away
contentedly at some feller’s thumb, when the feller reached up his
trigger finger and scooped out Tank’s eye. The shape and color weren’t
hurt a bit; but some o’ the workin’ parts got disconnected, so that he
couldn’t see with it; but it appeared to be full as good an eye as the
one he looked with.
All the sleep Tank ever wanted was six hours out o’ the twenty-four,
and he didn’t care how he got ’em—ten minutes at a time, or all in
one lump. He could sleep sittin’ up straight, or ridin’, or stretched
out in bed, or most any way. I think he could sleep while walkin,’
though I was never able to surprise him at it. He agreed to back me
up, and Spider Kelley also said he was willin’ to do everything in his
power to furnish our guest some pleasant recollections after he’d gone
back to a groove which fitted him better.
As soon as I began to plan my trip, I started to rehearse curious
secrets about Tank to the Eastener, whose name was Horace Walpole
Bradford. I told Horace that Tank had a case o’ nerves which made his
’n seem like a bundle of old shoe-laces; and that if something wasn’t
done for him soon, I feared he was goin’ to develop insanity. I said
that even now, it wasn’t safe to contrary him none, and that I’d be a
heap easier in my own mind if Tank was coralled up in a cell
somewhere, with irons on.
I didn’t tell Tank what sort of a disposition I was supplyin’ him with
for fear he’d overdo it. Tank didn’t know a nerve from an ingrowin’
hair; but when he and Horace paired off to tell each other their
symptoms, I’ll have to own up that his tales of anguish an’ sufferin’
made Horace’s troubles sound like dance music.
I told Horace that a trip through the mountains would soothe and
invigorate him, until he’d be able to sleep, hangin’ by his toes like
a bat; but the trouble was to find something which interested him
enough to lure him on the trip. There was a patent medicine almanac at
the place, and I studied up its learnin’ until I had it at my tongue’s
end, and I also used a lot o’ Friar Tuck’s health theories; so that I
got Horace interested enough to talk my eardrums callous; but not
enough to take the trip.
I didn’t know much about nerves; but I was as familiar with sleep as
though I had graduated from eleven medical colleges, and I knew if he
would just follow my directions, it would give him such an appetite
for slumber that he’d drop into it without rememberin’ to close his
eyelids. Ol’ Jabez happened to mention an Injun buryin’ ground with
the members reposin’ on top o’ pole scaffolds, and this proved to be
the bait. Horace wanted to see this, and it was a four days’ drive by
buckboard; so I heaved a sigh o’ relief and prepared to do my duty.
When all was ready, we packed our stuff in the good buckboard, putting
in an extra saddle for the accident we felt sure was goin’ to happen.
Spider started as driver, while I rode behind, leadin’ a horse with
Tank’s saddle on, though Horace thought it was Spider’s. We had told
him that it made our backs ache to ride in a buckboard all day, so we
would change off once in a while. Horace wanted to do the drivin’
himself; but we pointed out that he wasn’t used to our kind o’ roads,
and consequently favored the little hills too much. He was inhumanly
innocent, and it was almost like feedin’ a baby chalk and water.
We trotted along gentle, until the rear spring came loose goin’ down a
little dip to a dry crick bed, about ten miles out. We talked it over
and decided ’at the best plan would be for Spider to drive back and
get the old buckboard; so after unloadin’ our stuff, I took the tap
out o’ my pocket, fixed the spring, tied a rope about it to deceive
Horace, and Spider drove back for the old buckboard which had been
discarded years before, but which we had fixed up for this trip and
painted until it looked almost safe to use.
Before long we saw the buckboard comin’ back; but much to our
surprise, Tank Williams was drivin’ it, an’ givin’ what he thought was
the imitation of a nervous man. He would stand up an’ yell, crack his
mule-skinner, and send the ponies along on a dead run. He came up to
us, and said that he had had an attack o’ nerves, hadn’t slept a wink
the night before; and when Spider Kelley had refused to let him go in
his place, he had torn him from the seat an’ had trampled him.
“I trampled him,” sez Tank solemnly, his free eye lookin’ straight
into the sun. “I hope I didn’t destroy him; but in my frenzy I
trampled him.”
Horace looked worried. “Tank,” sez I soothin’ly, “we don’t really need
any one else along. You just help us to load, an’ then go back, like a
good feller.”
Tank stood up on the seat, an’ held the whip ready. “My life depends
on me takin’ this trip!” he yelled. “My life depends on it; it depends
on it, I tell you. My life depends on me takin’ this trip!”
He went on repeatin’ about his life dependin’ on his takin’ that trip,
until I made a sign to Horace, and said ’at we’d better let him go
along. Horace wasn’t ambitious to be trampled; so he concluded to
concur, an’ climbed into the seat beside Tank. Any one else would ’a’
noticed that it was Tank’s saddle on the hoss I was leadin’; but
Horace never noticed anything which wasn’t directly connected with his
own body. He didn’t even have any idee that the sun had set habits in
the matter o’ risin’ an’ settin’—which was another fact I had took
into account.
We were drivin’ four broncs to the buckboard, an’ they was new to the
game and in high spirits. Tank was also in high spirits, an’ we went
at a clip which was inspirin’, even to sound nerves. We did our level
best to give Horace somethin’ real to worry about, an’ from the very
start his nerves was so busy handin’ in idees an’ sensations that his
mind was took up with these instead of with the nerves themselves as
was usual.
Well, we sure had a delightful ride that afternoon: every time ’at
Horace would beseech Tank to be more careful in swingin’ around
down-hill curves, Tank would seize him by the arm with his full
squeezin’ grip, an’ moan: “It’s my nerves, my pore nerves. This is one
o’ the times when I’m restive, I got to have action; my very life
depends on it! Whoop, hit ’em up—Whee!” an’ he’d crack his
mule-skinner about the ears o’ the ponies, an’ we’d have another
runaway for a spell.
Horace hadn’t the mite of an idee in which direction he was travelin’;
all he did was to hang on and hope. The confounded buckboard was
tougher ’n we had figured on, and it didn’t bust until near dark. As
they went up the slope, I could see the left hind wheel weavin’ purty
rapid, an’ as they tore down the grade to Cottonwood Crick, things
began to creak an’ rattle most threatenin’. We had decided to camp on
the crick, an’ Tank swung up his team with a flourish. The hind wheel
couldn’t stand the strain, an’ when it crumbled, Horace, an’ the rest
o’ the baggage, whip-crackered off like a pinwheel. Of course when one
wheel went, the others dished in company, an’ the whole thing was a
wreck.
The ponies were comfortable weary, an’ after I had roped one an’ the
rest had fallen over him, we soothed ’em down without much trouble,
an’ started to make camp. Horace was all in, an’ was minded to sit on
his shoulder blades an’ rest; but this wasn’t part o’ the plan, an’ we
made him hustle like a new camp-boy. As soon as supper was over, he
lit a cigar, an’ prepared to take a rest. We had decided that those
big, black cigars wasn’t best for his nerves, so we had smuggled out
the box, an’ had worked a little sulphur into all but the top row. He
lit his cigar and gave us one apiece, but he was so sleepy he couldn’t
keep his on fire; and it was comical to watch him.
Every time he’d nod off, Tank would utter an exclamation, an’ walk up
an’ down, rubbin’ his hands an’ cussin’ about his nerves. Horace was
dead tired from bein’ jounced about on the buckboard all day; but he
was worried about Tank, an’ this would wake him effectual.
About ten o’clock I sez: “Tank, what happened that night when you got
nervous up in the Spider Water country?”
“Oh, don’t ask me, don’t ask me,” sez Tank, gittin’ up an’ walkin’ off
into the darkness.
“I wish to glory he hadn’t come along,” I sez to Horace. “I fear we’re
goin’ to have trouble; but chances are that a good night’s rest’ll
quiet him, all right.”
Purty soon Tank came back, lit his pipe, an’ sat facin’ Horace with
his lookin’ eye, an’ everything else in the landscape with his free
one. “You know how it is with nerves,” he sez to Horace. “You perhaps,
of all them I have ever met up with, know how strained and twisted
nerves fill a man’s heart with murder, set his teeth on edge and put
the taste of blood in his throat; so I’m goin’ to tell the whole o’
that horrid experience, which I have never yet confided to a livin’
soul before. Have you got a match?”
Tank’s pipe allus went out at the most interestin’ times; and he
couldn’t no wise talk without smokin’. We all knew this; so whenever
Tank got headed away on a tale, we heaved questions at him, just to
see how many matches we could make him burn. He’d light a match and
hold it to his pipe; but he allus lit off an idee with the match, and
when he’d speak out the idee, he’d blow out the match. Or else he’d be
so took up by his own talkin’, he’d hold the match until it burnt his
fingers; then, without shuttin’ off his discourse, he’d moisten the
fingers on his other hand, take the burnt end of the match careful,
and hold it until it was plumb burnt up, without ever puttin’ it to
his pipe. I didn’t want to waste matches on this trip so I told Horace
to hand Tank his cigar. Horace had already wasted two cigars, besides
the ones he had given us; and I wanted him to get to the sulphur ones
as soon as convenient.
Tank’s mind was preoccupied with the tale we had made up; so he took
Horace’s fresh cigar, lit his pipe by it, threw the cigar into the
fire, and said moodily: “He was unobligin’. Yes, that cross-grained
old miner was unobligin’. Of course, I wouldn’t have done it if I
hadn’t been nervous; but I say now, as I’ve allus thought, that he
brought it on himself by bein’ unobligin’.”
Tank’s gloomy tones had wakened Horace up complete; and as he started
to light another cigar, I got ready for bed. “You two have already got
nerves,” I sez to ’em; “but I don’t want to catch ’em, so I’ll sleep
alone, and you can bunk together.” I unrolled my tarp close to the
fire and crawled into it, intendin’ to take my rest while I listened
to Tank unfold his story.
It was a clean, fresh night, just right for sleepin’; and it almost
seemed a shame to put that innocent little Eastener through his
treatment; but it was for his own good so I stretched out with a sigh
o’ content, and looked at the other two by the fire.
Horace was short and fat around the middle with stringy arms and legs.
He wore some stuff he called side-burns on his face. They started up
by his ears, curved along his jaws and were fastened to the ends of
his stubby mustache. He kept ’em cropped short and, truth to tell,
they were an evil-lookin’ disfigurement, though he didn’t seem to feel
a mite o’ shame at wearin’ ’em. His face was full o’ trouble, and yet
he was so sleepy he had to hitch his eyebrows clear up to his hair to
keep his eyes open. Tank’s face never did have what could rightly be
called expressions. His features used to fall into different kinds o’
convulsions; but they were so mussed up it was impossible to read ’em.
I looked at these two a minute, and then I had to pull my head under
the tarp to keep from laughin’.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A CASE OF NERVES
“I was all alone,” sez Tank. “I had been up in the Spider Water
country lookin’ for a favorite ridin’ pony; but my hoss broke a leg,
and I packed my saddle and stuff on my head until my nerves began to
swell. Then I threw the stuff away and hunted for a human. I roamed
for weeks without comin’ across a white man, and my nerves got worse
an’ worse. You know how it is with nerves; how they set up that dull
ache along the back o’ your spinal cord until you get desperate, and
long to bite and scratch and tear your feller-bein’s to pieces—well,
I had ’em worse this time ’n ever I had ’em before; and they loosened
up my brain-cells until my self-control oozed out and I longed to
fling myself over a cliff. Have you got a match?”
Horace passed over his fresh cigar, and Tank lit his pipe and tossed
this cigar into the fire also. Horace looked at it sadly for a moment;
but he was game, and lit another.
“Finally,” sez Tank, “I came upon a lonely cabin at the bottom of a
gorge; and in it was a little man who was minin’ for gold. He was
about your build, except that toilin’ with pick and shovel had
distributed his meat around to a better advantage, and he wore his
whiskers complete, without any patch scraped off the chin. It was just
night when I reached the cabin, and he invited me in to eat; which I
am free to say I did until I was stuffed up to my swaller, and then we
prepared to sleep.
“Now, a feller would nachely think I’d ’a’ gone right to sleep; but
instead o’ this, my nerves began to twist an’ squirm an’ gnaw at me
until I was almost beside myself; and after fightin’ it for several
hours, I woke up the miner, and asked him as polite as a lady, if he
wouldn’t rub my brow for a few minutes. Seems like when I’m nervous,
the’ won’t nothin’ soothe me so quick as to have my brow rubbed; but
this little coyote refused pointblank to do it.
“I finally got down on my knees and begged him to; but he still
refused. He said he had fed me six meals at once and given me shelter,
and this was as far as he’d go if my confounded nerves exploded and
blew the place up. I was meek about it, I tried my best to ward off
trouble; but just then a nerve up under my ear gave a wrench which
twisted me all out o’ shape, and I lost patience. I seized that little
cuss by the beard and I yanked him out on the floor, and I said to
him—”
Tank had once been unusual gifted in framin’ up bright-colored
profanity, but he had been shuttin’ down on it since the night he had
helped to fake the hold-up on the Friar, and I thought he had lost the
knack. This night, though, he seemed to find a spiritual uplift in
tellin’ to Horace exactly what he had said to the lonely miner. Before
he finished this part, he had used up all of Horace’s good cigars, as
lighters, and the Eastener’s face had turned a palish blue. I’d be
willin’ to bet that Tank made the swearin’ record that night; though
of course, the’ ain’t any way to prove it.
When Tank couldn’t think of any new combinations, he covered his face
and broke into tears. Horace sat and looked at him with his eyes
poppin’ out. “Don’t you think you could go to sleep?” he asked after a
bit.
“Sleep!” yelled Tank. “Sleep? I doubt if I ever do sleep again. I feel
worse right now ’n I did that night in the gorge.”
“What did you finally do that time?” asked Horace.
“I hate to think of it,” sez Tank; and he put his elbows on his knees,
his chin in his hands, and stared into the fire as though seein’
ghosts.
Horace watched him a while, and then he lit a cigar out of the second
layer. He took one puff and then removed the cigar and stared at it.
He tried another puff, and then threw it into the fire, where it
spluttered up in a blue flame. He tried six more, and then said
somethin’ I couldn’t quite catch and threw the whole box into the
fire; while Tank continued to stare into it as though he had forgot
the’ was any one else on earth.
“Let’s go to bed,” sez Horace.
“Have you got a match?” sez Tank, lookin’ around with a start. Horace
took a burnin’ stick from the fire, and Tank lit his pipe with it; and
from that on Horace kept a lighted stick handy.
“How in thunder did you get to sleep that night in the gorge?”
demanded Horace, who was gettin’ impatient.
“Well,” sez Tank, “after I had told this unobligin’ little cuss
exactly what I thought of him, he pulled out a gun and tried to shoot
me—actually tried to shoot me in his own cabin, where I was his
guest. My feelin’s were hurt worse ’n they’d ever been hurt before;
but still I tried to calm myself; and if it hadn’t been for my nerves,
I’d have gone out into that gorge in the dead o’ night, and never set
eyes on his evil face again; but I couldn’t get control of myself, so
I took his gun away from him and knocked him down with it. When he
regained consciousness, he was in a repentant mood; and he consented
to rub my head.
“He rubbed my head a while an’ I sank into a dreamless, health-given
repose; but as soon as I was asleep, the traitorious sneak crept out
an’ started to run. I fled after him as swift as I could, an’ caught
him about two A. M. I had to twist his arms to make him come back with
me; but when I had once got him back to the shack, I tied him good an’
tight, an’ made him rub my brow again. When he’d rub slow an’ gentle,
I’d sleep peaceful an’ quiet; but the minute he’d quit, why, I’d wake
up again; so he rubbed an’ rubbed an’ rubbed”—Tank smoothed his left
hand gentle with his right, an’ spoke slow an’ whispery—“an’ I slept
an’ slept an’ slept an’—”
The darn cuss said it so soothin’ an’ natural, that hanged if I didn’t
fall asleep myself, though the last I remember, I was bitin’ my lips
so I could stay awake an’ see the fun. I must have been asleep full an
hour before I was woke up by Tank’s voice, raised in anger. I stuck my
nose out o’ the tarp, an’ there was Tank kneelin’ straddle o’ the
other bed which he had rolled up in the shape of a man. Horace was
standin’ close by with his hands on his hips an’ lookin’ altogether
droopy.
“I raised his head from the floor, like this,” said Tank, illustratin’
with the bed, “an’ then I beat it down on the planks o’ the floor; an’
then I raised it up again, an’ then I beat it down, an’ then I raised
it up—”
I had to stuff a corner o’ the soogan into my mouth to keep from
laughin’ out loud at the expression in Horace’s eyes; but Tank kept
raisin’ that poor head an’ beatin’ it down again for so long that I
fell asleep again without intendin’ to.
The next time I woke up Horace was speakin’. He was so earnest about
it that at first I thought he had been weepin’; but he was simply
tryin’ to make his voice winnin’ an’ persuadish.
“I’ll rub it,” he sez. “I’ll rub it soft an’ gentle, just like you say
you want it rubbed. Come on, let me rub it.” I looked at Tank with his
free eye rollin’ about as though it was follerin’ the antics of a
delirious mosquito; and I’d just about as soon have rubbed the brow of
a porcupine; but Horace was all perked up with sympathy.
“No,” sez Tank, sadly. “You’re a guest, an’ it wouldn’t be polite. If
you was a stranger, now, why, I’d choke your heart out but what I made
you rub it; but not a guest. No, I couldn’t do that. I’d wake Happy up
an’ make him rub it; but he allus sleeps with a gun under his head,
an’ he’s apt to shoot before he’s full awake.”
“Well, just let me try it a while,” sez Horace.
“I’m feared to,” sez Tank, beginnin’ to weaken. “If you was to start,
an’ I was to fall asleep, an’ you was to quit, I might dream ’at you
was that unobligin’ man which betrayed me back in the lonely shack;
an’ I might strangle you or somethin’ before I came to my senses.
Nope, the best plan is just to sit an’ chat here till daylight. My
nerves is allus better after sun-up.”
“I don’t think I can stay awake much longer,” sez Horace, almost
whimperin’.
“What?” sez Tank in surprise. “You claim to have nerves, an’ yet you
can talk o’ fallin’ asleep at this time o’ night. Great Scott, man,
you ain’t got no nerves! You are as flebmatic as a horn toad. Oh, I
wish I could just fall sleepy for one minute.”
“Let me try rubbin’ your brow,” sez Horace, whose eyes were blinkin’
for sleep, but whose face was all screwed up into lines of worry at
what was goin’ to happen to him after he had finally give in an’
drifted off.
“Well,” sez Tank, “I’ll let you try; but if you’re already sleepy, I
doubt if any good comes of it. You sit there at the head o’ the bed,
an’ I’ll lay my head in your lap, an’ you rub my brow soft an’ gentle.
If I do get to sleepin’ natural, why o’ course the’ won’t be no harm
done in you takin’ a few winks; but for the love o’ peace, don’t sleep
sound.”
I blame near choked while they were gettin’ settled, ’cause Horace was
one o’ those finicky cusses, an’ Tank’s head looked like a moth-eaten
buffalo robe. Finally, however, Tank stretched out with the covers up
around his neck an’ his head pillowed in Horace’s lap, and then Horace
began to rub his brow as soft an’ gentle as he knew how.
“You don’t do it clingy enough,” sez Tank. “You want to just rest your
fingers lightly, but still have ’em draw along so ’at they’ll give a
little tingle. There, that’s better. Now then, I’ll lay as quiet as I
can, an’ try to go to sleep.” Tank was doin’ such an earnest job, he
had plumb fooled himself into believin’ it was mostly true.
He gave a start after layin’ quiet for five or ten minutes, an’ this
put Horace on edge again; but Tank didn’t wake up. Horace had a saddle
blanket around his shoulders; and the last I saw just before I fell
asleep, myself, was Horace gently rubbin’ Tank’s brow, an’ lookin’
down careful for a change of expression. They made a curious sight
with the firelight back of ’em.
It was grayin’ up for the dawn next time I woke up; and I’d had my
sleep out, but when I stuck my nose out from under the tarp, I found
it purty tol’able frosty. I knew it was my duty to roust out an’ keep
Horace from gettin’ more sleep ’n my treatment for his nerves called
for; but I was too comfortable, to pay much heed to the still, small
voice of duty. At the same time I was curious to see what my boon
comrades was up to, so I stretched my neck an’ took a look at ’em.
Horace had keeled over so that his elbow rested on Tank’s chest an’
his head rested on his hand; but the other hand was still on Tank’s
brow, an’ I reckon Horace must have rubbed until he didn’t care
whether it was sleep or death he drew, just so he got rid o’ keepin’
awake. Tank had reached up one hand so it circled Horace’s waist; and
they made the most lovable group a body ever see.
While I was still watchin’ ’em, Horace’s arm gave out, an’ he settled
down on top o’ Tank’s nose. In about two minutes Tank came to with a
jump, an’ heaved Horace to the foot of the bed. Tank was really
startled, an’ he came to his feet glarin’. “You blame little squab,
you!” he yelled. “What are you tryin’ to do—smother me?”
Horace staggered to his feet, but he couldn’t get his eyes open more
’n a narrow slit. “I didn’t do it on purpose, Mr. Williams,” he
blubbled like a drunk man. “I rubbed until I thought my hand would
fall off at the wrist; but I reckon I must ’a’ dropped asleep. Lie
down again, an’ I’ll rub you some more.”
“Too late,” sez Tank, “too late, too late. I never can sleep while
daylight’s burnin’; but still, my nerves don’t get so dangerous until
after nightfall; so we’ll just turn to an’ get breakfast.”
Well, I got up after yawnin’ a few times; and after askin’ if they had
had a restful night, I started to get breakfast. Horace staggered
about, gettin’ wood an’ water an’ doin’ what he was able to, while
Tank wrangled in the hosses.
After breakfast, which I must say for Horace, he et in able shape, we
started to saddle up, puttin’ the spare saddle on the hoss I had rode
the day before. “Which one o’ you is goin’ back after the other
buckboard?” asked Horace.
“Why, we ain’t goin’ back at all,” sez I. “It’s full fifty miles, an’
we can’t keep switchin’ buckboards every day on a trip like this.
We’ll just ride the ponies the rest o’ the way.”
“Ride?” sez Horace. “Ride!”
CHAPTER NINE
TREATING THE CASE
Horace started to enlarge on how much he didn’t know about ridin’; but
Tank breaks in with a plea for his nerves. “Look here,” he said,
scowlin’ at Horace with his good eye, while the free one rove around
wild in his face, “your nerves are a little out o’ fix, an’ mine is
plumb tied into knots. This here outin’ will be the best thing we can
do for ourselves, an’ you got to come along. No matter which way you
go, you got to ride; so the’ ain’t no sense in makin’ a fuss about it.
We’ll mount you up on as gentle a cayuse as the’ is in the West; an’
we won’t tell no one if you hang on to the saddle horn goin’ down
hill.”
“That’s right, Mr. Bradford,” sez I respectful. “You’d have to ride
back anyway, so you might as well come on with us an’ have a pleasant
outing.”
“Besides,” sez Tank, “up there in the Wind River country we stand a
chance o’ gettin’ somethin’ for our nerves, if the Injuns happen to be
in a good humor. Those Injun doctors know all about hurbs an’ which
diseases they grow for, an’ when they’re in a good humor, they’ll sell
ya some.”
“What’ll they do if they’re not in a good humor?” asked Horace.
“Well, that’s the beatin’est question I’ve yet heard!” sez Tank. “How
does any one know what an Injun’ll do when he’s not in a good humor? I
don’t reckon any one ever tried to learn the answer to that question.
When an Injun’s not in a good humor, either you’ve got to kill him or
he’ll kill you. If we hear tell ’at they’re out o’ humor, we’ll simply
scurry back at the first hint, an’ don’t you forget it.”
Horace wasn’t resigned yet; so he kept sawin’ away with his questions
all the time we were tyin’ on the beds an’ grub. The grass had been
purty brown down below, but it was fat an’ green up above, an’ the
ponies felt fine. We had picked out good ones, an’ it took some time
to get ’em wore down to where they was willin’ to pack; but by seven
o’clock we were ready to start, an’ then Tank lifted Horace into the
saddle, while I held the pony’s head. We had chose a steady old feller
for Horace, because we didn’t want any serious accidents. Ol’ Cast
Steel was dead again’ sheepin’ the Easteners, an’ I knew they’d be
doin’s about what we’d done already, let alone havin’ any sort of a
mishap.
We told Horace just what to do to save himself, an’ we fixed his
stirrups to just fit him; but he took it purty hard. It takes a
ridin’-man a couple o’ weeks to harden up after he’s laid off a spell;
but when a man begins to do his first ridin’ at forty, it comes
ex-tremely awkward. Horace was the first feller I ever saw get
sea-sick on hossback; but he certainly did have a bad attack. I
suppose it was the best thing ’at could have happened to him, an’
after he was emptied out, he rode some easier. We only covered about
thirty miles that day altogether, an’ Tank had plenty o’ time to get
all the sleep he could use; but when he came to lift Horace down from
the saddle, Horace couldn’t make his legs stiff enough to stand on.
We let him stretch out while we were makin’ camp; but he fell asleep,
so we had to wake him up to help get supper. I was beginnin’ to feel
sorry for him, but he had pestered us regardless about his nerves, an’
I knew ’at pity for him now would be the worse for him in the long
run.
After supper, Horace spent consid’able time in bewailin’ his fate
because he had got disgusted an’ thrown his whole box o’ cigars into
the fire. “I’ve got an extra pipe, if you’d like to try that,” sez
Tank. “It’s lots better for the nerves than cigars—though from what I
can tell o’ you, you ain’t bothered much with nerves. I wish to glory
I was in your skin.”
“Oh, man,” sez Horace, “you can’t imagine how I suffer. I ache like a
sore tooth all over, an’ it gives me a cute pain just to sit here on
the grass.”
“Sit on the saddle-blankets,” sez Tank, sympathetic. As soon as Horace
had piled up the blankets an’ sat down on ’em, groanin’ most bitter,
Tank sez with feelin’: “Gee, how I envy you. You have nothin’ but a
few muscle-aches and chafed skin an’ such, while my nerves is
beginnin’ to threaten me again. I’m not goin’ to bother either o’ you
fellers, though. I’m goin’ to have you tie me to a tree to-night if I
can’t sleep.”
Horace filled the pipe, which was an ancient one, bitter as gall; but
when he began to smoke, his face became almost satisfied. The pipe was
purty well choked up, so that he had some bother in keepin’ it goin’,
but after we’d run a grass stem through it, it worked purty well, an’
we was right sociable until along about nine o’clock, when I got
sleepy, myself. Then Tank began to worry about his nerves. Horace had
about forgot his own nerves, he was sufferin’ so from Tank’s.
When we see that Horace couldn’t keep awake any longer without bein’
tortured, Tank began to carry on fiercer. He rumpled up his hair, gave
starts an’ jerks, but the thing ’at worked best, was just to sit an’
look at his fingers, an’ pick at ’em. He’d form a circle with his left
thumb and forefinger, then poke his right finger through this circle
and try to grab it with his right hand before it could back out. It
was the craziest thing I’d ever seen; but before long Horace got to
tryin’ it himself. While Tank was lookin’ at his fingers with his good
eye, the free one rambled around, an’ half the time it rested on
Horace, an’ fair gave him the creeps; but when I couldn’t stay awake
myself, I gave Tank the sign, an’ he got delirious.
“I can’t sleep,” he wailed, “I can’t sleep! My nerves, oh, my nerves!
One minute they’re like hot wires, an’ the next they’re like streaks
of ice. You’ll have to tie me up, boys, you certainly will have to tie
me up.”
I argued again’ it as bein’ inhuman; but Tank begged so that finally I
gave in, an’ we tied him to a down pine tree. Horace helped to tie
him, an’ he sure did his best to make a good job of it. I was a little
doubtful, myself, about Tank gettin’ loose; but he had blowed up his
muscles, an’ he coughed me the all-right signal, so me an’ Horace
turned in.
Horace groaned consid’able while stretchin’ out; but he began to snore
before I had got through findin’ the soft place. When I first go to
bed, I like to roll about a bit, an’ stretch, an’ loosen up my
muscles—I like to stay awake long enough to feel the tired spots sink
down again’ the earth, an’ sort o’ ooze into it; and before I had
drifted off, Horace was buzzin’ away at a log in great shape.
I must ’a’ slept an hour when I was wakened by a bright light, an’
lookin’ out, I saw Tank Williams standin’ with his back to the fire
an’ glowerin’ down at Horace. “As soon as this log burns off, I’m
goin’ to get you,” sez Tank between set teeth.
“What are you goin’ to get me for?” asked Horace. “You asked me to tie
you to it. I didn’t want to tie you to it, but you insisted. I’ll
untie you if you want me to, and rub your brow again.”
“It’s too late,” muttered Tank. “It’s too infernal late. Nothin’ could
put me to sleep now. As soon as this log burns off, I’m goin’ to get
you. You was the one which brought back my nerve trouble, an’ you are
the one what has to suffer.”
Tank hadn’t been able to free himself from the pine tree; so he had
dragged it in an’ across the fire. It wasn’t such a big one as trees
go; but it was a mighty big one for a man, tied to it as he was, to
tote along. Horace reasoned with him a while longer, an’ then when he
saw that the trunk was about burned through, he got purty well off to
one side, an’ threw a chunk at me. I popped out of bed on the instant,
an’ began to shoot about promiscuous; so as to live up to my
reputation.
When I’d emptied my gun, I looked at Tank, as though seein’ him for
the first time, an’ sez: “What in thunder da you mean, by raisin’ all
this havoc?”
“My nerves,” sez Tank, “my pore nerves. I can’t sleep, an’ I can’t
keep my senses if I’m left tied to this tree any longer. It’s all his
fault, an’ as soon as this log burns up, I’m goin’ ta hunt him down.”
Tank an’ I argued fierce as long as we could think of anything to say;
an’ just as the dead pine was gettin’ too hot for Tank to stand it any
longer, Horace calls in from the darkness, “Don’t you want me to rub
your brow a while an’ see if that won’t put you to sleep?”
“Come in here,” I sez, cross. “This man is liable to kill himself, an’
you know more about nerves ’n I do.”
Horace crawled out from behind a big rock, came in, shiverin’ with the
cold; an’ we untied Tank from the log. He had managed to get his feet
loose; but his hands had been tied behind him an’ when they got cold,
he couldn’t make a go of it. “Well,” sez I, as soon as Tank was free,
“what are you goin’ to do now?”
“I move we get up the hosses, an’ start at once,” sez Tank. “I don’t
trust myself any longer, an’ we can ride faster at night. My one hope,
is to get to an Injun doctor, or else get so tired out that I can fall
into a dreamless sleep.”
“Why don’t you ride alone?” demanded Horace with a sudden burst of
intelligence. “Why don’t you ride alone; an’ then you could ride as
fast as you wanted to, an’ if you found the Injuns out o’ humor, you
could come back an’ let us know.”
This set us back for a minute: we had been playin’ Horace for bein’
utterly thought-loose; but he had figured out the best plan the’ was,
an’ his eyes were bright an’ eager.
“Take the hoss that’s fastened on the rope here,” Horace went on; “an’
we can take the manacled hosses in the mornin’ and foller ya. Yes,
that’s the best plan.”
You see the fact was, we were only twenty or twenty-five miles from
the ranch house. We had been circlin’ an’ zig-zaggin’ through the
hills, an’ at night we hung up Horace’s pony on a picket an’ put
hobbles on the balance. Bein’ fooled on direction wasn’t any sign of
Horace bein’ a complete lunkhead; I’ve known a heap o’ wise ones get
balled up in the mountains.
Tank stood puzzlin’ over it with his free eye trottin’ about in a
circle; but he couldn’t think any way out of it. “All right,” sez he,
“if you two can get along without me, why, I’ll risk my life by bein’
a scout.”
“Nonsense,” sez Horace; “the Injuns haven’t riz for years, an’ they’re
not likely to again.”
Tank only winked his lookin’ eye, an’ proceeded to fling the saddle on
the picketed hoss. Horace was smilin’ purty contented with himself,
until I sez: “Which hoss are you goin’ to ride to-morrow, Mr.
Bradford?”
Then his face went blank as he recalled the blow-up we’d had that
mornin’ gettin’ the pack ponies contented with their loads. “By Jove,
I can’t ride any of them!” he exclaims. “It would kill me to have a
hoss buck with me. I’m so sore now I can hardly move.”
“You don’t look as nervous as you did, though,” I sez to him for
comfort.
He didn’t pay me no heed. “Here, Williams,” he calls, “you can’t take
that hoss. He’s the only one I can ride, and you’ll have to catch
another.”
“You ort have thought o’ that before,” sez Tank, goin’ on with his
arrangements, but movin’ slow.
“Well, you two straighten it out among yourselves,” sez I. “I’m goin’
back to bed. No wonder you’re nervous. It would make a saw-horse
nervous to jibe around the way you two do.”
I went off grumblin’, an’ I went to sleep before they settled it; but
Tank stretched it out as much as he could, an’ Horace didn’t oversleep
any that night. Next mornin’ when I looked out, I saw him tied up with
his back again’ a tree, an’ Tank’s head in his lap. He was swathed in
his slicker an’ saddle-blanket to keep warm, an’ was sound asleep. He
looked purty well hammered out, but hanged if he didn’t look a lot
more worth while ’n he did when he started to take my treatment.
It seemed a shame to do it, as it was just gettin’ into the gray; but
I woke him up, an’ asked him in a whisper what he was doin’. He sat
an’ blinked at me for a full minute before he remembered what or where
he was, an’ then he told me that he finally induced Tank to try havin’
his head rubbed again, by lettin’ Tank truss him up so he couldn’t
keel over on him. “Gee, but I’m cold an’ stiff,” he sez in a husky,
raspin’ voice. “I don’t see how it can be so hot daytimes, an’ so cold
nights.”
“This’ll do you a world of good, Mr. Bradford,” sez I. “You see, you
swell up with the heat daytimes, an’ crimp down with the cold nights;
an’ this will goad on your circulation, fry the lard out o’ ya, an’
give your nerves a chance to get toned up.” I quoted from the patent
medicine almanac occasional, just so he wouldn’t forget he was takin’
treatment.
“I can’t possibly ride, to-day,” he sez, shakin’ his head. “Honest,
I’m in agony.”
“That’s just ’cause you’re stiff,” sez I, kindly. “That’ll all wear
off when the sun softens up your joint-oil. Why, man, you’ll look back
on this trip as one o’ the brightest spots in your whole life.”
“I got hit in the back o’ the head with a golf ball once,” he flares
back real angry; “an’ that showed me a lot o’ brightness, too. I don’t
want no more brightness, an’ I don’t intend to ride to-day.”
I was especial pleased at the human traits he was displayin’. He
hadn’t acted so healthy an’ natural since he’d been with us, an’ I was
encouraged to keep on with the treatment. “You will have to ride with
us, even if we have to tie you on,” I sez. “We are now close to the
Injun country, an’ we’re responsible for you. O’ course the’ ain’t any
danger from regular war parties; but Injun boys is just as full o’
devilment as white boys, an’ they haven’t as many safety valves.
They’re all the time sneakin’ off an’ playin’ at war, an’ they play a
purty stiff game, too, believe me. If a dozen o’ these voting bucks,
eighteen or twenty years old, was to stalk us, they’d try most earnest
to lift our hair.”
“I’d as soon be killed one way as another,” he sez. “I can’t stand it
to ride, an’ that’s all the’ is to it.”
Here was a queer thing: the little cuss actually wasn’t afeared of
Injuns, which I had counted on as my big card. Nerves or no nerves,
Horace Walpole Bradford wasn’t no coward; ’cause we are all afeared o’
crazy folks, an’ he thought Tank was crazy. If Tank had had two good
eyes, chances are he wouldn’t ’a’ feared him; so I kicked Tank in the
side an’ woke him up.
CHAPTER TEN
INJUNS!
Well, we sure had a hard time gettin’ Horace in the saddle that day.
He was some like a burro, small but strong minded. Finally he agreed
to try it if we would put the saddle-blanket on top the saddle instead
of underneath.
“The hoss don’t need it as bad as I do,” sez he; “’cause he’s covered
all over with hoss-hide an’ has hair for paddin’ besides; and
furthermore, the saddle is lined with sheepskin underneath, while it’s
as hard as iron on top; and I’m just like a boil wherever I touch it.”
We told him that a hard saddle was lots the easiest as soon as a
feller got used to it; but he broke in an’ said he didn’t expect to
live that long, an’ that we could take our choice of leavin’ him, or
puttin’ the saddle-blanket on top. The’s lots of folks with the notion
that a soft saddle or a soft chair or a soft bed is the easiest; an’
it ain’t much use to argue with ’em, though the truth is, that if a
feller lived on goslin’ down, he’d get stuck with a pin feather some
day an’ die o’ loss of blood; while if he lived on jagged stones, he’d
finally wear into ’em until he had a smooth, perfect fittin’ mold for
his body. Still, the truth is only the truth to them ’at can see it;
so we put the blanket on top, an’ perched Horace astride it.
He stood it two hours, an’ then said it was stretchin’ his legs so ’at
he was afeared a sudden jerk would split him to the chin; an’ then we
put the saddle on right, an’ he found it full as easy as it had been
the day before. The best way, an’ the easiest an’ the quickest, to
toughen up, is just to toughen up. The human body can stand almost
anything in the way o’ hardship. After it has sent up word, hour after
hour, that it is bein’ hurt, an’ no attention gets paid to it, why, it
sets to work to remedy things on its own hook. In order to ride
comfortable, a lot of muscles have to loosen an’ stretch. Most o’ the
pain in ridin’ comes from ridin’ with set muscles. A feller can’t
balance easy with set muscles, it’s just one strainin’ jerk after
another, an’ the trick o’ ridin’ is to move with the horse. Just as
soon as ya get to goin’ right along with the hoss, loose an’ rubbery,
you take the strain off o’ both you an’ him; but while you’re bumpin’
again’ him, it’s painful for both.
We rode about forty miles that day; and at the end of it Horace wasn’t
complainin’ any worse ’n at the start. Well, he couldn’t, as far as
that goes; but his body had already begun to find the motion o’ the
hoss. Of course he hadn’t learned to balance, an’ he still rode rigid;
but we had give him an easy-gaited old hammock, an’ when we drew up to
make camp, he sat on his hoss without holdin’ to the horn, an’ said he
was beginnin’ to like it. When Tank lifted him down, though, his legs
wobbled under him like rubber an’ he squashed down in a heap,
groanin’. We let him sleep where he lit while we were gettin’ supper;
’cause we was sure he would need it before mornin’. He wasn’t nervous
any longer; all he wanted was food, sleep, an’ a lung full o’ tobacco
smoke. I felt rather proud o’ my treatment.
Tank had to boot him about purty freely to waken him up enough to take
his vittles; but he took a good lot of ’em, an’ I was glad of it,
’cause this was the night the Injuns were goin’ to attack us, an’ he
wasn’t scheduled to have any more solid nourishment until we got back
to the ranch house. After supper he went to his pipe like a young duck
to a puddle o’ water. He hadn’t learned to handle his moisture while
smokin’ a pipe, an’ when the pipe began to gargle, he muttered a
little cuss-word under his breath. H. Walpole Bradford was comin’ out
wonderful.
The stiffenin’ had all blew out o’ the rim of his hat, givin’ the sun
full swing at him, an’ his nose looked like a weakly tomato flung in a
bed o’ geraniums. He had wrinkled up his face around where his glasses
fit, an’ now with the sun gone down his skin had loosened up again,
showin’ the unburned wrinkles like painted marks. He sure did look
tough! He was wearin’ a gray suit with a belt around the middle an’
canvas leggins.
Along about nine o’clock he nodded over into the fire, right at the
most excitin’ part of an Injun tale which Tank was makin’ up for his
especial benefit. We fished him out an’ shook him awake; but he came
to as cross as a hornet, an’ swore he was goin’ to sleep right where
he was with all his clothes on.
“You’re a wise pigeon to sleep with your clothes on, to-night,” sez
Tank; “’cause this is the Injun country, an’ ya can’t tell what’ll
happen; but the best plan for us to do is to divide up an’ keep watch
durin’ the night.”
“Keep watch!” yells Horace, glarin’ at Tank. “I wouldn’t keep watch
to-night if I was bound to a torture stake. You can keep watch if you
want to—an’ it wouldn’t discommode you no more ’n if you was an owl.
Your dog-gone, doubly condemned nerves won’t let you nor any one else
sleep—but I’m goin’ to get some rest if I die for it.”
“You’re a nice one, you are!” sez Tank. “This here expedition was got
up just on account o’ your nerves, an’ now that we’ve come to the most
important point of all, why, you flam out an’ put all the risk on us.”
“You make me tired,” sez Horace, scowlin’ at Tank as fierce as a
cornered mouse. “If you’re so everlastin’ feared o’ the Injuns—what
ya got this bloomin’ fire for?”
“We don’t intend to sleep near the fire, Mr. Bradford,” sez I,
soothin’. “We intend to roll up our beds like as if we was in ’em an’
then sneak off into the bushes an’ sleep. We don’t want any trouble if
we can avoid it. If you’ll notice, you’ll see we haven’t turned the
hosses out to-night.”
“These here Injuns is livin’ on a reservation,” sez he, “an’ I don’t
believe ’at they’d dare outrage us.”
I was indignant with the little cuss for not bein’ afeared of Injuns.
My theory was, ’at nerves was a lot like hosses: keep a hoss shut up
an’ he’ll get bad an’ kick an’ raise Cain; but take him out an’ ride
his hide loose, an’ he’ll simmer down consid’able. I wanted to give
Horace’s nerves such a complete stringin’ out that they wouldn’t worry
him any more for a year; an’ here he was, not carin’ a hang for
Injuns. “Beliefs is all right to the believers,” sez I, stiffenin’ up;
“but facts is facts whether you believe in ’em or not. Every Injun
outrage since the Civil War was planned on a reservation, an’ we can’t
take no chances.”
While he was studyin’ over this with a pouty look on his face, Tank
sez: “It’s time we fixed up an’ moved out into the dark”; so we put
rolls o’ brush in the beds, an’ went on up the side o’ the rise where
the’ was a level spot I knew of, Horace stumblin’ an’ grumblin’ every
step o’ the way. We were about two hundred yards from the fire an’ it
looked cozy an’ cheerful, dancin’ away beside the tarps. I was half a
mind to join in with Horace, an’ go on back; but our plans were all
laid, an’ besides, I had a little bet up with Spider Kelley, that I’d
return Horace in such fine condition that he’d be willin’ to drink
blood or milk a cow calf-fashion.
“You go to sleep first,” sez Tank to Horace; “I’ll watch till I get
sleepy an’ then I’ll call Happy, he’ll watch two hours, an’ if it
ain’t dawn by that time, he’ll call you. I may not get sleepy at all,
but you know how nerves is. I stayed awake ninety-six hours once, an’
couldn’t get a speck sleepy. Then I decided to stay out the even
hundred an’ see how far I could jump after stayin’ awake a hundred
hours. I went to sleep in ten minutes an’ didn’t wake up for two
days—so I’m liable to be took sleepy to-night.”
We had brought the slickers up, an’ Horace rolled up in one, under a
low evergreen, and began to snore in half a minute. As soon as he had
got to wrastlin’ with his breath in earnest, I went to the head o’ the
trail an’ whistled for Spider Kelley. He an’ four others were there,
an’ I told ’em it was all right to start in an hour, an’ then I came
back to Horace chucklin’. Spider enjoyed anything like this, an’ he
had fixed up the boys with feathers an’ fringe an’ smears o’ chalk an’
raspberry jam, till they looked as evil-minded as any Injuns I’d ever
seen.
We set Horace’s watch ahead five hours. Tank curled up an’ went to
sleep, an’ then I started to wake Horace up. It took so long; to get
him to consciousness that I feared the hour would be up; but he
finally got so he remembered what he was, an’ then I told him not to
make any fuss if he saw any Injuns, but to just wake us up. I tried to
get him to take one o’ my guns, but I didn’t wear triggers on ’em an’
he didn’t savvy snap-shootin’, so he took a club in his hand an’
started to parade.
He looked at his watch while I was stretchin’ out in his warm spot,
an’ he looked at it again before I was through loosenin’ up my
muscles. It beats the world how slow time crawls to a man on watch. I
was sleepy myself, but I’d have bit out my tongue before I’d have give
in. I lay half on my right side with my hat drawn down, watchin’
Horace. After about ten minutes, he pulled out his watch again an’
looked at it. He pulled out the snap to set it ahead, in order to fool
us, but he was troubled with too much morality, so he snapped it shut
an’ spoke to himself between his set teeth for several moments.
I reckon he must have kept on his feet for twenty minutes, an’ then he
settled down with his face to the fire, which I had fed up on my way
back from seein’ Spider, an’ said loud enough for me to hear: “This is
all damn foolishness.”
He said it so slow an’ solemn an’ earnest, that I purt nigh choked;
but I kept still, he kept still, an’ the fire kept dancin’ before him.
His breathin’ grew deep an’ steady, his nerves was all coiled up
comfortable; and tired muscles don’t make a feller wakeful. Purty soon
Horace began to gargle his palate, an’ then I was ready for Spider
Kelley.
The plan was for him to come up close so as to entertain Horace while
his braves sneaked on to the dummies in the tarps; but the’ was no
occasion for sneakin’. Horace had turned over the camp to fate, an’ he
wasn’t worryin’ his head about what was goin’ to happen to it.
Finally, Spider got disgusted an’ he went down an’ joined the others,
an’ they sure raised a riot; but all the time, Horace slumbered on.
Spider caught up our hosses, put our saddles an’ packs on ’em, threw
some pieces of old canvas he brought along on the fire; and he an’ the
rest raised a wild warwhoop and galloped away; but Horace was too busy
to pay any attention. Spider an’ the boys had to work next day, an’
they was some put out not to have a little more fun for their trouble.
It was all Spider could do to keep ’em from sneakin’ back an’
kidnappin’ Horace, but this was liable to give the whole thing away,
so he talked ’em out of it. As soon as the noise had died down, I set
Horace’s watch back five hours, an’ then I went to sleep myself. It
was purty chilly, and I wasn’t quite sure who the joke was on.
When Tank woke up, he started in on Horace; but his noise wakened me
up first. When Horace saw what had happened to the camp, he was about
wordless; but after we had called him down about it for five or ten
minutes, he flared up an’ talked back as harsh as we did. He said ’at
he had kept guard for over three hours, fightin’ off sleep by walkin’
back an’ forth; and hadn’t sat down until it had started to lighten in
the sky. He stuck to this tale, and I’m sure he believed it himself.
He’d been so sleepy the night before that he couldn’t have told a
dream from an actual happenin’, so when he began to get excited, we
dropped it.
“All right,” sez Tank at last; “you’ve put us into a nice fix, but
the’ ain’t no use tryin’ to pickle yesterday. What we’ve got to do is
to hoof it back, an’ we might as well begin. We’re in a nice fix:
nothin’ to eat, not a single cabin on the road back, an’ for all we
know the’s a pack of Injuns watchin’ us this blessid moment.”
“How do ya know it was Injuns?” sez Horace.
“Look there, an’ there, an’ there,” sez Tank, pointin’ at moccasin
prints an’ feathers. “Then besides, no white men would ’a’ burned up
the tarps.”
“Do you mean to say ’at we got to walk all the way back?” sez Horace.
“All the way, an’ without no grub,” sez Tank.
Horace sat down on the end of a charred log. “Well, I’ll die right
here,” sez he. “This spot suits me as well as any other.”
“You don’t have to die at all,” sez I. “A body can go forty days
without food, an’ it does more good than harm.” Friar Tuck had told me
a lot about fastin’, an’ I was keen to try it out on Horace. From all
I could see from the theory o’ fastin’, it was just what was needed
for Horace’s nerves.
“Look at me,” sez Horace, pullin’ at the waist of his clothes. “I bet
I’ve lost twenty pounds already, on this fool trip. Twenty pounds more
would make me a corpse, an’ I’d just as soon be made one here as
anywhere. As soon as I rest up a little, I’m goin’ to begin to yell
until I draw those blame Injuns back, an’ have ’em finish the job in
short order.”
He wasn’t bluffin’, he was simply desp’rit. “You’ll have to walk with
us,” sez I; “come on.”
Tank took one arm, an’ I took the other, an’ we started forth. For the
first hour he hung back, and then he began to step out on his own
hook. When we rested at noon, he was the freshest one of us. Tank an’
I had ridin’ boots, an’ ridin’ muscles; while he had walkin’ shoes,
an’ no muscles at all worth mentionin’. “I can play at this game as
well as any one,” sez Horace, chewin’ a blade o’ grass, an’ lookin’
proud of himself.
Tank was purty well fussed up; he wasn’t workin’ out any theories, he
had just come along to help pester Horace an’ have a little amusement;
but it began to appear to him that his fun was comin’ high-priced.
By nightfall we was all tol’able hungry; but Horace was so set up over
bein’ able to put over a full day’s walk on nothin’ to eat that he was
purty speechy, an’ it was nine o’clock before he went to sleep. As
soon as he had dropped off, I went down to meet Spider Kelley an’ get
the grub he had brought out for me ’n’ Tank. He said ’at the other
boys wasn’t braggin’ none about their trip the night before; but they
were all ready to roast me an’ Tank as soon as we got in. We’d had it
fixed that Spider an’ the rest was to take turns worryin’ Horace on
the back trip; but Spider said that it looked to him as if I’d win the
bet anyway, so he intended to play neutral from that on. As soon as me
an’ Tank had eaten, we turned in, an’ all of us slept like logs.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BENEFITS OF FASTING
The next day Horace walked easier ’n any of us. Now I’m tellin’ this
to ya straight ’n’ you can believe it or not just as ya please; but
that little cuss stepped right along, began to notice the scenery, an’
even cracked a few jokes now an’ again; while me an’ Tank just plodded
with our minds fixed on the meal we were goin’ to get that night.
Horace had give up all thought o’ meals, so they didn’t pester him
any.
At the end of the third day Horace had lost his appetite complete.
Friar Tuck had swore that hunger didn’t worry a man more ’n three
days, an’ sure enough, it didn’t. Horace didn’t care whether he ever
et again or not. He’d get a little dizzy when he’d start out, an’ once
in a while he’d feel a bit fainty; but as far as bein’ ravenous went,
me an Tank had him beat a mile.
“Where is the joke o’ this fool trip?” growled Tank to me on the
evenin’ of the fourth day as we were eatin’ the supper Spider Kelley
had brought out. “He ain’t a human at all, Horace ain’t; he’s a
reptile, an’ can live without food.”
Spider was tickled a lot, and said he didn’t care if he did lose his
bet, that it was worth it to find how everlastin’ tough a little
half-hand like Horace could be when drove to it. I’d been thinkin’ it
over all day, but I didn’t say anything.
Friar Tuck had said it was a question of will power, more ’n anything
else: that if a man just held his thoughts away from food it wouldn’t
bother him; but if he kept thinkin’ of it, the digestin’ juices would
flow into his stomach an’ make him think he was starvin’; so I was
minded to try a new plan next day.
“Spider,” I sez, “you put a cow an’ calf up in Nufty’s Corral”—which
was the name of a little shut-in park we would go through the next
afternoon. “Put ’em there in the mornin’, a cow with an off brand, if
you can find one, an’ trim their hoofs down close, so they won’t go
back to the bunch. Remember ’at we’re on foot, an’ trim ’em close
enough to make it hurt ’em to walk. I’m goin’ to make Horace hungry if
I can.”
“I hate to play again’ him and my own bet,” sez Spider; “but I’ll have
the cow there, just to see what you’re up to. If you’re goin’ to
butcher it, though, I don’t see why a young steer wouldn’t be better.”
“I’ll count on you havin’ it there,” sez I; an’ then Spider rode back
to the ranch house, an’ me an’ Tank went to sleep.
Next mornin’ me an’ Tank put the cartridges out of our belts into our
pockets. As soon as we started to walk I began to talk about my
hunger, an’ weakness, an’ the empty feelin’ in my head an’ stomach. At
first Horace didn’t pay any heed; but from the start, ol’ Tank
Williams caught every symptom I suggested; until I feared he’d curl up
on the trail an’ die o’ starvation. Finally, though, Horace began to
pay heed to my suggestions, an’ to sigh an’ moan a little. What
finally got him was my gnawin’ at my rope an’ gauntlet. Tank an’ I had
saved our ropes, ’cause we expected to have need of ’em; and when noon
came an’ I sat with a stupid look in my face, chewin’ first the rope,
an’ then the wrist o’ the gauntlet, Horace began to have some of the
symptoms I was fishin’ for. Finally he borrowed one o’ my gauntlets,
an’ after he had munched on it a while, he was as hungry as any one
could wish.
“I can’t go another peg,” he sez when I got up to start on again.
“How does that come?” I asked him. “When we stopped to rest you was
feelin’ more chipper ’n any of us.”
“I’m dyin’ o’ hunger,” he replied, solemn. “I’ve got a gnawin’ pain in
my stomach, an’ I’m all in. I fear my stomach is punctured or stuck
together or somethin’.”
I had had a lot o’ discussions with Friar Tuck about the power o’
suggestion; but I had never took much stock in it. I could see now,
though, that it actually did work. As long as Horace was tellin’
himself that everything was all right, why, it was all right. Then
when I suggested ’at we were dyin’ of hunger, why, he actually began
to die of hunger; an’ it was wonderful to see the change in him. He
showed us how he had ganted down; and the fact was, his bones had
become purty prominent without any help from suggestin’. He didn’t
have any more belly ’n a snake; but his eyes were bright, an’ his skin
clear, except that it was peelin’ off purty splotchy, from sun-burn.
We finally left him an’ started on; and after we’d got some distance,
he staggered after us; but he was just goin’ on his nerve now, an’ not
gettin’ much joy out of existence.
About four in the afternoon, we reached Nufty’s Corral, a fine little
park with only a narrow entrance at each end. Horace was up with us by
this time, an’ we were all ploddin’ along head down. Suddenly Horace
grabbed us by the arms. “Hush!” he sez.
“What’s up?” sez I, lookin’ at him.
“Look,” he whispers, pointin’ at the cow an’ calf; “there’s food.”
We drew back an’ consulted about it. “The great danger after a fast,”
I sez in warnin’, “lies in overeatin’. All we can do is to drink a
little blood for the first few hours.”
“Why can’t we broil a steak over some coals?” sez Horace.
“It would kill us to eat steak now,” sez I.
He held out for the steak; but I finally sez that if he won’t promise
to be temperate an’ eat only what I tell him, I’ll drive off the cow;
and then he comes around, and agrees to it.
“You sneak around to the far openin’, Tank,” I sez, then I pauses, an’
looks at him as though shocked. “Where’s your cartridges, man?” I
asked.
Tank felt of his belt, and seemed plumb beat out, then he looked at
mine, an’ yelled, “Where’s yours?”
We both sat down on stones an’ went over what we had done every minute
o’ the time since we had started out; until Horace became frantic, an’
sez: “What’s the difference what became of ’em? Your revolvers are
loaded. You can sure kill one cow out o’ twenty-four shots.”
“Twenty shots,” I corrected. “We allus carry the hammer on an empty
chamber; an’ I’m so bloomin’ weak I doubt if I could hit a cow in ten
shots.”
Horace turned loose an’ told us what he thought of us, an’ it was
edifyin’ to hearken to him—he hit the nail on the head so often.
Finally I sez: “Well, a man can do no more than try—Go ahead, Tank,
but don’t let her get by you, whatever happens.”
The cow, which was a homely grade-whiteface with a splotch on her nose
which made it look as if most of the nose had been cut off, stood in
the center of the park, an’ she was beginnin’ to get uneasy, although
the wind was from her way.
As soon as Tank got to his entrance he shot in the air; an’ she came
chargin’ down on me. I shot over her, an’ she charged back. We kept
this up until Horace lost patience an’ called me a confounded dub.
“Here,” sez I, “the’s two cartridges left. You fire ’em, I won’t.”
At first he refused, but he was desperate, and finally after I’d told
him to use both hands, he took a shot. The cow was standin’ closest to
us, but lookin’ Tank’s way, an’ Horace nicked her in the ham. Instead
of chargin’ Tank, like a sensible cow, she came for us head on. Now,
when a bull charges, he picks out somethin’ to steer for, then closes
his eyes, and sets sail; but a cow keeps her eyes open, an’ she don’t
aim to waste any plunges either. Horace stood out in the center of the
entrance an’ banged away again, strikin’ the ground about ten feet in
front of him.
“Run!” I yells to him, jumpin’ back behind a big rock, “Run!”
He forgot all about bein’ hungry, an’ he started to backtrail like a
scared jack-rabbit. The cow had forgot all about havin’ had her hoofs
pared, an’ she took after him like a hungry coyote. As she passed me,
I roped her, took a snub around the rock, an’ flopped her; but she did
just what I thought she’d do—rolled to her feet an’ took after me.
She was angry. I’d have given right smart for a tough little pony
between my knees.
[Illustration: The cow had forgot all about havin’ had her hoofs
pared, an’ she took after him like a hungry coyote]
The rock was too big to get a half hitch over, so I just ran at right
angles from her, hopin’ to stretch out more rope ’n she could cover. I
did it by a few feet; but she swung around into my rope head on, an’
this flung me up again’ her side. I managed to hang on to the rope,
however, an’ this fixed her, ’cause she’d have had to pull that rock
over before she could ’a’ come any farther. Horace had stopped an’ was
gappin’ at us from a safe distance; but Tank arrived by this time an’
put another rope on her an’ we had her cross-tied between two big
rocks by the time Horace arrived.
“What ya goin’ to kill her with?” he asked, his eyes dancin’ like an
Injun’s at the beef whack-up.
“My cartridges are all gone,” sez Tank.
“Mine too,” sez I.
“Can’t you use a knife, or a stone?” sez Horace, the dude.
“You can try it if you want to,” sez I; “but hanged if I will.”
He took a big stone an’ walked to the head of the cow, but his nerve
gave out, an’ he threw down the stone. “What in thunder did you tie
her up for, then?” sez he.
“I beg your pardon,” sez I, “but I thought perhaps she might be a
little vexed with you on account o’ your shootin’ her up. She was
headed your way.”
He sat down on a stone an’ looked at the cow resentful. Suddenly his
face lit up. “Why don’t you milk her?” sez he. “We can live on milk
for weeks.”
It’s funny how much alike hungry animals look. As Horace sat on the
stone with his anxious face, his poppin’ eyes, his mussed up
side-burns, an’ the water drippin’ from his mouth at thought o’ the
milk, he looked so much like a setter pup I once knew that it was all
I could do to hold a straight face.
“Do you know how to milk, Tank?” I sez.
“I don’t,” sez Tank; “nor I don’t know what it tastes like.”
“Go ahead an’ milk her, Mr. Bradford,” I sez. “You’re the only one
what knows how to milk, or who cares to drink it. What you goin’ to
milk it in?”
“I never milked in my life,” sez he; “but I saw it done once when I
was a boy, an’ I’m goin’ to try to milk in my hat.”
He had a bad time of it; but he only got kicked twice, an’ both times
it was short, glancin’ blows, not much more ’n shoves. Finally, he
came over to where me an’ Tank was settin’ an’ flopped himself down
beside us. “Can’t you strangle her with those ropes?” he sez, in what
might well be called deadly earnest.
We shook our heads, an’ continued to sit there lookin’ at the cow as
though we expected she’d point the way out of our trouble. Presently
the calf remembered his own appetite, an’ rushed up an’ gave a
demonstration of what neat an’ orderly milkin’ was. Horace sighed.
“Gee, I bet that’s good,” he said, the water drippin’ from his lips
again. He had been four days without food, walkin’ all that time
through the mountains, sleepin’ out doors with no cover but a slicker;
and he had about burned up all his waste products, which Friar Tuck
said was a city man’s greatest handicap. His eyes got a little red as
he watched the calf, an’ I saw that he meant to slaughter it; so I sez
to him: “That’s the way to milk, Mr. Bradford. Why don’t you sneak up
on the other side an’ try it that way, the same time the calf is?”
He studied a moment, an’ then shook his head. “No, she could tell me
from the calf,” he said sorrowful. “Our foreheads are shaped
different, an’ I’d have to get down on my hands and knees. She’d tell
me in a minute, an’ I don’t want to be on my hands an’ knees when she
kicks me.”
“We could throw an’ hog-tie her,” sez Tank; “and you could get it easy
an’ comfortable. Would you want us to do that, Mr. Bradford?”
Horace jumped to his feet an’ shook his fist in Tank’s face. “Don’t
call me Mister again,” he yelled. “I’m plumb sick of it. If I ever
live to get another bath an’ back East where the’s food in plenty,
why, I’ll take up the Mister again; but now that I’ve got to a point
where I have to suck milk from a hog-tied cow, you call me Horace, or
even Dinky—which was my nickname at school. Yes, for heaven’s sake,
tie the cow. I have to have milk, an’ that’s the only way I see to get
it.”
Well, Tank an’ I was so full o’ laugh we could hardly truss up the
cow; but we finally got her on her back so ’at she couldn’t do nothin’
but snap her tail, an’ then Horace threw his hat on the ground, an’
started in. I was entirely joyful: I knew ’at Spider Kelley, an’ as
many o’ the boys as could sneak away, were watchin’ us from up on the
hill, an’ this was the grand triumph of my treatment for nerves.
Horace approached the cow with consid’able caution, as she was in an
awkward position. The calf had been interrupted in his meal, before he
had squenched his thirst, an’ he was still prospectin’ about on his
own hook.
“Here,” said Horace, givin’ him a push, “this is my turn.”
You know how a calf is: a calf ain’t afeared o’ nothin’ except hunger.
Here was his food-supply bein’ robbed, right when he was needin’ it.
He blatted down in his throat, an’ tried to nose Horace out of the
way. Horace was findin’ that milk the best stuff he had ever tasted,
an’ he fought off the calf with his right hand, while he steadied
himself by puttin’ his left on the hind leg o’ the calf’s mother, an’
got a nice coat o’ creamy froth in his side-burns. He was so blame
hungry he didn’t see a speck o’ humor in it; but me an’ Tank nearly
died.
“Say,” sez Horace, raisin’ his head, the milk drippin’ from his lips,
“can’t one o’ you fellers fend off this calf till I finish?”
Tank held the calf while I advised Horace to be temperate, an’ after a
bit he gave a sigh an’ said, that that was all he could hold just
then, but not to let the cow escape. We loosened her, left one o’ the
ropes on for a drag picket, an’ took off the other. She was purty well
subdued; but we refused to give Horace any more milk that night, an’
he went to sleep before we had a fire built. Spider Kelley was
wabblin’ with laughter when he brought us our supper. He had been the
only one who could stay after bringin’ up the cow; but he said he
wouldn’t ’a’ missed it for three jobs.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A COMPLETE CURE
Next mornin’ we fed Horace all the milk he could hold, an’ tried to
drive the cow along with us; but her hoofs had been pared so thin that
it made her cross an’ we had to give that projec’ up.
“How far are we from the ranch house?” asked Horace.
“About sixty miles,” sez Tank.
“That’s what I thought,” sez he. “Now, I can’t see any sense in all of
us hoofin’ that distance. I’d go if I knew the way; but one of you
could go, an’ the other stay with me an’ the cow. Then the one which
went could bring back food on the buckboard, and it would be as good
as if we all went.”
Now this was a fine scheme; but neither Tank nor I had thought of it.
We had intended to follow our own windin’ circle back every step o’
the way; but when the milk set Horace’s brain to pumpin’, he fetched
up this idee which saved us all a lot o’ bother.
“I shall go myself,” sez Tank; “weak as I am, I’ll go myself.”
It was only about fifteen or twenty miles by the short cut, an’ this
would get him back to regular meals in short order; so he left me his
rope an’ set out. Horace helped me with the cow that night, an’ he
proved purty able help. He was feelin’ fine, an’ the milk had filled
him out wonderful. He said he hadn’t felt so rough ’n’ ready for
twenty years; but Spider Kelley failed to arrive with my meal that
night, and I went to bed feelin’ purty well disgusted. Tank had met
him before noon that day, an’ he had gone in for a hoss; and they had
decided that it would be a good stunt to give me some o’ my own
treatment.
Next mornin’ I felt as empty as a balloon; so after Horace had enjoyed
himself, I took a little o’ the same, myself; but I didn’t take it
like he did. I held my mouth open an’ squirted it in, an’ it was
mighty refreshin’.
“Huh,” sez Horace, “you’re mightily stuck up. The calf’s way is good
enough for me.”
“I got a split lip,” I sez, half ashamed o’ myself.
They left us there three days to allow for the time it would have
taken Tank to walk if it had been as far as we claimed it was; and
then Tillte Dutch drove out the buckboard. He said ’at Spider an’ Tank
had quit and gone into Boggs for a little recreation; but after I had
eaten my first meal out o’ the grub he brought, I didn’t bear ’em any
ill will. The joke was on me as much as it was on Horace; but I’d ’a’
gone through twice as much to test that theory, an’ I’d had the full
worth o’ my bother. Horace was a new man: he was full o’ vim an’ snap,
an’ he gave me credit for it an’ became mighty friendly an’
confidential.
He stood up in the buckboard an’ made a farewell speech to the cow
which lasted ten minutes. He also apologized to the calf, an’ told him
that when he got back East, he would raise his hat every time he
passed a milk wagon. He sure felt in high spirits, and made up a
ramblin’ sort of a song which lasted all the way back to the house. It
had the handiest tune ever invented and he got a lot o’ fun out of it.
It began:
“Oh we walked a thousand miles without eatin’ any food,
An’ then we met a cow an’ calf, an’ gee, but they looked good!
Her eyes like ancient Juno’s were so in-o-cent an’ mild,
We couldn’t bear to take her life, we only robbed her child.
She strove to save the lactual juice to feed her darling boy;
So we had to fling her on her back to fill our souls with joy.
Now Tank an’ Happy were too proud to compete with a calf,
So they sat them down an’ dined on wind, while they weakly
tried to laugh.
I’m but a simple-minded cuss, not proud like one of these;
So I filled myself so full of milk, I’m now a cottage cheese.”
Horace was as proud o’ this song as though it was the first one ever
sung. He used the same tune on it that blind men on corners use. I
reckon that tune fits most any sort of a song; it’s more like the
“Wearin’ of the Green” than anything else but ten times sadder an’
more monotonous. He said he had once wrote a Greek song at college but
it wasn’t a patch on this one, and hadn’t got him nothin’ but a medal.
I used to know twelve or eighteen verses, but I’ve forgot most of it.
It was a hard one to remember because the verses wasn’t of the same
length. Sometimes a feller would have to stretch a word all out of
shape to make it cover the wave o’ the tune, an’ sometimes you’d have
to huddle the words all up into a bunch. Horace said that all high
class music was this way; but it made it lots more bother to learn
than hymns.
The verse which pleased me the most was the forty-third. Horace
himself said ’at this was about as good as any, though he liked the
seventy-ninth one a shade better, himself. The forty-third one ran:
“A cow-boy does not live on milk, that’s all a boy-cow’ll drink;
But the cow-ma loves the last the most, which seems a funny think,
I do not care for milk in pans with yellow scum o’er-smeared.
I like to gather mine myself; and strain it through my beard.”
I never felt better over anything in my life than I did over returnin’
Horace in this condition. It was some risk to experiment with such a
treatment as mine on a feller who regarded himself as an invalid; but
here he was, comin’ back solid an’ hearty, with his shape shrunk down
to normal, an’ full o’ jokes an’ song.
Tillte Dutch had been one o’ the braves in Spider’s Injun party; so
when we got in, about ten in the evenin’, he lured the rest o’ the
pack out to the corral, an’ we agreed not to make the details of our
trip public. The ol’ man wouldn’t have made a whole lot o’ fuss seein’
as it had turned out all right; but still, he was dead set on what he
called courtesy to guests; and he might ’a’ thought that we had played
Horace a leetle mite strong. Barbie noticed the change in Horace and,
o’ course, she pumped most o’ the story out o’ me.
Horace himself was as game a little rooster as I ever saw. He follered
me around like a dog after that, helpin’ with my chores, an’ ridin’
every chance he had. He got confidential, an’ told me a lot about
himself. He said that he hadn’t never had any boyhood, that his mother
was a rich widow, an’ was ambitious to make a scholar out of him; that
she had sent him to all kinds o’ schools an’ colleges an’
universities, and had had private tutors for him, and had jammed his
head so full o’ learnin’ that the’ wasn’t room for his brain to beat;
so it had just lain smotherin’ amidst a reek of all kinds o’ musty old
facts. He said that he never had had time for exercise, and had never
needed money; so he had just settled into a groove lined with books
an’ not leadin’ anywhere at all. He said that since his mother’s death
he had been livin’ like a regular recluse, thinkin’ dead thoughts in
dead languages, an’ not takin’ much interest in anything which had
happened since the fall o’ Rome; but now that he had learned for the
first time what a world of enjoyment the’ was in just feelin’ real
life poundin’ through his veins, he intended to plunge about in a way
to increase the quality, quantity, and circulation of his blood.
Ya couldn’t help likin’ a feller who took things the way he did—we
all liked him. He told us to treat him just as if he was a
fourteen-year-old boy, which we did, an’ the’ wasn’t nothin’ in the
way of a joke that he wasn’t up against before the summer was over;
but he came back at us now an’ again, good an’ plenty.
Tank an’ Spider tossin’ up their jobs had left me with more work on my
hands ’n I generally liked, so I had to stick purty close to the line
until they went broke an’ took on again. Then one day me an’ Horace
took a ride up into the hills. We had some lunch along and about noon
we sat down in a grassy spot to eat it. We had just finished and had
lighted our pipes for a little smoke when we heard Friar Tuck comin’
up the trail. I hadn’t seen him for months, an’ I was mighty glad to
hear him again. He was fair shoutin’, so I knew ’at things was right
side up with him. He was singin’ the one which begins: “Oh, come, all
ye faithful, joyful an’ triumphant,” and he shook the echoes loose
with it.
Horace turned to me with a surprised look on his face; “Who’s that?”
he sez.
“That’s Friar Tuck,” sez I, “an’ if you’ve got any troubles tell ’em
to him.”
“Well, wouldn’t that beat ya!” exclaimed Horace, an’ just then the
Friar came onto our level with his hat off an’ his head thrown back.
He was leadin’ a spare hoss, an’ seemed at peace with all the world.
When he spied me, he headed in our direction, an’ as soon as he had
finished the chorus, he called: “Hello, Happy! What are you hidin’
from up here?”
I jumped to my feet, an’ Horace got to his feet, too, an’ bowed an’
said: “How do ya do, Mr. Carmichael?”
A quick change came over the Friar’s face. It got cold an’ haughty;
and I was flabbergasted, because I had never seen it get that way
before. “How do you do,” he said, as cheery an’ chummy as a
hail-storm.
But he didn’t need to go to the trouble o’ freezin’ himself solid;
Horace was just as thin skinned as he was when it was necessary, an’
he slipped on a snuffer over his welcomin’ smile full as gloomy as was
the Friar’s. I was disgusted: nothin’ pesters me worse ’n to think a
lot o’ two people who can’t bear each other. It leaves it so blame
uncertain which one of us has poor taste.
Well, we had one o’ those delightful conflabs about the weather an’
“how hot it was daytimes, but so cool an’ refreshin’ nights,” an’, “I
must be goin’ now,” an’ “oh, what’s the use o’ goin’ so soon”—and so
on. Then Horace an’ the Friar bowed an’ the Friar rode away as silent
an’ dignified as a dog which has been sent back home.
“Well,” sez Horace, after we’d seated ourselves again, “I never
expected to see that man out here. I wouldn’t ’a’ been more surprised
to have seen a blue fish with yaller goggles on, come swimmin’ up the
pass.”
“Oh, wouldn’t ya?” sez I. “Well, that man ain’t no more like a blue
fish with goggles on than you are. He’s ace high anywhere you put him,
an’ don’t you forget that.”
“You needn’t arch up your back about it,” he sez. “I haven’t said
anything again’ him. I gave up goin’ to church on his account.”
“That’s nothin’ to brag about,” sez I. “A man’ll give up goin’ to
church simply because they hold it on Sunday, which is the one day o’
the week when he feels most like stackin’ up his feet on top o’
somethin’ an’ smokin’ a pipe. A man who couldn’t plan out an excuse
for not goin’ to church wouldn’t be enough intelligent to know when he
was hungry.”
“You must ’a’ set up late last night to whet your sarcasm!” sez
Horace, swellin’ up a little. “Why don’t you run along and hold up a
screen, so ’at folks can’t look at your parson.”
“How’d you happen to quit church on his account?” sez I.
“He was only a curate, when I first knew him,” sez Horace.
“He’s a curate yet,” sez I. “I tried one of his cures myself, lately;
an’ it worked like a charm.” I turned my head away so ’at Horace
wouldn’t guess ’at he was the cuss I had tried it on.
“A curate hasn’t nothin’ to do with doctorin’,” sez Horace. “A curate
is only the assistant of the regular preacher which is called a
rector. The curate does the hard work an’ the rector gets the big
pay.”
“That’s the way with all assistants,” sez I; “so don’t bother with any
more details. Why did you quit goin’ to church?”
“I quit because he quit,” sez Horace.
“What did he quit for,” sez I; “just to bust up the church by drawin’
your patronage away from it?”
“He quit on account of a girl,” sez Horace; an’ then I stopped my
foolishness, an’ settled down to get the story out of him. Here I’d
been wonderin’ for years about Friar Tuck; an’ all those weeks I had
been with Horace I had never once thought o’ tryin’ to see what he
might know.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AN UNEXPECTED CACHE
Humans is the most disappointin’ of all the animals: when a mule opens
his mouth, you know what sort of a noise is about to happen, an’ can
brace yourself accordin’; an’ the same is true o’ screech-owls, an’
guinea-hens an’ such; but no one can prepare for what is to come forth
when a human opens his mouth. You meet up with a professor what knows
all about the stars an’ the waterlines in the hills an’ the petrified
fishes, an’ such; but his method o’ bein’ friendly an’ agreeable is to
sing comic songs like a squeaky saw, an’ dance jigs as graceful as a
store box; while the fellow what can sing an’ dance is forever tryin’
to lecture about stuff he is densely ignorant of.
The other animals is willin’ to do what they can do, an’ they take
pride in seein’ how well they can do it; but not so a human. He only
takes pride in tryin’ to do the things he can’t do. A hog don’t try to
fly, nor a butterfly don’t try to play the cornet, nor a cow don’t set
an’ fret because she can’t climb trees like a squirrel; but not so
with man: he has to try everything ’at anything else ever tried, an’
he don’t care what it costs nor who gets killed in the attempt.
Sometimes you hear a wise guy say: “No, no that’s contrary to human
nature.” This is so simple minded it allus makes me silent. Human
nature is so blame contrary, itself, that nothin’ else could possibly
be contrary to it. To think of Horace knowin’ about the Friar, an’ yet
doggin’ me all over the map with that song of his, was enough to make
me shake him; but I didn’t. I wanted the story, so I pumped him for
it, patient an’ persistent.
“I never was very religious,” began Horace. Most people begin stories
about other people, by tellin’ you a lot about themselves, so I had my
resignation braced for this. “I allus liked the Greek religion better
’n airy other,” he went on. “It was a fine, free, joyous religion,
founded on Art an’ music, an’ symmetry—”
I was willin’ to stand for his own biography; but after waitin’ this
long for a clue to the Friar’s past, I wasn’t resigned to hearin’ a
joint debate on the different religions; so I interrupted, by askin’
if him believin’ in the Greek religio
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