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Henry</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Heart of the West</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: O. Henry</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 1999 [eBook #1725]<br /> +[Most recently updated: October 25, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: John Bickers and Dagny</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEART OF THE WEST ***</div> + +<h1>HEART OF THE WEST</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by O. Henry</h2> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">I. Hearts and Crosses</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">II. The Ransom of Mack</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">III. Telemachus, Friend</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">IV. The Handbook of Hymen</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">V. The Pimienta Pancakes</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">VI. Seats of the Haughty</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">VII. Hygeia at the Solito</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">VIII. An Afternoon Miracle</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">IX. The Higher Abdication</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">X. Cupid à la Carte</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">XI. The Caballero’s Way</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">XII. The Sphinx Apple</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">XIII. The Missing Chord</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">XIV. A Call Loan</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">XV. The Princess and the Puma</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">XVI. The Indian Summer of Dry Valley Johnson</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">XVII. Christmas by Injunction</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">XVIII. A Chaparral Prince</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">XIX. The Reformation of Calliope</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>HEART OF THE WEST</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>I<br /> +HEARTS AND CROSSES</h2> + +<p> +Baldy Woods reached for the bottle, and got it. Whenever Baldy went for +anything he usually—but this is not Baldy’s story. He poured out a +third drink that was larger by a finger than the first and second. Baldy was in +consultation; and the consultee is worthy of his hire. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d be king if I was you,” said Baldy, so positively that +his holster creaked and his spurs rattled. +</p> + +<p> +Webb Yeager pushed back his flat-brimmed Stetson, and made further disorder in +his straw-coloured hair. The tonsorial recourse being without avail, he +followed the liquid example of the more resourceful Baldy. +</p> + +<p> +“If a man marries a queen, it oughtn’t to make him a +two-spot,” declared Webb, epitomising his grievances. +</p> + +<p> +“Sure not,” said Baldy, sympathetic, still thirsty, and genuinely +solicitous concerning the relative value of the cards. “By rights +you’re a king. If I was you, I’d call for a new deal. The cards +have been stacked on you—I’ll tell you what you are, Webb +Yeager.” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” asked Webb, with a hopeful look in his pale-blue eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a prince-consort.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go easy,” said Webb. “I never blackguarded you none.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a title,” explained Baldy, “up among the +picture-cards; but it don’t take no tricks. I’ll tell you, Webb. +It’s a brand they’re got for certain animals in Europe. Say that +you or me or one of them Dutch dukes marries in a royal family. Well, by and by +our wife gets to be queen. Are we king? Not in a million years. At the +coronation ceremonies we march between little casino and the Ninth Grand +Custodian of the Royal Hall Bedchamber. The only use we are is to appear in +photographs, and accept the responsibility for the heir-apparent. That +ain’t any square deal. Yes, sir, Webb, you’re a prince-consort; +and if I was you, I’d start a interregnum or a habeus corpus or +somethin’; and I’d be king if I had to turn from the bottom of the +deck.” +</p> + +<p> +Baldy emptied his glass to the ratification of his Warwick pose. +</p> + +<p> +“Baldy,” said Webb, solemnly, “me and you punched cows in the +same outfit for years. We been runnin’ on the same range, and +ridin’ the same trails since we was boys. I wouldn’t talk about my +family affairs to nobody but you. You was line-rider on the Nopalito Ranch when +I married Santa McAllister. I was foreman then; but what am I now? I +don’t amount to a knot in a stake rope.” +</p> + +<p> +“When old McAllister was the cattle king of West Texas,” continued +Baldy with Satanic sweetness, “you was some tallow. You had as much to +say on the ranch as he did.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did,” admitted Webb, “up to the time he found out I was +tryin’ to get my rope over Santa’s head. Then he kept me out on the +range as far from the ranch-house as he could. When the old man died they +commenced to call Santa the ‘cattle queen.’ I’m boss of the +cattle—that’s all. She ’tends to all the business; she +handles all the money; I can’t sell even a beef-steer to a party of +campers, myself. Santa’s the ‘queen’; and I’m Mr. +Nobody.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d be king if I was you,” repeated Baldy Woods, the +royalist. “When a man marries a queen he ought to grade up with +her—on the hoof— dressed—dried—corned—any old way +from the chaparral to the packing-house. Lots of folks thinks it’s +funny, Webb, that you don’t have the say-so on the Nopalito. I +ain’t reflectin’ none on Miz Yeager—she’s the finest +little lady between the Rio Grande and next Christmas—but a man ought to +be boss of his own camp.” +</p> + +<p> +The smooth, brown face of Yeager lengthened to a mask of wounded melancholy. +With that expression, and his rumpled yellow hair and guileless blue eyes, he +might have been likened to a schoolboy whose leadership had been usurped by a +youngster of superior strength. But his active and sinewy seventy-two inches, +and his girded revolvers forbade the comparison. +</p> + +<p> +“What was that you called me, Baldy?” he asked. “What kind of +a concert was it?” +</p> + +<p> +“A ‘consort,’” corrected Baldy—“a +‘prince-consort.’ It’s a kind of short-card pseudonym. You +come in sort of between Jack-high and a four-card flush.” +</p> + +<p> +Webb Yeager sighed, and gathered the strap of his Winchester scabbard from the +floor. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m ridin’ back to the ranch to-day,” he said +half-heartedly. “I’ve got to start a bunch of beeves for San Antone +in the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m your company as far as Dry Lake,” announced Baldy. +“I’ve got a round-up camp on the San Marcos cuttin’ out +two-year-olds.” +</p> + +<p> +The two <i>compañeros</i> mounted their ponies and trotted away from the little +railroad settlement, where they had foregathered in the thirsty morning. +</p> + +<p> +At Dry Lake, where their routes diverged, they reined up for a parting +cigarette. For miles they had ridden in silence save for the soft drum of the +ponies’ hoofs on the matted mesquite grass, and the rattle of the +chaparral against their wooden stirrups. But in Texas discourse is seldom +continuous. You may fill in a mile, a meal, and a murder between your +paragraphs without detriment to your thesis. So, without apology, Webb offered +an addendum to the conversation that had begun ten miles away. +</p> + +<p> +“You remember, yourself, Baldy, that there was a time when Santa +wasn’t quite so independent. You remember the days when old McAllister +was keepin’ us apart, and how she used to send me the sign that she +wanted to see me? Old man Mac promised to make me look like a colander if I +ever come in gun-shot of the ranch. You remember the sign she used to send, +Baldy—the heart with a cross inside of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Me?” cried Baldy, with intoxicated archness. “You old +sugar-stealing coyote! Don’t I remember! Why, you dad-blamed old +long-horned turtle-dove, the boys in camp was all cognoscious about them +hiroglyphs. The ‘gizzard-and-crossbones’ we used to call it. We +used to see ’em on truck that was sent out from the ranch. They was +marked in charcoal on the sacks of flour and in lead-pencil on the newspapers. +I see one of ’em once chalked on the back of a new cook that old man +McAllister sent out from the ranch—danged if I didn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Santa’s father,” explained Webb gently, “got her to +promise that she wouldn’t write to me or send me any word. That +heart-and-cross sign was her scheme. Whenever she wanted to see me in +particular she managed to put that mark on somethin’ at the ranch that +she knew I’d see. And I never laid eyes on it but what I burnt the wind +for the ranch the same night. I used to see her in that coma mott back of the +little horse-corral.” +</p> + +<p> +“We knowed it,” chanted Baldy; “but we never let on. We was +all for you. We knowed why you always kept that fast paint in camp. And when we +see that gizzard-and-crossbones figured out on the truck from the ranch we +knowed old Pinto was goin’ to eat up miles that night instead of grass. +You remember Scurry—that educated horse-wrangler we had— the +college fellow that tangle-foot drove to the range? Whenever Scurry saw that +come-meet-your-honey brand on anything from the ranch, he’d wave his hand +like that, and say, ‘Our friend Lee Andrews will again swim the +Hell’s point to-night.’” +</p> + +<p> +“The last time Santa sent me the sign,” said Webb, “was once +when she was sick. I noticed it as soon as I hit camp, and I galloped Pinto +forty mile that night. She wasn’t at the coma mott. I went to the house; +and old McAllister met me at the door. ‘Did you come here to get +killed?’ says he; ‘I’ll disoblige you for once. I just +started a Mexican to bring you. Santa wants you. Go in that room and see her. +And then come out here and see me.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Santa was lyin’ in bed pretty sick. But she gives out a kind of a +smile, and her hand and mine lock horns, and I sets down by the bed— mud +and spurs and chaps and all. ‘I’ve heard you ridin’ across +the grass for hours, Webb,’ she says. ‘I was sure you’d come. +You saw the sign?’ she whispers. ‘The minute I hit camp,’ +says I. ‘’Twas marked on the bag of potatoes and onions.’ +‘They’re always together,’ says she, soft +like—‘always together in life.’ ‘They go well +together,’ I says, ‘in a stew.’ ‘I mean hearts and +crosses,’ says Santa. ‘Our sign—to love and to +suffer—that’s what they mean.’ +</p> + +<p> +“And there was old Doc Musgrove amusin’ himself with whisky and a +palm-leaf fan. And by and by Santa goes to sleep; and Doc feels her forehead; +and he says to me: ‘You’re not such a bad febrifuge. But +you’d better slide out now; for the diagnosis don’t call for you in +regular doses. The little lady’ll be all right when she wakes up.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I seen old McAllister outside. ‘She’s asleep,’ says I. +‘And now you can start in with your colander-work. Take your time; for I +left my gun on my saddle-horn.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Old Mac laughs, and he says to me: ‘Pumpin’ lead into the +best ranch-boss in West Texas don’t seem to me good business policy. I +don’t know where I could get as good a one. It’s the son-in-law +idea, Webb, that makes me admire for to use you as a target. You ain’t my +idea for a member of the family. But I can use you on the Nopalito if +you’ll keep outside of a radius with the ranch-house in the middle of it. +You go upstairs and lay down on a cot, and when you get some sleep we’ll +talk it over.’” +</p> + +<p> +Baldy Woods pulled down his hat, and uncurled his leg from his saddle-horn. +Webb shortened his rein, and his pony danced, anxious to be off. The two men +shook hands with Western ceremony. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Adios</i>, Baldy,” said Webb, “I’m glad I seen you +and had this talk.” +</p> + +<p> +With a pounding rush that sounded like the rise of a covey of quail, the riders +sped away toward different points of the compass. A hundred yards on his route +Baldy reined in on the top of a bare knoll, and emitted a yell. He swayed on +his horse; had he been on foot, the earth would have risen and conquered him; +but in the saddle he was a master of equilibrium, and laughed at whisky, and +despised the centre of gravity. +</p> + +<p> +Webb turned in his saddle at the signal. +</p> + +<p> +“If I was you,” came Baldy’s strident and perverting tones, +“I’d be king!” +</p> + +<p> +At eight o’clock on the following morning Bud Turner rolled from his +saddle in front of the Nopalito ranch-house, and stumbled with whizzing rowels +toward the gallery. Bud was in charge of the bunch of beef-cattle that was to +strike the trail that morning for San Antonio. Mrs. Yeager was on the gallery +watering a cluster of hyacinths growing in a red earthenware jar. +</p> + +<p> +“King” McAllister had bequeathed to his daughter many of his strong +characteristics—his resolution, his gay courage, his contumacious +self-reliance, his pride as a reigning monarch of hoofs and horns. +<i>Allegro</i> and <i>fortissimo</i> had been McAllister’s temp and tone. +In Santa they survived, transposed to the feminine key. Substantially, she +preserved the image of the mother who had been summoned to wander in other and +less finite green pastures long before the waxing herds of kine had conferred +royalty upon the house. She had her mother’s slim, strong figure and +grave, soft prettiness that relieved in her the severity of the imperious +McAllister eye and the McAllister air of royal independence. +</p> + +<p> +Webb stood on one end of the gallery giving orders to two or three sub-bosses +of various camps and outfits who had ridden in for instructions. +</p> + +<p> +“Morning,” said Bud briefly. “Where do you want them beeves +to go in town—to Barber’s, as usual?” +</p> + +<p> +Now, to answer that had been the prerogative of the queen. All the reins of +business—buying, selling, and banking—had been held by her capable +fingers. The handling of cattle had been entrusted fully to her husband. In the +days of “King” McAllister, Santa had been his secretary and helper; +and she had continued her work with wisdom and profit. But before she could +reply, the prince-consort spake up with calm decision: +</p> + +<p> +“You drive that bunch to Zimmerman and Nesbit’s pens. I spoke to +Zimmerman about it some time ago.” +</p> + +<p> +Bud turned on his high boot-heels. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait!” called Santa quickly. She looked at her husband with +surprise in her steady gray eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what do you mean, Webb?” she asked, with a small wrinkle +gathering between her brows. “I never deal with Zimmerman and Nesbit. +Barber has handled every head of stock from this ranch in that market for five +years. I’m not going to take the business out of his hands.” She +faced Bud Turner. “Deliver those cattle to Barber,” she concluded +positively. +</p> + +<p> +Bud gazed impartially at the water-jar hanging on the gallery, stood on his +other leg, and chewed a mesquite-leaf. +</p> + +<p> +“I want this bunch of beeves to go to Zimmerman and Nesbit,” said +Webb, with a frosty light in his blue eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense,” said Santa impatiently. “You’d better start +on, Bud, so as to noon at the Little Elm water-hole. Tell Barber we’ll +have another lot of culls ready in about a month.” +</p> + +<p> +Bud allowed a hesitating eye to steal upward and meet Webb’s. Webb saw +apology in his look, and fancied he saw commiseration. +</p> + +<p> +“You deliver them cattle,” he said grimly, “to—” +</p> + +<p> +“Barber,” finished Santa sharply. “Let that settle it. Is +there anything else you are waiting for, Bud?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, m’m,” said Bud. But before going he lingered while a +cow’s tail could have switched thrice; for man is man’s ally; and +even the Philistines must have blushed when they took Samson in the way they +did. +</p> + +<p> +“You hear your boss!” cried Webb sardonically. He took off his hat, +and bowed until it touched the floor before his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“Webb,” said Santa rebukingly, “you’re acting mighty +foolish to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Court fool, your Majesty,” said Webb, in his slow tones, which had +changed their quality. “What else can you expect? Let me tell you. I was +a man before I married a cattle-queen. What am I now? The laughing-stock of the +camps. I’ll be a man again.” +</p> + +<p> +Santa looked at him closely. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be unreasonable, Webb,” she said calmly. “You +haven’t been slighted in any way. Do I ever interfere in your management +of the cattle? I know the business side of the ranch much better than you do. I +learned it from Dad. Be sensible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Kingdoms and queendoms,” said Webb, “don’t suit me +unless I am in the pictures, too. I punch the cattle and you wear the crown. +All right. I’d rather be High Lord Chancellor of a cow-camp than the +eight-spot in a queen-high flush. It’s your ranch; and Barber gets the +beeves.” +</p> + +<p> +Webb’s horse was tied to the rack. He walked into the house and brought +out his roll of blankets that he never took with him except on long rides, and +his “slicker,” and his longest stake-rope of plaited raw-hide. +These he began to tie deliberately upon his saddle. Santa, a little pale, +followed him. +</p> + +<p> +Webb swung up into the saddle. His serious, smooth face was without expression +except for a stubborn light that smouldered in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a herd of cows and calves,” said he, “near the +Hondo water-hole on the Frio that ought to be moved away from timber. Lobos +have killed three of the calves. I forgot to leave orders. You’d better +tell Simms to attend to it.” +</p> + +<p> +Santa laid a hand on the horse’s bridle, and looked her husband in the +eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to leave me, Webb?” she asked quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to be a man again,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you success in a praiseworthy attempt,” she said, with a +sudden coldness. She turned and walked directly into the house. +</p> + +<p> +Webb Yeager rode to the southeast as straight as the topography of West Texas +permitted. And when he reached the horizon he might have ridden on into blue +space as far as knowledge of him on the Nopalito went. And the days, with +Sundays at their head, formed into hebdomadal squads; and the weeks, captained +by the full moon, closed ranks into menstrual companies crying “Tempus +fugit” on their banners; and the months marched on toward the vast +camp-ground of the years; but Webb Yeager came no more to the dominions of his +queen. +</p> + +<p> +One day a being named Bartholomew, a sheep-man—and therefore of little +account—from the lower Rio Grande country, rode in sight of the Nopalito +ranch-house, and felt hunger assail him. <i>Ex consuetudine</i> he was soon +seated at the mid-day dining table of that hospitable kingdom. Talk like water +gushed from him: he might have been smitten with Aaron’s rod—that +is your gentle shepherd when an audience is vouchsafed him whose ears are not +overgrown with wool. +</p> + +<p> +“Missis Yeager,” he babbled, “I see a man the other day on +the Rancho Seco down in Hidalgo County by your name—Webb Yeager was his. +He’d just been engaged as manager. He was a tall, light-haired man, not +saying much. Perhaps he was some kin of yours, do you think?” +</p> + +<p> +“A husband,” said Santa cordially. “The Seco has done well. +Mr. Yeager is one of the best stockmen in the West.” +</p> + +<p> +The dropping out of a prince-consort rarely disorganises a monarchy. Queen +Santa had appointed as <i>mayordomo</i> of the ranch a trusty subject, named +Ramsay, who had been one of her father’s faithful vassals. And there was +scarcely a ripple on the Nopalito ranch save when the gulf-breeze created +undulations in the grass of its wide acres. +</p> + +<p> +For several years the Nopalito had been making experiments with an English +breed of cattle that looked down with aristocratic contempt upon the Texas +long-horns. The experiments were found satisfactory; and a pasture had been set +aside for the blue-bloods. The fame of them had gone forth into the chaparral +and pear as far as men ride in saddles. Other ranches woke up, rubbed their +eyes, and looked with new dissatisfaction upon the long-horns. +</p> + +<p> +As a consequence, one day a sunburned, capable, silk-kerchiefed nonchalant +youth, garnished with revolvers, and attended by three Mexican <i>vaqueros</i>, +alighted at the Nopalito ranch and presented the following business-like +epistle to the queen thereof: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Mrs. Yeager—The Nopalito Ranch:<br /> + Dear Madam:<br /> + I am instructed by the owners of the Rancho Seco to purchase 100 head of +two and three-year-old cows of the Sussex breed owned by you. If you can fill +the order please deliver the cattle to the bearer; and a check will be +forwarded to you at once. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +Respectfully,<br /> +Webster Yeager,<br /> +Manager the Rancho Seco. +</p> + +<p> +Business is business, even—very scantily did it escape being written +“especially”—in a kingdom. +</p> + +<p> +That night the 100 head of cattle were driven up from the pasture and penned in +a corral near the ranch-house for delivery in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +When night closed down and the house was still, did Santa Yeager throw herself +down, clasping that formal note to her bosom, weeping, and calling out a name +that pride (either in one or the other) had kept from her lips many a day? Or +did she file the letter, in her business way, retaining her royal balance and +strength? +</p> + +<p> +Wonder, if you will; but royalty is sacred; and there is a veil. But this much +you shall learn: +</p> + +<p> +At midnight Santa slipped softly out of the ranch-house, clothed in something +dark and plain. She paused for a moment under the live-oak trees. The prairies +were somewhat dim, and the moonlight was pale orange, diluted with particles of +an impalpable, flying mist. But the mock-bird whistled on every bough of +vantage; leagues of flowers scented the air; and a kindergarten of little +shadowy rabbits leaped and played in an open space near by. Santa turned her +face to the southeast and threw three kisses thitherward; for there was none to +see. +</p> + +<p> +Then she sped silently to the blacksmith-shop, fifty yards away; and what she +did there can only be surmised. But the forge glowed red; and there was a faint +hammering such as Cupid might make when he sharpens his arrow-points. +</p> + +<p> +Later she came forth with a queer-shaped, handled thing in one hand, and a +portable furnace, such as are seen in branding-camps, in the other. To the +corral where the Sussex cattle were penned she sped with these things swiftly +in the moonlight. +</p> + +<p> +She opened the gate and slipped inside the corral. The Sussex cattle were +mostly a dark red. But among this bunch was one that was milky +white—notable among the others. +</p> + +<p> +And now Santa shook from her shoulder something that we had not seen +before—a rope lasso. She freed the loop of it, coiling the length in her +left hand, and plunged into the thick of the cattle. +</p> + +<p> +The white cow was her object. She swung the lasso, which caught one horn and +slipped off. The next throw encircled the forefeet and the animal fell heavily. +Santa made for it like a panther; but it scrambled up and dashed against her, +knocking her over like a blade of grass. +</p> + +<p> +Again she made her cast, while the aroused cattle milled around the four sides +of the corral in a plunging mass. This throw was fair; the white cow came to +earth again; and before it could rise Santa had made the lasso fast around a +post of the corral with a swift and simple knot, and had leaped upon the cow +again with the rawhide hobbles. +</p> + +<p> +In one minute the feet of the animal were tied (no record-breaking deed) and +Santa leaned against the corral for the same space of time, panting and lax. +</p> + +<p> +And then she ran swiftly to her furnace at the gate and brought the +branding-iron, queerly shaped and white-hot. +</p> + +<p> +The bellow of the outraged white cow, as the iron was applied, should have +stirred the slumbering auricular nerves and consciences of the near-by subjects +of the Nopalito, but it did not. And it was amid the deepest nocturnal silence +that Santa ran like a lapwing back to the ranch-house and there fell upon a cot +and sobbed—sobbed as though queens had hearts as simple ranchmen’s +wives have, and as though she would gladly make kings of prince-consorts, +should they ride back again from over the hills and far away. +</p> + +<p> +In the morning the capable, revolvered youth and his <i>vaqueros</i> set forth, +driving the bunch of Sussex cattle across the prairies to the Rancho Seco. +Ninety miles it was; a six days’ journey, grazing and watering the +animals on the way. +</p> + +<p> +The beasts arrived at Rancho Seco one evening at dusk; and were received and +counted by the foreman of the ranch. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning at eight o’clock a horseman loped out of the brush to +the Nopalito ranch-house. He dismounted stiffly, and strode, with whizzing +spurs, to the house. His horse gave a great sigh and swayed foam-streaked, with +down-drooping head and closed eyes. +</p> + +<p> +But waste not your pity upon Belshazzar, the flea-bitten sorrel. To-day, in +Nopalito horse-pasture he survives, pampered, beloved, unridden, cherished +record-holder of long-distance rides. +</p> + +<p> +The horseman stumbled into the house. Two arms fell around his neck, and +someone cried out in the voice of woman and queen alike: “Webb— oh, +Webb!” +</p> + +<p> +“I was a skunk,” said Webb Yeager. +</p> + +<p> +“Hush,” said Santa, “did you see it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw it,” said Webb. +</p> + +<p> +What they meant God knows; and you shall know, if you rightly read the primer +of events. +</p> + +<p> +“Be the cattle-queen,” said Webb; “and overlook it if you +can. I was a mangy, sheep-stealing coyote.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush!” said Santa again, laying her fingers upon his mouth. +“There’s no queen here. Do you know who I am? I am Santa Yeager, +First Lady of the Bedchamber. Come here.” +</p> + +<p> +She dragged him from the gallery into the room to the right. There stood a +cradle with an infant in it—a red, ribald, unintelligible, babbling, +beautiful infant, sputtering at life in an unseemly manner. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no queen on this ranch,” said Santa again. +“Look at the king. He’s got your eyes, Webb. Down on your knees and +look at his Highness.” +</p> + +<p> +But jingling rowels sounded on the gallery, and Bud Turner stumbled there again +with the same query that he had brought, lacking a few days, a year ago. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Morning. Them beeves is just turned out on the trail. Shall I +drive ’em to Barber’s, or—” +</p> + +<p> +He saw Webb and stopped, open-mouthed. +</p> + +<p> +“Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba!” shrieked the king in his cradle, beating the +air with his fists. +</p> + +<p> +“You hear your boss, Bud,” said Webb Yeager, with a broad +grin—just as he had said a year ago. +</p> + +<p> +And that is all, except that when old man Quinn, owner of the Rancho Seco, went +out to look over the herd of Sussex cattle that he had bought from the Nopalito +ranch, he asked his new manager: +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the Nopalito ranch brand, Wilson?” +</p> + +<p> +“X Bar Y,” said Wilson. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought so,” said Quinn. “But look at that white heifer +there; she’s got another brand—a heart with a cross inside of it. +What brand is that?” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>II<br /> +THE RANSOM OF MACK</h2> + +<p> +Me and old Mack Lonsbury, we got out of that Little Hide-and-Seek gold mine +affair with about $40,000 apiece. I say “old” Mack; but he +wasn’t old. Forty-one, I should say; but he always seemed old. +</p> + +<p> +“Andy,” he says to me, “I’m tired of hustling. You and +me have been working hard together for three years. Say we knock off for a +while, and spend some of this idle money we’ve coaxed our way.” +</p> + +<p> +“The proposition hits me just right,” says I. “Let’s be +nabobs for a while and see how it feels. What’ll we do—take in the +Niagara Falls, or buck at faro?” +</p> + +<p> +“For a good many years,” says Mack, “I’ve thought that +if I ever had extravagant money I’d rent a two-room cabin somewhere, hire +a Chinaman to cook, and sit in my stocking feet and read Buckle’s History +of Civilisation.” +</p> + +<p> +“That sounds self-indulgent and gratifying without vulgar +ostentation,” says I; “and I don’t see how money could be +better invested. Give me a cuckoo clock and a Sep Winner’s +Self-Instructor for the Banjo, and I’ll join you.” +</p> + +<p> +A week afterwards me and Mack hits this small town of Piña, about thirty miles +out from Denver, and finds an elegant two-room house that just suits us. We +deposited half-a-peck of money in the Piña bank and shook hands with every one +of the 340 citizens in the town. We brought along the Chinaman and the cuckoo +clock and Buckle and the Instructor with us from Denver; and they made the +cabin seem like home at once. +</p> + +<p> +Never believe it when they tell you riches don’t bring happiness. If you +could have seen old Mack sitting in his rocking-chair with his blue-yarn sock +feet up in the window and absorbing in that Buckle stuff through his specs +you’d have seen a picture of content that would have made Rockefeller +jealous. And I was learning to pick out “Old Zip Coon” on the +banjo, and the cuckoo was on time with his remarks, and Ah Sing was messing up +the atmosphere with the handsomest smell of ham and eggs that ever laid the +honeysuckle in the shade. When it got too dark to make out Buckle’s +nonsense and the notes in the Instructor, me and Mack would light our pipes and +talk about science and pearl diving and sciatica and Egypt and spelling and +fish and trade-winds and leather and gratitude and eagles, and a lot of +subjects that we’d never had time to explain our sentiments about before. +</p> + +<p> +One evening Mack spoke up and asked me if I was much apprised in the habits and +policies of women folks. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes,” says I, in a tone of voice; “I know ’em +from Alfred to Omaha. The feminine nature and similitude,” says I, +“is as plain to my sight as the Rocky Mountains is to a blue-eyed burro. +I’m onto all their little side-steps and punctual discrepancies.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you, Andy,” says Mack, with a kind of sigh, “I never +had the least amount of intersection with their predispositions. Maybe I might +have had a proneness in respect to their vicinity, but I never took the time. I +made my own living since I was fourteen; and I never seemed to get my +ratiocinations equipped with the sentiments usually depicted toward the sect. I +sometimes wish I had,” says old Mack. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re an adverse study,” says I, “and adapted to +points of view. Although they vary in rationale, I have found ’em quite +often obviously differing from each other in divergences of contrast.” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems to me,” goes on Mack, “that a man had better take +’em in and secure his inspirations of the sect when he’s young and +so preordained. I let my chance go by; and I guess I’m too old now to go +hopping into the curriculum.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t know,” I tells him. “Maybe you better +credit yourself with a barrel of money and a lot of emancipation from a +quantity of uncontent. Still, I don’t regret my knowledge of +’em,” I says. “It takes a man who understands the symptoms +and by-plays of women-folks to take care of himself in this world.” +</p> + +<p> +We stayed on in Piña because we liked the place. Some folks might enjoy their +money with noise and rapture and locomotion; but me and Mack we had had plenty +of turmoils and hotel towels. The people were friendly; Ah Sing got the swing +of the grub we liked; Mack and Buckle were as thick as two body-snatchers, and +I was hitting out a cordial resemblance to “Buffalo Gals, Can’t You +Come Out To-night,” on the banjo. +</p> + +<p> +One day I got a telegram from Speight, the man that was working on a mine I had +an interest in out in New Mexico. I had to go out there; and I was gone two +months. I was anxious to get back to Piña and enjoy life once more. +</p> + +<p> +When I struck the cabin I nearly fainted. Mack was standing in the door; and if +angels ever wept, I saw no reason why they should be smiling then. +</p> + +<p> +That man was a spectacle. Yes; he was worse; he was a spyglass; he was the +great telescope in the Lick Observatory. He had on a coat and shiny shoes and a +white vest and a high silk hat; and a geranium as big as an order of spinach +was spiked onto his front. And he was smirking and warping his face like an +infernal storekeeper or a kid with colic. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello, Andy,” says Mack, out of his face. “Glad to see you +back. Things have happened since you went away.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it,” says I, “and a sacrilegious sight it is. God +never made you that way, Mack Lonsbury. Why do you scarify His works with this +presumptuous kind of ribaldry?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Andy,” says he, “they’ve elected me justice of +the peace since you left.” +</p> + +<p> +I looked at Mack close. He was restless and inspired. A justice of the peace +ought to be disconsolate and assuaged. +</p> + +<p> +Just then a young woman passed on the sidewalk; and I saw Mack kind of half +snicker and blush, and then he raised up his hat and smiled and bowed, and she +smiled and bowed, and went on by. +</p> + +<p> +“No hope for you,” says I, “if you’ve got the Mary-Jane +infirmity at your age. I thought it wasn’t going to take on you. And +patent leather shoes! All this in two little short months!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m going to marry the young lady who just passed to-night,” +says Mack, in a kind of flutter. +</p> + +<p> +“I forgot something at the post-office,” says I, and walked away +quick. +</p> + +<p> +I overtook that young woman a hundred yards away. I raised my hat and told her +my name. She was about nineteen; and young for her age. She blushed, and then +looked at me cool, like I was the snow scene from the “Two +Orphans.” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand you are to be married to-night,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Correct,” says she. “You got any objections?” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen, sissy,” I begins. +</p> + +<p> +“My name is Miss Rebosa Redd,” says she in a pained way. +</p> + +<p> +“I know it,” says I. “Now, Rebosa, I’m old enough to +have owed money to your father. And that old, specious, dressed-up, garbled, +sea-sick ptomaine prancing about avidiously like an irremediable turkey gobbler +with patent leather shoes on is my best friend. Why did you go and get him +invested in this marriage business?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, he was the only chance there was,” answers Miss Rebosa. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay,” says I, giving a sickening look of admiration at her +complexion and style of features; “with your beauty you might pick any +kind of a man. Listen, Rebosa. Old Mack ain’t the man you want. He was +twenty-two when you was <i>née</i> Reed, as the papers say. This bursting into +bloom won’t last with him. He’s all ventilated with oldness and +rectitude and decay. Old Mack’s down with a case of Indian summer. He +overlooked his bet when he was young; and now he’s suing Nature for the +interest on the promissory note he took from Cupid instead of the cash. Rebosa, +are you bent on having this marriage occur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, sure I am,” says she, oscillating the pansies on her hat, +“and so is somebody else, I reckon.” +</p> + +<p> +“What time is it to take place?” I asks. +</p> + +<p> +“At six o’clock,” says she. +</p> + +<p> +I made up my mind right away what to do. I’d save old Mack if I could. To +have a good, seasoned, ineligible man like that turn chicken for a girl that +hadn’t quit eating slate pencils and buttoning in the back was more than +I could look on with easiness. +</p> + +<p> +“Rebosa,” says I, earnest, drawing upon my display of knowledge +concerning the feminine intuitions of reason—“ain’t there a +young man in Piña—a nice young man that you think a heap of?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yep,” says Rebosa, nodding her pansies—“Sure there is! +What do you think! Gracious!” +</p> + +<p> +“Does he like you?” I asks. “How does he stand in the +matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Crazy,” says Rebosa. “Ma has to wet down the front steps to +keep him from sitting there all the time. But I guess that’ll be all over +after to-night,” she winds up with a sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“Rebosa,” says I, “you don’t really experience any of +this adoration called love for old Mack, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord! no,” says the girl, shaking her head. “I think +he’s as dry as a lava bed. The idea!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is this young man that you like, Rebosa?” I inquires. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s Eddie Bayles,” says she. “He clerks in +Crosby’s grocery. But he don’t make but thirty-five a month. Ella +Noakes was wild about him once.” +</p> + +<p> +“Old Mack tells me,” I says, “that he’s going to marry +you at six o’clock this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the time,” says she. “It’s to be at our +house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rebosa,” says I, “listen to me. If Eddie Bayles had a +thousand dollars cash—a thousand dollars, mind you, would buy him a store +of his own—if you and Eddie had that much to excuse matrimony on, would +you consent to marry him this evening at five o’clock?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl looks at me a minute; and I can see these inaudible cogitations going +on inside of her, as women will. +</p> + +<p> +“A thousand dollars?” says she. “Of course I would.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come on,” says I. “We’ll go and see Eddie.” +</p> + +<p> +We went up to Crosby’s store and called Eddie outside. He looked to be +estimable and freckled; and he had chills and fever when I made my proposition. +</p> + +<p> +“At five o’clock?” says he, “for a thousand dollars? +Please don’t wake me up! Well, you <i>are</i> the rich uncle retired from +the spice business in India! I’ll buy out old Crosby and run the store +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +We went inside and got old man Crosby apart and explained it. I wrote my check +for a thousand dollars and handed it to him. If Eddie and Rebosa married each +other at five he was to turn the money over to them. +</p> + +<p> +And then I gave ’em my blessing, and went to wander in the wildwood for a +season. I sat on a log and made cogitations on life and old age and the zodiac +and the ways of women and all the disorder that goes with a lifetime. I passed +myself congratulations that I had probably saved my old friend Mack from his +attack of Indian summer. I knew when he got well of it and shed his infatuation +and his patent leather shoes, he would feel grateful. “To keep old Mack +disinvolved,” thinks I, “from relapses like this, is worth more +than a thousand dollars.” And most of all I was glad that I’d made +a study of women, and wasn’t to be deceived any by their means of conceit +and evolution. +</p> + +<p> +It must have been half-past five when I got back home. I stepped in; and there +sat old Mack on the back of his neck in his old clothes with his blue socks on +the window and the History of Civilisation propped up on his knees. +</p> + +<p> +“This don’t look like getting ready for a wedding at six,” I +says, to seem innocent. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” says Mack, reaching for his tobacco, “that was +postponed back to five o’clock. They sent me over a note saying the hour +had been changed. It’s all over now. What made you stay away so long, +Andy?” +</p> + +<p> +“You heard about the wedding?” I asks. +</p> + +<p> +“I operated it,” says he. “I told you I was justice of the +peace. The preacher is off East to visit his folks, and I’m the only one +in town that can perform the dispensations of marriage. I promised Eddie and +Rebosa a month ago I’d marry ’em. He’s a busy lad; and +he’ll have a grocery of his own some day.” +</p> + +<p> +“He will,” says I. +</p> + +<p> +“There was lots of women at the wedding,” says Mack, smoking up. +“But I didn’t seem to get any ideas from ’em. I wish I was +informed in the structure of their attainments like you said you was.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was two months ago,” says I, reaching up for the banjo. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>III<br /> +TELEMACHUS, FRIEND</h2> + +<p> +Returning from a hunting trip, I waited at the little town of Los Piños, in New +Mexico, for the south-bound train, which was one hour late. I sat on the porch +of the Summit House and discussed the functions of life with Telemachus Hicks, +the hotel proprietor. +</p> + +<p> +Perceiving that personalities were not out of order, I asked him what species +of beast had long ago twisted and mutilated his left ear. Being a hunter, I was +concerned in the evils that may befall one in the pursuit of game. +</p> + +<p> +“That ear,” says Hicks, “is the relic of true +friendship.” +</p> + +<p> +“An accident?” I persisted. +</p> + +<p> +“No friendship is an accident,” said Telemachus; and I was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“The only perfect case of true friendship I ever knew,” went on my +host, “was a cordial intent between a Connecticut man and a monkey. The +monkey climbed palms in Barranquilla and threw down cocoanuts to the man. The +man sawed them in two and made dippers, which he sold for two <i>reales</i> +each and bought rum. The monkey drank the milk of the nuts. Through each being +satisfied with his own share of the graft, they lived like brothers. +</p> + +<p> +“But in the case of human beings, friendship is a transitory art, subject +to discontinuance without further notice. +</p> + +<p> +“I had a friend once, of the entitlement of Paisley Fish, that I imagined +was sealed to me for an endless space of time. Side by side for seven years we +had mined, ranched, sold patent churns, herded sheep, took photographs and +other things, built wire fences, and picked prunes. Thinks I, neither homocide +nor flattery nor riches nor sophistry nor drink can make trouble between me and +Paisley Fish. We was friends an amount you could hardly guess at. We was +friends in business, and we let our amicable qualities lap over and season our +hours of recreation and folly. We certainly had days of Damon and nights of +Pythias. +</p> + +<p> +“One summer me and Paisley gallops down into these San Andrés mountains +for the purpose of a month’s surcease and levity, dressed in the natural +store habiliments of man. We hit this town of Los Piños, which certainly was a +roof-garden spot of the world, and flowing with condensed milk and honey. It +had a street or two, and air, and hens, and a eating-house; and that was enough +for us. +</p> + +<p> +“We strikes the town after supper-time, and we concludes to sample +whatever efficacy there is in this eating-house down by the railroad tracks. By +the time we had set down and pried up our plates with a knife from the red +oil-cloth, along intrudes Widow Jessup with the hot biscuit and the fried +liver. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, there was a woman that would have tempted an anchovy to forget his +vows. She was not so small as she was large; and a kind of welcome air seemed +to mitigate her vicinity. The pink of her face was the <i>in hoc signo</i> of a +culinary temper and a warm disposition, and her smile would have brought out +the dogwood blossoms in December. +</p> + +<p> +“Widow Jessup talks to us a lot of garrulousness about the climate and +history and Tennyson and prunes and the scarcity of mutton, and finally wants +to know where we came from. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Spring Valley,’ says I. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Big Spring Valley,’ chips in Paisley, out of a lot of +potatoes and knuckle-bone of ham in his mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“That was the first sign I noticed that the old <i>fidus Diogenes</i> +business between me and Paisley Fish was ended forever. He knew how I hated a +talkative person, and yet he stampedes into the conversation with his +amendments and addendums of syntax. On the map it was Big Spring Valley; but I +had heard Paisley himself call it Spring Valley a thousand times. +</p> + +<p> +“Without saying any more, we went out after supper and set on the +railroad track. We had been pardners too long not to know what was going on in +each other’s mind. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I reckon you understand,’ says Paisley, ‘that +I’ve made up my mind to accrue that widow woman as part and parcel in and +to my hereditaments forever, both domestic, sociable, legal, and otherwise, +until death us do part.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why, yes,’ says I, ‘I read it between the lines, +though you only spoke one. And I suppose you are aware,’ says I, +‘that I have a movement on foot that leads up to the widow’s +changing her name to Hicks, and leaves you writing to the society column to +inquire whether the best man wears a japonica or seamless socks at the +wedding!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘There’ll be some hiatuses in your program,’ says +Paisley, chewing up a piece of a railroad tie. ‘I’d give in to +you,’ says he, ‘in ’most any respect if it was secular +affairs, but this is not so. The smiles of woman,’ goes on Paisley, +‘is the whirlpool of Squills and Chalybeates, into which vortex the good +ship Friendship is often drawn and dismembered. I’d assault a bear that +was annoying you,’ says Paisley, ‘or I’d endorse your note, +or rub the place between your shoulder-blades with opodeldoc the same as ever; +but there my sense of etiquette ceases. In this fracas with Mrs. Jessup we play +it alone. I’ve notified you fair.’ +</p> + +<p> +“And then I collaborates with myself, and offers the following +resolutions and by-laws: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Friendship between man and man,’ says I, ‘is an +ancient historical virtue enacted in the days when men had to protect each +other against lizards with eighty-foot tails and flying turtles. And +they’ve kept up the habit to this day, and stand by each other till the +bellboy comes up and tells them the animals are not really there. I’ve +often heard,’ I says, ‘about ladies stepping in and breaking up a +friendship between men. Why should that be? I’ll tell you, Paisley, the +first sight and hot biscuit of Mrs. Jessup appears to have inserted a +oscillation into each of our bosoms. Let the best man of us have her. +I’ll play you a square game, and won’t do any underhanded work. +I’ll do all of my courting of her in your presence, so you will have an +equal opportunity. With that arrangement I don’t see why our steamboat of +friendship should fall overboard in the medicinal whirlpools you speak of, +whichever of us wins out.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Good old hoss!’ says Paisley, shaking my hand. ‘And +I’ll do the same,’ says he. ‘We’ll court the lady +synonymously, and without any of the prudery and bloodshed usual to such +occasions. And we’ll be friends still, win or lose.’ +</p> + +<p> +“At one side of Mrs. Jessup’s eating-house was a bench under some +trees where she used to sit in the breeze after the south-bound had been fed +and gone. And there me and Paisley used to congregate after supper and make +partial payments on our respects to the lady of our choice. And we was so +honorable and circuitous in our calls that if one of us got there first we +waited for the other before beginning any gallivantery. +</p> + +<p> +“The first evening that Mrs. Jessup knew about our arrangement I got to +the bench before Paisley did. Supper was just over, and Mrs. Jessup was out +there with a fresh pink dress on, and almost cool enough to handle. +</p> + +<p> +“I sat down by her and made a few specifications about the moral surface +of nature as set forth by the landscape and the contiguous perspective. That +evening was surely a case in point. The moon was attending to business in the +section of sky where it belonged, and the trees was making shadows on the +ground according to science and nature, and there was a kind of conspicuous +hullabaloo going on in the bushes between the bullbats and the orioles and the +jack-rabbits and other feathered insects of the forest. And the wind out of the +mountains was singing like a Jew’s-harp in the pile of old tomato-cans by +the railroad track. +</p> + +<p> +“I felt a kind of sensation in my left side—something like dough +rising in a crock by the fire. Mrs. Jessup had moved up closer. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Oh, Mr. Hicks,’ says she, ‘when one is alone in the +world, don’t they feel it more aggravated on a beautiful night like +this?’ +</p> + +<p> +“I rose up off the bench at once. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ says I, ‘but I’ll have +to wait till Paisley comes before I can give a audible hearing to leading +questions like that.’ +</p> + +<p> +“And then I explained to her how we was friends cinctured by years of +embarrassment and travel and complicity, and how we had agreed to take no +advantage of each other in any of the more mushy walks of life, such as might +be fomented by sentiment and proximity. Mrs. Jessup appears to think serious +about the matter for a minute, and then she breaks into a species of laughter +that makes the wildwood resound. +</p> + +<p> +“In a few minutes Paisley drops around, with oil of bergamot on his hair, +and sits on the other side of Mrs. Jessup, and inaugurates a sad tale of +adventure in which him and Pieface Lumley has a skinning-match of dead cows in +’95 for a silver-mounted saddle in the Santa Rita valley during the nine +months’ drought. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, from the start of that courtship I had Paisley Fish hobbled and +tied to a post. Each one of us had a different system of reaching out for the +easy places in the female heart. Paisley’s scheme was to petrify +’em with wonderful relations of events that he had either come across +personally or in large print. I think he must have got his idea of subjugation +from one of Shakespeare’s shows I see once called ‘Othello.’ +There is a coloured man in it who acquires a duke’s daughter by +disbursing to her a mixture of the talk turned out by Rider Haggard, Lew +Dockstader, and Dr. Parkhurst. But that style of courting don’t work well +off the stage. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, I give you my own recipe for inveigling a woman into that state of +affairs when she can be referred to as ‘<i>née</i> Jones.’ Learn +how to pick up her hand and hold it, and she’s yours. It ain’t so +easy. Some men grab at it so much like they was going to set a dislocation of +the shoulder that you can smell the arnica and hear ’em tearing off +bandages. Some take it up like a hot horseshoe, and hold it off at arm’s +length like a druggist pouring tincture of asafœtida in a bottle. And most of +’em catch hold of it and drag it right out before the lady’s eyes +like a boy finding a baseball in the grass, without giving her a chance to +forget that the hand is growing on the end of her arm. Them ways are all wrong. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you the right way. Did you ever see a man sneak out in +the back yard and pick up a rock to throw at a tomcat that was sitting on a +fence looking at him? He pretends he hasn’t got a thing in his hand, and +that the cat don’t see him, and that he don’t see the cat. +That’s the idea. Never drag her hand out where she’ll have to take +notice of it. Don’t let her know that you think she knows you have the +least idea she is aware you are holding her hand. That was my rule of tactics; +and as far as Paisley’s serenade about hostilities and misadventure went, +he might as well have been reading to her a time-table of the Sunday trains +that stop at Ocean Grove, New Jersey. +</p> + +<p> +“One night when I beat Paisley to the bench by one pipeful, my friendship +gets subsidised for a minute, and I asks Mrs. Jessup if she didn’t think +a ‘H’ was easier to write than a ‘J.’ In a second her +head was mashing the oleander flower in my button-hole, and I leaned over +and—but I didn’t. +</p> + +<p> +“‘If you don’t mind,’ says I, standing up, +‘we’ll wait for Paisley to come before finishing this. I’ve +never done anything dishonourable yet to our friendship, and this won’t +be quite fair.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mr. Hicks,’ says Mrs. Jessup, looking at me peculiar in the +dark, ‘if it wasn’t for but one thing, I’d ask you to hike +yourself down the gulch and never disresume your visits to my house.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘And what is that, ma’am?’ I asks. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You are too good a friend not to make a good husband,’ says +she. +</p> + +<p> +“In five minutes Paisley was on his side of Mrs. Jessup. +</p> + +<p> +“‘In Silver City, in the summer of ’98,’ he begins, +‘I see Jim Batholomew chew off a Chinaman’s ear in the Blue Light +Saloon on account of a crossbarred muslin shirt that—what was that +noise?’ +</p> + +<p> +“I had resumed matters again with Mrs. Jessup right where we had left +off. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mrs. Jessup,’ says I, ‘has promised to make it Hicks. +And this is another of the same sort.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Paisley winds his feet round a leg of the bench and kind of groans. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Lem,’ says he, ‘we been friends for seven years. +Would you mind not kissing Mrs. Jessup quite so loud? I’d do the same for +you.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘All right,’ says I. ‘The other kind will do as +well.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘This Chinaman,’ goes on Paisley, ‘was the one that +shot a man named Mullins in the spring of ’97, and that was—’ +</p> + +<p> +“Paisley interrupted himself again. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Lem,’ says he, ‘if you was a true friend you +wouldn’t hug Mrs. Jessup quite so hard. I felt the bench shake all over +just then. You know you told me you would give me an even chance as long as +there was any.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mr. Man,’ says Mrs. Jessup, turning around to Paisley, +‘if you was to drop in to the celebration of mine and Mr. Hicks’s +silver wedding, twenty-five years from now, do you think you could get it into +that Hubbard squash you call your head that you are <i>nix cum rous</i> in this +business? I’ve put up with you a long time because you was Mr. +Hicks’s friend; but it seems to me it’s time for you to wear the +willow and trot off down the hill.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mrs. Jessup,’ says I, without losing my grasp on the +situation as fiancé, ‘Mr. Paisley is my friend, and I offered him a +square deal and a equal opportunity as long as there was a chance.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘A chance!’ says she. ‘Well, he may think he has a +chance; but I hope he won’t think he’s got a cinch, after what +he’s been next to all the evening.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Well, a month afterwards me and Mrs. Jessup was married in the Los Piños +Methodist Church; and the whole town closed up to see the performance. +</p> + +<p> +“When we lined up in front and the preacher was beginning to sing out his +rituals and observances, I looks around and misses Paisley. I calls time on the +preacher. ‘Paisley ain’t here,’ says I. ‘We’ve +got to wait for Paisley. A friend once, a friend always—that’s +Telemachus Hicks,’ says I. Mrs. Jessup’s eyes snapped some; but the +preacher holds up the incantations according to instructions. +</p> + +<p> +“In a few minutes Paisley gallops up the aisle, putting on a cuff as he +comes. He explains that the only dry-goods store in town was closed for the +wedding, and he couldn’t get the kind of a boiled shirt that his taste +called for until he had broke open the back window of the store and helped +himself. Then he ranges up on the other side of the bride, and the wedding goes +on. I always imagined that Paisley calculated as a last chance that the +preacher might marry him to the widow by mistake. +</p> + +<p> +“After the proceedings was over we had tea and jerked antelope and canned +apricots, and then the populace hiked itself away. Last of all Paisley shook me +by the hand and told me I’d acted square and on the level with him and he +was proud to call me a friend. +</p> + +<p> +“The preacher had a small house on the side of the street that he’d +fixed up to rent; and he allowed me and Mrs. Hicks to occupy it till the +ten-forty train the next morning, when we was going on a bridal tour to El +Paso. His wife had decorated it all up with hollyhocks and poison ivy, and it +looked real festal and bowery. +</p> + +<p> +“About ten o’clock that night I sets down in the front door and +pulls off my boots a while in the cool breeze, while Mrs. Hicks was fixing +around in the room. Right soon the light went out inside; and I sat there a +while reverberating over old times and scenes. And then I heard Mrs. Hicks call +out, ‘Ain’t you coming in soon, Lem?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well, well!’ says I, kind of rousing up. ‘Durn me if +I wasn’t waiting for old Paisley to—’ +</p> + +<p> +“But when I got that far,” concluded Telemachus Hicks, “I +thought somebody had shot this left ear of mine off with a forty-five. But it +turned out to be only a lick from a broomhandle in the hands of Mrs. +Hicks.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>IV<br /> +THE HANDBOOK OF HYMEN</h2> + +<p> +’Tis the opinion of myself, Sanderson Pratt, who sets this down, that the +educational system of the United States should be in the hands of the weather +bureau. I can give you good reasons for it; and you can’t tell me why our +college professors shouldn’t be transferred to the meteorological +department. They have been learned to read; and they could very easily glance +at the morning papers and then wire in to the main office what kind of weather +to expect. But there’s the other side of the proposition. I am going on +to tell you how the weather furnished me and Idaho Green with an elegant +education. +</p> + +<p> +We was up in the Bitter Root Mountains over the Montana line prospecting for +gold. A chin-whiskered man in Walla-Walla, carrying a line of hope as excess +baggage, had grubstaked us; and there we was in the foothills pecking away, +with enough grub on hand to last an army through a peace conference. +</p> + +<p> +Along one day comes a mail-rider over the mountains from Carlos, and stops to +eat three cans of greengages, and leave us a newspaper of modern date. This +paper prints a system of premonitions of the weather, and the card it dealt +Bitter Root Mountains from the bottom of the deck was “warmer and fair, +with light westerly breezes.” +</p> + +<p> +That evening it began to snow, with the wind strong in the east. Me and Idaho +moved camp into an old empty cabin higher up the mountain, thinking it was only +a November flurry. But after falling three foot on a level it went to work in +earnest; and we knew we was snowed in. We got in plenty of firewood before it +got deep, and we had grub enough for two months, so we let the elements rage +and cut up all they thought proper. +</p> + +<p> +If you want to instigate the art of manslaughter just shut two men up in a +eighteen by twenty-foot cabin for a month. Human nature won’t stand it. +</p> + +<p> +When the first snowflakes fell me and Idaho Green laughed at each other’s +jokes and praised the stuff we turned out of a skillet and called bread. At the +end of three weeks Idaho makes this kind of a edict to me. Says he: +</p> + +<p> +“I never exactly heard sour milk dropping out of a balloon on the bottom +of a tin pan, but I have an idea it would be music of the spears compared to +this attenuated stream of asphyxiated thought that emanates out of your organs +of conversation. The kind of half-masticated noises that you emit every day +puts me in mind of a cow’s cud, only she’s lady enough to keep hers +to herself, and you ain’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Green,” says I, “you having been a friend of mine once, +I have some hesitations in confessing to you that if I had my choice for +society between you and a common yellow, three-legged cur pup, one of the +inmates of this here cabin would be wagging a tail just at present.” +</p> + +<p> +This way we goes on for two or three days, and then we quits speaking to one +another. We divides up the cooking implements, and Idaho cooks his grub on one +side of the fireplace, and me on the other. The snow is up to the windows, and +we have to keep a fire all day. +</p> + +<p> +You see me and Idaho never had any education beyond reading and doing “if +John had three apples and James five” on a slate. We never felt any +special need for a university degree, though we had acquired a species of +intrinsic intelligence in knocking around the world that we could use in +emergencies. But, snowbound in that cabin in the Bitter Roots, we felt for the +first time that if we had studied Homer or Greek and fractions and the higher +branches of information, we’d have had some resources in the line of +meditation and private thought. I’ve seen them Eastern college fellows +working in camps all through the West, and I never noticed but what education +was less of a drawback to ’em than you would think. Why, once over on +Snake River, when Andrew McWilliams’ saddle horse got the botts, he sent +a buckboard ten miles for one of these strangers that claimed to be a botanist. +But that horse died. +</p> + +<p> +One morning Idaho was poking around with a stick on top of a little shelf that +was too high to reach. Two books fell down to the floor. I started toward +’em, but caught Idaho’s eye. He speaks for the first time in a +week. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t burn your fingers,” says he. “In spite of the +fact that you’re only fit to be the companion of a sleeping mud-turtle, +I’ll give you a square deal. And that’s more than your parents did +when they turned you loose in the world with the sociability of a rattle-snake +and the bedside manner of a frozen turnip. I’ll play you a game of +seven-up, the winner to pick up his choice of the book, the loser to take the +other.” +</p> + +<p> +We played; and Idaho won. He picked up his book; and I took mine. Then each of +us got on his side of the house and went to reading. +</p> + +<p> +I never was as glad to see a ten-ounce nugget as I was that book. And Idaho +took at his like a kid looks at a stick of candy. +</p> + +<p> +Mine was a little book about five by six inches called “Herkimer’s +Handbook of Indispensable Information.” I may be wrong, but I think that +was the greatest book that ever was written. I’ve got it to-day; and I +can stump you or any man fifty times in five minutes with the information in +it. Talk about Solomon or the New York <i>Tribune!</i> Herkimer had cases on +both of ’em. That man must have put in fifty years and travelled a +million miles to find out all that stuff. There was the population of all +cities in it, and the way to tell a girl’s age, and the number of teeth a +camel has. It told you the longest tunnel in the world, the number of the +stars, how long it takes for chicken pox to break out, what a lady’s neck +ought to measure, the veto powers of Governors, the dates of the Roman +aqueducts, how many pounds of rice going without three beers a day would buy, +the average annual temperature of Augusta, Maine, the quantity of seed required +to plant an acre of carrots in drills, antidotes for poisons, the number of +hairs on a blond lady’s head, how to preserve eggs, the height of all the +mountains in the world, and the dates of all wars and battles, and how to +restore drowned persons, and sunstroke, and the number of tacks in a pound, and +how to make dynamite and flowers and beds, and what to do before the doctor +comes—and a hundred times as many things besides. If there was anything +Herkimer didn’t know I didn’t miss it out of the book. +</p> + +<p> +I sat and read that book for four hours. All the wonders of education was +compressed in it. I forgot the snow, and I forgot that me and old Idaho was on +the outs. He was sitting still on a stool reading away with a kind of partly +soft and partly mysterious look shining through his tan-bark whiskers. +</p> + +<p> +“Idaho,” says I, “what kind of a book is yours?” +</p> + +<p> +Idaho must have forgot, too, for he answered moderate, without any slander or +malignity. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” says he, “this here seems to be a volume by Homer K. +M.” +</p> + +<p> +“Homer K. M. what?” I asks. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, just Homer K. M.,” says he. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a liar,” says I, a little riled that Idaho should try +to put me up a tree. “No man is going ’round signing books with his +initials. If it’s Homer K. M. Spoopendyke, or Homer K. M. McSweeney, or +Homer K. M. Jones, why don’t you say so like a man instead of biting off +the end of it like a calf chewing off the tail of a shirt on a +clothes-line?” +</p> + +<p> +“I put it to you straight, Sandy,” says Idaho, quiet. +“It’s a poem book,” says he, “by Homer K. M. I +couldn’t get colour out of it at first, but there’s a vein if you +follow it up. I wouldn’t have missed this book for a pair of red +blankets.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re welcome to it,” says I. “What I want is a +disinterested statement of facts for the mind to work on, and that’s what +I seem to find in the book I’ve drawn.” +</p> + +<p> +“What you’ve got,” says Idaho, “is statistics, the +lowest grade of information that exists. They’ll poison your mind. Give +me old K. M.’s system of surmises. He seems to be a kind of a wine agent. +His regular toast is ‘nothing doing,’ and he seems to have a +grouch, but he keeps it so well lubricated with booze that his worst kicks +sound like an invitation to split a quart. But it’s poetry,” says +Idaho, “and I have sensations of scorn for that truck of yours that tries +to convey sense in feet and inches. When it comes to explaining the instinct of +philosophy through the art of nature, old K. M. has got your man beat by +drills, rows, paragraphs, chest measurement, and average annual +rainfall.” +</p> + +<p> +So that’s the way me and Idaho had it. Day and night all the excitement +we got was studying our books. That snowstorm sure fixed us with a fine lot of +attainments apiece. By the time the snow melted, if you had stepped up to me +suddenly and said: “Sanderson Pratt, what would it cost per square foot +to lay a roof with twenty by twenty-eight tin at nine dollars and fifty cents +per box?” I’d have told you as quick as light could travel the +length of a spade handle at the rate of one hundred and ninety-two thousand +miles per second. How many can do it? You wake up ’most any man you know +in the middle of the night, and ask him quick to tell you the number of bones +in the human skeleton exclusive of the teeth, or what percentage of the vote of +the Nebraska Legislature overrules a veto. Will he tell you? Try him and see. +</p> + +<p> +About what benefit Idaho got out of his poetry book I didn’t exactly +know. Idaho boosted the wine-agent every time he opened his mouth; but I +wasn’t so sure. +</p> + +<p> +This Homer K. M., from what leaked out of his libretto through Idaho, seemed to +me to be a kind of a dog who looked at life like it was a tin can tied to his +tail. After running himself half to death, he sits down, hangs his tongue out, +and looks at the can and says: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well, since we can’t shake the growler, let’s get it +filled at the corner, and all have a drink on me.” +</p> + +<p> +Besides that, it seems he was a Persian; and I never hear of Persia producing +anything worth mentioning unless it was Turkish rugs and Maltese cats. +</p> + +<p> +That spring me and Idaho struck pay ore. It was a habit of ours to sell out +quick and keep moving. We unloaded our grubstaker for eight thousand dollars +apiece; and then we drifted down to this little town of Rosa, on the Salmon +river, to rest up, and get some human grub, and have our whiskers harvested. +</p> + +<p> +Rosa was no mining-camp. It laid in the valley, and was as free of uproar and +pestilence as one of them rural towns in the country. There was a three-mile +trolley line champing its bit in the environs; and me and Idaho spent a week +riding on one of the cars, dropping off at nights at the Sunset View Hotel. +Being now well read as well as travelled, we was soon <i>pro re nata</i> with +the best society in Rosa, and was invited out to the most dressed-up and +high-toned entertainments. It was at a piano recital and quail-eating contest +in the city hall, for the benefit of the fire company, that me and Idaho first +met Mrs. De Ormond Sampson, the queen of Rosa society. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Sampson was a widow, and owned the only two-story house in town. It was +painted yellow, and whichever way you looked from you could see it as plain as +egg on the chin of an O’Grady on a Friday. Twenty-two men in Rosa besides +me and Idaho was trying to stake a claim on that yellow house. +</p> + +<p> +There was a dance after the song books and quail bones had been raked out of +the Hall. Twenty-three of the bunch galloped over to Mrs. Sampson and asked for +a dance. I side-stepped the two-step, and asked permission to escort her home. +That’s where I made a hit. +</p> + +<p> +On the way home says she: +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t the stars lovely and bright to-night, Mr. Pratt?” +</p> + +<p> +“For the chance they’ve got,” says I, “they’re +humping themselves in a mighty creditable way. That big one you see is +sixty-six million miles distant. It took thirty-six years for its light to +reach us. With an eighteen-foot telescope you can see forty-three millions of +’em, including them of the thirteenth magnitude, which, if one was to go +out now, you would keep on seeing it for twenty-seven hundred years.” +</p> + +<p> +“My!” says Mrs. Sampson. “I never knew that before. How warm +it is! I’m as damp as I can be from dancing so much.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s easy to account for,” says I, “when you happen +to know that you’ve got two million sweat-glands working all at once. If +every one of your perspiratory ducts, which are a quarter of an inch long, was +placed end to end, they would reach a distance of seven miles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lawsy!” says Mrs. Sampson. “It sounds like an irrigation +ditch you was describing, Mr. Pratt. How do you get all this knowledge of +information?” +</p> + +<p> +“From observation, Mrs. Sampson,” I tells her. “I keep my +eyes open when I go about the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Pratt,” says she, “I always did admire a man of +education. There are so few scholars among the sap-headed plug-uglies of this +town that it is a real pleasure to converse with a gentleman of culture. +I’d be gratified to have you call at my house whenever you feel so +inclined.” +</p> + +<p> +And that was the way I got the goodwill of the lady in the yellow house. Every +Tuesday and Friday evening I used to go there and tell her about the wonders of +the universe as discovered, tabulated, and compiled from nature by Herkimer. +Idaho and the other gay Lutherans of the town got every minute of the rest of +the week that they could. +</p> + +<p> +I never imagined that Idaho was trying to work on Mrs. Sampson with old K. +M.’s rules of courtship till one afternoon when I was on my way over to +take her a basket of wild hog-plums. I met the lady coming down the lane that +led to her house. Her eyes was snapping, and her hat made a dangerous dip over +one eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Pratt,” she opens up, “this Mr. Green is a friend of +yours, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“For nine years,” says I. +</p> + +<p> +“Cut him out,” says she. “He’s no gentleman!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why ma’am,” says I, “he’s a plain incumbent of +the mountains, with asperities and the usual failings of a spendthrift and a +liar, but I never on the most momentous occasion had the heart to deny that he +was a gentleman. It may be that in haberdashery and the sense of arrogance and +display Idaho offends the eye, but inside, ma’am, I’ve found him +impervious to the lower grades of crime and obesity. After nine years of +Idaho’s society, Mrs. Sampson,” I winds up, “I should hate to +impute him, and I should hate to see him imputed.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s right plausible of you, Mr. Pratt,” says Mrs. Sampson, +“to take up the curmudgeons in your friend’s behalf; but it +don’t alter the fact that he has made proposals to me sufficiently +obnoxious to ruffle the ignominy of any lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, now, now, now!” says I. “Old Idaho do that! I could +believe it of myself, sooner. I never knew but one thing to deride in him; and +a blizzard was responsible for that. Once while we was snow-bound in the +mountains he became a prey to a kind of spurious and uneven poetry, which may +have corrupted his demeanour.” +</p> + +<p> +“It has,” says Mrs. Sampson. “Ever since I knew him he has +been reciting to me a lot of irreligious rhymes by some person he calls Ruby +Ott, and who is no better than she should be, if you judge by her +poetry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then Idaho has struck a new book,” says I, “for the one he +had was by a man who writes under the <i>nom de plume</i> of K. M.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’d better have stuck to it,” says Mrs. Sampson, +“whatever it was. And to-day he caps the vortex. I get a bunch of flowers +from him, and on ’em is pinned a note. Now, Mr. Pratt, you know a lady +when you see her; and you know how I stand in Rosa society. Do you think for a +moment that I’d skip out to the woods with a man along with a jug of wine +and a loaf of bread, and go singing and cavorting up and down under the trees +with him? I take a little claret with my meals, but I’m not in the habit +of packing a jug of it into the brush and raising Cain in any such style as +that. And of course he’d bring his book of verses along, too. He said so. +Let him go on his scandalous picnics alone! Or let him take his Ruby Ott with +him. I reckon she wouldn’t kick unless it was on account of there being +too much bread along. And what do you think of your gentleman friend now, Mr. +Pratt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ’m,” says I, “it may be that Idaho’s +invitation was a kind of poetry, and meant no harm. May be it belonged to the +class of rhymes they call figurative. They offend law and order, but they get +sent through the mails on the grounds that they mean something that they +don’t say. I’d be glad on Idaho’s account if you’d +overlook it,” says I, “and let us extricate our minds from the low +regions of poetry to the higher planes of fact and fancy. On a beautiful +afternoon like this, Mrs. Sampson,” I goes on, “we should let our +thoughts dwell accordingly. Though it is warm here, we should remember that at +the equator the line of perpetual frost is at an altitude of fifteen thousand +feet. Between the latitudes of forty degrees and forty-nine degrees it is from +four thousand to nine thousand feet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mr. Pratt,” says Mrs. Sampson, “it’s such a +comfort to hear you say them beautiful facts after getting such a jar from that +minx of a Ruby’s poetry!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us sit on this log at the roadside,” says I, “and forget +the inhumanity and ribaldry of the poets. It is in the glorious columns of +ascertained facts and legalised measures that beauty is to be found. In this +very log we sit upon, Mrs. Sampson,” says I, “is statistics more +wonderful than any poem. The rings show it was sixty years old. At the depth of +two thousand feet it would become coal in three thousand years. The deepest +coal mine in the world is at Killingworth, near Newcastle. A box four feet +long, three feet wide, and two feet eight inches deep will hold one ton of +coal. If an artery is cut, compress it above the wound. A man’s leg +contains thirty bones. The Tower of London was burned in 1841.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, Mr. Pratt,” says Mrs. Sampson. “Them ideas is so +original and soothing. I think statistics are just as lovely as they can +be.” +</p> + +<p> +But it wasn’t till two weeks later that I got all that was coming to me +out of Herkimer. +</p> + +<p> +One night I was waked up by folks hollering “Fire!” all around. I +jumped up and dressed and went out of the hotel to enjoy the scene. When I see +it was Mrs. Sampson’s house, I gave forth a kind of yell, and I was there +in two minutes. +</p> + +<p> +The whole lower story of the yellow house was in flames, and every masculine, +feminine, and canine in Rosa was there, screeching and barking and getting in +the way of the firemen. I saw Idaho trying to get away from six firemen who +were holding him. They was telling him the whole place was on fire down-stairs, +and no man could go in it and come out alive. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Mrs. Sampson?” I asks. +</p> + +<p> +“She hasn’t been seen,” says one of the firemen. “She +sleeps up-stairs. We’ve tried to get in, but we can’t, and our +company hasn’t got any ladders yet.” +</p> + +<p> +I runs around to the light of the big blaze, and pulls the Handbook out of my +inside pocket. I kind of laughed when I felt it in my hands —I reckon I +was some daffy with the sensation of excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“Herky, old boy,” I says to it, as I flipped over the pages, +“you ain’t ever lied to me yet, and you ain’t ever throwed me +down at a scratch yet. Tell me what, old boy, tell me what!” says I. +</p> + +<p> +I turned to “What to do in Case of Accidents,” on page 117. I run +my finger down the page, and struck it. Good old Herkimer, he never overlooked +anything! It said: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +Suffocation from Inhaling Smoke or Gas.—There is nothing better than +flaxseed. Place a few seed in the outer corner of the eye. +</p> + +<p> +I shoved the Handbook back in my pocket, and grabbed a boy that was running by. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” says I, giving him some money, “run to the drug store +and bring a dollar’s worth of flaxseed. Hurry, and you’ll get +another one for yourself. Now,” I sings out to the crowd, +“we’ll have Mrs. Sampson!” And I throws away my coat and hat. +</p> + +<p> +Four of the firemen and citizens grabs hold of me. It’s sure death, they +say, to go in the house, for the floors was beginning to fall through. +</p> + +<p> +“How in blazes,” I sings out, kind of laughing yet, but not feeling +like it, “do you expect me to put flaxseed in a eye without the +eye?” +</p> + +<p> +I jabbed each elbow in a fireman’s face, kicked the bark off of one +citizen’s shin, and tripped the other one with a side hold. And then I +busted into the house. If I die first I’ll write you a letter and tell +you if it’s any worse down there than the inside of that yellow house +was; but don’t believe it yet. I was a heap more cooked than the hurry-up +orders of broiled chicken that you get in restaurants. The fire and smoke had +me down on the floor twice, and was about to shame Herkimer, but the firemen +helped me with their little stream of water, and I got to Mrs. Sampson’s +room. She’d lost conscientiousness from the smoke, so I wrapped her in +the bed clothes and got her on my shoulder. Well, the floors wasn’t as +bad as they said, or I never could have done it—not by no means. +</p> + +<p> +I carried her out fifty yards from the house and laid her on the grass. Then, +of course, every one of them other twenty-two plaintiff’s to the +lady’s hand crowded around with tin dippers of water ready to save her. +And up runs the boy with the flaxseed. +</p> + +<p> +I unwrapped the covers from Mrs. Sampson’s head. She opened her eyes and +says: +</p> + +<p> +“Is that you, Mr. Pratt?” +</p> + +<p> +“S-s-sh,” says I. “Don’t talk till you’ve had the +remedy.” +</p> + +<p> +I runs my arm around her neck and raises her head, gentle, and breaks the bag +of flaxseed with the other hand; and as easy as I could I bends over and slips +three or four of the seeds in the outer corner of her eye. +</p> + +<p> +Up gallops the village doc by this time, and snorts around, and grabs at Mrs. +Sampson’s pulse, and wants to know what I mean by any such sandblasted +nonsense. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, old Jalap and Jerusalem oakseed,” says I, “I’m +no regular practitioner, but I’ll show you my authority, anyway.” +</p> + +<p> +They fetched my coat, and I gets out the Handbook. +</p> + +<p> +“Look on page 117,” says I, “at the remedy for suffocation by +smoke or gas. Flaxseed in the outer corner of the eye, it says. I don’t +know whether it works as a smoke consumer or whether it hikes the compound +gastro-hippopotamus nerve into action, but Herkimer says it, and he was called +to the case first. If you want to make it a consultation, there’s no +objection.” +</p> + +<p> +Old doc takes the book and looks at it by means of his specs and a +fireman’s lantern. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Pratt,” says he, “you evidently got on the wrong +line in reading your diagnosis. The recipe for suffocation says: ‘Get the +patient into fresh air as quickly as possible, and place in a reclining +position.’ The flaxseed remedy is for ‘Dust and Cinders in the +Eye,’ on the line above. But, after all—” +</p> + +<p> +“See here,” interrupts Mrs. Sampson, “I reckon I’ve got +something to say in this consultation. That flaxseed done me more good than +anything I ever tried.” And then she raises up her head and lays it back +on my arm again, and says: “Put some in the other eye, Sandy dear.” +</p> + +<p> +And so if you was to stop off at Rosa to-morrow, or any other day, you’d +see a fine new yellow house with Mrs. Pratt, that was Mrs. Sampson, +embellishing and adorning it. And if you was to step inside you’d see on +the marble-top centre table in the parlour “Herkimer’s Handbook of +Indispensable Information,” all rebound in red morocco, and ready to be +consulted on any subject pertaining to human happiness and wisdom. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>V<br /> +THE PIMIENTA PANCAKES</h2> + +<p> +While we were rounding up a bunch of the Triangle-O cattle in the Frio bottoms +a projecting branch of a dead mesquite caught my wooden stirrup and gave my +ankle a wrench that laid me up in camp for a week. +</p> + +<p> +On the third day of my compulsory idleness I crawled out near the grub wagon, +and reclined helpless under the conversational fire of Judson Odom, the camp +cook. Jud was a monologist by nature, whom Destiny, with customary blundering, +had set in a profession wherein he was bereaved, for the greater portion of his +time, of an audience. +</p> + +<p> +Therefore, I was manna in the desert of Jud’s obmutescence. +</p> + +<p> +Betimes I was stirred by invalid longings for something to eat that did not +come under the caption of “grub.” I had visions of the maternal +pantry “deep as first love, and wild with all regret,” and then I +asked: +</p> + +<p> +“Jud, can you make pancakes?” +</p> + +<p> +Jud laid down his six-shooter, with which he was preparing to pound an antelope +steak, and stood over me in what I felt to be a menacing attitude. He further +endorsed my impression that his pose was resentful by fixing upon me with his +light blue eyes a look of cold suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +“Say, you,” he said, with candid, though not excessive, choler, +“did you mean that straight, or was you trying to throw the gaff into me? +Some of the boys been telling you about me and that pancake racket?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Jud,” I said, sincerely, “I meant it. It seems to me +I’d swap my pony and saddle for a stack of buttered brown pancakes with +some first crop, open kettle, New Orleans sweetening. Was there a story about +pancakes?” +</p> + +<p> +Jud was mollified at once when he saw that I had not been dealing in allusions. +He brought some mysterious bags and tin boxes from the grub wagon and set them +in the shade of the hackberry where I lay reclined. I watched him as he began +to arrange them leisurely and untie their many strings. +</p> + +<p> +“No, not a story,” said Jud, as he worked, “but just the +logical disclosures in the case of me and that pink-eyed snoozer from Mired +Mule Canada and Miss Willella Learight. I don’t mind telling you. +</p> + +<p> +“I was punching then for old Bill Toomey, on the San Miguel. One day I +gets all ensnared up in aspirations for to eat some canned grub that +hasn’t ever mooed or baaed or grunted or been in peck measures. So, I +gets on my bronc and pushes the wind for Uncle Emsley Telfair’s store at +the Pimienta Crossing on the Nueces. +</p> + +<p> +“About three in the afternoon I throwed my bridle rein over a mesquite +limb and walked the last twenty yards into Uncle Emsley’s store. I got up +on the counter and told Uncle Emsley that the signs pointed to the devastation +of the fruit crop of the world. In a minute I had a bag of crackers and a +long-handled spoon, with an open can each of apricots and pineapples and +cherries and greengages beside of me with Uncle Emsley busy chopping away with +the hatchet at the yellow clings. I was feeling like Adam before the apple +stampede, and was digging my spurs into the side of the counter and working +with my twenty-four-inch spoon when I happened to look out of the window into +the yard of Uncle Emsley’s house, which was next to the store. +</p> + +<p> +“There was a girl standing there—an imported girl with fixings +on— philandering with a croquet maul and amusing herself by watching my +style of encouraging the fruit canning industry. +</p> + +<p> +“I slid off the counter and delivered up my shovel to Uncle Emsley. +</p> + +<p> +“‘That’s my niece,’ says he; ‘Miss Willella +Learight, down from Palestine on a visit. Do you want that I should make you +acquainted?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘The Holy Land,’ I says to myself, my thoughts milling some +as I tried to run ’em into the corral. ‘Why not? There was sure +angels in Pales—Why, yes, Uncle Emsley,’ I says out loud, +‘I’d be awful edified to meet Miss Learight.’ +</p> + +<p> +“So Uncle Emsley took me out in the yard and gave us each other’s +entitlements. +</p> + +<p> +“I never was shy about women. I never could understand why some men who +can break a mustang before breakfast and shave in the dark, get all left-handed +and full of perspiration and excuses when they see a bold of calico draped +around what belongs to it. Inside of eight minutes me and Miss Willella was +aggravating the croquet balls around as amiable as second cousins. She gave me +a dig about the quantity of canned fruit I had eaten, and I got back at her, +flat-footed, about how a certain lady named Eve started the fruit trouble in +the first free-grass pasture—‘Over in Palestine, wasn’t +it?’ says I, as easy and pat as roping a one-year-old. +</p> + +<p> +“That was how I acquired cordiality for the proximities of Miss Willella +Learight; and the disposition grew larger as time passed. She was stopping at +Pimienta Crossing for her health, which was very good, and for the climate, +which was forty per cent. hotter than Palestine. I rode over to see her once +every week for a while; and then I figured it out that if I doubled the number +of trips I would see her twice as often. +</p> + +<p> +“One week I slipped in a third trip; and that’s where the pancakes +and the pink-eyed snoozer busted into the game. +</p> + +<p> +“That evening, while I set on the counter with a peach and two damsons in +my mouth, I asked Uncle Emsley how Miss Willella was. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why,’ says Uncle Emsley, ‘she’s gone riding +with Jackson Bird, the sheep man from over at Mired Mule Canada.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I swallowed the peach seed and the two damson seeds. I guess somebody +held the counter by the bridle while I got off; and then I walked out straight +ahead till I butted against the mesquite where my roan was tied. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She’s gone riding,’ I whisper in my bronc’s +ear, ‘with Birdstone Jack, the hired mule from Sheep Man’s Canada. +Did you get that, old Leather-and-Gallops?’ +</p> + +<p> +“That bronc of mine wept, in his way. He’d been raised a cow pony +and he didn’t care for snoozers. +</p> + +<p> +“I went back and said to Uncle Emsley: ‘Did you say a sheep +man?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I said a sheep man,’ says Uncle Emsley again. ‘You +must have heard tell of Jackson Bird. He’s got eight sections of grazing +and four thousand head of the finest Merinos south of the Arctic Circle.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I went out and sat on the ground in the shade of the store and leaned +against a prickly pear. I sifted sand into my boots with unthinking hands while +I soliloquised a quantity about this bird with the Jackson plumage to his name. +</p> + +<p> +“I never had believed in harming sheep men. I see one, one day, reading a +Latin grammar on hossback, and I never touched him! They never irritated me +like they do most cowmen. You wouldn’t go to work now, and impair and +disfigure snoozers, would you, that eat on tables and wear little shoes and +speak to you on subjects? I had always let ’em pass, just as you would a +jack-rabbit; with a polite word and a guess about the weather, but no stopping +to swap canteens. I never thought it was worth while to be hostile with a +snoozer. And because I’d been lenient, and let ’em live, here was +one going around riding with Miss Willella Learight! +</p> + +<p> +“An hour by sun they come loping back, and stopped at Uncle +Emsley’s gate. The sheep person helped her off; and they stood throwing +each other sentences all sprightful and sagacious for a while. And then this +feathered Jackson flies up in his saddle and raises his little stewpot of a +hat, and trots off in the direction of his mutton ranch. By this time I had +turned the sand out of my boots and unpinned myself from the prickly pear; and +by the time he gets half a mile out of Pimienta, I singlefoots up beside him on +my bronc. +</p> + +<p> +“I said that snoozer was pink-eyed, but he wasn’t. His seeing +arrangement was grey enough, but his eye-lashes was pink and his hair was +sandy, and that gave you the idea. Sheep man?—he wasn’t more than a +lamb man, anyhow—a little thing with his neck involved in a yellow silk +handkerchief, and shoes tied up in bowknots. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Afternoon!’ says I to him. ‘You now ride with a +equestrian who is commonly called Dead-Moral-Certainty Judson, on account of +the way I shoot. When I want a stranger to know me I always introduce myself +before the draw, for I never did like to shake hands with ghosts.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ah,’ says he, just like that—‘Ah, I’m +glad to know you, Mr. Judson. I’m Jackson Bird, from over at Mired Mule +Ranch.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Just then one of my eyes saw a roadrunner skipping down the hill with a +young tarantula in his bill, and the other eye noticed a rabbit-hawk sitting on +a dead limb in a water-elm. I popped over one after the other with my +forty-five, just to show him. ‘Two out of three,’ says I. +‘Birds just naturally seem to draw my fire wherever I go.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Nice shooting,’ says the sheep man, without a flutter. +‘But don’t you sometimes ever miss the third shot? Elegant fine +rain that was last week for the young grass, Mr. Judson?’ says he. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Willie,’ says I, riding over close to his palfrey, +‘your infatuated parents may have denounced you by the name of Jackson, +but you sure moulted into a twittering Willie—let us slough off this here +analysis of rain and the elements, and get down to talk that is outside the +vocabulary of parrots. That is a bad habit you have got of riding with young +ladies over at Pimienta. I’ve known birds,’ says I, ‘to be +served on toast for less than that. Miss Willella,’ says I, +‘don’t ever want any nest made out of sheep’s wool by a +tomtit of the Jacksonian branch of ornithology. Now, are you going to quit, or +do you wish for to gallop up against this Dead-Moral-Certainty attachment to my +name, which is good for two hyphens and at least one set of funeral +obsequies?’ +</p> + +<p> +“Jackson Bird flushed up some, and then he laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why, Mr. Judson,’ says he, ‘you’ve got the +wrong idea. I’ve called on Miss Learight a few times; but not for the +purpose you imagine. My object is purely a gastronomical one.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I reached for my gun. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Any coyote,’ says I, ‘that would boast of +dishonourable—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Wait a minute,’ says this Bird, ‘till I explain. What +would I do with a wife? If you ever saw that ranch of mine! I do my own cooking +and mending. Eating—that’s all the pleasure I get out of sheep +raising. Mr. Judson, did you ever taste the pancakes that Miss Learight +makes?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Me? No,’ I told him. ‘I never was advised that she +was up to any culinary manoeuvres.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘They’re golden sunshine,’ says he, +‘honey-browned by the ambrosial fires of Epicurus. I’d give two +years of my life to get the recipe for making them pancakes. That’s what +I went to see Miss Learight for,’ says Jackson Bird, ‘but I +haven’t been able to get it from her. It’s an old recipe +that’s been in the family for seventy-five years. They hand it down from +one generation to another, but they don’t give it away to outsiders. If I +could get that recipe, so I could make them pancakes for myself on my ranch, +I’d be a happy man,’ says Bird. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Are you sure,’ I says to him, ‘that it ain’t +the hand that mixes the pancakes that you’re after?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Sure,’ says Jackson. ‘Miss Learight is a mighty nice +girl, but I can assure you my intentions go no further than the +gastro—’ but he seen my hand going down to my holster and he +changed his similitude—‘than the desire to procure a copy of the +pancake recipe,’ he finishes. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You ain’t such a bad little man,’ says I, trying to +be fair. ‘I was thinking some of making orphans of your sheep, but +I’ll let you fly away this time. But you stick to pancakes,’ says +I, ‘as close as the middle one of a stack; and don’t go and mistake +sentiments for syrup, or there’ll be singing at your ranch, and you +won’t hear it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘To convince you that I am sincere,’ says the sheep man, +‘I’ll ask you to help me. Miss Learight and you being closer +friends, maybe she would do for you what she wouldn’t for me. If you will +get me a copy of that pancake recipe, I give you my word that I’ll never +call upon her again.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘That’s fair,’ I says, and I shook hands with Jackson +Bird. ‘I’ll get it for you if I can, and glad to oblige.’ And +he turned off down the big pear flat on the Piedra, in the direction of Mired +Mule; and I steered northwest for old Bill Toomey’s ranch. +</p> + +<p> +“It was five days afterward when I got another chance to ride over to +Pimienta. Miss Willella and me passed a gratifying evening at Uncle +Emsley’s. She sang some, and exasperated the piano quite a lot with +quotations from the operas. I gave imitations of a rattlesnake, and told her +about Snaky McFee’s new way of skinning cows, and described the trip I +made to Saint Louis once. We was getting along in one another’s +estimations fine. Thinks I, if Jackson Bird can now be persuaded to migrate, I +win. I recollect his promise about the pancake receipt, and I thinks I will +persuade it from Miss Willella and give it to him; and then if I catches Birdie +off of Mired Mule again, I’ll make him hop the twig. +</p> + +<p> +“So, along about ten o’clock, I put on a wheedling smile and says +to Miss Willella: ‘Now, if there’s anything I do like better than +the sight of a red steer on green grass it’s the taste of a nice hot +pancake smothered in sugar-house molasses.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Willella gives a little jump on the piano stool, and looked at me +curious. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Yes,’ says she, ‘they’re real nice. What did +you say was the name of that street in Saint Louis, Mr. Odom, where you lost +your hat?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Pancake Avenue,’ says I, with a wink, to show her that I +was on about the family receipt, and couldn’t be side-corralled off of +the subject. ‘Come, now, Miss Willella,’ I says; ‘let’s +hear how you make ’em. Pancakes is just whirling in my head like wagon +wheels. Start her off, now—pound of flour, eight dozen eggs, and so on. +How does the catalogue of constituents run?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Excuse me for a moment, please,’ says Miss Willella, and +she gives me a quick kind of sideways look, and slides off the stool. She +ambled out into the other room, and directly Uncle Emsley comes in in his shirt +sleeves, with a pitcher of water. He turns around to get a glass on the table, +and I see a forty-five in his hip pocket. ‘Great post-holes!’ +thinks I, ‘but here’s a family thinks a heap of cooking receipts, +protecting it with firearms. I’ve known outfits that wouldn’t do +that much by a family feud.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Drink this here down,’ says Uncle Emsley, handing me the +glass of water. ‘You’ve rid too far to-day, Jud, and got yourself +over-excited. Try to think about something else now.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Do you know how to make them pancakes, Uncle Emsley?’ I +asked. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well, I’m not as apprised in the anatomy of them as +some,’ says Uncle Emsley, ‘but I reckon you take a sifter of +plaster of Paris and a little dough and saleratus and corn meal, and mix +’em with eggs and buttermilk as usual. Is old Bill going to ship beeves +to Kansas City again this spring, Jud?’ +</p> + +<p> +“That was all the pancake specifications I could get that night. I +didn’t wonder that Jackson Bird found it uphill work. So I dropped the +subject and talked with Uncle Emsley for a while about hollow-horn and +cyclones. And then Miss Willella came and said ‘Good-night,’ and I +hit the breeze for the ranch. +</p> + +<p> +“About a week afterward I met Jackson Bird riding out of Pimienta as I +rode in, and we stopped on the road for a few frivolous remarks. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Got the bill of particulars for them flapjacks yet?’ I +asked him. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well, no,’ says Jackson. ‘I don’t seem to have +any success in getting hold of it. Did you try?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I did,’ says I, ‘and ’twas like trying to dig a +prairie dog out of his hole with a peanut hull. That pancake receipt must be a +jookalorum, the way they hold on to it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’m most ready to give it up,’ says Jackson, so +discouraged in his pronunciations that I felt sorry for him; ‘but I did +want to know how to make them pancakes to eat on my lonely ranch,’ says +he. ‘I lie awake at nights thinking how good they are.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘You keep on trying for it,’ I tells him, ‘and +I’ll do the same. One of us is bound to get a rope over its horns before +long. Well, so-long, Jacksy.’ +</p> + +<p> +“You see, by this time we were on the peacefullest of terms. When I saw +that he wasn’t after Miss Willella, I had more endurable contemplations +of that sandy-haired snoozer. In order to help out the ambitions of his +appetite I kept on trying to get that receipt from Miss Willella. But every +time I would say ‘pancakes’ she would get sort of remote and +fidgety about the eye, and try to change the subject. If I held her to it she +would slide out and round up Uncle Emsley with his pitcher of water and +hip-pocket howitzer. +</p> + +<p> +“One day I galloped over to the store with a fine bunch of blue verbenas +that I cut out of a herd of wild flowers over on Poisoned Dog Prairie. Uncle +Emsley looked at ’em with one eye shut and says: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Haven’t ye heard the news?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Cattle up?’ I asks. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Willella and Jackson Bird was married in Palestine +yesterday,’ says he. ‘Just got a letter this morning.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I dropped them flowers in a cracker-barrel, and let the news trickle in +my ears and down toward my upper left-hand shirt pocket until it got to my +feet. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Would you mind saying that over again once more, Uncle +Emsley?’ says I. ‘Maybe my hearing has got wrong, and you only said +that prime heifers was 4.80 on the hoof, or something like that.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Married yesterday,’ says Uncle Emsley, ‘and gone to +Waco and Niagara Falls on a wedding tour. Why, didn’t you see none of the +signs all along? Jackson Bird has been courting Willella ever since that day he +took her out riding.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Then,’ says I, in a kind of yell, ‘what was all this +zizzaparoola he gives me about pancakes? Tell me <i>that</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +“When I said ‘pancakes’ Uncle Emsley sort of dodged and +stepped back. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Somebody’s been dealing me pancakes from the bottom of the +deck,’ I says, ‘and I’ll find out. I believe you know. Talk +up,’ says I, ‘or we’ll mix a panful of batter right +here.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I slid over the counter after Uncle Emsley. He grabbed at his gun, but +it was in a drawer, and he missed it two inches. I got him by the front of his +shirt and shoved him in a corner. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Talk pancakes,’ says I, ‘or be made into one. Does +Miss Willella make ’em?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘She never made one in her life and I never saw one,’ says +Uncle Emsley, soothing. ‘Calm down now, Jud—calm down. You’ve +got excited, and that wound in your head is contaminating your sense of +intelligence. Try not to think about pancakes.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Uncle Emsley,’ says I, ‘I’m not wounded in the +head except so far as my natural cognitive instincts run to runts. Jackson Bird +told me he was calling on Miss Willella for the purpose of finding out her +system of producing pancakes, and he asked me to help him get the bill of +lading of the ingredients. I done so, with the results as you see. Have I been +sodded down with Johnson grass by a pink-eyed snoozer, or what?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Slack up your grip in my dress shirt,’ says Uncle Emsley, +‘and I’ll tell you. Yes, it looks like Jackson Bird has gone and +humbugged you some. The day after he went riding with Willella he came back and +told me and her to watch out for you whenever you got to talking about +pancakes. He said you was in camp once where they was cooking flapjacks, and +one of the fellows cut you over the head with a frying pan. Jackson said that +whenever you got overhot or excited that wound hurt you and made you kind of +crazy, and you went raving about pancakes. He told us to just get you worked +off of the subject and soothed down, and you wouldn’t be dangerous. So, +me and Willella done the best by you we knew how. Well, well,’ says Uncle +Emsley, ‘that Jackson Bird is sure a seldom kind of a +snoozer.’” +</p> + +<p> +During the progress of Jud’s story he had been slowly but deftly +combining certain portions of the contents of his sacks and cans. Toward the +close of it he set before me the finished product—a pair of red-hot, +rich-hued pancakes on a tin plate. From some secret hoarding he also brought a +lump of excellent butter and a bottle of golden syrup. +</p> + +<p> +“How long ago did these things happen?” I asked him. +</p> + +<p> +“Three years,” said Jud. “They’re living on the Mired +Mule Ranch now. But I haven’t seen either of ’em since. They say +Jackson Bird was fixing his ranch up fine with rocking chairs and window +curtains all the time he was putting me up the pancake tree. Oh, I got over it +after a while. But the boys kept the racket up.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you make these cakes by the famous recipe?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t I tell you there wasn’t no receipt?” said Jud. +“The boys hollered pancakes till they got pancake hungry, and I cut this +recipe out of a newspaper. How does the truck taste?” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re delicious,” I answered. “Why don’t you +have some, too, Jud?” +</p> + +<p> +I was sure I heard a sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“Me?” said Jud. “I don’t ever eat ’em.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>VI<br /> +SEATS OF THE HAUGHTY</h2> + +<p> +Golden by day and silver by night, a new trail now leads to us across the +Indian Ocean. Dusky kings and princes have found our Bombay of the West; and +few be their trails that do not lead down to Broadway on their journey for to +admire and for to see. +</p> + +<p> +If chance should ever lead you near a hotel that transiently shelters some one +of these splendid touring grandees, I counsel you to seek Lucullus Polk among +the republican tuft-hunters that besiege its entrances. He will be there. You +will know him by his red, alert, Wellington-nosed face, by his manner of +nervous caution mingled with determination, by his assumed promoter’s or +broker’s air of busy impatience, and by his bright-red necktie, gallantly +redressing the wrongs of his maltreated blue serge suit, like a battle standard +still waving above a lost cause. I found him profitable; and so may you. When +you do look for him, look among the light-horse troop of Bedouins that besiege +the picket-line of the travelling potentate’s guards and +secretaries—among the wild-eyed genii of Arabian Afternoons that gather +to make astounding and egregrious demands upon the prince’s coffers. +</p> + +<p> +I first saw Mr. Polk coming down the steps of the hotel at which sojourned His +Highness the Gaekwar of Baroda, most enlightened of the Mahratta princes, who, +of late, ate bread and salt in our Metropolis of the Occident. +</p> + +<p> +Lucullus moved rapidly, as though propelled by some potent moral force that +imminently threatened to become physical. Behind him closely followed the +impetus—a hotel detective, if ever white Alpine hat, hawk’s nose, +implacable watch chain, and loud refinement of manner spoke the truth. A brace +of uniformed porters at his heels preserved the smooth decorum of the hotel, +repudiating by their air of disengagement any suspicion that they formed a +reserve squad of ejectment. +</p> + +<p> +Safe on the sidewalk, Lucullus Polk turned and shook a freckled fist at the +caravansary. And, to my joy, he began to breathe deep invective in strange +words: +</p> + +<p> +“Rides in howdays, does he?” he cried loudly and sneeringly. +“Rides on elephants in howdahs and calls himself a prince! +Kings—yah! Comes over here and talks horse till you would think he was a +president; and then goes home and rides in a private dining-room strapped onto +an elephant. Well, well, well!” +</p> + +<p> +The ejecting committee quietly retired. The scorner of princes turned to me and +snapped his fingers. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think of that?” he shouted derisively. “The +Gaekwar of Baroda rides in an elephant in a howdah! And there’s old +Bikram Shamsher Jang scorching up and down the pig-paths of Khatmandu on a +motor-cycle. Wouldn’t that maharajah you? And the Shah of Persia, that +ought to have been Muley-on-the-spot for at least three, he’s got the +palanquin habit. And that funny-hat prince from Korea—wouldn’t you +think he could afford to amble around on a milk-white palfrey once in a dynasty +or two? Nothing doing! His idea of a Balaklava charge is to tuck his skirts +under him and do his mile in six days over the hog-wallows of Seoul in a +bull-cart. That’s the kind of visiting potentates that come to this +country now. It’s a hard deal, friend.” +</p> + +<p> +I murmured a few words of sympathy. But it was uncomprehending, for I did not +know his grievance against the rulers who flash, meteor-like, now and then upon +our shores. +</p> + +<p> +“The last one I sold,” continued the displeased one, “was to +that three-horse-tailed Turkish pasha that came over a year ago. Five hundred +dollars he paid for it, easy. I says to his executioner or secretary—he +was a kind of a Jew or a Chinaman—‘His Turkey Gibbets is fond of +horses, then?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Him?’ says the secretary. ‘Well, no. He’s got a +big, fat wife in the harem named Bad Dora that he don’t like. I believe +he intends to saddle her up and ride her up and down the board-walk in the +Bulbul Gardens a few times every day. You haven’t got a pair of +extra-long spurs you could throw in on the deal, have you?’ Yes, sir; +there’s mighty few real rough-riders among the royal sports these +days.” +</p> + +<p> +As soon as Lucullus Polk got cool enough I picked him up, and with no greater +effort than you would employ in persuading a drowning man to clutch a straw, I +inveigled him into accompanying me to a cool corner in a dim café. +</p> + +<p> +And it came to pass that man-servants set before us brewage; and Lucullus Polk +spake unto me, relating the wherefores of his beleaguering the antechambers of +the princes of the earth. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever hear of the S.A. & A.P. Railroad in Texas? Well, that +don’t stand for Samaritan Actor’s Aid Philanthropy. I was down that +way managing a summer bunch of the gum and syntax-chewers that play the +Idlewild Parks in the Western hamlets. Of course, we went to pieces when the +soubrette ran away with a prominent barber of Beeville. I don’t know what +became of the rest of the company. I believe there were some salaries due; and +the last I saw of the troupe was when I told them that forty-three cents was +all the treasury contained. I say I never saw any of them after that; but I +heard them for about twenty minutes. I didn’t have time to look back. But +after dark I came out of the woods and struck the S.A. & A.P. agent for +means of transportation. He at once extended to me the courtesies of the entire +railroad, kindly warning me, however, not to get aboard any of the rolling +stock. +</p> + +<p> +“About ten the next morning I steps off the ties into a village that +calls itself Atascosa City. I bought a thirty-cent breakfast and a ten-cent +cigar, and stood on the Main Street jingling the three pennies in my +pocket—dead broke. A man in Texas with only three cents in his pocket is +no better off than a man that has no money and owes two cents. +</p> + +<p> +“One of luck’s favourite tricks is to soak a man for his last +dollar so quick that he don’t have time to look it. There I was in a +swell St. Louis tailor-made, blue-and-green plaid suit, and an eighteen-carat +sulphate-of-copper scarf-pin, with no hope in sight except the two great Texas +industries, the cotton fields and grading new railroads. I never picked cotton, +and I never cottoned to a pick, so the outlook had ultramarine edges. +</p> + +<p> +“All of a sudden, while I was standing on the edge of the wooden +sidewalk, down out of the sky falls two fine gold watches in the middle of the +street. One hits a chunk of mud and sticks. The other falls hard and flies +open, making a fine drizzle of little springs and screws and wheels. I looks up +for a balloon or an airship; but not seeing any, I steps off the sidewalk to +investigate. +</p> + +<p> +“But I hear a couple of yells and see two men running up the street in +leather overalls and high-heeled boots and cartwheel hats. One man is six or +eight feet high, with open-plumbed joints and a heartbroken cast of +countenance. He picks up the watch that has stuck in the mud. The other man, +who is little, with pink hair and white eyes, goes for the empty case, and +says, ‘I win.’ Then the elevated pessimist goes down under his +leather leg-holsters and hands a handful of twenty-dollar gold pieces to his +albino friend. I don’t know how much money it was; it looked as big as an +earthquake-relief fund to me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’ll have this here case filled up with works,’ says +Shorty, ‘and throw you again for five hundred.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’m your company,’ says the high man. +‘I’ll meet you at the Smoked Dog Saloon an hour from now.’ +</p> + +<p> +“The little man hustles away with a kind of Swiss movement toward a +jewelry store. The heartbroken person stoops over and takes a telescopic view +of my haberdashery. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Them’s a mighty slick outfit of habiliments you have got +on, Mr. Man,’ says he. ‘I’ll bet a hoss you never acquired +the right, title, and interest in and to them clothes in Atascosa City.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why, no,’ says I, being ready enough to exchange +personalities with this moneyed monument of melancholy. ‘I had this suit +tailored from a special line of coatericks, vestures, and pantings in St. +Louis. Would you mind putting me sane,’ says I, ‘on this +watch-throwing contest? I’ve been used to seeing time-pieces treated with +more politeness and esteem—except women’s watches, of course, which +by nature they abuse by cracking walnuts with ’em and having ’em +taken showing in tintype pictures.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Me and George,’ he explains, ‘are up from the ranch, +having a spell of fun. Up to last month we owned four sections of watered +grazing down on the San Miguel. But along comes one of these oil prospectors +and begins to bore. He strikes a gusher that flows out twenty thousand +—or maybe it was twenty million—barrels of oil a day. And me and +George gets one hundred and fifty thousand dollars—seventy-five thousand +dollars apiece—for the land. So now and then we saddles up and hits the +breeze for Atascosa City for a few days of excitement and damage. Here’s +a little bunch of the <i>dinero</i> that I drawed out of the bank this +morning,’ says he, and shows a roll of twenties and fifties as big around +as a sleeping-car pillow. The yellowbacks glowed like a sunset on the gable end +of John D.’s barn. My knees got weak, and I sat down on the edge of the +board sidewalk. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You must have knocked around a right smart,’ goes on this +oil Grease-us. ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if you have saw towns more +livelier than what Atascosa City is. Sometimes it seems to me that there ought +to be some more ways of having a good time than there is here, ’specially +when you’ve got plenty of money and don’t mind spending it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Then this Mother Cary’s chick of the desert sits down by me and we +hold a conversationfest. It seems that he was money-poor. He’d lived in +ranch camps all his life; and he confessed to me that his supreme idea of +luxury was to ride into camp, tired out from a round-up, eat a peck of Mexican +beans, hobble his brains with a pint of raw whisky, and go to sleep with his +boots for a pillow. When this barge-load of unexpected money came to him and +his pink but perky partner, George, and they hied themselves to this clump of +outhouses called Atascosa City, you know what happened to them. They had money +to buy anything they wanted; but they didn’t know what to want. Their +ideas of spendthriftiness were limited to three—whisky, saddles, and gold +watches. If there was anything else in the world to throw away fortunes on, +they had never heard about it. So, when they wanted to have a hot time, +they’d ride into town and get a city directory and stand in front of the +principal saloon and call up the population alphabetically for free drinks. +Then they would order three or four new California saddles from the +storekeeper, and play crack-loo on the sidewalk with twenty-dollar gold pieces. +Betting who could throw his gold watch the farthest was an inspiration of +George’s; but even that was getting to be monotonous. +</p> + +<p> +“Was I on to the opportunity? Listen. +</p> + +<p> +“In thirty minutes I had dashed off a word picture of metropolitan joys +that made life in Atascosa City look as dull as a trip to Coney Island with +your own wife. In ten minutes more we shook hands on an agreement that I was to +act as his guide, interpreter and friend in and to the aforesaid wassail and +amenity. And Solomon Mills, which was his name, was to pay all expenses for a +month. At the end of that time, if I had made good as director-general of the +rowdy life, he was to pay me one thousand dollars. And then, to clinch the +bargain, we called the roll of Atascosa City and put all of its citizens except +the ladies and minors under the table, except one man named Horace Westervelt +St. Clair. Just for that we bought a couple of hatfuls of cheap silver watches +and egged him out of town with ’em. We wound up by dragging the +harness-maker out of bed and setting him to work on three new saddles; and then +we went to sleep across the railroad track at the depot, just to annoy the S.A. +& A.P. Think of having seventy-five thousand dollars and trying to avoid +the disgrace of dying rich in a town like that! +</p> + +<p> +“The next day George, who was married or something, started back to the +ranch. Me and Solly, as I now called him, prepared to shake off our moth balls +and wing our way against the arc-lights of the joyous and tuneful East. +</p> + +<p> +“‘No way-stops,’ says I to Solly, ‘except long enough +to get you barbered and haberdashed. This is no Texas feet shampetter,’ +says I, ‘where you eat chili-concarne-con-huevos and then holler +“Whoopee!” across the plaza. We’re now going against the real +high life. We’re going to mingle with the set that carries a Spitz, wears +spats, and hits the ground in high spots.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Solly puts six thousand dollars in century bills in one pocket of his +brown ducks, and bills of lading for ten thousand dollars on Eastern banks in +another. Then I resume diplomatic relations with the S.A. & A.P., and we +hike in a northwesterly direction on our circuitous route to the spice gardens +of the Yankee Orient. +</p> + +<p> +“We stopped in San Antonio long enough for Solly to buy some clothes, and +eight rounds of drinks for the guests and employees of the Menger Hotel, and +order four Mexican saddles with silver trimmings and white Angora +<i>suaderos</i> to be shipped down to the ranch. From there we made a big jump +to St. Louis. We got there in time for dinner; and I put our thumb-prints on +the register of the most expensive hotel in the city. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Now,’ says I to Solly, with a wink at myself, +‘here’s the first dinner-station we’ve struck where we can +get a real good plate of beans.’ And while he was up in his room trying +to draw water out of the gas-pipe, I got one finger in the buttonhole of the +head waiter’s Tuxedo, drew him apart, inserted a two-dollar bill, and +closed him up again. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Frankoyse,’ says I, ‘I have a pal here for dinner +that’s been subsisting for years on cereals and short stogies. You see +the chef and order a dinner for us such as you serve to Dave Francis and the +general passenger agent of the Iron Mountain when they eat here. We’ve +got more than Bernhardt’s tent full of money; and we want the nose-bags +crammed with all the Chief Deveries <i>de cuisine</i>. Object is no expense. +Now, show us.’ +</p> + +<p> +“At six o’clock me and Solly sat down to dinner. Spread! +There’s nothing been seen like it since the Cambon snack. It was all +served at once. The chef called it <i>dinnay à la poker</i>. It’s a +famous thing among the gormands of the West. The dinner comes in threes of a +kind. There was guinea-fowls, guinea-pigs, and Guinness’s stout; roast +veal, mock turtle soup, and chicken pâté; shad-roe, caviar, and tapioca; +canvas-back duck, canvas-back ham, and cotton-tail rabbit; Philadelphia capon, +fried snails, and sloe-gin—and so on, in threes. The idea was that you +eat nearly all you can of them, and then the waiter takes away the discard and +gives you pears to fill on. + +</p> + +<p> +“I was sure Solly would be tickled to death with these hands, after the +bobtail flushes he’d been eating on the ranch; and I was a little anxious +that he should, for I didn’t remember his having honoured my efforts with +a smile since we left Atascosa City. +</p> + +<p> +“We were in the main dining-room, and there was a fine-dressed crowd +there, all talking loud and enjoyable about the two St. Louis topics, the water +supply and the colour line. They mix the two subjects so fast that strangers +often think they are discussing water-colours; and that has given the old town +something of a rep as an art centre. And over in the corner was a fine brass +band playing; and now, thinks I, Solly will become conscious of the spiritual +oats of life nourishing and exhilarating his system. But <i>nong, mong +frang</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“He gazed across the table at me. There was four square yards of it, +looking like the path of a cyclone that has wandered through a stock-yard, a +poultry-farm, a vegetable-garden, and an Irish linen mill. Solly gets up and +comes around to me. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Luke,’ says he, ‘I’m pretty hungry after our +ride. I thought you said they had some beans here. I’m going out and get +something I can eat. You can stay and monkey with this artificial layout of +grub if you want to.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Wait a minute,’ says I. +</p> + +<p> +“I called the waiter, and slapped ‘S. Mills’ on the back of +the check for thirteen dollars and fifty cents. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What do you mean,’ says I, ‘by serving gentlemen with +a lot of truck only suitable for deck-hands on a Mississippi steamboat? +We’re going out to get something decent to eat.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I walked up the street with the unhappy plainsman. He saw a saddle-shop +open, and some of the sadness faded from his eyes. We went in, and he ordered +and paid for two more saddles—one with a solid silver horn and nails and +ornaments and a six-inch border of rhinestones and imitation rubies around the +flaps. The other one had to have a gold-mounted horn, quadruple-plated +stirrups, and the leather inlaid with silver beadwork wherever it would stand +it. Eleven hundred dollars the two cost him. +</p> + +<p> +“Then he goes out and heads toward the river, following his nose. In a +little side street, where there was no street and no sidewalks and no houses, +he finds what he is looking for. We go into a shanty and sit on high stools +among stevedores and boatmen, and eat beans with tin spoons. Yes, sir, +beans—beans boiled with salt pork. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I kind of thought we’d strike some over this way,’ +says Solly. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Delightful,’ says I, ‘That stylish hotel grub may +appeal to some; but for me, give me the husky <i>table d’goat</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +“When we had succumbed to the beans I leads him out of the +tarpaulin-steam under a lamp post and pulls out a daily paper with the +amusement column folded out. +</p> + +<p> +“‘But now, what ho for a merry round of pleasure,’ says I. +‘Here’s one of Hall Caine’s shows, and a stock-yard company +in “Hamlet,” and skating at the Hollowhorn Rink, and Sarah +Bernhardt, and the Shapely Syrens Burlesque Company. I should think, now, that +the Shapely—’ +</p> + +<p> +“But what does this healthy, wealthy, and wise man do but reach his arms +up to the second-story windows and gape noisily. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Reckon I’ll be going to bed,’ says he; +‘it’s about my time. St. Louis is a kind of quiet place, +ain’t it?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Oh, yes,’ says I; ‘ever since the railroads ran in +here the town’s been practically ruined. And the building-and-loan +associations and the fair have about killed it. Guess we might as well go to +bed. Wait till you see Chicago, though. Shall we get tickets for the Big Breeze +to-morrow?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Mought as well,’ says Solly. ‘I reckon all these +towns are about alike.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Well, maybe the wise cicerone and personal conductor didn’t fall +hard in Chicago! Loolooville-on-the-Lake is supposed to have one or two things +in it calculated to keep the rural visitor awake after the curfew rings. But +not for the grass-fed man of the pampas! I tried him with theatres, rides in +automobiles, sails on the lake, champagne suppers, and all those little +inventions that hold the simple life in check; but in vain. Solly grew sadder +day by day. And I got fearful about my salary, and knew I must play my trump +card. So I mentioned New York to him, and informed him that these Western towns +were no more than gateways to the great walled city of the whirling dervishes. +</p> + +<p> +“After I bought the tickets I missed Solly. I knew his habits by then; so +in a couple of hours I found him in a saddle-shop. They had some new ideas +there in the way of trees and girths that had strayed down from the Canadian +mounted police; and Solly was so interested that he almost looked reconciled to +live. He invested about nine hundred dollars in there. +</p> + +<p> +“At the depot I telegraphed a cigar-store man I knew in New York to meet +me at the Twenty-third Street ferry with a list of all the saddle-stores in the +city. I wanted to know where to look for Solly when he got lost. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I’ll tell you what happened in New York. I says to myself: +‘Friend Heherezade, you want to get busy and make Bagdad look pretty to +the sad sultan of the sour countenance, or it’ll be the bowstring for +yours.’ But I never had any doubt I could do it. +</p> + +<p> +“I began with him like you’d feed a starving man. I showed him the +horse-cars on Broadway and the Staten Island ferry-boats. And then I piled up +the sensations on him, but always keeping a lot of warmer ones up my sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +“At the end of the third day he looked like a composite picture of five +thousand orphans too late to catch a picnic steamboat, and I was wilting down a +collar every two hours wondering how I could please him and whether I was going +to get my thou. He went to sleep looking at the Brooklyn Bridge; he disregarded +the sky-scrapers above the third story; it took three ushers to wake him up at +the liveliest vaudeville in town. +</p> + +<p> +“Once I thought I had him. I nailed a pair of cuffs on him one morning +before he was awake; and I dragged him that evening to the palm-cage of one of +the biggest hotels in the city—to see the Johnnies and the +Alice-sit-by-the-hours. They were out in numerous quantities, with the fat of +the land showing in their clothes. While we were looking them over, Solly +divested himself of a fearful, rusty kind of laugh—like moving a folding +bed with one roller broken. It was his first in two weeks, and it gave me hope. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Right you are,’ says I. ‘They’re a funny lot of +post-cards, aren’t they?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of them dudes and culls on the +hoof,’ says he. ‘I was thinking of the time me and George put +sheep-dip in Horsehead Johnson’s whisky. I wish I was back in Atascosa +City,’ says he. +</p> + +<p> +“I felt a cold chill run down my back. ‘Me to play and mate in one +move,’ says I to myself. +</p> + +<p> +“I made Solly promise to stay in the café for half an hour and I hiked +out in a cab to Lolabelle Delatour’s flat on Forty-third Street. I knew +her well. She was a chorus-girl in a Broadway musical comedy. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Jane,’ says I when I found her, ‘I’ve got a +friend from Texas here. He’s all right, but—well, he carries +weight. I’d like to give him a little whirl after the show this +evening—bubbles, you know, and a buzz out to a casino for the whitebait +and pickled walnuts. Is it a go?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Can he sing?’ asks Lolabelle. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You know,’ says I, ‘that I wouldn’t take him +away from home unless his notes were good. He’s got pots of +money—bean-pots full of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Bring him around after the second act,’ says Lolabelle, +‘and I’ll examine his credentials and securities.’ +</p> + +<p> +“So about ten o’clock that evening I led Solly to Miss +Delatour’s dressing-room, and her maid let us in. In ten minutes in comes +Lolabelle, fresh from the stage, looking stunning in the costume she wears when +she steps from the ranks of the lady grenadiers and says to the king, +‘Welcome to our May-day revels.’ And you can bet it wasn’t +the way she spoke the lines that got her the part. +</p> + +<p> +“As soon as Solly saw her he got up and walked straight out through the +stage entrance into the street. I followed him. Lolabelle wasn’t paying +my salary. I wondered whether anybody was. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Luke,’ says Solly, outside, ‘that was an awful +mistake. We must have got into the lady’s private room. I hope I’m +gentleman enough to do anything possible in the way of apologies. Do you reckon +she’d ever forgive us?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘She may forget it,’ says I. ‘Of course it was a +mistake. Let’s go find some beans.’ +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the way it went. But pretty soon afterward Solly failed to +show up at dinner-time for several days. I cornered him. He confessed that he +had found a restaurant on Third Avenue where they cooked beans in Texas style. +I made him take me there. The minute I set foot inside the door I threw up my +hands. +</p> + +<p> +“There was a young woman at the desk, and Solly introduced me to her. And +then we sat down and had beans. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, sitting at the desk was the kind of a young woman that can +catch any man in the world as easy as lifting a finger. There’s a way of +doing it. She knew. I saw her working it. She was healthy-looking and plain +dressed. She had her hair drawn back from her forehead and face—no curls +or frizzes; that’s the way she looked. Now I’ll tell you the way +they work the game; it’s simple. When she wants a man, she manages it so +that every time he looks at her he finds her looking at him. That’s all. +</p> + +<p> +“The next evening Solly was to go to Coney Island with me at seven. At +eight o’clock he hadn’t showed up. I went out and found a cab. I +felt sure there was something wrong. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Drive to the Back Home Restaurant on Third Avenue,’ says I. +‘And if I don’t find what I want there, take in these +saddle-shops.’ I handed him the list. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Boss,’ says the cabby, ‘I et a steak in that +restaurant once. If you’re real hungry, I advise you to try the +saddle-shops first.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’m a detective,’ says I, ‘and I don’t +eat. Hurry up!’ +</p> + +<p> +“As soon as I got to the restaurant I felt in the lines of my palms that +I should beware of a tall, red, damfool man, and I was going to lose a sum of +money. +</p> + +<p> +“Solly wasn’t there. Neither was the smooth-haired lady. +</p> + +<p> +“I waited; and in an hour they came in a cab and got out, hand in hand. I +asked Solly to step around the corner for a few words. He was grinning clear +across his face; but I had not administered the grin. +</p> + +<p> +“‘She’s the greatest that ever sniffed the breeze,’ +says he. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Congrats,’ says I. ‘I’d like to have my +thousand now, if you please.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well, Luke,’ says he, ‘I don’t know that +I’ve had such a skyhoodlin’ fine time under your tutelage and +dispensation. But I’ll do the best I can for you—I’ll do the +best I can,’ he repeats. ‘Me and Miss Skinner was married an hour +ago. We’re leaving for Texas in the morning.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Great!’ says I. ‘Consider yourself covered with rice +and Congress gaiters. But don’t let’s tie so many satin bows on our +business relations that we lose sight of ’em. How about my +honorarium?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Missis Mills,’ says he, ‘has taken possession of my +money and papers except six bits. I told her what I’d agreed to give you; +but she says it’s an irreligious and illegal contract, and she +won’t pay a cent of it. But I ain’t going to see you treated +unfair,’ says he. ‘I’ve got eighty-seven saddles on the ranch +what I’ve bought on this trip; and when I get back I’m going to +pick out the best six in the lot and send ’em to you.’” +</p> + +<p> +“And did he?” I asked, when Lucullus ceased talking. +</p> + +<p> +“He did. And they are fit for kings to ride on. The six he sent me must +have cost him three thousand dollars. But where is the market for ’em? +Who would buy one except one of these rajahs and princes of Asia and Africa? +I’ve got ’em all on the list. I know every tan royal dub and smoked +princerino from Mindanao to the Caspian Sea.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a long time between customers,” I ventured. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re coming faster,” said Polk. “Nowadays, when one +of the murdering mutts gets civilised enough to abolish suttee and quit using +his whiskers for a napkin, he calls himself the Roosevelt of the East, and +comes over to investigate our Chautauquas and cocktails. I’ll place +’em all yet. Now look here.” +</p> + +<p> +From an inside pocket he drew a tightly folded newspaper with much-worn edges, +and indicated a paragraph. +</p> + +<p> +“Read that,” said the saddler to royalty. The paragraph ran thus: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +His Highness Seyyid Feysal bin Turkee, Imam of Muskat, is one of the most +progressive and enlightened rulers of the Old World. His stables contain more +than a thousand horses of the purest Persian breeds. It is said that this +powerful prince contemplates a visit to the United States at an early date. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” said Mr. Polk triumphantly. “My best saddle is as +good as sold—the one with turquoises set in the rim of the cantle. Have +you three dollars that you could loan me for a short time?” +</p> + +<p> +It happened that I had; and I did. +</p> + +<p> +If this should meet the eye of the Imam of Muskat, may it quicken his whim to +visit the land of the free! Otherwise I fear that I shall be longer than a +short time separated from my dollars three. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>VII<br /> +HYGEIA AT THE SOLITO</h2> + +<p> +If you are knowing in the chronicles of the ring you will recall to mind an +event in the early ’nineties when, for a minute and sundry odd seconds, a +champion and a “would-be” faced each other on the alien side of an +international river. So brief a conflict had rarely imposed upon the fair +promise of true sport. The reporters made what they could of it, but, divested +of padding, the action was sadly fugacious. The champion merely smote his +victim, turned his back upon him, remarking, “I know what I done to dat +stiff,” and extended an arm like a ship’s mast for his glove to be +removed. +</p> + +<p> +Which accounts for a trainload of extremely disgusted gentlemen in an uproar of +fancy vests and neck-wear being spilled from their pullmans in San Antonio in +the early morning following the fight. Which also partly accounts for the +unhappy predicament in which “Cricket” McGuire found himself as he +tumbled from his car and sat upon the depot platform, torn by a spasm of that +hollow, racking cough so familiar to San Antonian ears. At that time, in the +uncertain light of dawn, that way passed Curtis Raidler, the Nueces County +cattleman—may his shadow never measure under six foot two. +</p> + +<p> +The cattleman, out this early to catch the south-bound for his ranch station, +stopped at the side of the distressed patron of sport, and spoke in the kindly +drawl of his ilk and region, “Got it pretty bad, bud?” +</p> + +<p> +“Cricket” McGuire, ex-feather-weight prizefighter, tout, jockey, +follower of the “ponies,” all-round sport, and manipulator of the +gum balls and walnut shells, looked up pugnaciously at the imputation cast by +“bud.” +</p> + +<p> +“G’wan,” he rasped, “telegraph pole. I didn’t +ring for yer.” +</p> + +<p> +Another paroxysm wrung him, and he leaned limply against a convenient baggage +truck. Raidler waited patiently, glancing around at the white hats, short +overcoats, and big cigars thronging the platform. “You’re from the +No’th, ain’t you, bud?” he asked when the other was partially +recovered. “Come down to see the fight?” +</p> + +<p> +“Fight!” snapped McGuire. “Puss-in-the-corner! ’Twas a +hypodermic injection. Handed him just one like a squirt of dope, and he’s +asleep, and no tanbark needed in front of his residence. Fight!” He +rattled a bit, coughed, and went on, hardly addressing the cattleman, but +rather for the relief of voicing his troubles. “No more dead sure +t’ings for me. But Rus Sage himself would have snatched at it. Five to +one dat de boy from Cork wouldn’t stay t’ree rounds is what I +invested in. Put my last cent on, and could already smell the sawdust in dat +all-night joint of Jimmy Delaney’s on T’irty-seventh Street I was +goin’ to buy. And den—say, telegraph pole, what a gazaboo a guy is +to put his whole roll on one turn of the gaboozlum!” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re plenty right,” said the big cattleman; “more +’specially when you lose. Son, you get up and light out for a hotel. You +got a mighty bad cough. Had it long?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lungs,” said McGuire comprehensively. “I got it. The croaker +says I’ll come to time for six months longer—maybe a year if I hold +my gait. I wanted to settle down and take care of myself. Dat’s why I +speculated on dat five to one perhaps. I had a t’ousand iron dollars +saved up. If I winned I was goin’ to buy Delaney’s café. +Who’d a t’ought dat stiff would take a nap in de foist +round—say?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a hard deal,” commented Raidler, looking down at the +diminutive form of McGuire crumpled against the truck. “But you go to a +hotel and rest. There’s the Menger and the Maverick, and—” +</p> + +<p> +“And the Fi’th Av’noo, and the Waldorf-Astoria,” +mimicked McGuire. “Told you I went broke. I’m on de bum proper. +I’ve got one dime left. Maybe a trip to Europe or a sail in me private +yacht would fix me up— pa-per!” +</p> + +<p> +He flung his dime at a newsboy, got his <i>Express</i>, propped his back +against the truck, and was at once rapt in the account of his Waterloo, as +expanded by the ingenious press. +</p> + +<p> +Curtis Raidler interrogated an enormous gold watch, and laid his hand on +McGuire’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, bud,” he said. “We got three minutes to catch the +train.” +</p> + +<p> +Sarcasm seemed to be McGuire’s vein. +</p> + +<p> +“You ain’t seen me cash in any chips or call a turn since I told +you I was broke, a minute ago, have you? Friend, chase yourself away.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re going down to my ranch,” said the cattleman, +“and stay till you get well. Six months’ll fix you good as +new.” He lifted McGuire with one hand, and half-dragged him in the +direction of the train. +</p> + +<p> +“What about the money?” said McGuire, struggling weakly to escape. +</p> + +<p> +“Money for what?” asked Raidler, puzzled. They eyed each other, not +understanding, for they touched only as at the gear of bevelled +cog-wheels—at right angles, and moving upon different axes. +</p> + +<p> +Passengers on the south-bound saw them seated together, and wondered at the +conflux of two such antipodes. McGuire was five feet one, with a countenance +belonging to either Yokohama or Dublin. Bright-beady of eye, bony of cheek and +jaw, scarred, toughened, broken and reknit, indestructible, grisly, +gladiatorial as a hornet, he was a type neither new nor unfamiliar. Raidler was +the product of a different soil. Six feet two in height, miles broad, and no +deeper than a crystal brook, he represented the union of the West and South. +Few accurate pictures of his kind have been made, for art galleries are so +small and the mutoscope is as yet unknown in Texas. After all, the only +possible medium of portrayal of Raidler’s kind would be the +fresco—something high and simple and cool and unframed. +</p> + +<p> +They were rolling southward on the International. The timber was huddling into +little, dense green motts at rare distances before the inundation of the +downright, vert prairies. This was the land of the ranches; the domain of the +kings of the kine. +</p> + +<p> +McGuire sat, collapsed into his corner of the seat, receiving with acid +suspicion the conversation of the cattleman. What was the “game” of +this big “geezer” who was carrying him off? Altruism would have +been McGuire’s last guess. “He ain’t no farmer,” +thought the captive, “and he ain’t no con man, for sure. +W’at’s his lay? You trail in, Cricket, and see how many cards he +draws. You’re up against it, anyhow. You got a nickel and gallopin’ +consumption, and you better lay low. Lay low and see w’at’s his +game.” +</p> + +<p> +At Rincon, a hundred miles from San Antonio, they left the train for a +buckboard which was waiting there for Raidler. In this they travelled the +thirty miles between the station and their destination. If anything could, this +drive should have stirred the acrimonious McGuire to a sense of his ransom. +They sped upon velvety wheels across an exhilarant savanna. The pair of Spanish +ponies struck a nimble, tireless trot, which gait they occasionally relieved by +a wild, untrammelled gallop. The air was wine and seltzer, perfumed, as they +absorbed it, with the delicate redolence of prairie flowers. The road perished, +and the buckboard swam the uncharted billows of the grass itself, steered by +the practised hand of Raidler, to whom each tiny distant mott of trees was a +signboard, each convolution of the low hills a voucher of course and distance. +But McGuire reclined upon his spine, seeing nothing but a desert, and receiving +the cattleman’s advances with sullen distrust. “W’at’s +he up to?” was the burden of his thoughts; “w’at kind of a +gold brick has the big guy got to sell?” McGuire was only applying the +measure of the streets he had walked to a range bounded by the horizon and the +fourth dimension. +</p> + +<p> +A week before, while riding the prairies, Raidler had come upon a sick and +weakling calf deserted and bawling. Without dismounting he had reached and +slung the distressed bossy across his saddle, and dropped it at the ranch for +the boys to attend to. It was impossible for McGuire to know or comprehend +that, in the eyes of the cattleman, his case and that of the calf were +identical in interest and demand upon his assistance. A creature was ill and +helpless; he had the power to render aid—these were the only postulates +required for the cattleman to act. They formed his system of logic and the most +of his creed. McGuire was the seventh invalid whom Raidler had picked up thus +casually in San Antonio, where so many thousand go for the ozone that is said +to linger about its contracted streets. Five of them had been guests of Solito +Ranch until they had been able to leave, cured or better, and exhausting the +vocabulary of tearful gratitude. One came too late, but rested very +comfortably, at last, under a ratama tree in the garden. +</p> + +<p> +So, then, it was no surprise to the ranchhold when the buckboard spun to the +door, and Raidler took up his debile <i>protégé</i> like a handful of rags and +set him down upon the gallery. +</p> + +<p> +McGuire looked upon things strange to him. The ranch-house was the best in the +country. It was built of brick hauled one hundred miles by wagon, but it was of +but one story, and its four rooms were completely encircled by a mud floor +“gallery.” The miscellaneous setting of horses, dogs, saddles, +wagons, guns, and cow-punchers’ paraphernalia oppressed the metropolitan +eyes of the wrecked sportsman. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, here we are at home,” said Raidler, cheeringly. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a h—l of a looking place,” said McGuire promptly, +as he rolled upon the gallery floor in a fit of coughing. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ll try to make it comfortable for you, buddy,” said the +cattleman gently. “It ain’t fine inside; but it’s the +outdoors, anyway, that’ll do you the most good. This’ll be your +room, in here. Anything we got, you ask for it.” +</p> + +<p> +He led McGuire into the east room. The floor was bare and clean. White curtains +waved in the gulf breeze through the open windows. A big willow rocker, two +straight chairs, a long table covered with newspapers, pipes, tobacco, spurs, +and cartridges stood in the centre. Some well-mounted heads of deer and one of +an enormous black javeli projected from the walls. A wide, cool cot-bed stood +in a corner. Nueces County people regarded this guest chamber as fit for a +prince. McGuire showed his eyeteeth at it. He took out his nickel and spun it +up to the ceiling. +</p> + +<p> +“T’ought I was lyin’ about the money, did ye? Well, you can +frisk me if you wanter. Dat’s the last simoleon in the treasury. +Who’s goin’ to pay?” +</p> + +<p> +The cattleman’s clear grey eyes looked steadily from under his grizzly +brows into the huckleberry optics of his guest. After a little he said simply, +and not ungraciously, “I’ll be much obliged to you, son, if you +won’t mention money any more. Once was quite a plenty. Folks I ask to my +ranch don’t have to pay anything, and they very scarcely ever offers it. +Supper’ll be ready in half an hour. There’s water in the pitcher, +and some, cooler, to drink, in that red jar hanging on the gallery.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s the bell?” asked McGuire, looking about. +</p> + +<p> +“Bell for what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bell to ring for things. I can’t—see here,” he +exploded in a sudden, weak fury, “I never asked you to bring me here. I +never held you up for a cent. I never gave you a hard-luck story till you asked +me. Here I am fifty miles from a bellboy or a cocktail. I’m sick. I +can’t hustle. Gee! but I’m up against it!” McGuire fell upon +the cot and sobbed shiveringly. +</p> + +<p> +Raidler went to the door and called. A slender, bright-complexioned Mexican +youth about twenty came quickly. Raidler spoke to him in Spanish. +</p> + +<p> +“Ylario, it is in my mind that I promised you the position of +<i>vaquero</i> on the San Carlos range at the fall <i>rodeo</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Si, señor</i>, such was your goodness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen. This <i>señorito</i> is my friend. He is very sick. Place yourself at +his side. Attend to his wants at all times. Have much patience and care with +him. And when he is well, or—and when he is well, instead of <i>vaquero</i> I +will make you <i>mayordomo</i> of the Rancho de las Piedras. +<i>Esta bueno?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Si, si—mil gracias, señor</i>.” Ylario tried to kneel +upon the floor in his gratitude, but the cattleman kicked at him benevolently, +growling, “None of your opery-house antics, now.” +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes later Ylario came from McGuire’s room and stood before +Raidler. +</p> + +<p> +“The little <i>señor</i>,” he announced, “presents his +compliments” (Raidler credited Ylario with the preliminary) “and +desires some pounded ice, one hot bath, one gin feez-z, that the windows be all +closed, toast, one shave, one Newyorkheral’, cigarettes, and to send one +telegram.” +</p> + +<p> +Raidler took a quart bottle of whisky from his medicine cabinet. “Here, +take him this,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Thus was instituted the reign of terror at the Solito Ranch. For a few weeks +McGuire blustered and boasted and swaggered before the cow-punchers who rode +in for miles around to see this latest importation of Raidler’s. He was +an absolutely new experience to them. He explained to them all the intricate +points of sparring and the tricks of training and defence. He opened to their +minds’ view all the indecorous life of a tagger after professional +sports. His jargon of slang was a continuous joy and surprise to them. His +gestures, his strange poses, his frank ribaldry of tongue and principle +fascinated them. He was like a being from a new world. +</p> + +<p> +Strange to say, this new world he had entered did not exist to him. He was an +utter egoist of bricks and mortar. He had dropped out, he felt, into open space +for a time, and all it contained was an audience for his reminiscences. Neither +the limitless freedom of the prairie days nor the grand hush of the +close-drawn, spangled nights touched him. All the hues of Aurora could not win +him from the pink pages of a sporting journal. “Get something for +nothing,” was his mission in life; “Thirty-seventh” Street +was his goal. +</p> + +<p> +Nearly two months after his arrival he began to complain that he felt worse. It +was then that he became the ranch’s incubus, its harpy, its Old Man of +the Sea. He shut himself in his room like some venomous kobold or +flibbertigibbet, whining, complaining, cursing, accusing. The keynote of his +plaint was that he had been inveigled into a gehenna against his will; that he +was dying of neglect and lack of comforts. With all his dire protestations of +increasing illness, to the eye of others he remained unchanged. His +currant-like eyes were as bright and diabolic as ever; his voice was as +rasping; his callous face, with the skin drawn tense as a drum-head, had no +flesh to lose. A flush on his prominent cheek bones each afternoon hinted that +a clinical thermometer might have revealed a symptom, and percussion might have +established the fact that McGuire was breathing with only one lung, but his +appearance remained the same. +</p> + +<p> +In constant attendance upon him was Ylario, whom the coming reward of the +<i>mayordomo</i>ship must have greatly stimulated, for McGuire chained him to a +bitter existence. The air—the man’s only chance for life—he +commanded to be kept out by closed windows and drawn curtains. The room was +always blue and foul with cigarette smoke; whosoever entered it must sit, +suffocating, and listen to the imp’s interminable gasconade concerning +his scandalous career. +</p> + +<p> +The oddest thing of all was the relation existing between McGuire and his +benefactor. The attitude of the invalid toward the cattleman was something like +that of a peevish, perverse child toward an indulgent parent. When Raidler +would leave the ranch McGuire would fall into a fit of malevolent, silent +sullenness. When he returned, he would be met by a string of violent and +stinging reproaches. Raidler’s attitude toward his charge was quite +inexplicable in its way. The cattleman seemed actually to assume and feel the +character assigned to him by McGuire’s intemperate accusations—the +character of tyrant and guilty oppressor. He seemed to have adopted the +responsibility of the fellow’s condition, and he always met his tirades +with a pacific, patient, and even remorseful kindness that never altered. +</p> + +<p> +One day Raidler said to him, “Try more air, son. You can have the +buckboard and a driver every day if you’ll go. Try a week or two in one +of the cow camps. I’ll fix you up plumb comfortable. The ground, and the +air next to it—them’s the things to cure you. I knowed a man from +Philadelphy, sicker than you are, got lost on the Guadalupe, and slept on the +bare grass in sheep camps for two weeks. Well, sir, it started him getting +well, which he done. Close to the ground—that’s where the medicine +in the air stays. Try a little hossback riding now. There’s a gentle +pony—” +</p> + +<p> +“What’ve I done to yer?” screamed McGuire. “Did I ever +doublecross yer? Did I ask you to bring me here? Drive me out to your camps if +you wanter; or stick a knife in me and save trouble. Ride! I can’t lift +my feet. I couldn’t sidestep a jab from a five-year-old kid. That’s +what your d—d ranch has done for me. There’s nothing to eat, +nothing to see, and nobody to talk to but a lot of Reubens who don’t know +a punching bag from a lobster salad.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a lonesome place, for certain,” apologised Raidler +abashedly. “We got plenty, but it’s rough enough. Anything you +think of you want, the boys’ll ride up and fetch it down for you.” +</p> + +<p> +It was Chad Murchison, a cow-puncher from the Circle Bar outfit, who first +suggested that McGuire’s illness was fraudulent. Chad had brought a +basket of grapes for him thirty miles, and four out of his way, tied to his +saddle-horn. After remaining in the smoke-tainted room for a while, he emerged +and bluntly confided his suspicions to Raidler. +</p> + +<p> +“His arm,” said Chad, “is harder’n a diamond. He +interduced me to what he called a shore-perplexus punch, and ’twas like +being kicked twice by a mustang. He’s playin’ it low down on you, +Curt. He ain’t no sicker’n I am. I hate to say it, but the +runt’s workin’ you for range and shelter.” +</p> + +<p> +The cattleman’s ingenuous mind refused to entertain Chad’s view of +the case, and when, later, he came to apply the test, doubt entered not into +his motives. +</p> + +<p> +One day, about noon, two men drove up to the ranch, alighted, hitched, and came +in to dinner; standing and general invitations being the custom of the country. +One of them was a great San Antonio doctor, whose costly services had been +engaged by a wealthy cowman who had been laid low by an accidental bullet. He +was now being driven back to the station to take the train back to town. After +dinner Raidler took him aside, pushed a twenty-dollar bill against his hand, +and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Doc, there’s a young chap in that room I guess has got a bad case +of consumption. I’d like for you to look him over and see just how bad he +is, and if we can do anything for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“How much was that dinner I just ate, Mr. Raidler?” said the doctor +bluffly, looking over his spectacles. Raidler returned the money to his pocket. +The doctor immediately entered McGuire’s room, and the cattleman seated +himself upon a heap of saddles on the gallery, ready to reproach himself in the +event the verdict should be unfavourable. +</p> + +<p> +In ten minutes the doctor came briskly out. “Your man,” he said +promptly, “is as sound as a new dollar. His lungs are better than mine. +Respiration, temperature, and pulse normal. Chest expansion four inches. Not a +sign of weakness anywhere. Of course I didn’t examine for the bacillus, +but it isn’t there. You can put my name to the diagnosis. Even cigarettes +and a vilely close room haven’t hurt him. Coughs, does he? Well, you tell +him it isn’t necessary. You asked if there is anything we could do for +him. Well, I advise you to set him digging post-holes or breaking mustangs. +There’s our team ready. Good-day, sir.” And like a puff of +wholesome, blustery wind the doctor was off. +</p> + +<p> +Raidler reached out and plucked a leaf from a mesquite bush by the railing, and +began chewing it thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +The branding season was at hand, and the next morning Ross Hargis, foreman of +the outfit, was mustering his force of some twenty-five men at the ranch, ready +to start for the San Carlos range, where the work was to begin. By six +o’clock the horses were all saddled, the grub wagon ready, and the +cow-punchers were swinging themselves upon their mounts, when Raidler bade them +wait. A boy was bringing up an extra pony, bridled and saddled, to the gate. +Raidler walked to McGuire’s room and threw open the door. McGuire was +lying on his cot, not yet dressed, smoking. +</p> + +<p> +“Get up,” said the cattleman, and his voice was clear and brassy, +like a bugle. +</p> + +<p> +“How’s that?” asked McGuire, a little startled. +</p> + +<p> +“Get up and dress. I can stand a rattlesnake, but I hate a liar. Do I +have to tell you again?” He caught McGuire by the neck and stood him on +the floor. +</p> + +<p> +“Say, friend,” cried McGuire wildly, “are you bug-house? +I’m sick— see? I’ll croak if I got to hustle. What’ve I +done to yer?”—he began his chronic whine—“I never asked +yer to—” +</p> + +<p> +“Put on your clothes,” called Raidler in a rising tone. +</p> + +<p> +Swearing, stumbling, shivering, keeping his amazed, shining eyes upon the now +menacing form of the aroused cattleman, McGuire managed to tumble into his +clothes. Then Raidler took him by the collar and shoved him out and across the +yard to the extra pony hitched at the gate. The cow-punchers lolled in their +saddles, open-mouthed. +</p> + +<p> +“Take this man,” said Raidler to Ross Hargis, “and put him to +work. Make him work hard, sleep hard, and eat hard. You boys know I done what I +could for him, and he was welcome. Yesterday the best doctor in San Antone +examined him, and says he’s got the lungs of a burro and the constitution +of a steer. You know what to do with him, Ross.” +</p> + +<p> +Ross Hargis only smiled grimly. +</p> + +<p> +“Aw,” said McGuire, looking intently at Raidler, with a peculiar +expression upon his face, “the croaker said I was all right, did he? Said +I was fakin’, did he? You put him onto me. You t’ought I +wasn’t sick. You said I was a liar. Say, friend, I talked rough, I know, +but I didn’t mean most of it. If you felt like I did—aw! I +forgot—I ain’t sick, the croaker says. Well, friend, now I’ll +go work for yer. Here’s where you play even.” +</p> + +<p> +He sprang into the saddle easily as a bird, got the quirt from the horn, and +gave his pony a slash with it. “Cricket,” who once brought in Good +Boy by a neck at Hawthorne—and a 10 to 1 shot—had his foot in the +stirrups again. +</p> + +<p> +McGuire led the cavalcade as they dashed away for San Carlos, and the +cow-punchers gave a yell of applause as they closed in behind his dust. +</p> + +<p> +But in less than a mile he had lagged to the rear, and was last man when they +struck the patch of high chaparral below the horse pens. Behind a clump of this +he drew rein, and held a handkerchief to his mouth. He took it away drenched +with bright, arterial blood, and threw it carefully into a clump of prickly +pear. Then he slashed with his quirt again, gasped “G’wan” to +his astonished pony, and galloped after the gang. +</p> + +<p> +That night Raidler received a message from his old home in Alabama. There had +been a death in the family; an estate was to divide, and they called for him to +come. Daylight found him in the buckboard, skimming the prairies for the +station. It was two months before he returned. When he arrived at the ranch +house he found it well-nigh deserted save for Ylario, who acted as a kind of +steward during his absence. Little by little the youth made him acquainted with +the work done while he was away. The branding camp, he was informed, was still +doing business. On account of many severe storms the cattle had been badly +scattered, and the branding had been accomplished but slowly. The camp was now +in the valley of the Guadalupe, twenty miles away. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way,” said Raidler, suddenly remembering, “that +fellow I sent along with them—McGuire—is he working yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know,” said Ylario. “Mans from the camp come verree +few times to the ranch. So plentee work with the leetle calves. They no say. +Oh, I think that fellow McGuire he dead much time ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead!” said Raidler. “What you talking about?” +</p> + +<p> +“Verree sick fellow, McGuire,” replied Ylario, with a shrug of his +shoulder. “I theenk he no live one, two month when he go away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shucks!” said Raidler. “He humbugged you, too, did he? The +doctor examined him and said he was sound as a mesquite knot.” +</p> + +<p> +“That doctor,” said Ylario, smiling, “he tell you so? That +doctor no see McGuire.” +</p> + +<p> +“Talk up,” ordered Raidler. “What the devil do you +mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“McGuire,” continued the boy tranquilly, “he getting drink +water outside when that doctor come in room. That doctor take me and pound me +all over here with his fingers”—putting his hand to his +chest—“I not know for what. He put his ear here and here and here, +and listen— I not know for what. He put little glass stick in my mouth. +He feel my arm here. He make me count like whisper—so—twenty, +<i>treinta</i>, <i>cuarenta</i>. Who knows,” concluded Ylario, with a +deprecating spread of his hands, “for what that doctor do those verree +droll and such-like things?” +</p> + +<p> +“What horses are up?” asked Raidler shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“Paisano is grazing out behind the little corral, <i>señor</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Saddle him for me at once.” +</p> + +<p> +Within a very few minutes the cattleman was mounted and away. Paisano, well +named after that ungainly but swift-running bird, struck into his long lope +that ate up the ground like a strip of macaroni. In two hours and a quarter +Raidler, from a gentle swell, saw the branding camp by a water hole in the +Guadalupe. Sick with expectancy of the news he feared, he rode up, dismounted, +and dropped Paisano’s reins. So gentle was his heart that at that moment +he would have pleaded guilty to the murder of McGuire. +</p> + +<p> +The only being in the camp was the cook, who was just arranging the hunks of +barbecued beef, and distributing the tin coffee cups for supper. Raidler evaded +a direct question concerning the one subject in his mind. +</p> + +<p> +“Everything all right in camp, Pete?” he managed to inquire. +</p> + +<p> +“So, so,” said Pete, conservatively. “Grub give out twice. +Wind scattered the cattle, and we’ve had to rake the brush for forty +mile. I need a new coffee-pot. And the mosquitos is some more hellish than +common.” +</p> + +<p> +“The boys—all well?” +</p> + +<p> +Pete was no optimist. Besides, inquiries concerning the health of cow-punchers +were not only superfluous, but bordered on flaccidity. It was not like the boss +to make them. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s left of ’em don’t miss no calls to grub,” +the cook conceded. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s left of ’em?” repeated Raidler in a husky +voice. Mechanically he began to look around for McGuire’s grave. He had +in his mind a white slab such as he had seen in the Alabama church-yard. But +immediately he knew that was foolish. +</p> + +<p> +“Sure,” said Pete; “what’s left. Cow camps change in +two months. Some’s gone.” +</p> + +<p> +Raidler nerved himself. +</p> + +<p> +“That—chap—I sent +along—McGuire—did—he—” +</p> + +<p> +“Say,” interrupted Pete, rising with a chunk of corn bread in each +hand, “that was a dirty shame, sending that poor, sick kid to a cow camp. +A doctor that couldn’t tell he was graveyard meat ought to be skinned +with a cinch buckle. Game as he was, too—it’s a scandal among +snakes—lemme tell you what he done. First night in camp the boys started +to initiate him in the leather breeches degree. Ross Hargis busted him one +swipe with his chaparreras, and what do you reckon the poor child did? Got up, +the little skeeter, and licked Ross. Licked Ross Hargis. Licked him good. Hit +him plenty and everywhere and hard. Ross’d just get up and pick out a +fresh place to lay down on agin. +</p> + +<p> +“Then that McGuire goes off there and lays down with his head in the +grass and bleeds. A hem’ridge they calls it. He lays there eighteen hours +by the watch, and they can’t budge him. Then Ross Hargis, who loves any +man who can lick him, goes to work and damns the doctors from Greenland to +Poland Chiny; and him and Green Branch Johnson they gets McGuire into a tent, +and spells each other feedin’ him chopped raw meat and whisky. +</p> + +<p> +“But it looks like the kid ain’t got no appetite to git well, for +they misses him from the tent in the night and finds him rootin’ in the +grass, and likewise a drizzle fallin’. ‘G’wan,’ he +says, ‘lemme go and die like I wanter. He said I was a liar and a fake +and I was playin’ sick. Lemme alone.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Two weeks,” went on the cook, “he laid around, not +noticin’ nobody, and then—” +</p> + +<p> +A sudden thunder filled the air, and a score of galloping centaurs crashed +through the brush into camp. +</p> + +<p> +“Illustrious rattlesnakes!” exclaimed Pete, springing all ways at +once; “here’s the boys come, and I’m an assassinated man if +supper ain’t ready in three minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +But Raidler saw only one thing. A little, brown-faced, grinning chap, springing +from his saddle in the full light of the fire. McGuire was not like that, and +yet— +</p> + +<p> +In another instant the cattleman was holding him by the hand and shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Son, son, how goes it?” was all he found to say. +</p> + +<p> +“Close to the ground, says you,” shouted McGuire, crunching +Raidler’s fingers in a grip of steel; “and dat’s where I +found it—healt’ and strengt’, and tumbled to what a cheap +skate I been actin’. T’anks fer kickin’ me out, old man. +And—say! de joke’s on dat croaker, ain’t it? I looked +t’rough the window and see him playin’ tag on dat Dago kid’s +solar plexus.” +</p> + +<p> +“You son of a tinker,” growled the cattleman, “whyn’t +you talk up and say the doctor never examined you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah—g’wan!” said McGuire, with a flash of his old +asperity, “nobody can’t bluff me. You never ast me. You made your +spiel, and you t’rowed me out, and I let it go at dat. And, say, friend, +dis chasin’ cows is outer sight. Dis is de whitest bunch of sports I ever +travelled with. You’ll let me stay, won’t yer, old man?” +</p> + +<p> +Raidler looked wonderingly toward Ross Hargis. +</p> + +<p> +“That cussed little runt,” remarked Ross tenderly, “is the +Jo-dartin’est hustler—and the hardest hitter in anybody’s cow +camp.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>VIII<br /> +AN AFTERNOON MIRACLE</h2> + +<p> +At the United States end of an international river bridge, four armed rangers +sweltered in a little ’dobe hut, keeping a fairly faithful espionage upon +the lagging trail of passengers from the Mexican side. +</p> + +<p> +Bud Dawson, proprietor of the Top Notch Saloon, had, on the evening previous, +violently ejected from his premises one Leandro Garcia, for alleged violation +of the Top Notch code of behaviour. Garcia had mentioned twenty-four hours as a +limit, by which time he would call and collect a painful indemnity for personal +satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +This Mexican, although a tremendous braggart, was thoroughly courageous, and +each side of the river respected him for one of these attributes. He and a +following of similar bravoes were addicted to the pastime of retrieving towns +from stagnation. +</p> + +<p> +The day designated by Garcia for retribution was to be further signalised on +the American side by a cattlemen’s convention, a bull fight, and an old +settlers’ barbecue and picnic. Knowing the avenger to be a man of his +word, and believing it prudent to court peace while three such gently social +relaxations were in progress, Captain McNulty, of the ranger company stationed +there, detailed his lieutenant and three men for duty at the end of the bridge. +Their instructions were to prevent the invasion of Garcia, either alone or +attended by his gang. +</p> + +<p> +Travel was slight that sultry afternoon, and the rangers swore gently, and +mopped their brows in their convenient but close quarters. For an hour no one +had crossed save an old woman enveloped in a brown wrapper and a black +mantilla, driving before her a burro loaded with kindling wood tied in small +bundles for peddling. Then three shots were fired down the street, the sound +coming clear and snappy through the still air. +</p> + +<p> +The four rangers quickened from sprawling, symbolic figures of indolence to +alert life, but only one rose to his feet. Three turned their eyes beseechingly +but hopelessly upon the fourth, who had gotten nimbly up and was buckling his +cartridge-belt around him. The three knew that Lieutenant Bob Buckley, in +command, would allow no man of them the privilege of investigating a row when +he himself might go. +</p> + +<p> +The agile, broad-chested lieutenant, without a change of expression in his +smooth, yellow-brown, melancholy face, shot the belt strap through the guard of +the buckle, hefted his sixes in their holsters as a belle gives the finishing +touches to her toilette, caught up his Winchester, and dived for the door. +There he paused long enough to caution his comrades to maintain their watch +upon the bridge, and then plunged into the broiling highway. +</p> + +<p> +The three relapsed into resigned inertia and plaintive comment. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve heard of fellows,” grumbled Broncho Leathers, +“what was wedded to danger, but if Bob Buckley ain’t committed +bigamy with trouble, I’m a son of a gun.” +</p> + +<p> +“Peculiarness of Bob is,” inserted the Nueces Kid, “he +ain’t had proper trainin’. He never learned how to git skeered. +Now, a man ought to be skeered enough when he tackles a fuss to hanker after +readin’ his name on the list of survivors, anyway.” +</p> + +<p> +“Buckley,” commented Ranger No. 3, who was a misguided Eastern man, +burdened with an education, “scraps in such a solemn manner that I have +been led to doubt its spontaneity. I’m not quite onto his system, but he +fights, like Tybalt, by the book of arithmetic.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never heard,” mentioned Broncho, “about any of +Dibble’s ways of mixin’ scrappin’ and cipherin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“Triggernometry?” suggested the Nueces infant. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s rather better than I hoped from you,” nodded the +Easterner, approvingly. “The other meaning is that Buckley never goes +into a fight without giving away weight. He seems to dread taking the slightest +advantage. That’s quite close to foolhardiness when you are dealing with +horse-thieves and fence-cutters who would ambush you any night, and shoot you +in the back if they could. Buckley’s too full of sand. He’ll play +Horatius and hold the bridge once too often some day.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m on there,” drawled the Kid; “I mind that bridge +gang in the reader. Me, I go instructed for the other chap—Spurious +Somebody—the one that fought and pulled his freight, to fight ’em +on some other day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Anyway,” summed up Broncho, “Bob’s about the gamest +man I ever see along the Rio Bravo. Great Sam Houston! If she gets any hotter +she’ll sizzle!” Broncho whacked at a scorpion with his four-pound +Stetson felt, and the three watchers relapsed into comfortless silence. +</p> + +<p> +How well Bob Buckley had kept his secret, since these men, for two years his +side comrades in countless border raids and dangers, thus spake of him, not +knowing that he was the most arrant physical coward in all that Rio Bravo +country! Neither his friends nor his enemies had suspected him of aught else +than the finest courage. It was purely a physical cowardice, and only by an +extreme, grim effort of will had he forced his craven body to do the bravest +deeds. Scourging himself always, as a monk whips his besetting sin, Buckley +threw himself with apparent recklessness into every danger, with the hope of +some day ridding himself of the despised affliction. But each successive test +brought no relief, and the ranger’s face, by nature adapted to +cheerfulness and good-humour, became set to the guise of gloomy melancholy. +Thus, while the frontier admired his deeds, and his prowess was celebrated in +print and by word of mouth in many camp-fires in the valley of the Bravo, his +heart was sick within him. Only himself knew of the horrible tightening of the +chest, the dry mouth, the weakening of the spine, the agony of the strung +nerves—the never-failing symptoms of his shameful malady. +</p> + +<p> +One mere boy in his company was wont to enter a fray with a leg perched +flippantly about the horn of his saddle, a cigarette hanging from his lips, +which emitted smoke and original slogans of clever invention. Buckley would +have given a year’s pay to attain that devil-may-care method. Once the +debonair youth said to him: “Buck, you go into a scrap like it was a +funeral. Not,” he added, with a complimentary wave of his tin cup, +“but what it generally is.” +</p> + +<p> +Buckley’s conscience was of the New England order with Western +adjustments, and he continued to get his rebellious body into as many +difficulties as possible; wherefore, on that sultry afternoon he chose to drive +his own protesting limbs to investigation of that sudden alarm that had +startled the peace and dignity of the State. +</p> + +<p> +Two squares down the street stood the Top Notch Saloon. Here Buckley came upon +signs of recent upheaval. A few curious spectators pressed about its front +entrance, grinding beneath their heels the fragments of a plate-glass window. +Inside, Buckley found Bud Dawson utterly ignoring a bullet wound in his +shoulder, while he feelingly wept at having to explain why he failed to drop +the “blamed masquerooter,” who shot him. At the entrance of the +ranger Bud turned appealingly to him for confirmation of the devastation he +might have dealt. +</p> + +<p> +“You know, Buck, I’d ’a’ plum got him, first rattle, if +I’d thought a minute. Come in a-masque-rootin’, playin’ +female till he got the drop, and turned loose. I never reached for a gun, +thinkin’ it was sure Chihuahua Betty, or Mrs. Atwater, or anyhow one of +the Mayfield girls comin’ a-gunnin’, which they might, liable as +not. I never thought of that blamed Garcia until—” +</p> + +<p> +“Garcia!” snapped Buckley. “How did he get over here?” +</p> + +<p> +Bud’s bartender took the ranger by the arm and led him to the side door. +There stood a patient grey burro cropping the grass along the gutter, with a +load of kindling wood tied across its back. On the ground lay a black shawl and +a voluminous brown dress. +</p> + +<p> +“Masquerootin’ in them things,” called Bud, still resisting +attempted ministrations to his wounds. “Thought he was a lady till he +gave a yell and winged me.” +</p> + +<p> +“He went down this side street,” said the bartender. “He was +alone, and he’ll hide out till night when his gang comes over. You ought +to find him in that Mexican lay-out below the depot. He’s got a girl down +there—Pancha Sales.” +</p> + +<p> +“How was he armed?” asked Buckley. +</p> + +<p> +“Two pearl-handled sixes, and a knife.” +</p> + +<p> +“Keep this for me, Billy,” said the ranger, handing over his +Winchester. Quixotic, perhaps, but it was Bob Buckley’s way. Another +man—and a braver one—might have raised a posse to accompany him. It +was Buckley’s rule to discard all preliminary advantage. +</p> + +<p> +The Mexican had left behind him a wake of closed doors and an empty street, but +now people were beginning to emerge from their places of refuge with assumed +unconsciousness of anything having happened. Many citizens who knew the ranger +pointed out to him with alacrity the course of Garcia’s retreat. +</p> + +<p> +As Buckley swung along upon the trail he felt the beginning of the suffocating +constriction about his throat, the cold sweat under the brim of his hat, the +old, shameful, dreaded sinking of his heart as it went down, down, down in his +bosom. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +The morning train of the Mexican Central had that day been three hours late, +thus failing to connect with the I. & G.N. on the other side of the river. +Passengers for <i>Los Estados Unidos</i> grumblingly sought entertainment in +the little swaggering mongrel town of two nations, for, until the morrow, no +other train would come to rescue them. Grumblingly, because two days later +would begin the great fair and races in San Antone. Consider that at that time +San Antone was the hub of the wheel of Fortune, and the names of its spokes +were Cattle, Wool, Faro, Running Horses, and Ozone. In those times cattlemen +played at crack-loo on the sidewalks with double-eagles, and gentlemen backed +their conception of the fortuitous card with stacks limited in height only by +the interference of gravity. Wherefore, thither journeyed the sowers and the +reapers—they who stampeded the dollars, and they who rounded them up. +Especially did the caterers to the amusement of the people haste to San Antone. +Two greatest shows on earth were already there, and dozens of smallest ones +were on the way. +</p> + +<p> +On a side track near the mean little ’dobe depot stood a private car, +left there by the Mexican train that morning and doomed by an ineffectual +schedule to ignobly await, amid squalid surroundings, connection with the next +day’s regular. +</p> + +<p> +The car had been once a common day-coach, but those who had sat in it and +gringed to the conductor’s hat-band slips would never have recognised it +in its transformation. Paint and gilding and certain domestic touches had +liberated it from any suspicion of public servitude. The whitest of lace +curtains judiciously screened its windows. From its fore end drooped in the +torrid air the flag of Mexico. From its rear projected the Stars and Stripes +and a busy stovepipe, the latter reinforcing in its suggestion of culinary +comforts the general suggestion of privacy and ease. The beholder’s eye, +regarding its gorgeous sides, found interest to culminate in a single name in +gold and blue letters extending almost its entire length—a single name, +the audacious privilege of royalty and genius. Doubly, then, was this arrogant +nomenclature here justified; for the name was that of “Alvarita, Queen of +the Serpent Tribe.” This, her car, was back from a triumphant tour of the +principal Mexican cities, and now headed for San Antonio, where, according to +promissory advertisement, she would exhibit her “Marvellous Dominion and +Fearless Control over Deadly and Venomous Serpents, Handling them with Ease as +they Coil and Hiss to the Terror of Thousands of Tongue-tied Tremblers!” +</p> + +<p> +One hundred in the shade kept the vicinity somewhat depeopled. This quarter of +the town was a ragged edge; its denizens the bubbling froth of five nations; +its architecture tent, <i>jacal</i>, and ’dobe; its distractions the +hurdy-gurdy and the informal contribution to the sudden stranger’s store +of experience. Beyond this dishonourable fringe upon the old town’s jowl +rose a dense mass of trees, surmounting and filling a little hollow. Through +this bickered a small stream that perished down the sheer and disconcerting +side of the great cañon of the Rio Bravo del Norte. +</p> + +<p> +In this sordid spot was condemned to remain for certain hours the impotent +transport of the Queen of the Serpent Tribe. +</p> + +<p> +The front door of the car was open. Its forward end was curtained off into a +small reception-room. Here the admiring and propitiatory reporters were wont to +sit and transpose the music of Señorita Alvarita’s talk into the more +florid key of the press. A picture of Abraham Lincoln hung against a wall; one +of a cluster of school-girls grouped upon stone steps was in another place; a +third was Easter lilies in a blood-red frame. A neat carpet was under foot. A +pitcher, sweating cold drops, and a glass stood on a fragile stand. In a willow +rocker, reading a newspaper, sat Alvarita. +</p> + +<p> +Spanish, you would say; Andalusian, or, better still, Basque; that compound, +like the diamond, of darkness and fire. Hair, the shade of purple grapes viewed +at midnight. Eyes, long, dusky, and disquieting with their untroubled +directness of gaze. Face, haughty and bold, touched with a pretty insolence +that gave it life. To hasten conviction of her charm, but glance at the stacks +of handbills in the corner, green, and yellow, and white. Upon them you see an +incompetent presentment of the señorita in her professional garb and pose. +Irresistible, in black lace and yellow ribbons, she faces you; a blue racer is +spiralled upon each bare arm; coiled twice about her waist and once about her +neck, his horrid head close to hers, you perceive Kuku, the great eleven-foot +Asian python. +</p> + +<p> +A hand drew aside the curtain that partitioned the car, and a middle-aged, +faded woman holding a knife and a half-peeled potato looked in and said: +</p> + +<p> +“Alviry, are you right busy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m reading the home paper, ma. What do you think! that pale, +tow-headed Matilda Price got the most votes in the <i>News</i> for the +prettiest girl in Gallipo—<i>lees</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shush! She wouldn’t of done it if <i>you’d</i> been home, +Alviry. Lord knows, I hope we’ll be there before fall’s over. +I’m tired gallopin’ round the world playin’ we are dagoes, +and givin’ snake shows. But that ain’t what I wanted to say. That +there biggest snake’s gone again. I’ve looked all over the car and +can’t find him. He must have been gone an hour. I remember hearin’ +somethin’ rustlin’ along the floor, but I thought it was +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, blame that old rascal!” exclaimed the Queen, throwing down her +paper. “This is the third time he’s got away. George never +<i>will</i> fasten down the lid to his box properly. I do believe he’s +<i>afraid</i> of Kuku. Now I’ve got to go hunt him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Better hurry; somebody might hurt him.” +</p> + +<p> +The Queen’s teeth showed in a gleaming, contemptuous smile. “No +danger. When they see Kuku outside they simply scoot away and buy bromides. +There’s a crick over between here and the river. That old scamp’d +swap his skin any time for a drink of running water. I guess I’ll find +him there, all right.” +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes later Alvarita stopped upon the forward platform, ready for her +quest. Her handsome black skirt was shaped to the most recent proclamation of +fashion. Her spotless shirt-waist gladdened the eye in that desert of sunshine, +a swelling oasis, cool and fresh. A man’s split-straw hat sat firmly on +her coiled, abundant hair. Beneath her serene, round, impudent chin a +man’s four-in-hand tie was jauntily knotted about a man’s high, +stiff collar. A parasol she carried, of white silk, and its fringe was lace, +yellowly genuine. +</p> + +<p> +I will grant Gallipolis as to her costume, but firmly to Seville or Valladolid +I am held by her eyes; castanets, balconies, mantillas, serenades, ambuscades, +escapades—all these their dark depths guaranteed. +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t you afraid to go out alone, Alviry?” queried the +Queen-mother anxiously. “There’s so many rough people about. Mebbe +you’d better—” +</p> + +<p> +“I never saw anything I was afraid of yet, ma. ’Specially people. +And men in particular. Don’t you fret. I’ll trot along back as soon +as I find that runaway scamp.” +</p> + +<p> +The dust lay thick upon the bare ground near the tracks. Alvarita’s eye +soon discovered the serrated trail of the escaped python. It led across the +depot grounds and away down a smaller street in the direction of the little +cañon, as predicted by her. A stillness and lack of excitement in the +neighbourhood encouraged the hope that, as yet, the inhabitants were unaware +that so formidable a guest traversed their highways. The heat had driven them +indoors, whence outdrifted occasional shrill laughs, or the depressing whine of +a maltreated concertina. In the shade a few Mexican children, like vivified +stolid idols in clay, stared from their play, vision-struck and silent, as +Alvarita came and went. Here and there a woman peeped from a door and stood +dumb, reduced to silence by the aspect of the white silk parasol. +</p> + +<p> +A hundred yards and the limits of the town were passed, scattered chaparral +succeeding, and then a noble grove, overflowing the bijou cañon. Through this a +small bright stream meandered. Park-like it was, with a kind of cockney +ruralness further endorsed by the waste papers and rifled tins of picnickers. +Up this stream, and down it, among its pseudo-sylvan glades and depressions, +wandered the bright and unruffled Alvarita. Once she saw evidence of the +recreant reptile’s progress in his distinctive trail across a spread of +fine sand in the arroyo. The living water was bound to lure him; he could not +be far away. +</p> + +<p> +So sure was she of his immediate proximity that she perched herself to idle for +a time in the curve of a great creeper that looped down from a giant water-elm. +To reach this she climbed from the pathway a little distance up the side of a +steep and rugged incline. Around her chaparral grew thick and high. A +late-blooming ratama tree dispensed from its yellow petals a sweet and +persistent odour. Adown the ravine rustled a seductive wind, melancholy with +the taste of sodden, fallen leaves. +</p> + +<p> +Alvarita removed her hat, and undoing the oppressive convolutions of her hair, +began to slowly arrange it in two long, dusky plaits. +</p> + +<p> +From the obscure depths of a thick clump of evergreen shrubs five feet away, +two small jewel-bright eyes were steadfastly regarding her. Coiled there lay +Kuku, the great python; Kuku, the magnificent, he of the plated muzzle, the +grooved lips, the eleven-foot stretch of elegantly and brilliantly mottled +skin. The great python was viewing his mistress without a sound or motion to +disclose his presence. Perhaps the splendid truant forefelt his capture, but, +screened by the foliage, thought to prolong the delight of his escapade. What +pleasure it was, after the hot and dusty car, to lie thus, smelling the running +water, and feeling the agreeable roughness of the earth and stones against his +body! Soon, very soon the Queen would find him, and he, powerless as a worm in +her audacious hands, would be returned to the dark chest in the narrow house +that ran on wheels. +</p> + +<p> +Alvarita heard a sudden crunching of the gravel below her. Turning her head she +saw a big, swarthy Mexican, with a daring and evil expression, contemplating +her with an ominous, dull eye. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want?” she asked as sharply as five hairpins between +her lips would permit, continuing to plait her hair, and looking him over with +placid contempt. The Mexican continued to gaze at her, and showed his teeth in +a white, jagged smile. +</p> + +<p> +“I no hurt-y you, Señorita,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“You bet you won’t,” answered the Queen, shaking back one +finished, massive plait. “But don’t you think you’d better +move on?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not hurt-y you—no. But maybeso take one <i>beso</i>—one +li’l kees, you call him.” +</p> + +<p> +The man smiled again, and set his foot to ascend the slope. Alvarita leaned +swiftly and picked up a stone the size of a cocoanut. +</p> + +<p> +“Vamoose, quick,” she ordered peremptorily, “you +<i>coon!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +The red of insult burned through the Mexican’s dark skin. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Hidalgo, Yo!</i>” he shot between his fangs. “I am not +neg-r-ro! <i>Diabla bonita</i>, for that you shall pay me.” +</p> + +<p> +He made two quick upward steps this time, but the stone, hurled by no weak arm, +struck him square in the chest. He staggered back to the footway, swerved half +around, and met another sight that drove all thoughts of the girl from his +head. She turned her eyes to see what had diverted his interest. A man with +red-brown, curling hair and a melancholy, sunburned, smooth-shaven face was +coming up the path, twenty yards away. Around the Mexican’s waist was +buckled a pistol belt with two empty holsters. He had laid aside his +sixes—possibly in the <i>jacal</i> of the fair Pancha—and had +forgotten them when the passing of the fairer Alvarita had enticed him to her +trail. His hands now flew instinctively to the holsters, but finding the +weapons gone, he spread his fingers outward with the eloquent, abjuring, +deprecating Latin gesture, and stood like a rock. Seeing his plight, the +newcomer unbuckled his own belt containing two revolvers, threw it upon the +ground, and continued to advance. +</p> + +<p> +“Splendid!” murmured Alvarita, with flashing eyes. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +As Bob Buckley, according to the mad code of bravery that his sensitive +conscience imposed upon his cowardly nerves, abandoned his guns and closed in +upon his enemy, the old, inevitable nausea of abject fear wrung him. His breath +whistled through his constricted air passages. His feet seemed like lumps of +lead. His mouth was dry as dust. His heart, congested with blood, hurt his ribs +as it thumped against them. The hot June day turned to moist November. And +still he advanced, spurred by a mandatory pride that strained its uttermost +against his weakling flesh. +</p> + +<p> +The distance between the two men slowly lessened. The Mexican stood, immovable, +waiting. When scarce five yards separated them a little shower of loosened +gravel rattled down from above to the ranger’s feet. He glanced upward +with instinctive caution. A pair of dark eyes, brilliantly soft, and fierily +tender, encountered and held his own. The most fearful heart and the boldest +one in all the Rio Bravo country exchanged a silent and inscrutable +communication. Alvarita, still seated within her vine, leaned forward above the +breast-high chaparral. One hand was laid across her bosom. One great dark braid +curved forward over her shoulder. Her lips were parted; her face was lit with +what seemed but wonder—great and absolute wonder. Her eyes lingered upon +Buckley’s. Let no one ask or presume to tell through what subtle medium +the miracle was performed. As by a lightning flash two clouds will accomplish +counterpoise and compensation of electric surcharge, so on that eyeglance the +man received his complement of manhood, and the maid conceded what enriched her +womanly grace by its loss. +</p> + +<p> +The Mexican, suddenly stirring, ventilated his attitude of apathetic waiting by +conjuring swiftly from his bootleg a long knife. Buckley cast aside his hat, +and laughed once aloud, like a happy school-boy at a frolic. Then, +empty-handed, he sprang nimbly, and Garcia met him without default. +</p> + +<p> +So soon was the engagement ended that disappointment imposed upon the +ranger’s warlike ecstasy. Instead of dealing the traditional downward +stroke, the Mexican lunged straight with his knife. Buckley took the precarious +chance, and caught his wrist, fair and firm. Then he delivered the good Saxon +knock-out blow—always so pathetically disastrous to the fistless Latin +races—and Garcia was down and out, with his head under a clump of prickly +pears. The ranger looked up again to the Queen of the Serpents. +</p> + +<p> +Alvarita scrambled down to the path. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m mighty glad I happened along when I did,” said the +ranger. +</p> + +<p> +“He—he frightened me so!” cooed Alvarita. +</p> + +<p> +They did not hear the long, low hiss of the python under the shrubs. Wiliest of +the beasts, no doubt he was expressing the humiliation he felt at having so +long dwelt in subjection to this trembling and colouring mistress of his whom +he had deemed so strong and potent and fearsome. +</p> + +<p> +Then came galloping to the spot the civic authorities; and to them the ranger +awarded the prostrate disturber of the peace, whom they bore away limply across +the saddle of one of their mounts. But Buckley and Alvarita lingered. +</p> + +<p> +Slowly, slowly they walked. The ranger regained his belt of weapons. With a +fine timidity she begged the indulgence of fingering the great .45’s, +with little “Ohs” and “Ahs” of new-born, delicious +shyness. +</p> + +<p> +The <i>cañoncito</i> was growing dusky. Beyond its terminus in the river bluff +they could see the outer world yet suffused with the waning glory of sunset. +</p> + +<p> +A scream—a piercing scream of fright from Alvarita. Back she cowered, and +the ready, protecting arm of Buckley formed her refuge. What terror so dire as +to thus beset the close of the reign of the never-before-daunted Queen? +</p> + +<p> +Across the path there crawled a <i>caterpillar</i>—a horrid, fuzzy, +two-inch caterpillar! Truly, Kuku, thou went avenged. Thus abdicated the Queen +of the Serpent Tribe—<i>viva la reina!</i> +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>IX<br /> +THE HIGHER ABDICATION</h2> + +<p> +Curly the tramp sidled toward the free-lunch counter. He caught a fleeting +glance from the bartender’s eye, and stood still, trying to look like a +business man who had just dined at the Menger and was waiting for a friend who +had promised to pick him up in his motor car. Curly’s histrionic powers +were equal to the impersonation; but his make-up was wanting. +</p> + +<p> +The bartender rounded the bar in a casual way, looking up at the ceiling as +though he was pondering some intricate problem of kalsomining, and then fell +upon Curly so suddenly that the roadster had no excuses ready. Irresistibly, +but so composedly that it seemed almost absendmindedness on his part, the +dispenser of drinks pushed Curly to the swinging doors and kicked him out, with +a nonchalance that almost amounted to sadness. That was the way of the +Southwest. +</p> + +<p> +Curly arose from the gutter leisurely. He felt no anger or resentment toward +his ejector. Fifteen years of tramphood spent out of the twenty-two years of +his life had hardened the fibres of his spirit. The slings and arrows of +outrageous fortune fell blunted from the buckler of his armoured pride. With +especial resignation did he suffer contumely and injury at the hands of +bartenders. Naturally, they were his enemies; and unnaturally, they were often +his friends. He had to take his chances with them. But he had not yet learned +to estimate these cool, languid, Southwestern knights of the bungstarter, who +had the manners of an Earl of Pawtucket, and who, when they disapproved of your +presence, moved you with the silence and despatch of a chess automaton +advancing a pawn. +</p> + +<p> +Curly stood for a few moments in the narrow, mesquite-paved street. San Antonio +puzzled and disturbed him. Three days he had been a non-paying guest of the +town, having dropped off there from a box car of an I. & G.N. freight, +because Greaser Johnny had told him in Des Moines that the Alamo City was manna +fallen, gathered, cooked, and served free with cream and sugar. Curly had found +the tip partly a good one. There was hospitality in plenty of a careless, +liberal, irregular sort. But the town itself was a weight upon his spirits +after his experience with the rushing, business-like, systematised cities of +the North and East. Here he was often flung a dollar, but too frequently a +good-natured kick would follow it. Once a band of hilarious cowboys had roped +him on Military Plaza and dragged him across the black soil until no +respectable rag-bag would have stood sponsor for his clothes. The winding, +doubling streets, leading nowhere, bewildered him. And then there was a little +river, crooked as a pot-hook, that crawled through the middle of the town, +crossed by a hundred little bridges so nearly alike that they got on +Curly’s nerves. And the last bartender wore a number nine shoe. +</p> + +<p> +The saloon stood on a corner. The hour was eight o’clock. Homefarers and +outgoers jostled Curly on the narrow stone sidewalk. Between the buildings to +his left he looked down a cleft that proclaimed itself another thoroughfare. +The alley was dark except for one patch of light. Where there was light there +were sure to be human beings. Where there were human beings after nightfall in +San Antonio there might be food, and there was sure to be drink. So Curly +headed for the light. +</p> + +<p> +The illumination came from Schwegel’s Café. On the sidewalk in front of +it Curly picked up an old envelope. It might have contained a check for a +million. It was empty; but the wanderer read the address, “Mr. Otto +Schwegel,” and the name of the town and State. The postmark was Detroit. +</p> + +<p> +Curly entered the saloon. And now in the light it could be perceived that he +bore the stamp of many years of vagabondage. He had none of the tidiness of the +calculating and shrewd professional tramp. His wardrobe represented the +cast-off specimens of half a dozen fashions and eras. Two factories had +combined their efforts in providing shoes for his feet. As you gazed at him +there passed through your mind vague impressions of mummies, wax figures, +Russian exiles, and men lost on desert islands. His face was covered almost to +his eyes with a curly brown beard that he kept trimmed short with a +pocket-knife, and that had furnished him with his <i>nom de route</i>. +Light-blue eyes, full of sullenness, fear, cunning, impudence, and fawning, +witnessed the stress that had been laid upon his soul. +</p> + +<p> +The saloon was small, and in its atmosphere the odours of meat and drink +struggled for the ascendancy. The pig and the cabbage wrestled with hydrogen +and oxygen. Behind the bar Schwegel laboured with an assistant whose epidermal +pores showed no signs of being obstructed. Hot weinerwurst and sauerkraut were +being served to purchasers of beer. Curly shuffled to the end of the bar, +coughed hollowly, and told Schwegel that he was a Detroit cabinet-maker out of +a job. +</p> + +<p> +It followed as the night the day that he got his schooner and lunch. +</p> + +<p> +“Was you acquainted maybe with Heinrich Strauss in Detroit?” asked +Schwegel. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I know Heinrich Strauss?” repeated Curly, affectionately. +“Why, say, ’Bo, I wish I had a dollar for every game of pinochle me +and Heine has played on Sunday afternoons.” +</p> + +<p> +More beer and a second plate of steaming food was set before the diplomat. And +then Curly, knowing to a fluid-drachm how far a “con” game would +go, shuffled out into the unpromising street. +</p> + +<p> +And now he began to perceive the inconveniences of this stony Southern town. +There was none of the outdoor gaiety and brilliancy and music that provided +distraction even to the poorest in the cities of the North. Here, even so +early, the gloomy, rock-walled houses were closed and barred against the murky +dampness of the night. The streets were mere fissures through which flowed grey +wreaths of river mist. As he walked he heard laughter and the chink of coin and +chips behind darkened windows, and music coming from every chink of wood and +stone. But the diversions were selfish; the day of popular pastimes had not yet +come to San Antonio. +</p> + +<p> +But at length Curly, as he strayed, turned the sharp angle of another lost +street and came upon a rollicking band of stockmen from the outlying ranches +celebrating in the open in front of an ancient wooden hotel. One great +roisterer from the sheep country who had just instigated a movement toward the +bar, swept Curly in like a stray goat with the rest of his flock. The princes +of kine and wool hailed him as a new zoological discovery, and uproariously +strove to preserve him in the diluted alcohol of their compliments and regards. +</p> + +<p> +An hour afterward Curly staggered from the hotel barroom dismissed by his +fickle friends, whose interest in him had subsided as quickly as it had risen. +Full—stoked with alcoholic fuel and cargoed with food, the only question +remaining to disturb him was that of shelter and bed. +</p> + +<p> +A drizzling, cold Texas rain had begun to fall—an endless, lazy, +unintermittent downfall that lowered the spirits of men and raised a reluctant +steam from the warm stones of the streets and houses. Thus comes the +“norther” dousing gentle spring and amiable autumn with the +chilling salutes and adieux of coming and departing winter. +</p> + +<p> +Curly followed his nose down the first tortuous street into which his +irresponsible feet conducted him. At the lower end of it, on the bank of the +serpentine stream, he perceived an open gate in a cemented rock wall. Inside he +saw camp fires and a row of low wooden sheds built against three sides of the +enclosing wall. He entered the enclosure. Under the sheds many horses were +champing at their oats and corn. Many wagons and buckboards stood about with +their teams’ harness thrown carelessly upon the shafts and doubletrees. +Curly recognised the place as a wagon-yard, such as is provided by merchants +for their out-of-town friends and customers. No one was in sight. No doubt the +drivers of those wagons were scattered about the town “seeing the +elephant and hearing the owl.” In their haste to become patrons of the +town’s dispensaries of mirth and good cheer the last ones to depart must +have left the great wooden gate swinging open. +</p> + +<p> +Curly had satisfied the hunger of an anaconda and the thirst of a camel, so he +was neither in the mood nor the condition of an explorer. He zigzagged his way +to the first wagon that his eyesight distinguished in the semi-darkness under +the shed. It was a two-horse wagon with a top of white canvas. The wagon was +half filled with loose piles of wool sacks, two or three great bundles of grey +blankets, and a number of bales, bundles, and boxes. A reasoning eye would have +estimated the load at once as ranch supplies, bound on the morrow for some +outlying hacienda. But to the drowsy intelligence of Curly they represented +only warmth and softness and protection against the cold humidity of the night. +After several unlucky efforts, at last he conquered gravity so far as to climb +over a wheel and pitch forward upon the best and warmest bed he had fallen upon +in many a day. Then he became instinctively a burrowing animal, and dug his way +like a prairie-dog down among the sacks and blankets, hiding himself from the +cold air as snug and safe as a bear in his den. For three nights sleep had +visited Curly only in broken and shivering doses. So now, when Morpheus +condescended to pay him a call, Curly got such a strangle hold on the +mythological old gentleman that it was a wonder that anyone else in the whole +world got a wink of sleep that night. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Six cowpunchers of the Cibolo Ranch were waiting around the door of the ranch +store. Their ponies cropped grass near by, tied in the Texas +fashion—which is not tied at all. Their bridle reins had been dropped to +the earth, which is a more effectual way of securing them (such is the power of +habit and imagination) than you could devise out of a half-inch rope and a +live-oak tree. +</p> + +<p> +These guardians of the cow lounged about, each with a brown cigarette paper in +his hand, and gently but unceasingly cursed Sam Revell, the storekeeper. Sam +stood in the door, snapping the red elastic bands on his pink madras +shirtsleeves and looking down affectionately at the only pair of tan shoes +within a forty-mile radius. His offence had been serious, and he was divided +between humble apology and admiration for the beauty of his raiment. He had +allowed the ranch stock of “smoking” to become exhausted. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought sure there was another case of it under the counter, +boys,” he explained. “But it happened to be catterdges.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve sure got a case of happenedicitis,” said Poky +Rodgers, fence rider of the Largo Verde <i>potrero</i>. “Somebody ought +to happen to give you a knock on the head with the butt end of a quirt. +I’ve rode in nine miles for some tobacco; and it don’t appear +natural and seemly that you ought to be allowed to live.” +</p> + +<p> +“The boys was smokin’ cut plug and dried mesquite leaves mixed when +I left,” sighed Mustang Taylor, horse wrangler of the Three Elm camp. +“They’ll be lookin’ for me back by nine. They’ll be +settin’ up, with their papers ready to roll a whiff of the real thing +before bedtime. And I’ve got to tell ’em that this pink-eyed, +sheep-headed, sulphur-footed, shirt-waisted son of a calico broncho, Sam +Revell, hasn’t got no tobacco on hand.” +</p> + +<p> +Gregorio Falcon, Mexican vaquero and best thrower of the rope on the Cibolo, +pushed his heavy, silver-embroidered straw sombrero back upon his thicket of +jet black curls, and scraped the bottoms of his pockets for a few crumbs of the +precious weed. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Don Samuel,” he said, reproachfully, but with his touch of +Castilian manners, “escuse me. Dthey say dthe jackrabbeet and dthe sheep +have dthe most leetle <i>sesos</i>—how you call dthem—brain-es? Ah +don’t believe dthat, Don Samuel—escuse me. Ah dthink people +w’at don’t keep esmokin’ tobacco, dthey—bot you weel +escuse me, Don Samuel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, what’s the use of chewin’ the rag, boys,” said +the untroubled Sam, stooping over to rub the toes of his shoes with a +red-and-yellow handkerchief. “Ranse took the order for some more +smokin’ to San Antone with him Tuesday. Pancho rode Ranse’s hoss +back yesterday; and Ranse is goin’ to drive the wagon back himself. There +wa’n’t much of a load—just some woolsacks and blankets and +nails and canned peaches and a few things we was out of. I look for Ranse to +roll in to-day sure. He’s an early starter and a hell-to-split driver, +and he ought to be here not far from sundown.” +</p> + +<p> +“What plugs is he drivin’?” asked Mustang Taylor, with a +smack of hope in his tones. +</p> + +<p> +“The buckboard greys,” said Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll wait a spell, then,” said the wrangler. “Them +plugs eat up a trail like a road-runner swallowin’ a whip snake. And you +may bust me open a can of greengage plums, Sam, while I’m waitin’ +for somethin’ better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Open me some yellow clings,” ordered Poky Rodgers. +“I’ll wait, too.” +</p> + +<p> +The tobaccoless punchers arranged themselves comfortably on the steps of the +store. Inside Sam chopped open with a hatchet the tops of the cans of fruit. +</p> + +<p> +The store, a big, white wooden building like a barn, stood fifty yards from the +ranch-house. Beyond it were the horse corrals; and still farther the wool sheds +and the brush-topped shearing pens—for the Rancho Cibolo raised both +cattle and sheep. Behind the store, at a little distance, were the +grass-thatched <i>jacals</i> of the Mexicans who bestowed their allegiance upon +the Cibolo. +</p> + +<p> +The ranch-house was composed of four large rooms, with plastered adobe walls, +and a two-room wooden ell. A twenty-feet-wide “gallery” +circumvented the structure. It was set in a grove of immense live-oaks and +water-elms near a lake—a long, not very wide, and tremendously deep lake +in which at nightfall, great gars leaped to the surface and plunged with the +noise of hippopotamuses frolicking at their bath. From the trees hung garlands +and massive pendants of the melancholy grey moss of the South. Indeed, the +Cibolo ranch-house seemed more of the South than of the West. It looked as if +old “Kiowa” Truesdell might have brought it with him from the +lowlands of Mississippi when he came to Texas with his rifle in the hollow of +his arm in ’55. +</p> + +<p> +But, though he did not bring the family mansion, Truesdell did bring something +in the way of a family inheritance that was more lasting than brick or stone. +He brought one end of the Truesdell-Curtis family feud. And when a Curtis +bought the Rancho de los Olmos, sixteen miles from the Cibolo, there were +lively times on the pear flats and in the chaparral thickets off the Southwest. +In those days Truesdell cleaned the brush of many a wolf and tiger cat and +Mexican lion; and one or two Curtises fell heirs to notches on his rifle stock. +Also he buried a brother with a Curtis bullet in him on the bank of the lake at +Cibolo. And then the Kiowa Indians made their last raid upon the ranches +between the Frio and the Rio Grande, and Truesdell at the head of his rangers +rid the earth of them to the last brave, earning his sobriquet. Then came +prosperity in the form of waxing herds and broadening lands. And then old age +and bitterness, when he sat, with his great mane of hair as white as the +Spanish-dagger blossoms and his fierce, pale-blue eyes, on the shaded gallery +at Cibolo, growling like the pumas that he had slain. He snapped his fingers at +old age; the bitter taste to life did not come from that. The cup that stuck at +his lips was that his only son Ransom wanted to marry a Curtis, the last +youthful survivor of the other end of the feud. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +For a while the only sounds to be heard at the store were the rattling of the +tin spoons and the gurgling intake of the juicy fruits by the cowpunchers, the +stamping of the grazing ponies, and the singing of a doleful song by Sam as he +contentedly brushed his stiff auburn hair for the twentieth time that day +before a crinkly mirror. +</p> + +<p> +From the door of the store could be seen the irregular, sloping stretch of +prairie to the south, with its reaches of light-green, billowy mesquite flats +in the lower places, and its rises crowned with nearly black masses of short +chaparral. Through the mesquite flat wound the ranch road that, five miles +away, flowed into the old government trail to San Antonio. The sun was so low +that the gentlest elevation cast its grey shadow miles into the green-gold sea +of sunshine. +</p> + +<p> +That evening ears were quicker than eyes. +</p> + +<p> +The Mexican held up a tawny finger to still the scraping of tin against tin. +</p> + +<p> +“One waggeen,” said he, “cross dthe Arroyo Hondo. Ah hear +dthe wheel. Verree rockee place, dthe Hondo.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve got good ears, Gregorio,” said Mustang Taylor. +“I never heard nothin’ but the song-bird in the bush and the zephyr +skallyhootin’ across the peaceful dell.” +</p> + +<p> +In ten minutes Taylor remarked: “I see the dust of a wagon risin’ +right above the fur end of the flat.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have verree good eyes, señor,” said Gregorio, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +Two miles away they saw a faint cloud dimming the green ripples of the +mesquites. In twenty minutes they heard the clatter of the horses’ hoofs: +in five minutes more the grey plugs dashed out of the thicket, whickering for +oats and drawing the light wagon behind them like a toy. +</p> + +<p> +From the <i>jacals</i> came a cry of: “<i>El Amo! El Amo!</i>” Four +Mexican youths raced to unharness the greys. The cowpunchers gave a yell of +greeting and delight. +</p> + +<p> +Ranse Truesdell, driving, threw the reins to the ground and laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s under the wagon sheet, boys,” he said. “I know +what you’re waiting for. If Sam lets it run out again we’ll use +those yellow shoes of his for a target. There’s two cases. Pull ’em +out and light up. I know you all want a smoke.” +</p> + +<p> +After striking dry country Ranse had removed the wagon sheet from the bows and +thrown it over the goods in the wagon. Six pair of hasty hands dragged it off +and grabbled beneath the sacks and blankets for the cases of tobacco. +</p> + +<p> +Long Collins, tobacco messenger from the San Gabriel outfit, who rode with the +longest stirrups west of the Mississippi, delved with an arm like the tongue of +a wagon. He caught something harder than a blanket and pulled out a fearful +thing—a shapeless, muddy bunch of leather tied together with wire and +twine. From its ragged end, like the head and claws of a disturbed turtle, +protruded human toes. +</p> + +<p> +“Who-ee!” yelled Long Collins. “Ranse, are you +a-packin’ around of corpuses? Here’s a—howlin’ +grasshoppers!” +</p> + +<p> +Up from his long slumber popped Curly, like some vile worm from its burrow. He +clawed his way out and sat blinking like a disreputable, drunken owl. His face +was as bluish-red and puffed and seamed and cross-lined as the cheapest round +steak of the butcher. His eyes were swollen slits; his nose a pickled beet; his +hair would have made the wildest thatch of a Jack-in-the-box look like the +satin poll of a Cléo de Mérode. The rest of him was scarecrow done to the life. +</p> + +<p> +Ranse jumped down from his seat and looked at his strange cargo with wide-open +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, you maverick, what are you doing in my wagon? How did you get in +there?” +</p> + +<p> +The punchers gathered around in delight. For the time they had forgotten +tobacco. +</p> + +<p> +Curly looked around him slowly in every direction. He snarled like a Scotch +terrier through his ragged beard. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is this?” he rasped through his parched throat. +“It’s a damn farm in an old field. What’d you bring me here +for—say? Did I say I wanted to come here? What are you Reubs +rubberin’ at—hey? G’wan or I’ll punch some of yer +faces.” +</p> + +<p> +“Drag him out, Collins,” said Ranse. +</p> + +<p> +Curly took a slide and felt the ground rise up and collide with his shoulder +blades. He got up and sat on the steps of the store shivering from outraged +nerves, hugging his knees and sneering. Taylor lifted out a case of tobacco and +wrenched off its top. Six cigarettes began to glow, bringing peace and +forgiveness to Sam. +</p> + +<p> +“How’d you come in my wagon?” repeated Ranse, this time in a +voice that drew a reply. +</p> + +<p> +Curly recognised the tone. He had heard it used by freight brakemen and large +persons in blue carrying clubs. +</p> + +<p> +“Me?” he growled. “Oh, was you talkin’ to me? Why, I +was on my way to the Menger, but my valet had forgot to pack my pyjamas. So I +crawled into that wagon in the wagon-yard—see? I never told you to bring +me out to this bloomin’ farm—see?” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Mustang?” asked Poky Rodgers, almost forgetting to +smoke in his ecstasy. “What do it live on?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a galliwampus, Poky,” said Mustang. “It’s +the thing that hollers ‘willi-walloo’ up in ellum trees in the low +grounds of nights. I don’t know if it bites.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it ain’t, Mustang,” volunteered Long Collins. +“Them galliwampuses has fins on their backs, and eighteen toes. This here +is a hicklesnifter. It lives under the ground and eats cherries. Don’t +stand so close to it. It wipes out villages with one stroke of its prehensile +tail.” +</p> + +<p> +Sam, the cosmopolite, who called bartenders in San Antone by their first name, +stood in the door. He was a better zoologist. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, ain’t that a Willie for your whiskers?” he commented. +“Where’d you dig up the hobo, Ranse? Goin’ to make an +auditorium for inbreviates out of the ranch?” +</p> + +<p> +“Say,” said Curly, from whose panoplied breast all shafts of wit +fell blunted. “Any of you kiddin’ guys got a drink on you? Have +your fun. Say, I’ve been hittin’ the stuff till I don’t know +straight up.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned to Ranse. “Say, you shanghaied me on your d—d old prairie +schooner—did I tell you to drive me to a farm? I want a drink. I’m +goin’ all to little pieces. What’s doin’?” +</p> + +<p> +Ranse saw that the tramp’s nerves were racking him. He despatched one of +the Mexican boys to the ranch-house for a glass of whisky. Curly gulped it +down; and into his eyes came a brief, grateful glow—as human as the +expression in the eye of a faithful setter dog. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanky, boss,” he said, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re thirty miles from a railroad, and forty miles from a +saloon,” said Ranse. +</p> + +<p> +Curly fell back weakly against the steps. +</p> + +<p> +“Since you are here,” continued the ranchman, “come along +with me. We can’t turn you out on the prairie. A rabbit might tear you to +pieces.” +</p> + +<p> +He conducted Curly to a large shed where the ranch vehicles were kept. There he +spread out a canvas cot and brought blankets. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t suppose you can sleep,” said Ranse, “since +you’ve been pounding your ear for twenty-four hours. But you can camp +here till morning. I’ll have Pedro fetch you up some grub.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sleep!” said Curly. “I can sleep a week. Say, sport, have +you got a coffin nail on you?” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +Fifty miles had Ransom Truesdell driven that day. And yet this is what he did. +</p> + +<p> +Old “Kiowa” Truesdell sat in his great wicker chair reading by the +light of an immense oil lamp. Ranse laid a bundle of newspapers fresh from town +at his elbow. +</p> + +<p> +“Back, Ranse?” said the old man, looking up. +</p> + +<p> +“Son,” old “Kiowa” continued, “I’ve been +thinking all day about a certain matter that we have talked about. I want you +to tell me again. I’ve lived for you. I’ve fought wolves and +Indians and worse white men to protect you. You never had any mother that you +can remember. I’ve taught you to shoot straight, ride hard, and live +clean. Later on I’ve worked to pile up dollars that’ll be yours. +You’ll be a rich man, Ranse, when my chunk goes out. I’ve made you. +I’ve licked you into shape like a leopard cat licks its cubs. You +don’t belong to yourself —you’ve got to be a Truesdell first. +Now, is there to be any more nonsense about this Curtis girl?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you once more,” said Ranse, slowly. “As I am +a Truesdell and as you are my father, I’ll never marry a Curtis.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good boy,” said old “Kiowa.” “You’d better +go get some supper.” +</p> + +<p> +Ranse went to the kitchen at the rear of the house. Pedro, the Mexican cook, +sprang up to bring the food he was keeping warm in the stove. +</p> + +<p> +“Just a cup of coffee, Pedro,” he said, and drank it standing. And +then: +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a tramp on a cot in the wagon-shed. Take him something to +eat. Better make it enough for two.” +</p> + +<p> +Ranse walked out toward the <i>jacals</i>. A boy came running. +</p> + +<p> +“Manuel, can you catch Vaminos, in the little pasture, for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not, señor? I saw him near the <i>puerta</i> but two hours past. He +bears a drag-rope.” +</p> + +<p> +“Get him and saddle him as quick as you can.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Prontito, señor</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Soon, mounted on Vaminos, Ranse leaned in the saddle, pressed with his knees, +and galloped eastward past the store, where sat Sam trying his guitar in the +moonlight. +</p> + +<p> +Vaminos shall have a word—Vaminos the good dun horse. The Mexicans, who +have a hundred names for the colours of a horse, called him <i>gruyo</i>. He +was a mouse-coloured, slate-coloured, flea-bitten roan-dun, if you can conceive +it. Down his back from his mane to his tail went a line of black. He would live +forever; and surveyors have not laid off as many miles in the world as he could +travel in a day. +</p> + +<p> +Eight miles east of the Cibolo ranch-house Ranse loosened the pressure of his +knees, and Vaminos stopped under a big ratama tree. The yellow ratama blossoms +showered fragrance that would have undone the roses of France. The moon made +the earth a great concave bowl with a crystal sky for a lid. In a glade five +jack-rabbits leaped and played together like kittens. Eight miles farther east +shone a faint star that appeared to have dropped below the horizon. Night +riders, who often steered their course by it, knew it to be the light in the +Rancho de los Olmos. +</p> + +<p> +In ten minutes Yenna Curtis galloped to the tree on her sorrel pony Dancer. The +two leaned and clasped hands heartily. +</p> + +<p> +“I ought to have ridden nearer your home,” said Ranse. “But +you never will let me.” +</p> + +<p> +Yenna laughed. And in the soft light you could see her strong white teeth and +fearless eyes. No sentimentality there, in spite of the moonlight, the odour of +the ratamas, and the admirable figure of Ranse Truesdell, the lover. But she +was there, eight miles from her home, to meet him. +</p> + +<p> +“How often have I told you, Ranse,” she said, “that I am your +half-way girl? Always half-way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” said Ranse, with a question in his tones. +</p> + +<p> +“I did,” said Yenna, with almost a sigh. “I told him after +dinner when I thought he would be in a good humour. Did you ever wake up a +lion, Ranse, with the mistaken idea that he would be a kitten? He almost tore +the ranch to pieces. It’s all up. I love my daddy, Ranse, and I’m +afraid—I’m afraid of him too. He ordered me to promise that +I’d never marry a Truesdell. I promised. That’s all. What luck did +you have?” +</p> + +<p> +“The same,” said Ranse, slowly. “I promised him that his son +would never marry a Curtis. Somehow I couldn’t go against him. He’s +mighty old. I’m sorry, Yenna.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl leaned in her saddle and laid one hand on Ranse’s, on the horn +of his saddle. +</p> + +<p> +“I never thought I’d like you better for giving me up,” she +said ardently, “but I do. I must ride back now, Ranse. I slipped out of +the house and saddled Dancer myself. Good-night, neighbour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night,” said Ranse. “Ride carefully over them badger +holes.” +</p> + +<p> +They wheeled and rode away in opposite directions. Yenna turned in her saddle +and called clearly: +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t forget I’m your half-way girl, Ranse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Damn all family feuds and inherited scraps,” muttered Ranse +vindictively to the breeze as he rode back to the Cibolo. +</p> + +<p> +Ranse turned his horse into the small pasture and went to his own room. He +opened the lowest drawer of an old bureau to get out the packet of letters that +Yenna had written him one summer when she had gone to Mississippi for a visit. +The drawer stuck, and he yanked at it savagely—as a man will. It came out +of the bureau, and bruised both his shins—as a drawer will. An old, +folded yellow letter without an envelope fell from somewhere—probably +from where it had lodged in one of the upper drawers. Ranse took it to the lamp +and read it curiously. +</p> + +<p> +Then he took his hat and walked to one of the Mexican <i>jacals</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Tia Juana,” he said, “I would like to talk with you a +while.” +</p> + +<p> +An old, old Mexican woman, white-haired and wonderfully wrinkled, rose from a +stool. +</p> + +<p> +“Sit down,” said Ranse, removing his hat and taking the one chair +in the <i>jacal</i>. “Who am I, Tia Juana?” he asked, speaking +Spanish. +</p> + +<p> +“Don Ransom, our good friend and employer. Why do you ask?” +answered the old woman wonderingly. +</p> + +<p> +“Tia Juana, who am I?” he repeated, with his stern eyes looking +into hers. +</p> + +<p> +A frightened look came in the old woman’s face. She fumbled with her +black shawl. +</p> + +<p> +“Who am I, Tia Juana?” said Ranse once more. +</p> + +<p> +“Thirty-two years I have lived on the Rancho Cibolo,” said Tia +Juana. “I thought to be buried under the coma mott beyond the garden +before these things should be known. Close the door, Don Ransom, and I will +speak. I see in your face that you know.” +</p> + +<p> +An hour Ranse spent behind Tia Juana’s closed door. As he was on his way +back to the house Curly called to him from the wagon-shed. +</p> + +<p> +The tramp sat on his cot, swinging his feet and smoking. +</p> + +<p> +“Say, sport,” he grumbled. “This is no way to treat a man +after kidnappin’ him. I went up to the store and borrowed a razor from +that fresh guy and had a shave. But that ain’t all a man needs. +Say—can’t you loosen up for about three fingers more of that booze? +I never asked you to bring me to your d—d farm.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stand up out here in the light,” said Ranse, looking at him +closely. +</p> + +<p> +Curly got up sullenly and took a step or two. +</p> + +<p> +His face, now shaven smooth, seemed transformed. His hair had been combed, and +it fell back from the right side of his forehead with a peculiar wave. The +moonlight charitably softened the ravages of drink; and his aquiline, +well-shaped nose and small, square cleft chin almost gave distinction to his +looks. +</p> + +<p> +Ranse sat on the foot of the cot and looked at him curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Where did you come from—have you got any home or folks +anywhere?” +</p> + +<p> +“Me? Why, I’m a dook,” said Curly. “I’m Sir +Reginald—oh, cheese it. No; I don’t know anything about my +ancestors. I’ve been a tramp ever since I can remember. Say, old pal, are +you going to set ’em up again to-night or not?” +</p> + +<p> +“You answer my questions and maybe I will. How did you come to be a +tramp?” +</p> + +<p> +“Me?” answered Curly. “Why, I adopted that profession when I +was an infant. Case of had to. First thing I can remember, I belonged to a big, +lazy hobo called Beefsteak Charley. He sent me around to houses to beg. I +wasn’t hardly big enough to reach the latch of a gate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did he ever tell you how he got you?” asked Ranse. +</p> + +<p> +“Once when he was sober he said he bought me for an old six-shooter and +six bits from a band of drunken Mexican sheep-shearers. But what’s the +diff? That’s all I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said Ranse. “I reckon you’re a maverick +for certain. I’m going to put the Rancho Cibolo brand on you. I’ll +start you to work in one of the camps to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Work!” sniffed Curly, disdainfully. “What do you take me +for? Do you think I’d chase cows, and hop-skip-and-jump around after +crazy sheep like that pink and yellow guy at the store says these Reubs do? +Forget it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you’ll like it when you get used to it,” said Ranse. +“Yes, I’ll send you up one more drink by Pedro. I think +you’ll make a first-class cowpuncher before I get through with +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Me?” said Curly. “I pity the cows you set me to chaperon. +They can go chase themselves. Don’t forget my nightcap, please, +boss.” +</p> + +<p> +Ranse paid a visit to the store before going to the house. Sam Rivell was +taking off his tan shoes regretting and preparing for bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Any of the boys from the San Gabriel camp riding in early in the +morning?” asked Ranse. +</p> + +<p> +“Long Collins,” said Sam briefly. “For the mail.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him,” said Ranse, “to take that tramp out to camp with +him and keep him till I get there.” +</p> + +<p> +Curly was sitting on his blankets in the San Gabriel camp cursing talentedly +when Ranse Truesdell rode up and dismounted on the next afternoon. The +cowpunchers were ignoring the stray. He was grimy with dust and black dirt. His +clothes were making their last stand in favour of the conventions. +</p> + +<p> +Ranse went up to Buck Rabb, the camp boss, and spoke briefly. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s a plumb buzzard,” said Buck. “He won’t +work, and he’s the low-downest passel of inhumanity I ever see. I +didn’t know what you wanted done with him, Ranse, so I just let him set. +That seems to suit him. He’s been condemned to death by the boys a dozen +times, but I told ’em maybe you was savin’ him for the +torture.” +</p> + +<p> +Ranse took off his coat. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve got a hard job before me, Buck, I reckon, but it has to be +done. I’ve got to make a man out of that thing. That’s what +I’ve come to camp for.” +</p> + +<p> +He went up to Curly. +</p> + +<p> +“Brother,” he said, “don’t you think if you had a bath +it would allow you to take a seat in the company of your fellow-man with less +injustice to the atmosphere.” +</p> + +<p> +“Run away, farmer,” said Curly, sardonically. “Willie will +send for nursey when he feels like having his tub.” +</p> + +<p> +The <i>charco</i>, or water hole, was twelve yards away. Ranse took one of +Curly’s ankles and dragged him like a sack of potatoes to the brink. Then +with the strength and sleight of a hammer-throw he hurled the offending member +of society far into the lake. +</p> + +<p> +Curly crawled out and up the bank spluttering like a porpoise. +</p> + +<p> +Ranse met him with a piece of soap and a coarse towel in his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Go to the other end of the lake and use this,” he said. +“Buck will give you some dry clothes at the wagon.” +</p> + +<p> +The tramp obeyed without protest. By the time supper was ready he had returned +to camp. He was hardly to be recognised in his new shirt and brown duck +clothes. Ranse observed him out of the corner of his eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Lordy, I hope he ain’t a coward,” he was saying to himself. +“I hope he won’t turn out to be a coward.” +</p> + +<p> +His doubts were soon allayed. Curly walked straight to where he stood. His +light-blue eyes were blazing. +</p> + +<p> +“Now I’m clean,” he said meaningly, “maybe you’ll +talk to me. Think you’ve got a picnic here, do you? You clodhoppers think +you can run over a man because you know he can’t get away. All right. +Now, what do you think of that?” +</p> + +<p> +Curly planted a stinging slap against Ranse’s left cheek. The print of +his hand stood out a dull red against the tan. +</p> + +<p> +Ranse smiled happily. +</p> + +<p> +The cowpunchers talk to this day of the battle that followed. +</p> + +<p> +Somewhere in his restless tour of the cities Curly had acquired the art of +self-defence. The ranchman was equipped only with the splendid strength and +equilibrium of perfect health and the endurance conferred by decent living. The +two attributes nearly matched. There were no formal rounds. At last the fibre +of the clean liver prevailed. The last time Curly went down from one of the +ranchman’s awkward but powerful blows he remained on the grass, but +looking up with an unquenched eye. +</p> + +<p> +Ranse went to the water barrel and washed the red from a cut on his chin in the +stream from the faucet. +</p> + +<p> +On his face was a grin of satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +Much benefit might accrue to educators and moralists if they could know the +details of the curriculum of reclamation through which Ranse put his waif +during the month that he spent in the San Gabriel camp. The ranchman had no +fine theories to work out—perhaps his whole stock of pedagogy embraced +only a knowledge of horse-breaking and a belief in heredity. +</p> + +<p> +The cowpunchers saw that their boss was trying to make a man out of the strange +animal that he had sent among them; and they tacitly organised themselves into +a faculty of assistants. But their system was their own. +</p> + +<p> +Curly’s first lesson stuck. He became on friendly and then on intimate +terms with soap and water. And the thing that pleased Ranse most was that his +“subject” held his ground at each successive higher step. But the +steps were sometimes far apart. +</p> + +<p> +Once he got at the quart bottle of whisky kept sacredly in the grub tent for +rattlesnake bites, and spent sixteen hours on the grass, magnificently drunk. +But when he staggered to his feet his first move was to find his soap and towel +and start for the <i>charco</i>. And once, when a treat came from the ranch in +the form of a basket of fresh tomatoes and young onions, Curly devoured the +entire consignment before the punchers reached the camp at supper time. +</p> + +<p> +And then the punchers punished him in their own way. For three days they did +not speak to him, except to reply to his own questions or remarks. And they +spoke with absolute and unfailing politeness. They played tricks on one +another; they pounded one another hurtfully and affectionately; they heaped +upon one another’s heads friendly curses and obloquy; but they were +polite to Curly. He saw it, and it stung him as much as Ranse hoped it would. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a night that brought a cold, wet norther. Wilson, the youngest of the +outfit, had lain in camp two days, ill with fever. When Joe got up at daylight +to begin breakfast he found Curly sitting asleep against a wheel of the grub +wagon with only a saddle blanket around him, while Curly’s blankets were +stretched over Wilson to protect him from the rain and wind. +</p> + +<p> +Three nights after that Curly rolled himself in his blanket and went to sleep. +Then the other punchers rose up softly and began to make preparations. Ranse +saw Long Collins tie a rope to the horn of a saddle. Others were getting out +their six-shooters. +</p> + +<p> +“Boys,” said Ranse, “I’m much obliged. I was hoping you +would. But I didn’t like to ask.” +</p> + +<p> +Half a dozen six-shooters began to pop—awful yells rent the +air—Long Collins galloped wildly across Curly’s bed, dragging the +saddle after him. That was merely their way of gently awaking their victim. +Then they hazed him for an hour, carefully and ridiculously, after the code of +cow camps. Whenever he uttered protest they held him stretched over a roll of +blankets and thrashed him woefully with a pair of leather leggings. +</p> + +<p> +And all this meant that Curly had won his spurs, that he was receiving the +puncher’s accolade. Nevermore would they be polite to him. But he would +be their “pardner” and stirrup-brother, foot to foot. +</p> + +<p> +When the fooling was ended all hands made a raid on Joe’s big coffee-pot +by the fire for a Java nightcap. Ranse watched the new knight carefully to see +if he understood and was worthy. Curly limped with his cup of coffee to a log +and sat upon it. Long Collins followed and sat by his side. Buck Rabb went and +sat at the other. Curly—grinned. +</p> + +<p> +And then Ranse furnished Curly with mounts and saddle and equipment, and turned +him over to Buck Rabb, instructing him to finish the job. +</p> + +<p> +Three weeks later Ranse rode from the ranch into Rabb’s camp, which was +then in Snake Valley. The boys were saddling for the day’s ride. He +sought out Long Collins among them. +</p> + +<p> +“How about that bronco?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Long Collins grinned. +</p> + +<p> +“Reach out your hand, Ranse Truesdell,” he said, “and +you’ll touch him. And you can shake his’n, too, if you like, for +he’s plumb white and there’s none better in no camp.” +</p> + +<p> +Ranse looked again at the clear-faced, bronzed, smiling cowpuncher who stood at +Collins’s side. Could that be Curly? He held out his hand, and Curly +grasped it with the muscles of a bronco-buster. +</p> + +<p> +“I want you at the ranch,” said Ranse. +</p> + +<p> +“All right, sport,” said Curly, heartily. “But I want to come +back again. Say, pal, this is a dandy farm. And I don’t want any better +fun than hustlin’ cows with this bunch of guys. They’re all to the +merry-merry.” +</p> + +<p> +At the Cibolo ranch-house they dismounted. Ranse bade Curly wait at the door of +the living room. He walked inside. Old “Kiowa” Truesdell was +reading at a table. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-morning, Mr. Truesdell,” said Ranse. +</p> + +<p> +The old man turned his white head quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“How is this?” he began. “Why do you call me +‘Mr.—’?” +</p> + +<p> +When he looked at Ranse’s face he stopped, and the hand that held his +newspaper shook slightly. +</p> + +<p> +“Boy,” he said slowly, “how did you find it out?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all right,” said Ranse, with a smile. “I made Tia +Juana tell me. It was kind of by accident, but it’s all right.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve been like a son to me,” said old “Kiowa,” +trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“Tia Juana told me all about it,” said Ranse. “She told me +how you adopted me when I was knee-high to a puddle duck out of a wagon train +of prospectors that was bound West. And she told me how the kid—your own +kid, you know—got lost or was run away with. And she said it was the same +day that the sheep-shearers got on a bender and left the ranch.” +</p> + +<p> +“Our boy strayed from the house when he was two years old,” said +the old man. “And then along came those emigrant wagons with a youngster +they didn’t want; and we took you. I never intended you to know, Ranse. +We never heard of our boy again.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s right outside, unless I’m mighty mistaken,” said +Ranse, opening the door and beckoning. +</p> + +<p> +Curly walked in. +</p> + +<p> +No one could have doubted. The old man and the young had the same sweep of +hair, the same nose, chin, line of face, and prominent light-blue eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Old “Kiowa” rose eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +Curly looked about the room curiously. A puzzled expression came over his face. +He pointed to the wall opposite. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s the tick-tock?” he asked, absent-mindedly. +</p> + +<p> +“The clock,” cried old “Kiowa” loudly. “The +eight-day clock used to stand there. Why—” +</p> + +<p> +He turned to Ranse, but Ranse was not there. +</p> + +<p> +Already a hundred yards away, Vaminos, the good flea-bitten dun, was bearing +him eastward like a racer through dust and chaparral towards the Rancho de los +Olmos. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>X<br /> +CUPID À LA CARTE</h2> + +<p> +“The dispositions of woman,” said Jeff Peters, after various +opinions on the subject had been advanced, “run, regular, to diversions. +What a woman wants is what you’re out of. She wants more of a thing when +it’s scarce. She likes to have souvenirs of things that never happened. +She likes to be reminded of things she never heard of. A one-sided view of +objects is disjointing to the female composition. +</p> + +<p> +“’Tis a misfortune of mine, begotten by nature and travel,” +continued Jeff, looking thoughtfully between his elevated feet at the grocery +stove, “to look deeper into some subjects than most people do. I’ve +breathed gasoline smoke talking to street crowds in nearly every town in the +United States. I’ve held ’em spellbound with music, oratory, +sleight of hand, and prevarications, while I’ve sold ’em jewelry, +medicine, soap, hair tonic, and junk of other nominations. And during my +travels, as a matter of recreation and expiation, I’ve taken cognisance +some of women. It takes a man a lifetime to find out about one particular +woman; but if he puts in, say, ten years, industrious and curious, he can +acquire the general rudiments of the sex. One lesson I picked up was when I was +working the West with a line of Brazilian diamonds and a patent fire kindler +just after my trip from Savannah down through the cotton belt with +Dalby’s Anti-explosive Lamp Oil Powder. ’Twas when the Oklahoma +country was in first bloom. Guthrie was rising in the middle of it like a lump +of self-raising dough. It was a boom town of the regular kind—you stood +in line to get a chance to wash your face; if you ate over ten minutes you had +a lodging bill added on; if you slept on a plank at night they charged it to +you as board the next morning. +</p> + +<p> +“By nature and doctrines I am addicted to the habit of discovering choice +places wherein to feed. So I looked around and found a proposition that exactly +cut the mustard. I found a restaurant tent just opened up by an outfit that had +drifted in on the tail of the boom. They had knocked together a box house, +where they lived and did the cooking, and served the meals in a tent pitched +against the side. That tent was joyful with placards on it calculated to redeem +the world-worn pilgrim from the sinfulness of boarding houses and pick-me-up +hotels. ‘Try Mother’s Home-Made Biscuits,’ +‘What’s the Matter with Our Apple Dumplings and Hard Sauce?’ +‘Hot Cakes and Maple Syrup Like You Ate When a Boy,’ ‘Our +Fried Chicken Never Was Heard to Crow’— there was literature doomed +to please the digestions of man! I said to myself that mother’s wandering +boy should munch there that night. And so it came to pass. And there is where I +contracted my case of Mame Dugan. +</p> + +<p> +“Old Man Dugan was six feet by one of Indiana loafer, and he spent his +time sitting on his shoulder blades in a rocking-chair in the shanty +memorialising the great corn-crop failure of ’96. Ma Dugan did the +cooking, and Mame waited on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“As soon as I saw Mame I knew there was a mistake in the census reports. +There wasn’t but one girl in the United States. When you come to +specifications it isn’t easy. She was about the size of an angel, and she +had eyes, and ways about her. When you come to the kind of a girl she was, +you’ll find a belt of ’em reaching from the Brooklyn Bridge west as +far as the courthouse in Council Bluffs, Ia. They earn their own living in +stores, restaurants, factories, and offices. They’re chummy and honest +and free and tender and sassy, and they look life straight in the eye. +They’ve met man face to face, and discovered that he’s a poor +creature. They’ve dropped to it that the reports in the Seaside Library +about his being a fairy prince lack confirmation. +</p> + +<p> +“Mame was that sort. She was full of life and fun, and breezy; she passed +the repartee with the boarders quick as a wink; you’d have smothered +laughing. I am disinclined to make excavations into the insides of a personal +affection. I am glued to the theory that the diversions and discrepancies of +the indisposition known as love should be as private a sentiment as a +toothbrush. ’Tis my opinion that the biographies of the heart should be +confined with the historical romances of the liver to the advertising pages of +the magazines. So, you’ll excuse the lack of an itemised bill of my +feelings toward Mame. +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty soon I got a regular habit of dropping into the tent to eat at +irregular times when there wasn’t so many around. Mame would sail in with +a smile, in a black dress and white apron, and say: ‘Hello, Jeff +—why don’t you come at mealtime? Want to see how much trouble you +can be, of course. +Friedchickenbeefsteakporkchopshamandeggspotpie’—and so on. She +called me Jeff, but there was no significations attached. Designations was all +she meant. The front names of any of us she used as they came to hand. +I’d eat about two meals before I left, and string ’em out like a +society spread where they changed plates and wives, and josh one another +festively between bites. Mame stood for it, pleasant, for it wasn’t up to +her to take any canvas off the tent by declining dollars just because they were +whipped in after meal times. +</p> + +<p> +“It wasn’t long until there was another fellow named Ed Collier got +the between-meals affliction, and him and me put in bridges between breakfast +and dinner, and dinner and supper, that made a three-ringed circus of that +tent, and Mame’s turn as waiter a continuous performance. That Collier +man was saturated with designs and contrivings. He was in well-boring or +insurance or claim-jumping, or something—I’ve forgotten which. He +was a man well lubricated with gentility, and his words were such as +recommended you to his point of view. So, Collier and me infested the grub tent +with care and activity. Mame was level full of impartiality. ’Twas like a +casino hand the way she dealt out her favours—one to Collier and one to +me and one to the board, and not a card up her sleeve. +</p> + +<p> +“Me and Collier naturally got acquainted, and gravitated together some on +the outside. Divested of his stratagems, he seemed to be a pleasant chap, full +of an amiable sort of hostility. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I notice you have an affinity for grubbing in the banquet hall +after the guests have fled,’ says I to him one day, to draw his +conclusions. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well, yes,’ says Collier, reflecting; ‘the tumult of +a crowded board seems to harass my sensitive nerves.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘It exasperates mine some, too,’ says I. ‘Nice little +girl, don’t you think?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I see,’ says Collier, laughing. ‘Well, now that you +mention it, I have noticed that she doesn’t seem to displease the optic +nerve.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘She’s a joy to mine,’ says I, ‘and I’m +going after her. Notice is hereby served.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’ll be as candid as you,’ admits Collier, ‘and +if the drug stores don’t run out of pepsin I’ll give you a run for +your money that’ll leave you a dyspeptic at the wind-up.’ +</p> + +<p> +“So Collier and me begins the race; the grub department lays in new +supplies; Mame waits on us, jolly and kind and agreeable, and it looks like an +even break, with Cupid and the cook working overtime in Dugan’s +restaurant. +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas one night in September when I got Mame to take a walk after +supper when the things were all cleared away. We strolled out a distance and +sat on a pile of lumber at the edge of town. Such opportunities was seldom, so +I spoke my piece, explaining how the Brazilian diamonds and the fire kindler +were laying up sufficient treasure to guarantee the happiness of two, and that +both of ’em together couldn’t equal the light from somebody’s +eyes, and that the name of Dugan should be changed to Peters, or reasons why +not would be in order. +</p> + +<p> +“Mame didn’t say anything right away. Directly she gave a kind of +shudder, and I began to learn something. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Jeff,’ she says, ‘I’m sorry you spoke. I like +you as well as any of them, but there isn’t a man in the world I’d +ever marry, and there never will be. Do you know what a man is in my eye? +He’s a tomb. He’s a sarcophagus for the interment of +Beafsteakporkchopsliver’nbaconham-andeggs. He’s that and nothing +more. For two years I’ve watched men eat, eat, eat, until they represent +nothing on earth to me but ruminant bipeds. They’re absolutely nothing +but something that goes in front of a knife and fork and plate at the table. +They’re fixed that way in my mind and memory. I’ve tried to +overcome it, but I can’t. I’ve heard girls rave about their +sweethearts, but I never could understand it. A man and a sausage grinder and a +pantry awake in me exactly the same sentiments. I went to a matinée once to see +an actor the girls were crazy about. I got interested enough to wonder whether +he liked his steak rare, medium, or well done, and his eggs over or straight +up. That was all. No, Jeff; I’ll marry no man and see him sit at the +breakfast table and eat, and come back to dinner and eat, and happen in again +at supper to eat, eat, eat.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘But, Mame,’ says I, ‘it’ll wear off. +You’ve had too much of it. You’ll marry some time, of course. Men +don’t eat always.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘As far as my observation goes, they do. No, I’ll tell you +what I’m going to do.’ Mame turns, sudden, to animation and bright +eyes. ‘There’s a girl named Susie Foster in Terre Haute, a chum of +mine. She waits in the railroad eating house there. I worked two years in a +restaurant in that town. Susie has it worse than I do, because the men who eat +at railroad stations gobble. They try to flirt and gobble at the same time. +Whew! Susie and I have it all planned out. We’re saving our money, and +when we get enough we’re going to buy a little cottage and five acres we +know of, and live together, and grow violets for the Eastern market. A man +better not bring his appetite within a mile of that ranch.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Don’t girls ever—’ I commenced, but Mame heads +me off, sharp. +</p> + +<p> +“‘No, they don’t. They nibble a little bit sometimes; +that’s all.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I thought the confect—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘For goodness’ sake, change the subject,’ says Mame. +</p> + +<p> +“As I said before, that experience puts me wise that the feminine +arrangement ever struggles after deceptions and illusions. Take +England—beef made her; wieners elevated Germany; Uncle Sam owes his +greatness to fried chicken and pie, but the young ladies of the Shetalkyou +schools, they’ll never believe it. Shakespeare, they allow, and +Rubinstein, and the Rough Riders is what did the trick. +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas a situation calculated to disturb. I couldn’t bear to +give up Mame; and yet it pained me to think of abandoning the practice of +eating. I had acquired the habit too early. For twenty-seven years I had been +blindly rushing upon my fate, yielding to the insidious lures of that deadly +monster, food. It was too late. I was a ruminant biped for keeps. It was +lobster salad to a doughnut that my life was going to be blighted by it. +</p> + +<p> +“I continued to board at the Dugan tent, hoping that Mame would relent. I +had sufficient faith in true love to believe that since it has often outlived +the absence of a square meal it might, in time, overcome the presence of one. I +went on ministering to my fatal vice, although I felt that each time I shoved a +potato into my mouth in Mame’s presence I might be burying my fondest +hopes. +</p> + +<p> +“I think Collier must have spoken to Mame and got the same answer, for +one day he orders a cup of coffee and a cracker, and sits nibbling the corner +of it like a girl in the parlour, that’s filled up in the kitchen, +previous, on cold roast and fried cabbage. I caught on and did the same, and +maybe we thought we’d made a hit! The next day we tried it again, and out +comes old man Dugan fetching in his hands the fairy viands. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Kinder off yer feed, ain’t ye, gents?’ he asks, +fatherly and some sardonic. ‘Thought I’d spell Mame a bit, +seein’ the work was light, and my rheumatiz can stand the strain.’ +</p> + +<p> +“So back me and Collier had to drop to the heavy grub again. I noticed +about that time that I was seized by a most uncommon and devastating appetite. +I ate until Mame must have hated to see me darken the door. Afterward I found +out that I had been made the victim of the first dark and irreligious trick +played on me by Ed Collier. Him and me had been taking drinks together uptown +regular, trying to drown our thirst for food. That man had bribed about ten +bartenders to always put a big slug of Appletree’s Anaconda Appetite +Bitters in every one of my drinks. But the last trick he played me was hardest +to forget. +</p> + +<p> +“One day Collier failed to show up at the tent. A man told me he left +town that morning. My only rival now was the bill of fare. A few days before he +left Collier had presented me with a two-gallon jug of fine whisky which he +said a cousin had sent him from Kentucky. I now have reason to believe that it +contained Appletree’s Anaconda Appetite Bitters almost exclusively. I +continued to devour tons of provisions. In Mame’s eyes I remained a mere +biped, more ruminant than ever. +</p> + +<p> +“About a week after Collier pulled his freight there came a kind of +side-show to town, and hoisted a tent near the railroad. I judged it was a sort +of fake museum and curiosity business. I called to see Mame one night, and Ma +Dugan said that she and Thomas, her younger brother, had gone to the show. That +same thing happened for three nights that week. Saturday night I caught her on +the way coming back, and got to sit on the steps a while and talk to her. I +noticed she looked different. Her eyes were softer, and shiny like. Instead of +a Mame Dugan to fly from the voracity of man and raise violets, she seemed to +be a Mame more in line as God intended her, approachable, and suited to bask in +the light of the Brazilians and the Kindler. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You seem to be right smart inveigled,’ says I, ‘with +the Unparalleled Exhibition of the World’s Living Curiosities and +Wonders.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘It’s a change,’ says Mame. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You’ll need another,’ says I, ‘if you keep on +going every night.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Don’t be cross, Jeff,’ says she; ‘it takes my +mind off business.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Don’t the curiosities eat?’ I ask. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Not all of them. Some of them are wax.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Look out, then, that you don’t get stuck,’ says I, +kind of flip and foolish. +</p> + +<p> +“Mame blushed. I didn’t know what to think about her. My hopes +raised some that perhaps my attentions had palliated man’s awful crime of +visibly introducing nourishment into his system. She talked some about the +stars, referring to them with respect and politeness, and I drivelled a +quantity about united hearts, homes made bright by true affection, and the +Kindler. Mame listened without scorn, and I says to myself, ‘Jeff, old +man, you’re removing the hoodoo that has clung to the consumer of +victuals; you’re setting your heel upon the serpent that lurks in the +gravy bowl.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Monday night I drop around. Mame is at the Unparalleled Exhibition with +Thomas. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Now, may the curse of the forty-one seven-sided sea cooks,’ +says I, ‘and the bad luck of the nine impenitent grasshoppers rest upon +this self-same sideshow at once and forever more. Amen. I’ll go to see it +myself to-morrow night and investigate its baleful charm. Shall man that was +made to inherit the earth be bereft of his sweetheart first by a knife and fork +and then by a ten-cent circus?’ +</p> + +<p> +“The next night before starting out for the exhibition tent I inquire and +find out that Mame is not at home. She is not at the circus with Thomas this +time, for Thomas waylays me in the grass outside of the grub tent with a scheme +of his own before I had time to eat supper. +</p> + +<p> +“‘What’ll you give me, Jeff,’ says he, ‘if I tell +you something?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘The value of it, son,’ I says. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Sis is stuck on a freak,’ says Thomas, ‘one of the +side-show freaks. I don’t like him. She does. I overheard ’em +talking. Thought maybe you’d like to know. Say, Jeff, does it put you +wise two dollars’ worth? There’s a target rifle up town +that—’ +</p> + +<p> +“I frisked my pockets and commenced to dribble a stream of halves and +quarters into Thomas’s hat. The information was of the pile-driver system +of news, and it telescoped my intellects for a while. While I was leaking small +change and smiling foolish on the outside, and suffering disturbances +internally, I was saying, idiotically and pleasantly: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Thank you, Thomas—thank you—er—a freak, you +said, Thomas. Now, could you make out the monstrosity’s entitlements a +little clearer, if you please, Thomas?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘This is the fellow,’ says Thomas, pulling out a yellow +handbill from his pocket and shoving it under my nose. ‘He’s the +Champion Faster of the Universe. I guess that’s why Sis got soft on him. +He don’t eat nothing. He’s going to fast forty-nine days. This is +the sixth. That’s him.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I looked at the name Thomas pointed out—‘Professor Eduardo +Collieri.’ ‘Ah!’ says I, in admiration, ‘that’s +not so bad, Ed Collier. I give you credit for the trick. But I don’t give +you the girl until she’s Mrs. Freak.’ +</p> + +<p> +“I hit the sod in the direction of the show. I came up to the rear of the +tent, and, as I did so, a man wiggled out like a snake from under the bottom of +the canvas, scrambled to his feet, and ran into me like a locoed bronco. I +gathered him by the neck and investigated him by the light of the stars. It is +Professor Eduardo Collieri, in human habiliments, with a desperate look in one +eye and impatience in the other. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Hello, Curiosity,’ says I. ‘Get still a minute and +let’s have a look at your freakship. How do you like being the +willopus-wallopus or the bim-bam from Borneo, or whatever name you are +denounced by in the side-show business?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Jeff Peters,’ says Collier, in a weak voice. ‘Turn me +loose, or I’ll slug you one. I’m in the extremest kind of a large +hurry. Hands off!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Tut, tut, Eddie,’ I answers, holding him hard; ‘let +an old friend gaze on the exhibition of your curiousness. It’s an eminent +graft you fell onto, my son. But don’t speak of assaults and battery, +because you’re not fit. The best you’ve got is a lot of nerve and a +mighty empty stomach.’ And so it was. The man was as weak as a vegetarian +cat. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’d argue this case with you, Jeff,’ says he, +regretful in his style, ‘for an unlimited number of rounds if I had half +an hour to train in and a slab of beefsteak two feet square to train with. +Curse the man, I say, that invented the art of going foodless. May his soul in +eternity be chained up within two feet of a bottomless pit of red-hot hash. +I’m abandoning the conflict, Jeff; I’m deserting to the enemy. +You’ll find Miss Dugan inside contemplating the only living mummy and the +informed hog. She’s a fine girl, Jeff. I’d have beat you out if I +could have kept up the grubless habit a little while longer. You’ll have +to admit that the fasting dodge was aces-up for a while. I figured it out that +way. But say, Jeff, it’s said that love makes the world go around. Let me +tell you, the announcement lacks verification. It’s the wind from the +dinner horn that does it. I love that Mame Dugan. I’ve gone six days +without food in order to coincide with her sentiments. Only one bite did I +have. That was when I knocked the tattooed man down with a war club and got a +sandwich he was gobbling. The manager fined me all my salary; but salary +wasn’t what I was after. ’Twas that girl. I’d give my life +for her, but I’d endanger my immortal soul for a beef stew. Hunger is a +horrible thing, Jeff. Love and business and family and religion and art and +patriotism are nothing but shadows of words when a man’s starving!’ +</p> + +<p> +“In such language Ed Collier discoursed to me, pathetic. I gathered the +diagnosis that his affections and his digestions had been implicated in a +scramble and the commissary had won out. I never disliked Ed Collier. I +searched my internal admonitions of suitable etiquette to see if I could find a +remark of a consoling nature, but there was none convenient. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’d be glad, now,’ says Ed, ‘if you’ll +let me go. I’ve been hard hit, but I’ll hit the ration supply +harder. I’m going to clean out every restaurant in town. I’m going +to wade waist deep in sirloins and swim in ham and eggs. It’s an awful +thing, Jeff Peters, for a man to come to this pass—to give up his girl +for something to eat—it’s worse than that man Esau, that swapped +his copyright for a partridge— but then, hunger’s a fierce thing. +You’ll excuse me, now, Jeff, for I smell a pervasion of ham frying in the +distance, and my legs are crying out to stampede in that direction.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘A hearty meal to you, Ed Collier,’ I says to him, +‘and no hard feelings. For myself, I am projected to be an unseldom +eater, and I have condolence for your predicaments.’ +</p> + +<p> +“There was a sudden big whiff of frying ham smell on the breeze; and the +Champion Faster gives a snort and gallops off in the dark toward fodder. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish some of the cultured outfit that are always advertising the +extenuating circumstances of love and romance had been there to see. There was +Ed Collier, a fine man full of contrivances and flirtations, abandoning the +girl of his heart and ripping out into the contiguous territory in the pursuit +of sordid grub. ’Twas a rebuke to the poets and a slap at the best-paying +element of fiction. An empty stomach is a sure antidote to an overfull heart. +</p> + +<p> +“I was naturally anxious to know how far Mame was infatuated with Collier +and his stratagems. I went inside the Unparalleled Exhibition, and there she +was. She looked surprised to see me, but unguilty. +</p> + +<p> +“‘It’s an elegant evening outside,’ says I. ‘The +coolness is quite nice and gratifying, and the stars are lined out, first +class, up where they belong. Wouldn’t you shake these by-products of the +animal kingdom long enough to take a walk with a common human who never was on +a programme in his life?’ +</p> + +<p> +“Mame gave a sort of sly glance around, and I knew what that meant. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Oh,’ says I, ‘I hate to tell you; but the curiosity +that lives on wind has flew the coop. He just crawled out under the tent. By +this time he has amalgamated himself with half the delicatessen truck in +town.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘You mean Ed Collier?’ says Mame. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I do,’ I answers; ‘and a pity it is that he has gone +back to crime again. I met him outside the tent, and he exposed his intentions +of devastating the food crop of the world. ’Tis enormously sad when +one’s ideal descends from his pedestal to make a seventeen-year locust of +himself.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Mame looked me straight in the eye until she had corkscrewed my +reflections. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Jeff,’ says she, ‘it isn’t quite like you to +talk that way. I don’t care to hear Ed Collier ridiculed. A man may do +ridiculous things, but they don’t look ridiculous to the girl he does +’em for. That was one man in a hundred. He stopped eating just to please +me. I’d be hard-hearted and ungrateful if I didn’t feel kindly +toward him. Could you do what he did?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I know,’ says I, seeing the point, ‘I’m +condemned. I can’t help it. The brand of the consumer is upon my brow. +Mrs. Eve settled that business for me when she made the dicker with the snake. +I fell from the fire into the frying-pan. I guess I’m the Champion +Feaster of the Universe.’ I spoke humble, and Mame mollified herself a +little. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ed Collier and I are good friends,’ she said, ‘the +same as me and you. I gave him the same answer I did you—no marrying for +me. I liked to be with Ed and talk with him. There was something mighty +pleasant to me in the thought that here was a man who never used a knife and +fork, and all for my sake.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Wasn’t you in love with him?’ I asks, all +injudicious. ‘Wasn’t there a deal on for you to become Mrs. +Curiosity?’ +</p> + +<p> +“All of us do it sometimes. All of us get jostled out of the line of +profitable talk now and then. Mame put on that little lemon <i>glacé</i> smile +that runs between ice and sugar, and says, much too pleasant: +‘You’re short on credentials for asking that question, Mr. Peters. +Suppose you do a forty-nine day fast, just to give you ground to stand on, and +then maybe I’ll answer it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“So, even after Collier was kidnapped out of the way by the revolt of his +appetite, my own prospects with Mame didn’t seem to be improved. And then +business played out in Guthrie. +</p> + +<p> +“I had stayed too long there. The Brazilians I had sold commenced to show +signs of wear, and the Kindler refused to light up right frequent on wet +mornings. There is always a time, in my business, when the star of success +says, ‘Move on to the next town.’ I was travelling by wagon at that +time so as not to miss any of the small towns; so I hitched up a few days later +and went down to tell Mame good-bye. I wasn’t abandoning the game; I +intended running over to Oklahoma City and work it for a week or two. Then I +was coming back to institute fresh proceedings against Mame. +</p> + +<p> +“What do I find at the Dugans’ but Mame all conspicuous in a blue +travelling dress, with her little trunk at the door. It seems that sister +Lottie Bell, who is a typewriter in Terre Haute, is going to be married next +Thursday, and Mame is off for a week’s visit to be an accomplice at the +ceremony. Mame is waiting for a freight wagon that is going to take her to +Oklahoma, but I condemns the freight wagon with promptness and scorn, and +offers to deliver the goods myself. Ma Dugan sees no reason why not, as Mr. +Freighter wants pay for the job; so, thirty minutes later Mame and I pull out +in my light spring wagon with white canvas cover, and head due south. +</p> + +<p> +“That morning was of a praiseworthy sort. The breeze was lively, and +smelled excellent of flowers and grass, and the little cottontail rabbits +entertained themselves with skylarking across the road. My two Kentucky bays +went for the horizon until it come sailing in so fast you wanted to dodge it +like a clothesline. Mame was full of talk and rattled on like a kid about her +old home and her school pranks and the things she liked and the hateful ways of +those Johnson girls just across the street, ‘way up in Indiana. Not a +word was said about Ed Collier or victuals or such solemn subjects. About noon +Mame looks and finds that the lunch she had put up in a basket had been left +behind. I could have managed quite a collation, but Mame didn’t seem to +be grieving over nothing to eat, so I made no lamentations. It was a sore +subject with me, and I ruled provender in all its branches out of my +conversation. +</p> + +<p> +“I am minded to touch light on explanations how I came to lose the way. +The road was dim and well grown with grass; and there was Mame by my side +confiscating my intellects and attention. The excuses are good or they are not, +as they may appear to you. But I lost it, and at dusk that afternoon, when we +should have been in Oklahoma City, we were seesawing along the edge of nowhere +in some undiscovered river bottom, and the rain was falling in large, wet +bunches. Down there in the swamps we saw a little log house on a small knoll of +high ground. The bottom grass and the chaparral and the lonesome timber crowded +all around it. It seemed to be a melancholy little house, and you felt sorry +for it. ’Twas that house for the night, the way I reasoned it. I +explained to Mame, and she leaves it to me to decide. She doesn’t become +galvanic and prosecuting, as most women would, but she says it’s all +right; she knows I didn’t mean to do it. +</p> + +<p> +“We found the house was deserted. It had two empty rooms. There was a +little shed in the yard where beasts had once been kept. In a loft of it was a +lot of old hay. I put my horses in there and gave them some of it, for which +they looked at me sorrowful, expecting apologies. The rest of the hay I carried +into the house by armfuls, with a view to accommodations. I also brought in the +patent kindler and the Brazilians, neither of which are guaranteed against the +action of water. +</p> + +<p> +“Mame and I sat on the wagon seats on the floor, and I lit a lot of the +kindler on the hearth, for the night was chilly. If I was any judge, that girl +enjoyed it. It was a change for her. It gave her a different point of view. She +laughed and talked, and the kindler made a dim light compared to her eyes. I +had a pocketful of cigars, and as far as I was concerned there had never been +any fall of man. We were at the same old stand in the Garden of Eden. Out there +somewhere in the rain and the dark was the river of Zion, and the angel with +the flaming sword had not yet put up the keep-off-the-grass sign. I opened up a +gross or two of the Brazilians and made Mame put them on—rings, brooches, +necklaces, eardrops, bracelets, girdles, and lockets. She flashed and sparkled +like a million-dollar princess until she had pink spots in her cheeks and +almost cried for a looking-glass. +</p> + +<p> +“When it got late I made a fine bunk on the floor for Mame with the hay +and my lap robes and blankets out of the wagon, and persuaded her to lie down. +I sat in the other room burning tobacco and listening to the pouring rain and +meditating on the many vicissitudes that came to a man during the seventy years +or so immediately preceding his funeral. +</p> + +<p> +“I must have dozed a little while before morning, for my eyes were shut, +and when I opened them it was daylight, and there stood Mame with her hair all +done up neat and correct, and her eyes bright with admiration of existence. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Gee whiz, Jeff!’ she exclaims, ‘but I’m hungry. +I could eat a—’ +</p> + +<p> +“I looked up and caught her eye. Her smile went back in and she gave me a +cold look of suspicion. Then I laughed, and laid down on the floor to laugh +easier. It seemed funny to me. By nature and geniality I am a hearty laugher, +and I went the limit. When I came to, Mame was sitting with her back to me, all +contaminated with dignity. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Don’t be angry, Mame,’ I says, ‘for I +couldn’t help it. It’s the funny way you’ve done up your +hair. If you could only see it!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘You needn’t tell stories, sir,’ said Mame, cool and +advised. ‘My hair is all right. I know what you were laughing about. Why, +Jeff, look outside,’ she winds up, peeping through a chink between the +logs. I opened the little wooden window and looked out. The entire river bottom +was flooded, and the knob of land on which the house stood was an island in the +middle of a rushing stream of yellow water a hundred yards wide. And it was +still raining hard. All we could do was to stay there till the doves brought in +the olive branch. +</p> + +<p> +“I am bound to admit that conversations and amusements languished during +that day. I was aware that Mame was getting a too prolonged one-sided view of +things again, but I had no way to change it. Personally, I was wrapped up in +the desire to eat. I had hallucinations of hash and visions of ham, and I kept +saying to myself all the time, ‘What’ll you have to eat, +Jeff?—what’ll you order now, old man, when the waiter comes?’ +I picks out to myself all sorts of favourites from the bill of fare, and +imagines them coming. I guess it’s that way with all hungry men. They +can’t get their cogitations trained on anything but something to eat. It +shows that the little table with the broken-legged caster and the imitation +Worcester sauce and the napkin covering up the coffee stains is the paramount +issue, after all, instead of the question of immortality or peace between +nations. +</p> + +<p> +“I sat there, musing along, arguing with myself quite heated as to how +I’d have my steak—with mushrooms, or <i>à la créole</i>. Mame was +on the other seat, pensive, her head leaning on her hand. ‘Let the +potatoes come home-fried,’ I states in my mind, ‘and brown the hash +in the pan, with nine poached eggs on the side.’ I felt, careful, in my +own pockets to see if I could find a peanut or a grain or two of popcorn. +</p> + +<p> +“Night came on again with the river still rising and the rain still +falling. I looked at Mame and I noticed that desperate look on her face that a +girl always wears when she passes an ice-cream lair. I knew that poor girl was +hungry—maybe for the first time in her life. There was that anxious look +in her eye that a woman has only when she has missed a meal or feels her skirt +coming unfastened in the back. +</p> + +<p> +“It was about eleven o’clock or so on the second night when we sat, +gloomy, in our shipwrecked cabin. I kept jerking my mind away from the subject +of food, but it kept flopping back again before I could fasten it. I thought of +everything good to eat I had ever heard of. I went away back to my kidhood and +remembered the hot biscuit sopped in sorghum and bacon gravy with partiality +and respect. Then I trailed along up the years, pausing at green apples and +salt, flapjacks and maple, lye hominy, fried chicken Old Virginia style, corn +on the cob, spareribs and sweet potato pie, and wound up with Georgia Brunswick +stew, which is the top notch of good things to eat, because it comprises +’em all. +</p> + +<p> +“They say a drowning man sees a panorama of his whole life pass before +him. Well, when a man’s starving he sees the ghost of every meal he ever +ate set out before him, and he invents new dishes that would make the fortune +of a chef. If somebody would collect the last words of men who starved to +death, they’d have to sift ’em mighty fine to discover the +sentiment, but they’d compile into a cook book that would sell into the +millions. +</p> + +<p> +“I guess I must have had my conscience pretty well inflicted with +culinary meditations, for, without intending to do so, I says, out loud, to the +imaginary waiter, ‘Cut it thick and have it rare, with the French fried, +and six, soft-scrambled, on toast.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Mame turned her head quick as a wing. Her eyes were sparkling and she +smiled sudden. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Medium for me,’ she rattles out, ‘with the Juliennes, +and three, straight up. Draw one, and brown the wheats, double order to come. +Oh, Jeff, wouldn’t it be glorious! And then I’d like to have a half +fry, and a little chicken curried with rice, and a cup custard with ice cream, +and—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Go easy,’ I interrupts; ‘where’s the chicken +liver pie, and the kidney <i>sauté</i> on toast, and the roast lamb, +and—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Oh,’ cuts in Mame, all excited, ‘with mint sauce, and +the turkey salad, and stuffed olives, and raspberry tarts, and—’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Keep it going,’ says I. ‘Hurry up with the fried +squash, and the hot corn pone with sweet milk, and don’t forget the apple +dumpling with hard sauce, and the cross-barred dew-berry pie—’ +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, for ten minutes we kept up that kind of restaurant repartee. We +ranges up and down and backward and forward over the main trunk lines and the +branches of the victual subject, and Mame leads the game, for she is apprised +in the ramifications of grub, and the dishes she nominates aggravates my +yearnings. It seems that there is a feeling that Mame will line up friendly +again with food. It seems that she looks upon the obnoxious science of eating +with less contempt than before. +</p> + +<p> +“The next morning we find that the flood has subsided. I geared up the +bays, and we splashed out through the mud, some precarious, until we found the +road again. We were only a few miles wrong, and in two hours we were in +Oklahoma City. The first thing we saw was a big restaurant sign, and we piled +into there in a hurry. Here I finds myself sitting with Mame at table, with +knives and forks and plates between us, and she not scornful, but smiling with +starvation and sweetness. +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas a new restaurant and well stocked. I designated a list of +quotations from the bill of fare that made the waiter look out toward the wagon +to see how many more might be coming. +</p> + +<p> +“There we were, and there was the order being served. ’Twas a +banquet for a dozen, but we felt like a dozen. I looked across the table at +Mame and smiled, for I had recollections. Mame was looking at the table like a +boy looks at his first stem-winder. Then she looked at me, straight in the +face, and two big tears came in her eyes. The waiter was gone after more grub. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Jeff,’ she says, soft like, ‘I’ve been a +foolish girl. I’ve looked at things from the wrong side. I never felt +this way before. Men get hungry every day like this, don’t they? +They’re big and strong, and they do the hard work of the world, and they +don’t eat just to spite silly waiter girls in restaurants, do they, Jeff? +You said once—that is, you asked me—you wanted me to—well, +Jeff, if you still care—I’d be glad and willing to have you always +sitting across the table from me. Now give me something to eat, quick, +please.’ +</p> + +<p> +“So, as I’ve said, a woman needs to change her point of view now +and then. They get tired of the same old sights—the same old dinner +table, washtub, and sewing machine. Give ’em a touch of the +various—a little travel and a little rest, a little tomfoolery along with +the tragedies of keeping house, a little petting after the blowing-up, a little +upsetting and a little jostling around—and everybody in the game will +have chips added to their stack by the play.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>XI<br /> +THE CABALLERO’S WAY</h2> + +<p> +The Cisco Kid had killed six men in more or less fair scrimmages, had murdered +twice as many (mostly Mexicans), and had winged a larger number whom he +modestly forbore to count. Therefore a woman loved him. +</p> + +<p> +The Kid was twenty-five, looked twenty; and a careful insurance company would +have estimated the probable time of his demise at, say, twenty-six. His habitat +was anywhere between the Frio and the Rio Grande. He killed for the love of +it—because he was quick-tempered— to avoid arrest—for his own +amusement—any reason that came to his mind would suffice. He had escaped +capture because he could shoot five-sixths of a second sooner than any sheriff +or ranger in the service, and because he rode a speckled roan horse that knew +every cow-path in the mesquite and pear thickets from San Antonio to Matamoras. +</p> + +<p> +Tonia Perez, the girl who loved the Cisco Kid, was half Carmen, half Madonna, +and the rest—oh, yes, a woman who is half Carmen and half Madonna can +always be something more—the rest, let us say, was humming-bird. She +lived in a grass-roofed <i>jacal</i> near a little Mexican settlement at the +Lone Wolf Crossing of the Frio. With her lived a father or grandfather, a +lineal Aztec, somewhat less than a thousand years old, who herded a hundred +goats and lived in a continuous drunken dream from drinking <i>mescal</i>. Back +of the <i>jacal</i> a tremendous forest of bristling pear, twenty feet high at +its worst, crowded almost to its door. It was along the bewildering maze of +this spinous thicket that the speckled roan would bring the Kid to see his +girl. And once, clinging like a lizard to the ridge-pole, high up under the +peaked grass roof, he had heard Tonia, with her Madonna face and Carmen beauty +and humming-bird soul, parley with the sheriff’s posse, denying knowledge +of her man in her soft <i>mélange</i> of Spanish and English. +</p> + +<p> +One day the adjutant-general of the State, who is, <i>ex offico</i>, commander +of the ranger forces, wrote some sarcastic lines to Captain Duval of Company X, +stationed at Laredo, relative to the serene and undisturbed existence led by +murderers and desperadoes in the said captain’s territory. +</p> + +<p> +The captain turned the colour of brick dust under his tan, and forwarded the +letter, after adding a few comments, per ranger Private Bill Adamson, to ranger +Lieutenant Sandridge, camped at a water hole on the Nueces with a squad of five +men in preservation of law and order. +</p> + +<p> +Lieutenant Sandridge turned a beautiful <i>couleur de rose</i> through his +ordinary strawberry complexion, tucked the letter in his hip pocket, and chewed +off the ends of his gamboge moustache. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning he saddled his horse and rode alone to the Mexican settlement +at the Lone Wolf Crossing of the Frio, twenty miles away. +</p> + +<p> +Six feet two, blond as a Viking, quiet as a deacon, dangerous as a machine gun, +Sandridge moved among the <i>Jacales</i>, patiently seeking news of the Cisco +Kid. +</p> + +<p> +Far more than the law, the Mexicans dreaded the cold and certain vengeance of +the lone rider that the ranger sought. It had been one of the Kid’s +pastimes to shoot Mexicans “to see them kick”: if he demanded from +them moribund Terpsichorean feats, simply that he might be entertained, what +terrible and extreme penalties would be certain to follow should they anger +him! One and all they lounged with upturned palms and shrugging shoulders, +filling the air with “<i>quien sabes</i>” and denials of the +Kid’s acquaintance. +</p> + +<p> +But there was a man named Fink who kept a store at the Crossing—a man of +many nationalities, tongues, interests, and ways of thinking. +</p> + +<p> +“No use to ask them Mexicans,” he said to Sandridge. +“They’re afraid to tell. This <i>hombre</i> they call the +Kid—Goodall is his name, ain’t it?—he’s been in my +store once or twice. I have an idea you might run across him at—but I +guess I don’t keer to say, myself. I’m two seconds later in pulling +a gun than I used to be, and the difference is worth thinking about. But this +Kid’s got a half-Mexican girl at the Crossing that he comes to see. She +lives in that <i>jacal</i> a hundred yards down the arroyo at the edge of the +pear. Maybe she—no, I don’t suppose she would, but that +<i>jacal</i> would be a good place to watch, anyway.” +</p> + +<p> +Sandridge rode down to the <i>jacal</i> of Perez. The sun was low, and the +broad shade of the great pear thicket already covered the grass-thatched hut. +The goats were enclosed for the night in a brush corral near by. A few kids +walked the top of it, nibbling the chaparral leaves. The old Mexican lay upon a +blanket on the grass, already in a stupor from his mescal, and dreaming, +perhaps, of the nights when he and Pizarro touched glasses to their New World +fortunes—so old his wrinkled face seemed to proclaim him to be. And in +the door of the <i>jacal</i> stood Tonia. And Lieutenant Sandridge sat in his +saddle staring at her like a gannet agape at a sailorman. +</p> + +<p> +The Cisco Kid was a vain person, as all eminent and successful assassins are, +and his bosom would have been ruffled had he known that at a simple exchange of +glances two persons, in whose minds he had been looming large, suddenly +abandoned (at least for the time) all thought of him. +</p> + +<p> +Never before had Tonia seen such a man as this. He seemed to be made of +sunshine and blood-red tissue and clear weather. He seemed to illuminate the +shadow of the pear when he smiled, as though the sun were rising again. The men +she had known had been small and dark. Even the Kid, in spite of his +achievements, was a stripling no larger than herself, with black, straight hair +and a cold, marble face that chilled the noonday. +</p> + +<p> +As for Tonia, though she sends description to the poorhouse, let her make a +millionaire of your fancy. Her blue-black hair, smoothly divided in the middle +and bound close to her head, and her large eyes full of the Latin melancholy, +gave her the Madonna touch. Her motions and air spoke of the concealed fire and +the desire to charm that she had inherited from the <i>gitanas</i> of the +Basque province. As for the humming-bird part of her, that dwelt in her heart; +you could not perceive it unless her bright red skirt and dark blue blouse gave +you a symbolic hint of the vagarious bird. +</p> + +<p> +The newly lighted sun-god asked for a drink of water. Tonia brought it from the +red jar hanging under the brush shelter. Sandridge considered it necessary to +dismount so as to lessen the trouble of her ministrations. +</p> + +<p> +I play no spy; nor do I assume to master the thoughts of any human heart; but I +assert, by the chronicler’s right, that before a quarter of an hour had +sped, Sandridge was teaching her how to plaint a six-strand rawhide stake-rope, +and Tonia had explained to him that were it not for her little English book +that the peripatetic <i>padre</i> had given her and the little crippled +<i>chivo</i>, that she fed from a bottle, she would be very, very lonely +indeed. +</p> + +<p> +Which leads to a suspicion that the Kid’s fences needed repairing, and +that the adjutant-general’s sarcasm had fallen upon unproductive soil. +</p> + +<p> +In his camp by the water hole Lieutenant Sandridge announced and reiterated his +intention of either causing the Cisco Kid to nibble the black loam of the Frio +country prairies or of haling him before a judge and jury. That sounded +business-like. Twice a week he rode over to the Lone Wolf Crossing of the Frio, +and directed Tonia’s slim, slightly lemon-tinted fingers among the +intricacies of the slowly growing lariata. A six-strand plait is hard to learn +and easy to teach. +</p> + +<p> +The ranger knew that he might find the Kid there at any visit. He kept his +armament ready, and had a frequent eye for the pear thicket at the rear of the +<i>jacal</i>. Thus he might bring down the kite and the humming-bird with one +stone. +</p> + +<p> +While the sunny-haired ornithologist was pursuing his studies the Cisco Kid was +also attending to his professional duties. He moodily shot up a saloon in a +small cow village on Quintana Creek, killed the town marshal (plugging him +neatly in the centre of his tin badge), and then rode away, morose and +unsatisfied. No true artist is uplifted by shooting an aged man carrying an +old-style .38 bulldog. +</p> + +<p> +On his way the Kid suddenly experienced the yearning that all men feel when +wrong-doing loses its keen edge of delight. He yearned for the woman he loved +to reassure him that she was his in spite of it. He wanted her to call his +bloodthirstiness bravery and his cruelty devotion. He wanted Tonia to bring him +water from the red jar under the brush shelter, and tell him how the +<i>chivo</i> was thriving on the bottle. +</p> + +<p> +The Kid turned the speckled roan’s head up the ten-mile pear flat that +stretches along the Arroyo Hondo until it ends at the Lone Wolf Crossing of the +Frio. The roan whickered; for he had a sense of locality and direction equal to +that of a belt-line street-car horse; and he knew he would soon be nibbling the +rich mesquite grass at the end of a forty-foot stake-rope while Ulysses rested +his head in Circe’s straw-roofed hut. +</p> + +<p> +More weird and lonesome than the journey of an Amazonian explorer is the ride +of one through a Texas pear flat. With dismal monotony and startling variety +the uncanny and multiform shapes of the cacti lift their twisted trunks, and +fat, bristly hands to encumber the way. The demon plant, appearing to live +without soil or rain, seems to taunt the parched traveller with its lush grey +greenness. It warps itself a thousand times about what look to be open and +inviting paths, only to lure the rider into blind and impassable spine-defended +“bottoms of the bag,” leaving him to retreat, if he can, with the +points of the compass whirling in his head. +</p> + +<p> +To be lost in the pear is to die almost the death of the thief on the cross, +pierced by nails and with grotesque shapes of all the fiends hovering about. +</p> + +<p> +But it was not so with the Kid and his mount. Winding, twisting, circling, +tracing the most fantastic and bewildering trail ever picked out, the good roan +lessened the distance to the Lone Wolf Crossing with every coil and turn that +he made. +</p> + +<p> +While they fared the Kid sang. He knew but one tune and sang it, as he knew but +one code and lived it, and but one girl and loved her. He was a single-minded +man of conventional ideas. He had a voice like a coyote with bronchitis, but +whenever he chose to sing his song he sang it. It was a conventional song of +the camps and trail, running at its beginning as near as may be to these words: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Don’t you monkey with my Lulu girl<br /> +Or I’ll tell you what I’ll do— +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and so on. The roan was inured to it, and did not mind. +</p> + +<p> +But even the poorest singer will, after a certain time, gain his own consent to +refrain from contributing to the world’s noises. So the Kid, by the time +he was within a mile or two of Tonia’s <i>jacal</i>, had reluctantly +allowed his song to die away—not because his vocal performance had become +less charming to his own ears, but because his laryngeal muscles were aweary. +</p> + +<p> +As though he were in a circus ring the speckled roan wheeled and danced through +the labyrinth of pear until at length his rider knew by certain landmarks that +the Lone Wolf Crossing was close at hand. Then, where the pear was thinner, he +caught sight of the grass roof of the <i>jacal</i> and the hackberry tree on +the edge of the arroyo. A few yards farther the Kid stopped the roan and gazed +intently through the prickly openings. Then he dismounted, dropped the +roan’s reins, and proceeded on foot, stooping and silent, like an Indian. +The roan, knowing his part, stood still, making no sound. +</p> + +<p> +The Kid crept noiselessly to the very edge of the pear thicket and reconnoitred +between the leaves of a clump of cactus. +</p> + +<p> +Ten yards from his hiding-place, in the shade of the <i>jacal</i>, sat his +Tonia calmly plaiting a rawhide lariat. So far she might surely escape +condemnation; women have been known, from time to time, to engage in more +mischievous occupations. But if all must be told, there is to be added that her +head reposed against the broad and comfortable chest of a tall red-and-yellow +man, and that his arm was about her, guiding her nimble fingers that required +so many lessons at the intricate six-strand plait. +</p> + +<p> +Sandridge glanced quickly at the dark mass of pear when he heard a slight +squeaking sound that was not altogether unfamiliar. A gun-scabbard will make +that sound when one grasps the handle of a six-shooter suddenly. But the sound +was not repeated; and Tonia’s fingers needed close attention. +</p> + +<p> +And then, in the shadow of death, they began to talk of their love; and in the +still July afternoon every word they uttered reached the ears of the Kid. +</p> + +<p> +“Remember, then,” said Tonia, “you must not come again until +I send for you. Soon he will be here. A <i>vaquero</i> at the <i>tienda</i> +said to-day he saw him on the Guadalupe three days ago. When he is that near he +always comes. If he comes and finds you here he will kill you. So, for my sake, +you must come no more until I send you the word.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right,” said the stranger. “And then what?” +</p> + +<p> +“And then,” said the girl, “you must bring your men here and +kill him. If not, he will kill you.” +</p> + +<p> +“He ain’t a man to surrender, that’s sure,” said +Sandridge. “It’s kill or be killed for the officer that goes up +against Mr. Cisco Kid.” +</p> + +<p> +“He must die,” said the girl. “Otherwise there will not be +any peace in the world for thee and me. He has killed many. Let him so die. +Bring your men, and give him no chance to escape.” +</p> + +<p> +“You used to think right much of him,” said Sandridge. +</p> + +<p> +Tonia dropped the lariat, twisted herself around, and curved a lemon-tinted +arm over the ranger’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“But then,” she murmured in liquid Spanish, “I had not beheld +thee, thou great, red mountain of a man! And thou art kind and good, as well as +strong. Could one choose him, knowing thee? Let him die; for then I will not be +filled with fear by day and night lest he hurt thee or me.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I know when he comes?” asked Sandridge. +</p> + +<p> +“When he comes,” said Tonia, “he remains two days, sometimes +three. Gregorio, the small son of old Luisa, the <i>lavendera</i>, has a swift +pony. I will write a letter to thee and send it by him, saying how it will be +best to come upon him. By Gregorio will the letter come. And bring many men +with thee, and have much care, oh, dear red one, for the rattlesnake is not +quicker to strike than is ‘<i>El Chivato</i>,’ as they call him, to +send a ball from his <i>pistola</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Kid’s handy with his gun, sure enough,” admitted +Sandridge, “but when I come for him I shall come alone. I’ll get +him by myself or not at all. The Cap wrote one or two things to me that make me +want to do the trick without any help. You let me know when Mr. Kid arrives, +and I’ll do the rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will send you the message by the boy Gregorio,” said the girl. +“I knew you were braver than that small slayer of men who never smiles. +How could I ever have thought I cared for him?” +</p> + +<p> +It was time for the ranger to ride back to his camp on the water hole. Before +he mounted his horse he raised the slight form of Tonia with one arm high from +the earth for a parting salute. The drowsy stillness of the torpid summer air +still lay thick upon the dreaming afternoon. The smoke from the fire in the +<i>jacal</i>, where the <i>frijoles</i> blubbered in the iron pot, rose +straight as a plumb-line above the clay-daubed chimney. No sound or movement +disturbed the serenity of the dense pear thicket ten yards away. +</p> + +<p> +When the form of Sandridge had disappeared, loping his big dun down the steep +banks of the Frio crossing, the Kid crept back to his own horse, mounted him, +and rode back along the tortuous trail he had come. +</p> + +<p> +But not far. He stopped and waited in the silent depths of the pear until half +an hour had passed. And then Tonia heard the high, untrue notes of his +unmusical singing coming nearer and nearer; and she ran to the edge of the pear +to meet him. +</p> + +<p> +The Kid seldom smiled; but he smiled and waved his hat when he saw her. He +dismounted, and his girl sprang into his arms. The Kid looked at her fondly. +His thick, black hair clung to his head like a wrinkled mat. The meeting +brought a slight ripple of some undercurrent of feeling to his smooth, dark +face that was usually as motionless as a clay mask. +</p> + +<p> +“How’s my girl?” he asked, holding her close. +</p> + +<p> +“Sick of waiting so long for you, dear one,” she answered. +“My eyes are dim with always gazing into that devil’s pincushion +through which you come. And I can see into it such a little way, too. But you +are here, beloved one, and I will not scold. <i>Que mal muchacho!</i> not to +come to see your <i>alma</i> more often. Go in and rest, and let me water your +horse and stake him with the long rope. There is cool water in the jar for +you.” +</p> + +<p> +The Kid kissed her affectionately. +</p> + +<p> +“Not if the court knows itself do I let a lady stake my horse for +me,” said he. “But if you’ll run in, <i>chica</i>, and throw +a pot of coffee together while I attend to the <i>caballo</i>, I’ll be a +good deal obliged.” +</p> + +<p> +Besides his marksmanship the Kid had another attribute for which he admired +himself greatly. He was <i>muy caballero</i>, as the Mexicans express it, where +the ladies were concerned. For them he had always gentle words and +consideration. He could not have spoken a harsh word to a woman. He might +ruthlessly slay their husbands and brothers, but he could not have laid the +weight of a finger in anger upon a woman. Wherefore many of that interesting +division of humanity who had come under the spell of his politeness declared +their disbelief in the stories circulated about Mr. Kid. One shouldn’t +believe everything one heard, they said. When confronted by their indignant men +folk with proof of the <i>caballero’s</i> deeds of infamy, they said +maybe he had been driven to it, and that he knew how to treat a lady, anyhow. +</p> + +<p> +Considering this extremely courteous idiosyncrasy of the Kid and the pride he +took in it, one can perceive that the solution of the problem that was +presented to him by what he saw and heard from his hiding-place in the pear +that afternoon (at least as to one of the actors) must have been obscured by +difficulties. And yet one could not think of the Kid overlooking little matters +of that kind. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of the short twilight they gathered around a supper of +<i>frijoles</i>, goat steaks, canned peaches, and coffee, by the light of a +lantern in the <i>jacal</i>. Afterward, the ancestor, his flock corralled, +smoked a cigarette and became a mummy in a grey blanket. Tonia washed the few +dishes while the Kid dried them with the flour-sacking towel. Her eyes shone; +she chatted volubly of the inconsequent happenings of her small world since the +Kid’s last visit; it was as all his other home-comings had been. +</p> + +<p> +Then outside Tonia swung in a grass hammock with her guitar and sang sad +<i>canciones de amor</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you love me just the same, old girl?” asked the Kid, hunting +for his cigarette papers. +</p> + +<p> +“Always the same, little one,” said Tonia, her dark eyes lingering +upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“I must go over to Fink’s,” said the Kid, rising, “for +some tobacco. I thought I had another sack in my coat. I’ll be back in a +quarter of an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hasten,” said Tonia, “and tell me—how long shall I +call you my own this time? Will you be gone again to-morrow, leaving me to +grieve, or will you be longer with your Tonia?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I might stay two or three days this trip,” said the Kid, +yawning. “I’ve been on the dodge for a month, and I’d like to +rest up.” +</p> + +<p> +He was gone half an hour for his tobacco. When he returned Tonia was still +lying in the hammock. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s funny,” said the Kid, “how I feel. I feel like +there was somebody lying behind every bush and tree waiting to shoot me. I +never had mullygrubs like them before. Maybe it’s one of them +presumptions. I’ve got half a notion to light out in the morning before +day. The Guadalupe country is burning up about that old Dutchman I plugged down +there.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not afraid—no one could make my brave little one +fear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I haven’t been usually regarded as a jack-rabbit when it +comes to scrapping; but I don’t want a posse smoking me out when +I’m in your <i>jacal</i>. Somebody might get hurt that oughtn’t +to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Remain with your Tonia; no one will find you here.” +</p> + +<p> +The Kid looked keenly into the shadows up and down the arroyo and toward the +dim lights of the Mexican village. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll see how it looks later on,” was his decision. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +At midnight a horseman rode into the rangers’ camp, blazing his way by +noisy “halloes” to indicate a pacific mission. Sandridge and one or +two others turned out to investigate the row. The rider announced himself to be +Domingo Sales, from the Lone Wolf Crossing. he bore a letter for Señor +Sandridge. Old Luisa, the <i>lavendera</i>, had persuaded him to bring it, he +said, her son Gregorio being too ill of a fever to ride. +</p> + +<p> +Sandridge lighted the camp lantern and read the letter. These were its words: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +<i>Dear One:</i> He has come. Hardly had you ridden away when he came out of +the pear. When he first talked he said he would stay three days or more. Then +as it grew later he was like a wolf or a fox, and walked about without rest, +looking and listening. Soon he said he must leave before daylight when it is +dark and stillest. And then he seemed to suspect that I be not true to him. He +looked at me so strange that I am frightened. I swear to him that I love him, +his own Tonia. Last of all he said I must prove to him I am true. He thinks +that even now men are waiting to kill him as he rides from my house. To escape +he says he will dress in my clothes, my red skirt and the blue waist I wear and +the brown mantilla over the head, and thus ride away. But before that he says +that I must put on his clothes, his <i>pantalones</i> and <i>camisa</i> and +hat, and ride away on his horse from the <i>jacal</i> as far as the big road +beyond the crossing and back again. This before he goes, so he can tell if I am +true and if men are hidden to shoot him. It is a terrible thing. An hour before +daybreak this is to be. Come, my dear one, and kill this man and take me for +your Tonia. Do not try to take hold of him alive, but kill him quickly. Knowing +all, you should do that. You must come long before the time and hide yourself +in the little shed near the <i>jacal</i> where the wagon and saddles are kept. +It is dark in there. He will wear my red skirt and blue waist and brown +mantilla. I send you a hundred kisses. Come surely and shoot quickly and +straight. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +T<small>HINE</small> O<small>WN</small> T<small>ONIA</small>. +</p> + +<p> +Sandridge quickly explained to his men the official part of the missive. The +rangers protested against his going alone. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll get him easy enough,” said the lieutenant. “The +girl’s got him trapped. And don’t even think he’ll get the +drop on me.” +</p> + +<p> +Sandridge saddled his horse and rode to the Lone Wolf Crossing. He tied his big +dun in a clump of brush on the arroyo, took his Winchester from its scabbard, +and carefully approached the Perez <i>jacal</i>. There was only the half of a +high moon drifted over by ragged, milk-white gulf clouds. +</p> + +<p> +The wagon-shed was an excellent place for ambush; and the ranger got inside it +safely. In the black shadow of the brush shelter in front of the <i>jacal</i> +he could see a horse tied and hear him impatiently pawing the hard-trodden +earth. +</p> + +<p> +He waited almost an hour before two figures came out of the <i>jacal</i>. One, +in man’s clothes, quickly mounted the horse and galloped past the +wagon-shed toward the crossing and village. And then the other figure, in +skirt, waist, and mantilla over its head, stepped out into the faint moonlight, +gazing after the rider. Sandridge thought he would take his chance then before +Tonia rode back. He fancied she might not care to see it. +</p> + +<p> +“Throw up your hands,” he ordered loudly, stepping out of the +wagon-shed with his Winchester at his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +There was a quick turn of the figure, but no movement to obey, so the ranger +pumped in the bullets—one—two—three—and then twice +more; for you never could be too sure of bringing down the Cisco Kid. There was +no danger of missing at ten paces, even in that half moonlight. +</p> + +<p> +The old ancestor, asleep on his blanket, was awakened by the shots. Listening +further, he heard a great cry from some man in mortal distress or anguish, and +rose up grumbling at the disturbing ways of moderns. +</p> + +<p> +The tall, red ghost of a man burst into the <i>jacal</i>, reaching one hand, +shaking like a <i>tule</i> reed, for the lantern hanging on its nail. The other +spread a letter on the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at this letter, Perez,” cried the man. “Who wrote +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ah, Dios!</i> it is Señor Sandridge,” mumbled the old man, +approaching. “<i>Pues, señor</i>, that letter was written by ‘<i>El +Chivato</i>,’ as he is called—by the man of Tonia. They say he is a +bad man; I do not know. While Tonia slept he wrote the letter and sent it by +this old hand of mine to Domingo Sales to be brought to you. Is there anything +wrong in the letter? I am very old; and I did not know. <i>Valgame Dios!</i> it +is a very foolish world; and there is nothing in the house to drink— +nothing to drink.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then all that Sandridge could think of to do was to go outside and throw +himself face downward in the dust by the side of his humming-bird, of whom not +a feather fluttered. He was not a <i>caballero</i> by instinct, and he could +not understand the niceties of revenge. +</p> + +<p> +A mile away the rider who had ridden past the wagon-shed struck up a harsh, +untuneful song, the words of which began: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Don’t you monkey with my Lulu girl<br /> +Or I’ll tell you what I’ll do— +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>XII<br /> +THE SPHINX APPLE</h2> + +<p> +Twenty miles out from Paradise, and fifteen miles short of Sunrise City, Bildad +Rose, the stage-driver, stopped his team. A furious snow had been falling all +day. Eight inches it measured now, on a level. The remainder of the road was +not without peril in daylight, creeping along the ribs of a bijou range of +ragged mountains. Now, when both snow and night masked its dangers, further +travel was not to be thought of, said Bildad Rose. So he pulled up his four +stout horses, and delivered to his five passengers oral deductions of his +wisdom. +</p> + +<p> +Judge Menefee, to whom men granted leadership and the initiatory as upon a +silver salver, sprang from the coach at once. Four of his fellow-passengers +followed, inspired by his example, ready to explore, to objurgate, to resist, +to submit, to proceed, according as their prime factor might be inclined to +sway them. The fifth passenger, a young woman, remained in the coach. +</p> + +<p> +Bildad had halted upon the shoulder of the first mountain spur. Two +rail-fences, ragged-black, hemmed the road. Fifty yards above the upper fence, +showing a dark blot in the white drifts, stood a small house. Upon this house +descended—or rather ascended—Judge Menefee and his cohorts with +boyish whoops born of the snow and stress. They called; they pounded at window +and door. At the inhospitable silence they waxed restive; they assaulted and +forced the pregnable barriers, and invaded the premises. +</p> + +<p> +The watchers from the coach heard stumblings and shoutings from the interior of +the ravaged house. Before long a light within flickered, glowed, flamed high +and bright and cheerful. Then came running back through the driving flakes the +exuberant explorers. More deeply pitched than the clarion—even orchestral +in volume—the voice of Judge Menefee proclaimed the succour that lay in +apposition with their state of travail. The one room of the house was +uninhabited, he said, and bare of furniture; but it contained a great +fireplace, and they had discovered an ample store of chopped wood in a lean-to +at the rear. Housing and warmth against the shivering night were thus assured. +For the placation of Bildad Rose there was news of a stable, not ruined beyond +service, with hay in a loft, near the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen,” cried Bildad Rose from his seat, swathed in coats and +robes, “tear me down two panels of that fence, so I can drive in. That is +old man Redruth’s shanty. I thought we must be nigh it. They took him to +the foolish house in August.” +</p> + +<p> +Cheerfully the four passengers sprang at the snow-capped rails. The exhorted +team tugged the coach up the slant to the door of the edifice from which a +mid-summer madness had ravished its proprietor. The driver and two of the +passengers began to unhitch. Judge Menefee opened the door of the coach, and +removed his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“I have to announce, Miss Garland,” said he, “the enforced +suspension of our journey. The driver asserts that the risk in travelling the +mountain road by night is too great even to consider. It will be necessary to +remain in the shelter of this house until morning. I beg that you will feel +that there is nothing to fear beyond a temporary inconvenience. I have +personally inspected the house, and find that there are means to provide +against the rigour of the weather, at least. You shall be made as comfortable +as possible. Permit me to assist you to alight.” +</p> + +<p> +To the Judge’s side came the passenger whose pursuit in life was the +placing of the Little Goliath windmill. His name was Dunwoody; but that matters +not much. In travelling merely from Paradise to Sunrise City one needs little +or no name. Still, one who would seek to divide honours with Judge Madison L. +Menefee deserves a cognomenal peg upon which Fame may hang a wreath. Thus +spake, loudly and buoyantly, the aerial miller: +</p> + +<p> +“Guess you’ll have to climb out of the ark, Mrs. McFarland. This +wigwam isn’t exactly the Palmer House, but it turns snow, and they +won’t search your grip for souvenir spoons when you leave. +<i>We’ve</i> got a fire going; and <i>we’ll</i> fix you up with dry +Tilbys and keep the mice away, anyhow, all right, all right.” +</p> + +<p> +One of the two passengers who were struggling in a <i>melée</i> of horses, +harness, snow, and the sarcastic injunctions of Bildad Rose, called loudly from +the whirl of his volunteer duties: “Say! some of you fellows get Miss +Solomon into the house, will you? Whoa, there! you confounded brute!” +</p> + +<p> +Again must it be gently urged that in travelling from Paradise to Sunrise City +an accurate name is prodigality. When Judge Menefee— sanctioned to the +act by his grey hair and widespread repute—had introduced himself to the +lady passenger, she had, herself, sweetly breathed a name, in response, that +the hearing of the male passengers had variously interpreted. In the not +unjealous spirit of rivalry that eventuated, each clung stubbornly to his own +theory. For the lady passenger to have reasseverated or corrected would have +seemed didactic if not unduly solicitous of a specific acquaintance. Therefore +the lady passenger permitted herself to be Garlanded and McFarlanded and +Solomoned with equal and discreet complacency. It is thirty-five miles from +Paradise to Sunrise City. <i>Compagnon de voyage</i> is name enough, by the +gripsack of the Wandering Jew! for so brief a journey. +</p> + +<p> +Soon the little party of wayfarers were happily seated in a cheerful arc before +the roaring fire. The robes, cushions, and removable portions of the coach had +been brought in and put to service. The lady passenger chose a place near the +hearth at one end of the arc. There she graced almost a throne that her +subjects had prepared. She sat upon cushions and leaned against an empty box +and barrel, robe bespread, which formed a defence from the invading draughts. +She extended her feet, delectably shod, to the cordial heat. She ungloved her +hands, but retained about her neck her long fur boa. The unstable flames half +revealed, while the warding boa half submerged, her face— a youthful +face, altogether feminine, clearly moulded and calm with beauty’s +unchallenged confidence. Chivalry and manhood were here vying to please and +comfort her. She seemed to accept their devoirs—not piquantly, as one +courted and attended; nor preeningly, as many of her sex unworthily reap their +honours; not yet stolidly, as the ox receives his hay; but concordantly with +nature’s own plan—as the lily ingests the drop of dew foreordained +to its refreshment. +</p> + +<p> +Outside the wind roared mightily, the fine snow whizzed through the cracks, the +cold besieged the backs of the immolated six; but the elements did not lack a +champion that night. Judge Menefee was attorney for the storm. The weather was +his client, and he strove by special pleading to convince his companions in +that frigid jury-box that they sojourned in a bower of roses, beset only by +benignant zephyrs. He drew upon a fund of gaiety, wit, and anecdote, +sophistical, but crowned with success. His cheerfulness communicated itself +irresistibly. Each one hastened to contribute his own quota toward the general +optimism. Even the lady passenger was moved to expression. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it is quite charming,” she said, in her slow, crystal +tones. +</p> + +<p> +At intervals some one of the passengers would rise and humorously explore the +room. There was little evidence to be collected of its habitation by old man +Redruth. +</p> + +<p> +Bildad Rose was called upon vivaciously for the ex-hermit’s history. Now, +since the stage-driver’s horses were fairly comfortable and his +passengers appeared to be so, peace and comity returned to him. +</p> + +<p> +“The old didapper,” began Bildad, somewhat irreverently, +“infested this here house about twenty year. He never allowed nobody to +come nigh him. He’d duck his head inside and slam the door whenever a +team drove along. There was spinning-wheels up in his loft, all right. He used +to buy his groceries and tobacco at Sam Tilly’s store, on the Little +Muddy. Last August he went up there dressed in a red bedquilt, and told Sam he +was King Solomon, and that the Queen of Sheba was coming to visit him. He +fetched along all the money he had—a little bag full of silver—and +dropped it in Sam’s well. ‘She won’t come,’ says old +man Redruth to Sam, ‘if she knows I’ve got any money.’ +</p> + +<p> +“As soon as folks heard he had that sort of a theory about women and +money they knowed he was crazy; so they sent down and packed him to the foolish +asylum.” +</p> + +<p> +“Was there a romance in his life that drove him to a solitary +existence?” asked one of the passengers, a young man who had an Agency. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Bildad, “not that I ever heard spoke of. Just +ordinary trouble. They say he had had unfortunateness in the way of love +derangements with a young lady when he was young; before he contracted red +bed-quilts and had his financial conclusions disqualified. I never heard of no +romance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” exclaimed Judge Menefee, impressively; “a case of +unrequited affection, no doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” returned Bildad, “not at all. She never married +him. Marmaduke Mulligan, down at Paradise, seen a man once that come from old +Redruth’s town. He said Redruth was a fine young man, but when you kicked +him on the pocket all you could hear jingle was a cuff-fastener and a bunch of +keys. He was engaged to this young lady—Miss Alice— something was +her name; I’ve forgot. This man said she was the kind of girl you like to +have reach across you in a car to pay the fare. Well, there come to the town a +young chap all affluent and easy, and fixed up with buggies and mining stock +and leisure time. Although she was a staked claim, Miss Alice and the new entry +seemed to strike a mutual kind of a clip. They had calls and coincidences of +going to the post office and such things as sometimes make a girl send back the +engagement ring and other presents—‘a rift within the loot,’ +the poetry man calls it. +</p> + +<p> +“One day folks seen Redruth and Miss Alice standing talking at the gate. +Then he lifts his hat and walks away, and that was the last anybody in that +town seen of him, as far as this man knew.” +</p> + +<p> +“What about the young lady?” asked the young man who had an Agency. +</p> + +<p> +“Never heard,” answered Bildad. “Right there is where my lode +of information turns to an old spavined crowbait, and folds its wings, for +I’ve pumped it dry.” +</p> + +<p> +“A very sad—” began Judge Menefee, but his remark was +curtailed by a higher authority. +</p> + +<p> +“What a charming story!” said the lady passenger, in flute-like +tones. +</p> + +<p> +A little silence followed, except for the wind and the crackling of the fire. +</p> + +<p> +The men were seated upon the floor, having slightly mitigated its inhospitable +surface with wraps and stray pieces of boards. The man who was placing Little +Goliath windmills arose and walked about to ease his cramped muscles. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly a triumphant shout came from him. He hurried back from a dusky corner +of the room, bearing aloft something in his hand. It was an apple—a +large, red-mottled, firm pippin, pleasing to behold. In a paper bag on a high +shelf in that corner he had found it. It could have been no relic of the +lovewrecked Redruth, for its glorious soundness repudiated the theory that it +had lain on that musty shelf since August. No doubt some recent bivouackers, +lunching in the deserted house, had left it there. +</p> + +<p> +Dunwoody—again his exploits demand for him the honours of +nomenclature—flaunted his apple in the faces of his fellow-marooners. +“See what I found, Mrs. McFarland!” he cried, vaingloriously. He +held the apple high up in the light of the fire, where it glowed a still richer +red. The lady passenger smiled calmly—always calmly. +</p> + +<p> +“What a charming apple!” she murmured, clearly. +</p> + +<p> +For a brief space Judge Menefee felt crushed, humiliated, relegated. Second +place galled him. Why had this blatant, obtrusive, unpolished man of windmills +been selected by Fate instead of himself to discover the sensational apple? He +could have made of the act a scene, a function, a setting for some impromptu, +fanciful discourse or piece of comedy—and have retained the role of +cynosure. Actually, the lady passenger was regarding this ridiculous Dunboddy +or Woodbundy with an admiring smile, as if the fellow had performed a feat! And +the windmill man swelled and gyrated like a sample of his own goods, puffed up +with the wind that ever blows from the chorus land toward the domain of the +star. +</p> + +<p> +While the transported Dunwoody, with his Aladdin’s apple, was receiving +the fickle attentions of all, the resourceful jurist formed a plan to recover +his own laurels. +</p> + +<p> +With his courtliest smile upon his heavy but classic features, Judge Menefee +advanced, and took the apple, as if to examine it, from the hand of Dunwoody. +In his hand it became Exhibit A. +</p> + +<p> +“A fine apple,” he said, approvingly. “Really, my dear Mr. +Dudwindy, you have eclipsed all of us as a forager. But I have an idea. This +apple shall become an emblem, a token, a symbol, a prize bestowed by the mind +and heart of beauty upon the most deserving.” +</p> + +<p> +The audience, except one, applauded. “Good on the stump, ain’t +he?” commented the passenger who was nobody in particular to the young +man who had an Agency. +</p> + +<p> +The unresponsive one was the windmill man. He saw himself reduced to the ranks. +Never would the thought have occurred to him to declare his apple an emblem. He +had intended, after it had been divided and eaten, to create diversion by +sticking the seeds against his forehead and naming them for young ladies of his +acquaintance. One he was going to name Mrs. McFarland. The seed that fell off +first would be—but ’twas too late now. +</p> + +<p> +“The apple,” continued Judge Menefee, charging his jury, “in +modern days occupies, though undeservedly, a lowly place in our esteem. Indeed, +it is so constantly associated with the culinary and the commercial that it is +hardly to be classed among the polite fruits. But in ancient times this was not +so. Biblical, historical, and mythological lore abounds with evidences that the +apple was the aristocrat of fruits. We still say ‘the apple of the +eye’ when we wish to describe something superlatively precious. We find +in Proverbs the comparison to ‘apples of silver.’ No other product +of tree or vine has been so utilised in figurative speech. Who has not heard of +and longed for the ‘apples of the Hesperides’? I need not call your +attention to the most tremendous and significant instance of the apple’s +ancient prestige when its consumption by our first parents occasioned the fall +of man from his state of goodness and perfection.” +</p> + +<p> +“Apples like them,” said the windmill man, lingering with the +objective article, “are worth $3.50 a barrel in the Chicago +market.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, what I have to propose,” said Judge Menefee, conceding an +indulgent smile to his interrupter, “is this: We must remain here, +perforce, until morning. We have wood in plenty to keep us warm. Our next need +is to entertain ourselves as best we can, in order that the time shall not pass +too slowly. I propose that we place this apple in the hands of Miss Garland. It +is no longer a fruit, but, as I said, a prize, in award, representing a great +human idea. Miss Garland, herself, shall cease to be an individual—but +only temporarily, I am happy to add”—(a low bow, full of the +old-time grace). “She shall represent her sex; she shall be the +embodiment, the epitome of womankind—the heart and brain, I may say, of +God’s masterpiece of creation. In this guise she shall judge and decide +the question which follows: +</p> + +<p> +“But a few minutes ago our friend, Mr. Rose, favoured us with an +entertaining but fragmentary sketch of the romance in the life of the former +professor of this habitation. The few facts that we have learned seem to me to +open up a fascinating field for conjecture, for the study of human hearts, for +the exercise of the imagination—in short, for story-telling. Let us make +use of the opportunity. Let each one of us relate his own version of the story +of Redruth, the hermit, and his lady-love, beginning where Mr. Rose’s +narrative ends—at the parting of the lovers at the gate. This much should +be assumed and conceded—that the young lady was not necessarily to blame +for Redruth’s becoming a crazed and world-hating hermit. When we have +done, Miss Garland shall render the J<small>UDGEMENT OF</small> +W<small>OMAN</small>. As the Spirit of her Sex she shall decide which version +of the story best and most truly depicts human and love interest, and most +faithfully estimates the character and acts of Redruth’s betrothed +according to the feminine view. The apple shall be bestowed upon him who is +awarded the decision. If you are all agreed, we shall be pleased to hear the +first story from Mr. Dinwiddie.” +</p> + +<p> +The last sentence captured the windmill man. He was not one to linger in the +dumps. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a first-rate scheme, Judge,” he said, heartily. +“Be a regular short-story vaudeville, won’t it? I used to be +correspondent for a paper in Springfield, and when there wasn’t any news +I faked it. Guess I can do my turn all right.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think the idea is charming,” said the lady passenger, brightly. +“It will be almost like a game.” +</p> + +<p> +Judge Menefee stepped forward and placed the apple in her hand impressively. +</p> + +<p> +“In olden days,” he said, orotundly, “Paris awarded the +golden apple to the most beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was at the Exposition,” remarked the windmill man, now cheerful +again, “but I never heard of it. And I was on the Midway, too, all the +time I wasn’t at the machinery exhibit.” +</p> + +<p> +“But now,” continued the Judge, “the fruit shall translate to +us the mystery and wisdom of the feminine heart. Take the apple, Miss Garland. +Hear our modest tales of romance, and then award the prize as you may deem it +just.” +</p> + +<p> +The lady passenger smiled sweetly. The apple lay in her lap beneath her robes +and wraps. She reclined against her protecting bulwark, brightly and cosily at +ease. But for the voices and the wind one might have listened hopefully to hear +her purr. Someone cast fresh logs upon the fire. Judge Menefee nodded suavely. +“Will you oblige us with the initial story?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +The windmill man sat as sits a Turk, with his hat well back on his head on +account of the draughts. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he began, without any embarrassment, “this is about +the way I size up the difficulty: Of course Redruth was jostled a good deal by +this duck who had money to play ball with who tried to cut him out of his girl. +So he goes around, naturally, and asks her if the game is still square. Well, +nobody wants a guy cutting in with buggies and gold bonds when he’s got +an option on a girl. Well, he goes around to see her. Well, maybe he’s +hot, and talks like the proprietor, and forgets that an engagement ain’t +always a lead-pipe cinch. Well, I guess that makes Alice warm under the lacy +yoke. Well, she answers back sharp. Well, he—” +</p> + +<p> +“Say!” interrupted the passenger who was nobody in particular, +“if you could put up a windmill on every one of them ‘wells’ +you’re using, you’d be able to retire from business, wouldn’t +you?” +</p> + +<p> +The windmill man grinned good-naturedly. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I ain’t no <i>Guy de Mopassong</i>,” he said, +cheerfully. “I’m giving it to you in straight American. Well, she +says something like this: ‘Mr. Gold Bonds is only a friend,’ says +she; ‘but he takes me riding and buys me theatre tickets, and +that’s what you never do. Ain’t I to never have any pleasure in +life while I can?’ ‘Pass this chatfield-chatfield thing +along,’ says Redruth;—‘hand out the mitt to the Willie with +creases in it or you don’t put your slippers under my wardrobe.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Now that kind of train orders don’t go with a girl that’s +got any spirit. I bet that girl loved her honey all the time. Maybe she only +wanted, as girls do, to work the good thing for a little fun and caramels +before she settled down to patch George’s other pair, and be a good wife. +But he is glued to the high horse, and won’t come down. Well, she hands +him back the ring, proper enough; and George goes away and hits the booze. Yep. +That’s what done it. I bet that girl fired the cornucopia with the fancy +vest two days after her steady left. George boards a freight and checks his bag +of crackers for parts unknown. He sticks to Old Booze for a number of years; +and then the aniline and aquafortis gets the decision. ‘Me for the +hermit’s hut,’ says George, ‘and the long whiskers, and the +buried can of money that isn’t there.’ +</p> + +<p> +“But that Alice, in my mind, was on the level. She never married, but +took up typewriting as soon as the wrinkles began to show, and kept a cat that +came when you said ‘weeny—weeny—weeny!’ I got too much +faith in good women to believe they throw down the fellow they’re stuck +on every time for the dough.” The windmill man ceased. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” said the lady passenger, slightly moving upon her lowly +throne, “that that is a char—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Miss Garland!” interposed Judge Menefee, with uplifted hand, +“I beg of you, no comments! It would not be fair to the other +contestants. Mr.—er—will you take the next turn?” The Judge +addressed the young man who had the Agency. +</p> + +<p> +“My version of the romance,” began the young man, diffidently +clasping his hands, “would be this: They did not quarrel when they +parted. Mr. Redruth bade her good-by and went out into the world to seek his +fortune. He knew his love would remain true to him. He scorned the thought that +his rival could make an impression upon a heart so fond and faithful. I would +say that Mr. Redruth went out to the Rocky Mountains in Wyoming to seek for +gold. One day a crew of pirates landed and captured him while at work, +and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Hey! what’s that?” sharply called the passenger who was +nobody in particular—“a crew of pirates landed in the Rocky +Mountains! Will you tell us how they sailed—” +</p> + +<p> +“Landed from a train,” said the narrator, quietly and not without +some readiness. “They kept him prisoner in a cave for months, and then +they took him hundreds of miles away to the forests of Alaska. There a +beautiful Indian girl fell in love with him, but he remained true to Alice. +After another year of wandering in the woods, he set out with the +diamonds—” +</p> + +<p> +“What diamonds?” asked the unimportant passenger, almost with +acerbity. +</p> + +<p> +“The ones the saddlemaker showed him in the Peruvian temple,” said +the other, somewhat obscurely. “When he reached home, Alice’s +mother led him, weeping, to a green mound under a willow tree. ‘Her heart +was broken when you left,’ said her mother. ‘And what of my +rival—of Chester McIntosh?’ asked Mr. Redruth, as he knelt sadly by +Alice’s grave. ‘When he found out,’ she answered, ‘that +her heart was yours, he pined away day by day until, at length, he started a +furniture store in Grand Rapids. We heard lately that he was bitten to death by +an infuriated moose near South Bend, Ind., where he had gone to try to forget +scenes of civilisation.’ With which, Mr. Redruth forsook the face of +mankind and became a hermit, as we have seen. +</p> + +<p> +“My story,” concluded the young man with an Agency, “may lack +the literary quality; but what I wanted it to show is that the young lady +remained true. She cared nothing for wealth in comparison with true affection. +I admire and believe in the fair sex too much to think otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +The narrator ceased, with a sidelong glance at the corner where reclined the +lady passenger. +</p> + +<p> +Bildad Rose was next invited by Judge Menefee to contribute his story in the +contest for the apple of judgment. The stage-driver’s essay was brief. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not one of them lobo wolves,” he said, “who are +always blaming on women the calamities of life. My testimony in regards to the +fiction story you ask for, Judge, will be about as follows: What ailed Redruth +was pure laziness. If he had up and slugged this Percival De Lacey that tried +to give him the outside of the road, and had kept Alice in the grape-vine swing +with the blind-bridle on, all would have been well. The woman you want is sure +worth taking pains for. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Send for me if you want me again,’ says Redruth, and hoists +his Stetson, and walks off. He’d have called it pride, but the +nixycomlogical name for it is laziness. No woman don’t like to run after +a man. ‘Let him come back, hisself,’ says the girl; and I’ll +be bound she tells the boy with the pay ore to trot; and then spends her time +watching out the window for the man with the empty pocket-book and the tickly +moustache. +</p> + +<p> +“I reckon Redruth waits about nine year expecting her to send him a note +by a nigger asking him to forgive her. But she don’t. ‘This game +won’t work,’ says Redruth; ‘then so won’t I.’ And +he goes in the hermit business and raises whiskers. Yes; laziness and whiskers +was what done the trick. They travel together. You ever hear of a man with long +whiskers and hair striking a bonanza? No. Look at the Duke of Marlborough and +this Standard Oil snoozer. Have they got ’em? +</p> + +<p> +“Now, this Alice didn’t never marry, I’ll bet a hoss. If +Redruth had married somebody else she might have done so, too. But he never +turns up. She has these here things they call fond memories, and maybe a lock +of hair and a corset steel that he broke, treasured up. Them sort of articles +is as good as a husband to some women. I’d say she played out a lone +hand. I don’t blame no woman for old man Redruth’s abandonment of +barber shops and clean shirts.” +</p> + +<p> +Next in order came the passenger who was nobody in particular. Nameless to us, +he travels the road from Paradise to Sunrise City. +</p> + +<p> +But him you shall see, if the firelight be not too dim, as he responds to the +Judge’s call. +</p> + +<p> +A lean form, in rusty-brown clothing, sitting like a frog, his arms wrapped +about his legs, his chin resting upon his knees. Smooth, oakum-coloured hair; +long nose; mouth like a satyr’s, with upturned, tobacco-stained corners. +An eye like a fish’s; a red necktie with a horseshoe pin. He began with a +rasping chuckle that gradually formed itself into words. +</p> + +<p> +“Everybody wrong so far. What! a romance without any orange blossoms! Ho, +ho! My money on the lad with the butterfly tie and the certified checks in his +trouserings. +</p> + +<p> +“Take ’em as they parted at the gate? All right. ‘You never +loved me,’ says Redruth, wildly, ‘or you wouldn’t speak to a +man who can buy you the ice-cream.’ ‘I hate him,’ says she. +‘I loathe his side-bar buggy; I despise the elegant cream bonbons he +sends me in gilt boxes covered with real lace; I feel that I could stab him to +the heart when he presents me with a solid medallion locket with turquoises and +pearls running in a vine around the border. Away with him! ’Tis only you +I love.’ ‘Back to the cosy corner!’ says Redruth. ‘Was +I bound and lettered in East Aurora? Get platonic, if you please. No jack-pots +for mine. Go and hate your friend some more. For me the Nickerson girl on +Avenue B, and gum, and a trolley ride.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Around that night comes John W. Croesus. ‘What! tears?’ says +he, arranging his pearl pin. ‘You have driven my lover away,’ says +little Alice, sobbing: ‘I hate the sight of you.’ ‘Marry me, +then,’ says John W., lighting a Henry Clay. ‘What!’ she cries +indignantly, ‘marry you! Never,’ she says, ‘until this blows +over, and I can do some shopping, and you see about the licence. There’s +a telephone next door if you want to call up the county clerk.’” +</p> + +<p> +The narrator paused to give vent to his cynical chuckle. +</p> + +<p> +“Did they marry?” he continued. “Did the duck swallow the +June-bug? And then I take up the case of Old Boy Redruth. There’s where +you are all wrong again, according to my theory. What turned him into a hermit? +One says laziness; one says remorse; one says booze. I say women did it. How +old is the old man now?” asked the speaker, turning to Bildad Rose. +</p> + +<p> +“I should say about sixty-five.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right. He conducted his hermit shop here for twenty years. Say he +was twenty-five when he took off his hat at the gate. That leaves twenty years +for him to account for, or else be docked. Where did he spend that ten and two +fives? I’ll give you my idea. Up for bigamy. Say there was the fat blonde +in Saint Jo, and the panatela brunette at Skillet Ridge, and the gold tooth +down in the Kaw valley. Redruth gets his cases mixed, and they send him up the +road. He gets out after they are through with him, and says: ‘Any line +for me except the crinoline. The hermit trade is not overdone, and the +stenographers never apply to ’em for work. The jolly hermit’s life +for me. No more long hairs in the comb or dill pickles lying around in the +cigar tray.’ You tell me they pinched old Redruth for the noodle villa +just because he said he was King Solomon? Figs! He <i>was</i> Solomon. +That’s all of mine. I guess it don’t call for any apples. Enclosed +find stamps. It don’t sound much like a prize winner.” +</p> + +<p> +Respecting the stricture laid by Judge Menefee against comments upon the +stories, all were silent when the passenger who was nobody in particular had +concluded. And then the ingenious originator of the contest cleared his throat +to begin the ultimate entry for the prize. Though seated with small comfort +upon the floor, you might search in vain for any abatement of dignity in Judge +Menefee. The now diminishing firelight played softly upon his face, as clearly +chiselled as a Roman emperor’s on some old coin, and upon the thick waves +of his honourable grey hair. +</p> + +<p> +“A woman’s heart!” he began, in even but thrilling +tones—“who can hope to fathom it? The ways and desires of men are +various. I think that the hearts of all women beat with the same rhythm, and to +the same old tune of love. Love, to a woman, means sacrifice. If she be worthy +of the name, no gold or rank will outweigh with her a genuine devotion. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen of the—er—I should say, my friends, the case of +Redruth <i>versus</i> love and affection has been called. Yet, who is on trial? +Not Redruth, for he has been punished. Not those immortal passions that clothe +our lives with the joy of the angels. Then who? Each man of us here to-night +stands at the bar to answer if chivalry or darkness inhabits his bosom. To +judge us sits womankind in the form of one of its fairest flowers. In her hand +she holds the prize, intrinsically insignificant, but worthy of our noblest +efforts to win as a guerdon of approval from so worthy a representative of +feminine judgment and taste. +</p> + +<p> +“In taking up the imaginary history of Redruth and the fair being to whom +he gave his heart, I must, in the beginning, raise my voice against the +unworthy insinuation that the selfishness or perfidy or love of luxury of any +woman drove him to renounce the world. I have not found woman to be so +unspiritual or venal. We must seek elsewhere, among man’s baser nature +and lower motives for the cause. +</p> + +<p> +“There was, in all probability, a lover’s quarrel as they stood at +the gate on that memorable day. Tormented by jealousy, young Redruth vanished +from his native haunts. But had he just cause to do so? There is no evidence +for or against. But there is something higher than evidence; there is the +grand, eternal belief in woman’s goodness, in her steadfastness against +temptation, in her loyalty even in the face of proffered riches. +</p> + +<p> +“I picture to myself the rash lover, wandering, self-tortured, about the +world. I picture his gradual descent, and, finally, his complete despair when +he realises that he has lost the most precious gift life had to offer him. Then +his withdrawal from the world of sorrow and the subsequent derangement of his +faculties becomes intelligible. +</p> + +<p> +“But what do I see on the other hand? A lonely woman fading away as the +years roll by; still faithful, still waiting, still watching for a form and +listening for a step that will come no more. She is old now. Her hair is white +and smoothly banded. Each day she sits at the door and gazes longingly down the +dusty road. In spirit she is waiting there at the gate, just as he left +her—his forever, but not here below. Yes; my belief in woman paints that +picture in my mind. Parted forever on earth, but waiting! She in anticipation +of a meeting in Elysium; he in the Slough of Despond.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought he was in the bughouse,” said the passenger who was +nobody in particular. +</p> + +<p> +Judge Menefee stirred, a little impatiently. The men sat, drooping, in +grotesque attitudes. The wind had abated its violence; coming now in fitful, +virulent puffs. The fire had burned to a mass of red coals which shed but a dim +light within the room. The lady passenger in her cosy nook looked to be but a +formless dark bulk, crowned by a mass of coiled, sleek hair and showing but a +small space of snowy forehead above her clinging boa. +</p> + +<p> +Judge Menefee got stiffly to his feet. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Miss Garland,” he announced, “we have concluded. It +is for you to award the prize to the one of us whose argument—especially, +I may say, in regard to his estimate of true womanhood—approaches nearest +to your own conception.” +</p> + +<p> +No answer came from the lady passenger. Judge Menefee bent over solicitously. +The passenger who was nobody in particular laughed low and harshly. The lady +was sleeping sweetly. The Judge essayed to take her hand to awaken her. In +doing so he touched a small, cold, round, irregular something in her lap. +</p> + +<p> +“She has eaten the apple,” announced Judge Menefee, in awed tones, +as he held up the core for them to see. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>XIII<br /> +THE MISSING CHORD</h2> + +<p> +I stopped overnight at the sheep-ranch of Rush Kinney, on the Sandy Fork of the +Nueces. Mr. Kinney and I had been strangers up to the time when I called +“Hallo!” at his hitching-rack; but from that moment until my +departure on the next morning we were, according to the Texas code, undeniable +friends. +</p> + +<p> +After supper the ranchman and I lugged our chairs outside the two-room house, +to its floorless gallery roofed with chaparral and sacuista grass. With the +rear legs of our chairs sinking deep into the hardpacked loam, each of us +reposed against an elm pillar of the structure and smoked El Toro tobacco, +while we wrangled amicably concerning the affairs of the rest of the world. +</p> + +<p> +As for conveying adequate conception of the engaging charm of that prairie +evening, despair waits upon it. It is a bold chronicler who will undertake the +description of a Texas night in the early spring. An inventory must suffice. +</p> + +<p> +The ranch rested upon the summit of a lenient slope. The ambient prairie, +diversified by arroyos and murky patches of brush and pear, lay around us like +a darkened bowl at the bottom of which we reposed as dregs. Like a turquoise +cover the sky pinned us there. The miraculous air, heady with ozone and made +memorably sweet by leagues of wild flowerets, gave tang and savour to the +breath. In the sky was a great, round, mellow searchlight which we knew to be +no moon, but the dark lantern of summer, who came to hunt northward the +cowering spring. In the nearest corral a flock of sheep lay silent until a +groundless panic would send a squad of them huddling together with a drumming +rush. For other sounds a shrill family of coyotes yapped beyond the +shearing-pen, and whippoorwills twittered in the long grass. But even these +dissonances hardly rippled the clear torrent of the mocking-birds’ notes +that fell from a dozen neighbouring shrubs and trees. It would not have been +preposterous for one to tiptoe and essay to touch the stars, they hung so +bright and imminent. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Kinney’s wife, a young and capable woman, we had left in the house. +She remained to busy herself with the domestic round of duties, in which I had +observed that she seemed to take a buoyant and contented pride. In one room we +had supped. Presently, from the other, as Kinney and I sat without, there burst +a volume of sudden and brilliant music. If I could justly estimate the art of +piano-playing, the construer of that rollicking fantasia had creditably +mastered the secrets of the keyboard. A piano, and one so well played, seemed +to me to be an unusual thing to find in that small and unpromising ranch-house. +I must have looked my surprise at Rush Kinney, for he laughed in his soft, +Southern way, and nodded at me through the moonlit haze of our cigarettes. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t often hear as agreeable a noise as that on a +sheep-ranch,” he remarked; “but I never see any reason for not +playing up to the arts and graces just because we happen to live out in the +brush. It’s a lonesome life for a woman; and if a little music can make +it any better, why not have it? That’s the way I look at it.” +</p> + +<p> +“A wise and generous theory,” I assented. “And Mrs. Kinney +plays well. I am not learned in the science of music, but I should call her an +uncommonly good performer. She has technic and more than ordinary power.” +</p> + +<p> +The moon was very bright, you will understand, and I saw upon Kinney’s +face a sort of amused and pregnant expression, as though there were things +behind it that might be expounded. +</p> + +<p> +“You came up the trail from the Double-Elm Fork,” he said +promisingly. “As you crossed it you must have seen an old deserted +<i>jacal</i> to your left under a comma mott.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did,” said I. “There was a drove of <i>javalis</i> rooting +around it. I could see by the broken corrals that no one lived there.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s where this music proposition started,” said Kinney. +“I don’t mind telling you about it while we smoke. That’s +where old Cal Adams lived. He had about eight hundred graded merinos and a +daughter that was solid silk and as handsome as a new stake-rope on a +thirty-dollar pony. And I don’t mind telling you that I was guilty in the +second degree of hanging around old Cal’s ranch all the time I could +spare away from lambing and shearing. Miss Marilla was her name; and I had +figured it out by the rule of two that she was destined to become the +chatelaine and lady superior of Rancho Lomito, belonging to R. Kinney, Esq., +where you are now a welcome and honoured guest. +</p> + +<p> +“I will say that old Cal wasn’t distinguished as a sheepman. He was +a little, old stoop-shouldered <i>hombre</i> about as big as a gun scabbard, +with scraggy white whiskers, and condemned to the continuous use of language. +Old Cal was so obscure in his chosen profession that he wasn’t even hated +by the cowmen. And when a sheepman don’t get eminent enough to acquire +the hostility of the cattlemen, he is mighty apt to die unwept and considerably +unsung. +</p> + +<p> +“But that Marilla girl was a benefit to the eye. And she was the most +elegant kind of a housekeeper. I was the nearest neighbour, and I used to ride +over to the Double-Elm anywhere from nine to sixteen times a week with fresh +butter or a quarter of venison or a sample of new sheep-dip just as a frivolous +excuse to see Marilla. Marilla and me got to be extensively inveigled with each +other, and I was pretty sure I was going to get my rope around her neck and +lead her over to the Lomito. Only she was so everlastingly permeated with +filial sentiments toward old Cal that I never could get her to talk about +serious matters. +</p> + +<p> +“You never saw anybody in your life that was as full of knowledge and had +less sense than old Cal. He was advised about all the branches of information +contained in learning, and he was up to all the rudiments of doctrines and +enlightenment. You couldn’t advance him any ideas on any of the parts of +speech or lines of thought. You would have thought he was a professor of the +weather and politics and chemistry and natural history and the origin of +derivations. Any subject you brought up old Cal could give you an abundant +synopsis of it from the Greek root up to the time it was sacked and on the +market. +</p> + +<p> +“One day just after the fall shearing I rides over to the Double-Elm with +a lady’s magazine about fashions for Marilla and a scientific paper for +old Cal. +</p> + +<p> +“While I was tying my pony to a mesquite, out runs Marilla, +‘tickled to death’ with some news that couldn’t wait. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Oh, Rush,’ she says, all flushed up with esteem and +gratification, ‘what do you think! Dad’s going to buy me a piano. +Ain’t it grand? I never dreamed I’d ever have one.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘It’s sure joyful,’ says I. ‘I always admired +the agreeable uproar of a piano. It’ll be lots of company for you. +That’s mighty good of Uncle Cal to do that.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’m all undecided,’ says Marilla, ‘between a +piano and an organ. A parlour organ is nice.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Either of ’em,’ says I, ‘is first-class for +mitigating the lack of noise around a sheep-ranch. For my part,’ I says, +‘I shouldn’t like anything better than to ride home of an evening +and listen to a few waltzes and jigs, with somebody about your size sitting on +the piano-stool and rounding up the notes.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Oh, hush about that,’ says Marilla, ‘and go on in the +house. Dad hasn’t rode out to-day. He’s not feeling well.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Old Cal was inside, lying on a cot. He had a pretty bad cold and cough. +I stayed to supper. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Going to get Marilla a piano, I hear,’ says I to him. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why, yes, something of the kind, Rush,’ says he. +‘She’s been hankering for music for a long spell; and I allow to +fix her up with something in that line right away. The sheep sheared six pounds +all round this fall; and I’m going to get Marilla an instrument if it +takes the price of the whole clip to do it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘<i>Star wayno</i>,’ says I. ‘The little girl deserves +it.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’m going to San Antone on the last load of wool,’ +says Uncle Cal, ‘and select an instrument for her myself.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Wouldn’t it be better,’ I suggests, ‘to take +Marilla along and let her pick out one that she likes?’ +</p> + +<p> +“I might have known that would set Uncle Cal going. Of course, a man like +him, that knew everything about everything, would look at that as a reflection +on his attainments. +</p> + +<p> +“‘No, sir, it wouldn’t,’ says he, pulling at his white +whiskers. ‘There ain’t a better judge of musical instruments in the +whole world than what I am. I had an uncle,’ says he, ‘that was a +partner in a piano-factory, and I’ve seen thousands of ’em put +together. I know all about musical instruments from a pipe-organ to a +corn-stalk fiddle. There ain’t a man lives, sir, that can tell me any +news about any instrument that has to be pounded, blowed, scraped, grinded, +picked, or wound with a key.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘You get me what you like, dad,’ says Marilla, who +couldn’t keep her feet on the floor from joy. ‘Of course you know +what to select. I’d just as lief it was a piano or a organ or +what.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I see in St. Louis once what they call a orchestrion,’ says +Uncle Cal, ‘that I judged was about the finest thing in the way of music +ever invented. But there ain’t room in this house for one. Anyway, I +imagine they’d cost a thousand dollars. I reckon something in the piano +line would suit Marilla the best. She took lessons in that respect for two +years over at Birdstail. I wouldn’t trust the buying of an instrument to +anybody else but myself. I reckon if I hadn’t took up sheep-raising +I’d have been one of the finest composers or piano-and-organ +manufacturers in the world.’ +</p> + +<p> +“That was Uncle Cal’s style. But I never lost any patience with +him, on account of his thinking so much of Marilla. And she thought just as +much of him. He sent her to the academy over at Birdstail for two years when it +took nearly every pound of wool to pay the expenses. +</p> + +<p> +“Along about Tuesday Uncle Cal put out for San Antone on the last +wagonload of wool. Marilla’s uncle Ben, who lived in Birdstail, come over +and stayed at the ranch while Uncle Cal was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“It was ninety miles to San Antone, and forty to the nearest +railroad-station, so Uncle Cal was gone about four days. I was over at the +Double-Elm when he came rolling back one evening about sundown. And up there in +the wagon, sure enough, was a piano or a organ—we couldn’t tell +which—all wrapped up in woolsacks, with a wagon-sheet tied over it in +case of rain. And out skips Marilla, hollering, ‘Oh, oh!’ with her +eyes shining and her hair a-flying. ‘Dad—dad,’ she sings out, +‘have you brought it—have you brought it?’—and it right +there before her eyes, as women will do. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Finest piano in San Antone,’ says Uncle Cal, waving his +hand, proud. ‘Genuine rosewood, and the finest, loudest tone you ever +listened to. I heard the storekeeper play it, and I took it on the spot and +paid cash down.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Me and Ben and Uncle Cal and a Mexican lifted it out of the wagon and +carried it in the house and set it in a corner. It was one of them upright +instruments, and not very heavy or very big. +</p> + +<p> +“And then all of a sudden Uncle Cal flops over and says he’s mighty +sick. He’s got a high fever, and he complains of his lungs. He gets into +bed, while me and Ben goes out to unhitch and put the horses in the pasture, +and Marilla flies around to get Uncle Cal something hot to drink. But first she +puts both arms on that piano and hugs it with a soft kind of a smile, like you +see kids doing with their Christmas toys. +</p> + +<p> +“When I came in from the pasture, Marilla was in the room where the piano +was. I could see by the strings and woolsacks on the floor that she had had it +unwrapped. But now she was tying the wagon-sheet over it again, and there was a +kind of solemn, whitish look on her face. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Ain’t wrapping up the music again, are you, Marilla?’ +I asks. ‘What’s the matter with just a couple of tunes for to see +how she goes under the saddle?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Not to-night, Rush,’ says she. ‘I don’t want to +play any to-night. Dad’s too sick. Just think, Rush, he paid three +hundred dollars for it —nearly a third of what the wool-clip +brought!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well, it ain’t anyways in the neighbourhood of a third of +what you are worth,’ I told her. ‘And I don’t think Uncle Cal +is too sick to hear a little agitation of the piano-keys just to christen the +machine. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Not to-night, Rush,’ says Marilla, in a way that she had +when she wanted to settle things. +</p> + +<p> +“But it seems that Uncle Cal was plenty sick, after all. He got so bad +that Ben saddled up and rode over to Birdstail for Doc Simpson. I stayed around +to see if I’d be needed for anything. +</p> + +<p> +“When Uncle Cal’s pain let up on him a little he called Marilla and +says to her: ‘Did you look at your instrument, honey? And do you like +it?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘It’s lovely, dad,’ says she, leaning down by his +pillow; ‘I never saw one so pretty. How dear and good it was of you to +buy it for me!’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘I haven’t heard you play on it any yet,’ says Uncle +Cal; ‘and I’ve been listening. My side don’t hurt quite so +bad now—won’t you play a piece, Marilla?’ +</p> + +<p> +“But no; she puts Uncle Cal off and soothes him down like you’ve +seen women do with a kid. It seems she’s made up her mind not to touch +that piano at present. +</p> + +<p> +“When Doc Simpson comes over he tells us that Uncle Cal has pneumonia the +worst kind; and as the old man was past sixty and nearly on the lift anyhow, +the odds was against his walking on grass any more. +</p> + +<p> +“On the fourth day of his sickness he calls for Marilla again and wants +to talk piano. Doc Simpson was there, and so was Ben and Mrs. Ben, trying to do +all they could. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I’d have made a wonderful success in anything connected +with music,’ says Uncle Cal. ‘I got the finest instrument for the +money in San Antone. Ain’t that piano all right in every respect, +Marilla?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘It’s just perfect, dad,’ says she. ‘It’s +got the finest tone I ever heard. But don’t you think you could sleep a +little while now, dad?’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘No, I don’t,’ says Uncle Cal. ‘I want to hear +that piano. I don’t believe you’ve even tried it yet. I went all +the way to San Antone and picked it out for you myself. It took a third of the +fall clip to buy it; but I don’t mind that if it makes my good girl +happier. Won’t you play a little bit for dad, Marilla?’ +</p> + +<p> +“Doc Simpson beckoned Marilla to one side and recommended her to do what +Uncle Cal wanted, so it would get him quieted. And her uncle Ben and his wife +asked her, too. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why not hit out a tune or two with the soft pedal on?’ I +asks Marilla. ‘Uncle Cal has begged you so often. It would please him a +good deal to hear you touch up the piano he’s bought for you. Don’t +you think you might?’ +</p> + +<p> +“But Marilla stands there with big tears rolling down from her eyes and +says nothing. And then she runs over and slips her arm under Uncle Cal’s +neck and hugs him tight. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Why, last night, dad,’ we heard her say, ‘I played it +ever so much. Honest—I have been playing it. And it’s such a +splendid instrument, you don’t know how I love it. Last night I played +“Bonnie Dundee” and the “Anvil Polka” and the +“Blue Danube”—and lots of pieces. You must surely have heard +me playing a little, didn’t you, dad? I didn’t like to play loud +when you was so sick.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Well, well,’ says Uncle Cal, ‘maybe I did. Maybe I +did and forgot about it. My head is a little cranky at times. I heard the man +in the store play it fine. I’m mighty glad you like it, Marilla. Yes, I +believe I could go to sleep a while if you’ll stay right beside me till I +do.’ +</p> + +<p> +“There was where Marilla had me guessing. Much as she thought of that old +man, she wouldn’t strike a note on that piano that he’d bought her. +I couldn’t imagine why she told him she’d been playing it, for the +wagon-sheet hadn’t ever been off of it since she put it back on the same +day it come. I knew she could play a little anyhow, for I’d once heard +her snatch some pretty fair dance-music out of an old piano at the Charco Largo +Ranch. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, in about a week the pneumonia got the best of Uncle Cal. They had +the funeral over at Birdstail, and all of us went over. I brought Marilla back +home in my buckboard. Her uncle Ben and his wife were going to stay there a few +days with her. +</p> + +<p> +“That night Marilla takes me in the room where the piano was, while the +others were out on the gallery. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Come here, Rush,’ says she; ‘I want you to see this +now.’ +</p> + +<p> +“She unties the rope, and drags off the wagon-sheet. +</p> + +<p> +“If you ever rode a saddle without a horse, or fired off a gun that +wasn’t loaded, or took a drink out of an empty bottle, why, then you +might have been able to scare an opera or two out of the instrument Uncle Cal +had bought. +</p> + +<p> +“Instead of a piano, it was one of the machines they’ve invented to +play the piano with. By itself it was about as musical as the holes of a flute +without the flute. +</p> + +<p> +“And that was the piano that Uncle Cal had selected; and standing by it +was the good, fine, all-wool girl that never let him know it. +</p> + +<p> +“And what you heard playing a while ago,” concluded Mr. Kinney, +“was that same deputy-piano machine; only just at present it’s +shoved up against a six-hundred-dollar piano that I bought for Marilla as soon +as we was married.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>XIV<br /> +A CALL LOAN</h2> + +<p> +In those days the cattlemen were the anointed. They were the grandees of the +grass, kings of the kine, lords of the lea, barons of beef and bone. They might +have ridden in golden chariots had their tastes so inclined. The cattleman was +caught in a stampede of dollars. It seemed to him that he had more money than +was decent. But when he had bought a watch with precious stones set in the case +so large that they hurt his ribs, and a California saddle with silver nails and +Angora skin <i>suaderos</i>, and ordered everybody up to the bar for +whisky—what else was there for him to spend money for? +</p> + +<p> +Not so circumscribed in expedient for the reduction of surplus wealth were +those lairds of the lariat who had womenfolk to their name. In the breast of +the rib-sprung sex the genius of purse lightening may slumber through years of +inopportunity, but never, my brothers, does it become extinct. +</p> + +<p> +So, out of the chaparral came Long Bill Longley from the Bar Circle Branch on +the Frio—a wife-driven man—to taste the urban joys of success. +Something like half a million dollars he had, with an income steadily +increasing. +</p> + +<p> +Long Bill was a graduate of the camp and trail. Luck and thrift, a cool head, +and a telescopic eye for mavericks had raised him from cowboy to be a cowman. +Then came the boom in cattle, and Fortune, stepping gingerly among the cactus +thorns, came and emptied her cornucopia at the doorstep of the ranch. +</p> + +<p> +In the little frontier city of Chaparosa, Longley built a costly residence. +Here he became a captive, bound to the chariot of social existence. He was +doomed to become a leading citizen. He struggled for a time like a mustang in +his first corral, and then he hung up his quirt and spurs. Time hung heavily on +his hands. He organised the First National Bank of Chaparosa, and was elected +its president. +</p> + +<p> +One day a dyspeptic man, wearing double-magnifying glasses, inserted an +official-looking card between the bars of the cashier’s window of the +First National Bank. Five minutes later the bank force was dancing at the beck +and call of a national bank examiner. +</p> + +<p> +This examiner, Mr. J. Edgar Todd, proved to be a thorough one. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of it all the examiner put on his hat, and called the president, Mr. +William R. Longley, into the private office. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, how do you find things?” asked Longley, in his slow, deep +tones. “Any brands in the round-up you didn’t like the looks +of?” +</p> + +<p> +“The bank checks up all right, Mr. Longley,” said Todd; “and +I find your loans in very good shape—with one exception. You are carrying +one very bad bit of paper—one that is so bad that I have been thinking +that you surely do not realise the serious position it places you in. I refer +to a call loan of $10,000 made to Thomas Merwin. Not only is the amount in +excess of the maximum sum the bank can loan any individual legally, but it is +absolutely without endorsement or security. Thus you have doubly violated the +national banking laws, and have laid yourself open to criminal prosecution by +the Government. A report of the matter to the Comptroller of the +Currency—which I am bound to make—would, I am sure, result in the +matter being turned over to the Department of Justice for action. You see what +a serious thing it is.” +</p> + +<p> +Bill Longley was leaning his lengthy, slowly moving frame back in his swivel +chair. His hands were clasped behind his head, and he turned a little to look +the examiner in the face. The examiner was surprised to see a smile creep about +the rugged mouth of the banker, and a kindly twinkle in his light-blue eyes. If +he saw the seriousness of the affair, it did not show in his countenance. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, you don’t know Tom Merwin,” said Longley, almost +genially. “Yes, I know about that loan. It hasn’t any security +except Tom Merwin’s word. Somehow, I’ve always found that when a +man’s word is good it’s the best security there is. Oh, yes, I know +the Government doesn’t think so. I guess I’ll see Tom about that +note.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Todd’s dyspepsia seemed to grow suddenly worse. He looked at the +chaparral banker through his double-magnifying glasses in amazement. +</p> + +<p> +“You see,” said Longley, easily explaining the thing away, +“Tom heard of 2000 head of two-year-olds down near Rocky Ford on the Rio +Grande that could be had for $8 a head. I reckon ’twas one of old Leandro +Garcia’s outfits that he had smuggled over, and he wanted to make a quick +turn on ’em. Those cattle are worth $15 on the hoof in Kansas City. Tom +knew it and I knew it. He had $6,000, and I let him have the $10,000 to make +the deal with. His brother Ed took ’em on to market three weeks ago. He +ought to be back ’most any day now with the money. When he comes +Tom’ll pay that note.” +</p> + +<p> +The bank examiner was shocked. It was, perhaps, his duty to step out to the +telegraph office and wire the situation to the Comptroller. But he did not. He +talked pointedly and effectively to Longley for three minutes. He succeeded in +making the banker understand that he stood upon the border of a catastrophe. +And then he offered a tiny loophole of escape. +</p> + +<p> +“I am going to Hilldale’s to-night,” he told Longley, +“to examine a bank there. I will pass through Chaparosa on my way back. +At twelve o’clock to-morrow I shall call at this bank. If this loan has +been cleared out of the way by that time it will not be mentioned in my report. +If not—I will have to do my duty.” +</p> + +<p> +With that the examiner bowed and departed. +</p> + +<p> +The President of the First National lounged in his chair half an hour longer, +and then he lit a mild cigar, and went over to Tom Merwin’s house. +Merwin, a ranchman in brown duck, with a contemplative eye, sat with his feet +upon a table, plaiting a rawhide quirt. +</p> + +<p> +“Tom,” said Longley, leaning against the table, “you heard +anything from Ed yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not yet,” said Merwin, continuing his plaiting. “I guess +Ed’ll be along back now in a few days.” +</p> + +<p> +“There was a bank examiner,” said Longley, “nosing around our +place to-day, and he bucked a sight about that note of yours. You know I know +it’s all right, but the thing <i>is</i> against the banking laws. I was +pretty sure you’d have paid it off before the bank was examined again, +but the son-of-a-gun slipped in on us, Tom. Now, I’m short of cash myself +just now, or I’d let you have the money to take it up with. I’ve +got till twelve o’clock to-morrow, and then I’ve got to show the +cash in place of that note or—” +</p> + +<p> +“Or what, Bill?” asked Merwin, as Longley hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I suppose it means be jumped on with both of Uncle Sam’s +feet.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll try to raise the money for you on time,” said Merwin, +interested in his plaiting. +</p> + +<p> +“All right, Tom,” concluded Longley, as he turned toward the door; +“I knew you would if you could.” +</p> + +<p> +Merwin threw down his whip and went to the only other bank in town, a private +one, run by Cooper & Craig. +</p> + +<p> +“Cooper,” he said, to the partner by that name, “I’ve +got to have $10,000 to-day or to-morrow. I’ve got a house and lot there +that’s worth about $6,000 and that’s all the actual collateral. But +I’ve got a cattle deal on that’s sure to bring me in more than that +much profit within a few days.” +</p> + +<p> +Cooper began to cough. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, for God’s sake don’t say no,” said Merwin. +“I owe that much money on a call loan. It’s been called, and the +man that called it is a man I’ve laid on the same blanket with in +cow-camps and ranger-camps for ten years. He can call anything I’ve got. +He can call the blood out of my veins and it’ll come. He’s got to +have the money. He’s in a devil of a—Well, he needs the money, and +I’ve got to get it for him. You know my word’s good, Cooper.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt of it,” assented Cooper, urbanely, “but I’ve +a partner, you know. I’m not free in making loans. And even if you had +the best security in your hands, Merwin, we couldn’t accommodate you in +less than a week. We’re just making a shipment of $15,000 to Myer +Brothers in Rockdell, to buy cotton with. It goes down on the narrow-gauge +to-night. That leaves our cash quite short at present. Sorry we can’t +arrange it for you.” +</p> + +<p> +Merwin went back to his little bare office and plaited at his quirt again. +About four o’clock in the afternoon he went to the First National Bank +and leaned over the railing of Longley’s desk. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll try to get that money for you to-night—I mean +to-morrow, Bill.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, Tom,” said Longley quietly. +</p> + +<p> +At nine o’clock that night Tom Merwin stepped cautiously out of the small +frame house in which he lived. It was near the edge of the little town, and few +citizens were in the neighbourhood at that hour. Merwin wore two six-shooters +in a belt, and a slouch hat. He moved swiftly down a lonely street, and then +followed the sandy road that ran parallel to the narrow-gauge track until he +reached the water-tank, two miles below the town. There Tom Merwin stopped, +tied a black silk handkerchief about the lower part of his face, and pulled his +hat down low. +</p> + +<p> +In ten minutes the night train for Rockdell pulled up at the tank, having come +from Chaparosa. +</p> + +<p> +With a gun in each hand Merwin raised himself from behind a clump of chaparral +and started for the engine. But before he had taken three steps, two long, +strong arms clasped him from behind, and he was lifted from his feet and +thrown, face downward upon the grass. There was a heavy knee pressing against +his back, and an iron hand grasping each of his wrists. He was held thus, like +a child, until the engine had taken water, and until the train had moved, with +accelerating speed, out of sight. Then he was released, and rose to his feet to +face Bill Longley. +</p> + +<p> +“The case never needed to be fixed up this way, Tom,” said Longley. +“I saw Cooper this evening, and he told me what you and him talked about. +Then I went down to your house to-night and saw you come out with your guns on, +and I followed you. Let’s go back, Tom.” +</p> + +<p> +They walked away together, side by side. +</p> + +<p> +“’Twas the only chance I saw,” said Merwin presently. +“You called your loan, and I tried to answer you. Now, what’ll you +do, Bill, if they sock it to you?” +</p> + +<p> +“What would you have done if they’d socked it to you?” was +the answer Longley made. +</p> + +<p> +“I never thought I’d lay in a bush to stick up a train,” +remarked Merwin; “but a call loan’s different. A call’s a +call with me. We’ve got twelve hours yet, Bill, before this spy jumps +onto you. We’ve got to raise them spondulicks somehow. Maybe we +can—Great Sam Houston! do you hear that?” +</p> + +<p> +Merwin broke into a run, and Longley kept with him, hearing only a rather +pleasing whistle somewhere in the night rendering the lugubrious air of +“The Cowboy’s Lament.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the only tune he knows,” shouted Merwin, as he ran. +“I’ll bet—” +</p> + +<p> +They were at the door of Merwin’s house. He kicked it open and fell over +an old valise lying in the middle of the floor. A sunburned, firm-jawed youth, +stained by travel, lay upon the bed puffing at a brown cigarette. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the word, Ed?” gasped Merwin. +</p> + +<p> +“So, so,” drawled that capable youngster. “Just got in on the +9:30. Sold the bunch for fifteen, straight. Now, buddy, you want to quit +kickin’ a valise around that’s got $29,000 in greenbacks in its +in’ards.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>XV<br /> +THE PRINCESS AND THE PUMA</h2> + +<p> +There had to be a king and queen, of course. The king was a terrible old man +who wore six-shooters and spurs, and shouted in such a tremendous voice that +the rattlers on the prairie would run into their holes under the prickly pear. +Before there was a royal family they called the man “Whispering +Ben.” When he came to own 50,000 acres of land and more cattle than he +could count, they called him O’Donnell “the Cattle King.” +</p> + +<p> +The queen had been a Mexican girl from Laredo. She made a good, mild, +Colorado-claro wife, and even succeeded in teaching Ben to modify his voice +sufficiently while in the house to keep the dishes from being broken. When Ben +got to be king she would sit on the gallery of Espinosa Ranch and weave rush +mats. When wealth became so irresistible and oppressive that upholstered chairs +and a centre table were brought down from San Antone in the wagons, she bowed +her smooth, dark head, and shared the fate of the Danae. +</p> + +<p> +To avoid <i>lèse-majesté</i> you have been presented first to the king and +queen. They do not enter the story, which might be called “The Chronicle +of the Princess, the Happy Thought, and the Lion that Bungled his Job.” +</p> + +<p> +Josefa O’Donnell was the surviving daughter, the princess. From her +mother she inherited warmth of nature and a dusky, semi-tropic beauty. From Ben +O’Donnell the royal she acquired a store of intrepidity, common sense, +and the faculty of ruling. The combination was one worth going miles to see. +Josefa while riding her pony at a gallop could put five out of six bullets +through a tomato-can swinging at the end of a string. She could play for hours +with a white kitten she owned, dressing it in all manner of absurd clothes. +Scorning a pencil, she could tell you out of her head what 1545 two-year-olds +would bring on the hoof, at $8.50 per head. Roughly speaking, the Espinosa +Ranch is forty miles long and thirty broad—but mostly leased land. +Josefa, on her pony, had prospected over every mile of it. Every cow-puncher on +the range knew her by sight and was a loyal vassal. Ripley Givens, foreman of +one of the Espinosa outfits, saw her one day, and made up his mind to form a +royal matrimonial alliance. Presumptuous? No. In those days in the Nueces +country a man was a man. And, after all, the title of cattle king does not +presuppose blood royalty. Often it only signifies that its owner wears the +crown in token of his magnificent qualities in the art of cattle stealing. +</p> + +<p> +One day Ripley Givens rode over to the Double Elm Ranch to inquire about a +bunch of strayed yearlings. He was late in setting out on his return trip, and +it was sundown when he struck the White Horse Crossing of the Nueces. From +there to his own camp it was sixteen miles. To the Espinosa ranch it was +twelve. Givens was tired. He decided to pass the night at the Crossing. +</p> + +<p> +There was a fine water hole in the river-bed. The banks were thickly covered +with great trees, undergrown with brush. Back from the water hole fifty yards +was a stretch of curly mesquite grass—supper for his horse and bed for +himself. Givens staked his horse, and spread out his saddle blankets to dry. He +sat down with his back against a tree and rolled a cigarette. From somewhere in +the dense timber along the river came a sudden, rageful, shivering wail. The +pony danced at the end of his rope and blew a whistling snort of comprehending +fear. Givens puffed at his cigarette, but he reached leisurely for his +pistol-belt, which lay on the grass, and twirled the cylinder of his weapon +tentatively. A great gar plunged with a loud splash into the water hole. A +little brown rabbit skipped around a bunch of catclaw and sat twitching his +whiskers and looking humorously at Givens. The pony went on eating grass. +</p> + +<p> +It is well to be reasonably watchful when a Mexican lion sings soprano along +the arroyos at sundown. The burden of his song may be that young calves and fat +lambs are scarce, and that he has a carnivorous desire for your acquaintance. +</p> + +<p> +In the grass lay an empty fruit can, cast there by some former sojourner. +Givens caught sight of it with a grunt of satisfaction. In his coat pocket tied +behind his saddle was a handful or two of ground coffee. Black coffee and +cigarettes! What ranchero could desire more? +</p> + +<p> +In two minutes he had a little fire going clearly. He started, with his can, +for the water hole. When within fifteen yards of its edge he saw, between the +bushes, a side-saddled pony with down-dropped reins cropping grass a little +distance to his left. Just rising from her hands and knees on the brink of the +water hole was Josefa O’Donnell. She had been drinking water, and she +brushed the sand from the palms of her hands. Ten yards away, to her right, +half concealed by a clump of sacuista, Givens saw the crouching form of the +Mexican lion. His amber eyeballs glared hungrily; six feet from them was the +tip of the tail stretched straight, like a pointer’s. His hind-quarters +rocked with the motion of the cat tribe preliminary to leaping. +</p> + +<p> +Givens did what he could. His six-shooter was thirty-five yards away lying on +the grass. He gave a loud yell, and dashed between the lion and the princess. +</p> + +<p> +The “rucus,” as Givens called it afterward, was brief and somewhat +confused. When he arrived on the line of attack he saw a dim streak in the air, +and heard a couple of faint cracks. Then a hundred pounds of Mexican lion +plumped down upon his head and flattened him, with a heavy jar, to the ground. +He remembered calling out: “Let up, now—no fair gouging!” and +then he crawled from under the lion like a worm, with his mouth full of grass +and dirt, and a big lump on the back of his head where it had struck the root +of a water-elm. The lion lay motionless. Givens, feeling aggrieved, and +suspicious of fouls, shook his fist at the lion, and shouted: “I’ll +rastle you again for twenty—” and then he got back to himself. +</p> + +<p> +Josefa was standing in her tracks, quietly reloading her silver-mounted .38. +It had not been a difficult shot. The lion’s head made an easier mark +than a tomato-can swinging at the end of a string. There was a provoking, +teasing, maddening smile upon her mouth and in her dark eyes. The +would-be-rescuing knight felt the fire of his fiasco burn down to his soul. +Here had been his chance, the chance that he had dreamed of; and Momus, and not +Cupid, had presided over it. The satyrs in the wood were, no doubt, holding +their sides in hilarious, silent laughter. There had been something like +vaudeville—say Signor Givens and his funny knockabout act with the +stuffed lion. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that you, Mr. Givens?” said Josefa, in her deliberate, +saccharine contralto. “You nearly spoilt my shot when you yelled. Did you +hurt your head when you fell?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no,” said Givens, quietly; “that didn’t +hurt.” He stooped ignominiously and dragged his best Stetson hat from +under the beast. It was crushed and wrinkled to a fine comedy effect. Then he +knelt down and softly stroked the fierce, open-jawed head of the dead lion. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor old Bill!” he exclaimed mournfully. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that?” asked Josefa, sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you didn’t know, Miss Josefa,” said Givens, with +an air of one allowing magnanimity to triumph over grief. “Nobody can +blame you. I tried to save him, but I couldn’t let you know in +time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Save who?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Bill. I’ve been looking for him all day. You see, he’s +been our camp pet for two years. Poor old fellow, he wouldn’t have hurt a +cottontail rabbit. It’ll break the boys all up when they hear about it. +But you couldn’t tell, of course, that Bill was just trying to play with +you.” +</p> + +<p> +Josefa’s black eyes burned steadily upon him. Ripley Givens met the test +successfully. He stood rumpling the yellow-brown curls on his head pensively. +In his eye was regret, not unmingled with a gentle reproach. His smooth +features were set to a pattern of indisputable sorrow. Josefa wavered. +</p> + +<p> +“What was your pet doing here?” she asked, making a last stand. +“There’s no camp near the White Horse Crossing.” +</p> + +<p> +“The old rascal ran away from camp yesterday,” answered Givens +readily. “It’s a wonder the coyotes didn’t scare him to +death. You see, Jim Webster, our horse wrangler, brought a little terrier pup +into camp last week. The pup made life miserable for Bill—he used to +chase him around and chew his hind legs for hours at a time. Every night when +bedtime came Bill would sneak under one of the boy’s blankets and sleep +to keep the pup from finding him. I reckon he must have been worried pretty +desperate or he wouldn’t have run away. He was always afraid to get out +of sight of camp.” +</p> + +<p> +Josefa looked at the body of the fierce animal. Givens gently patted one of the +formidable paws that could have killed a yearling calf with one blow. Slowly a +red flush widened upon the dark olive face of the girl. Was it the signal of +shame of the true sportsman who has brought down ignoble quarry? Her eyes grew +softer, and the lowered lids drove away all their bright mockery. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very sorry,” she said humbly; “but he looked so +big, and jumped so high that—” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor old Bill was hungry,” interrupted Givens, in quick defence of +the deceased. “We always made him jump for his supper in camp. He would +lie down and roll over for a piece of meat. When he saw you he thought he was +going to get something to eat from you.” +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly Josefa’s eyes opened wide. +</p> + +<p> +“I might have shot you!” she exclaimed. “You ran right in +between. You risked your life to save your pet! That was fine, Mr. Givens. I +like a man who is kind to animals.” +</p> + +<p> +Yes; there was even admiration in her gaze now. After all, there was a hero +rising out of the ruins of the anti-climax. The look on Givens’s face +would have secured him a high position in the S.P.C.A. +</p> + +<p> +“I always loved ’em,” said he; “horses, dogs, Mexican +lions, cows, alligators—” +</p> + +<p> +“I hate alligators,” instantly demurred Josefa; “crawly, +muddy things!” +</p> + +<p> +“Did I say alligators?” said Givens. “I meant antelopes, of +course.” +</p> + +<p> +Josefa’s conscience drove her to make further amends. She held out her +hand penitently. There was a bright, unshed drop in each of her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Please forgive me, Mr. Givens, won’t you? I’m only a girl, +you know, and I was frightened at first. I’m very, very sorry I shot +Bill. You don’t know how ashamed I feel. I wouldn’t have done it +for anything.” +</p> + +<p> +Givens took the proffered hand. He held it for a time while he allowed the +generosity of his nature to overcome his grief at the loss of Bill. At last it +was clear that he had forgiven her. +</p> + +<p> +“Please don’t speak of it any more, Miss Josefa. ’Twas enough +to frighten any young lady the way Bill looked. I’ll explain it all right +to the boys.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you really sure you don’t hate me?” Josefa came closer +to him impulsively. Her eyes were sweet—oh, sweet and pleading with +gracious penitence. “I would hate anyone who would kill my kitten. And +how daring and kind of you to risk being shot when you tried to save him! How +very few men would have done that!” Victory wrested from defeat! +Vaudeville turned into drama! Bravo, Ripley Givens! +</p> + +<p> +It was now twilight. Of course Miss Josefa could not be allowed to ride on to +the ranch-house alone. Givens resaddled his pony in spite of that +animal’s reproachful glances, and rode with her. Side by side they +galloped across the smooth grass, the princess and the man who was kind to +animals. The prairie odours of fruitful earth and delicate bloom were thick and +sweet around them. Coyotes yelping over there on the hill! No fear. And +yet— +</p> + +<p> +Josefa rode closer. A little hand seemed to grope. Givens found it with his +own. The ponies kept an even gait. The hands lingered together, and the owner +of one explained: +</p> + +<p> +“I never was frightened before, but just think! How terrible it would be +to meet a really wild lion! Poor Bill! I’m so glad you came with +me!” +</p> + +<p> +O’Donnell was sitting on the ranch gallery. +</p> + +<p> +“Hello, Rip!” he shouted—“that you?” +</p> + +<p> +“He rode in with me,” said Josefa. “I lost my way and was +late.” +</p> + +<p> +“Much obliged,” called the cattle king. “Stop over, Rip, and +ride to camp in the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +But Givens would not. He would push on to camp. There was a bunch of steers to +start off on the trail at daybreak. He said good-night, and trotted away. +</p> + +<p> +An hour later, when the lights were out, Josefa, in her night-robe, came to her +door and called to the king in his own room across the brick-paved hallway: +</p> + +<p> +“Say, pop, you know that old Mexican lion they call the +‘Gotch-eared Devil’—the one that killed Gonzales, Mr. +Martin’s sheep herder, and about fifty calves on the Salado range? Well, +I settled his hash this afternoon over at the White Horse Crossing. Put two +balls in his head with my .38 while he was on the jump. I knew him by the slice +gone from his left ear that old Gonzales cut off with his machete. You +couldn’t have made a better shot yourself, daddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bully for you!” thundered Whispering Ben from the darkness of the +royal chamber. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>XVI<br /> +THE INDIAN SUMMER OF DRY VALLEY JOHNSON</h2> + +<p> +Dry Valley Johnson shook the bottle. You have to shake the bottle before using; +for sulphur will not dissolve. Then Dry Valley saturated a small sponge with +the liquid and rubbed it carefully into the roots of his hair. Besides sulphur +there was sugar of lead in it and tincture of nux vomica and bay rum. Dry +Valley found the recipe in a Sunday newspaper. You must next be told why a +strong man came to fall a victim to a Beauty Hint. +</p> + +<p> +Dry Valley had been a sheepman. His real name was Hector, but he had been +rechristened after his range to distinguish him from “Elm Creek” +Johnson, who ran sheep further down the Frio. +</p> + +<p> +Many years of living face to face with sheep on their own terms wearied Dry +Valley Johnson. So, he sold his ranch for eighteen thousand dollars and moved +to Santa Rosa to live a life of gentlemanly ease. Being a silent and melancholy +person of thirty-five—or perhaps thirty-eight—he soon became that +cursed and earth-cumbering thing—an elderlyish bachelor with a hobby. +Some one gave him his first strawberry to eat, and he was done for. +</p> + +<p> +Dry Valley bought a four-room cottage in the village, and a library on +strawberry culture. Behind the cottage was a garden of which he made a +strawberry patch. In his old grey woolen shirt, his brown duck trousers, and +high-heeled boots he sprawled all day on a canvas cot under a live-oak tree at +his back door studying the history of the seductive, scarlet berry. +</p> + +<p> +The school teacher, Miss De Witt, spoke of him as “a fine, presentable +man, for all his middle age.” But, the focus of Dry Valley’s eyes +embraced no women. They were merely beings who flew skirts as a signal for him +to lift awkwardly his heavy, round-crowned, broad-brimmed felt Stetson whenever +he met them, and then hurry past to get back to his beloved berries. +</p> + +<p> +And all this recitative by the chorus is only to bring us to the point where +you may be told why Dry Valley shook up the insoluble sulphur in the bottle. So +long-drawn and inconsequential a thing is history—the anamorphous shadow +of a milestone reaching down the road between us and the setting sun. +</p> + +<p> +When his strawberries were beginning to ripen Dry Valley bought the heaviest +buggy whip in the Santa Rosa store. He sat for many hours under the live oak +tree plaiting and weaving in an extension to its lash. When it was done he +could snip a leaf from a bush twenty feet away with the cracker. For the +bright, predatory eyes of Santa Rosa youth were watching the ripening berries, +and Dry Valley was arming himself against their expected raids. No greater care +had he taken of his tender lambs during his ranching days than he did of his +cherished fruit, warding it from the hungry wolves that whistled and howled and +shot their marbles and peered through the fence that surrounded his property. +</p> + +<p> +In the house next to Dry Valley’s lived a widow with a pack of children +that gave the husbandman frequent anxious misgivings. In the woman there was a +strain of the Spanish. She had wedded one of the name of O’Brien. Dry +Valley was a connoisseur in cross strains; and he foresaw trouble in the +offspring of this union. +</p> + +<p> +Between the two homesteads ran a crazy picket fence overgrown with morning +glory and wild gourd vines. Often he could see little heads with mops of black +hair and flashing dark eyes dodging in and out between the pickets, keeping +tabs on the reddening berries. +</p> + +<p> +Late one afternoon Dry Valley went to the post office. When he came back, like +Mother Hubbard he found the deuce to pay. The descendants of Iberian bandits +and Hibernian cattle raiders had swooped down upon his strawberry patch. To the +outraged vision of Dry Valley there seemed to be a sheep corral full of them; +perhaps they numbered five or six. Between the rows of green plants they were +stooped, hopping about like toads, gobbling silently and voraciously his finest +fruit. +</p> + +<p> +Dry Valley slipped into the house, got his whip, and charged the marauders. The +lash curled about the legs of the nearest—a greedy +ten-year-old—before they knew they were discovered. His screech gave +warning; and the flock scampered for the fence like a drove of <i>javelis</i> +flushed in the chaparral. Dry Valley’s whip drew a toll of two more elfin +shrieks before they dived through the vine-clad fence and disappeared. +</p> + +<p> +Dry Valley, less fleet, followed them nearly to the pickets. Checking his +useless pursuit, he rounded a bush, dropped his whip and stood, voiceless, +motionless, the capacity of his powers consumed by the act of breathing and +preserving the perpendicular. +</p> + +<p> +Behind the bush stood Panchita O’Brien, scorning to fly. She was +nineteen, the oldest of the raiders. Her night-black hair was gathered back in +a wild mass and tied with a scarlet ribbon. She stood, with reluctant feet, yet +nearer the brook than to the river; for childhood had environed and detained +her. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at Dry Valley Johnson for a moment with magnificent insolence, and +before his eyes slowly crunched a luscious berry between her white teeth. Then +she turned and walked slowly to the fence with a swaying, conscious motion, +such as a duchess might make use of in leading a promenade. There she turned +again and grilled Dry Valley Johnson once more in the dark flame of her +audacious eyes, laughed a trifle school-girlishly, and twisted herself with +pantherish quickness between the pickets to the O’Brien side of the wild +gourd vine. +</p> + +<p> +Dry Valley picked up his whip and went into his house. He stumbled as he went +up the two wooden steps. The old Mexican woman who cooked his meals and swept +his house called him to supper as he went through the rooms. Dry Valley went +on, stumbled down the front steps, out the gate and down the road into a +mesquite thicket at the edge of town. He sat down in the grass and laboriously +plucked the spines from a prickly pear, one by one. This was his attitude of +thought, acquired in the days when his problems were only those of wind and +wool and water. +</p> + +<p> +A thing had happened to the man—a thing that, if you are eligible, you +must pray may pass you by. He had become enveloped in the Indian Summer of the +Soul. +</p> + +<p> +Dry Valley had had no youth. Even his childhood had been one of dignity and +seriousness. At six he had viewed the frivolous gambols of the lambs on his +father’s ranch with silent disapproval. His life as a young man had been +wasted. The divine fires and impulses, the glorious exaltations and despairs, +the glow and enchantment of youth had passed above his head. Never a thrill of +Romeo had he known; he was but a melancholy Jaques of the forest with a ruder +philosophy, lacking the bitter-sweet flavour of experience that tempered the +veteran years of the rugged ranger of Arden. And now in his sere and yellow +leaf one scornful look from the eyes of Panchita O’Brien had flooded the +autumnal landscape with a tardy and delusive summer heat. +</p> + +<p> +But a sheepman is a hardy animal. Dry Valley Johnson had weathered too many +northers to turn his back on a late summer, spiritual or real. Old? He would +show them. +</p> + +<p> +By the next mail went an order to San Antonio for an outfit of the latest +clothes, colours and styles and prices no object. The next day went the recipe +for the hair restorer clipped from a newspaper; for Dry Valley’s +sunburned auburn hair was beginning to turn silvery above his ears. +</p> + +<p> +Dry Valley kept indoors closely for a week except for frequent sallies after +youthful strawberry snatchers. Then, a few days later, he suddenly emerged +brilliantly radiant in the hectic glow of his belated midsummer madness. +</p> + +<p> +A jay-bird-blue tennis suit covered him outwardly, almost as far as his wrists +and ankles. His shirt was ox-blood; his collar winged and tall; his necktie a +floating oriflamme; his shoes a venomous bright tan, pointed and shaped on +penitential lasts. A little flat straw hat with a striped band desecrated his +weather-beaten head. Lemon-coloured kid gloves protected his oak-tough hands +from the benignant May sunshine. This sad and optic-smiting creature teetered +out of its den, smiling foolishly and smoothing its gloves for men and angels +to see. To such a pass had Dry Valley Johnson been brought by Cupid, who always +shoots game that is out of season with an arrow from the quiver of Momus. +Reconstructing mythology, he had risen, a prismatic macaw, from the ashes of +the grey-brown phoenix that had folded its tired wings to roost under the trees +of Santa Rosa. +</p> + +<p> +Dry Valley paused in the street to allow Santa Rosans within sight of him to be +stunned; and then deliberately and slowly, as his shoes required, entered Mrs. +O’Brien’s gate. +</p> + +<p> +Not until the eleven months’ drought did Santa Rosa cease talking about +Dry Valley Johnson’s courtship of Panchita O’Brien. It was an +unclassifiable procedure; something like a combination of cake-walking, +deaf-and-dumb oratory, postage stamp flirtation and parlour charades. It lasted +two weeks and then came to a sudden end. +</p> + +<p> +Of course Mrs. O’Brien favoured the match as soon as Dry Valley’s +intentions were disclosed. Being the mother of a woman child, and therefore a +charter member of the Ancient Order of the Rat-trap, she joyfully decked out +Panchita for the sacrifice. The girl was temporarily dazzled by having her +dresses lengthened and her hair piled up on her head, and came near forgetting +that she was only a slice of cheese. It was nice, too, to have as good a match +as Mr. Johnson paying you attentions and to see the other girls fluttering the +curtains at their windows to see you go by with him. +</p> + +<p> +Dry Valley bought a buggy with yellow wheels and a fine trotter in San Antonio. +Every day he drove out with Panchita. He was never seen to speak to her when +they were walking or driving. The consciousness of his clothes kept his mind +busy; the knowledge that he could say nothing of interest kept him dumb; the +feeling that Panchita was there kept him happy. +</p> + +<p> +He took her to parties and dances, and to church. He tried—oh, no man +ever tried so hard to be young as Dry Valley did. He could not dance; but he +invented a smile which he wore on these joyous occasions, a smile that, in him, +was as great a concession to mirth and gaiety as turning hand-springs would be +in another. He began to seek the company of the young men in the +town—even of the boys. They accepted him as a decided damper, for his +attempts at sportiveness were so forced that they might as well have essayed +their games in a cathedral. Neither he nor any other could estimate what +progress he had made with Panchita. +</p> + +<p> +The end came suddenly in one day, as often disappears the false afterglow +before a November sky and wind. +</p> + +<p> +Dry Valley was to call for the girl one afternoon at six for a walk. An +afternoon walk in Santa Rosa was a feature of social life that called for the +pink of one’s wardrobe. So Dry Valley began gorgeously to array himself; +and so early that he finished early, and went over to the O’Brien +cottage. As he neared the porch on the crooked walk from the gate he heard +sounds of revelry within. He stopped and looked through the honeysuckle vines +in the open door. +</p> + +<p> +Panchita was amusing her younger brothers and sisters. She wore a man’s +clothes—no doubt those of the late Mr. O’Brien. On her head was the +smallest brother’s straw hat decorated with an ink-striped paper band. On +her hands were flapping yellow cloth gloves, roughly cut out and sewn for the +masquerade. The same material covered her shoes, giving them the semblance of +tan leather. High collar and flowing necktie were not omitted. +</p> + +<p> +Panchita was an actress. Dry Valley saw his affectedly youthful gait, his limp +where the right shoe hurt him, his forced smile, his awkward simulation of a +gallant air, all reproduced with startling fidelity. For the first time a +mirror had been held up to him. The corroboration of one of the youngsters +calling, “Mamma, come and see Pancha do like Mr. Johnson,” was not +needed. +</p> + +<p> +As softly as the caricatured tans would permit, Dry Valley tiptoed back to the +gate and home again. +</p> + +<p> +Twenty minutes after the time appointed for the walk Panchita tripped demurely +out of her gate in a thin, trim white lawn and sailor hat. She strolled up the +sidewalk and slowed her steps at Dry Valley’s gate, her manner expressing +wonder at his unusual delinquency. +</p> + +<p> +Then out of his door and down the walk strode—not the polychromatic +victim of a lost summertime, but the sheepman, rehabilitated. He wore his old +grey woolen shirt, open at the throat, his brown duck trousers stuffed into his +run-over boots, and his white felt sombrero on the back of his head. Twenty +years or fifty he might look; Dry Valley cared not. His light blue eyes met +Panchita’s dark ones with a cold flash in them. He came as far as the +gate. He pointed with his long arm to her house. +</p> + +<p> +“Go home,” said Dry Valley. “Go home to your mother. I wonder +lightnin’ don’t strike a fool like me. Go home and play in the +sand. What business have you got cavortin’ around with grown men? I +reckon I was locoed to be makin’ a he poll-parrot out of myself for a kid +like you. Go home and don’t let me see you no more. Why I done it, will +somebody tell me? Go home, and let me try and forget it.” +</p> + +<p> +Panchita obeyed and walked slowly toward her home, saying nothing. For some +distance she kept her head turned and her large eyes fixed intrepidly upon Dry +Valley’s. At her gate she stood for a moment looking back at him, then +ran suddenly and swiftly into the house. +</p> + +<p> +Old Antonia was building a fire in the kitchen stove. Dry Valley stopped at the +door and laughed harshly. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m a pretty looking old rhinoceros to be gettin’ stuck on a +kid, ain’t I, ’Tonia?” said he. +</p> + +<p> +“Not verree good thing,” agreed Antonia, sagely, “for too +much old man to likee <i>muchacha</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“You bet it ain’t,” said Dry Valley, grimly. +“It’s dum foolishness; and, besides, it hurts.” +</p> + +<p> +He brought at one armful the regalia of his aberration—the blue tennis +suit, shoes, hat, gloves and all, and threw them in a pile at Antonia’s +feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Give them to your old man,” said he, “to hunt antelope +in.” +</p> + +<p> +Just as the first star presided palely over the twilight Dry Valley got his +biggest strawberry book and sat on the back steps to catch the last of the +reading light. He thought he saw the figure of someone in his strawberry patch. +He laid aside the book, got his whip and hurried forth to see. +</p> + +<p> +It was Panchita. She had slipped through the picket fence and was half-way +across the patch. She stopped when she saw him and looked at him without +wavering. +</p> + +<p> +A sudden rage—a humiliating flush of unreasoning wrath—came over +Dry Valley. For this child he had made himself a motley to the view. He had +tried to bribe Time to turn backward for himself; he had—been made a fool +of. At last he had seen his folly. There was a gulf between him and youth over +which he could not build a bridge even with yellow gloves to protect his hands. +And the sight of his torment coming to pester him with her elfin +pranks—coming to plunder his strawberry vines like a mischievous +schoolboy—roused all his anger. +</p> + +<p> +“I told you to keep away from here,” said Dry Valley. “Go +back to your home.” +</p> + +<p> +Panchita moved slowly toward him. +</p> + +<p> +Dry Valley cracked his whip. +</p> + +<p> +“Go back home,” said Dry Valley, savagely, “and play +theatricals some more. You’d make a fine man. You’ve made a fine +one of me.” +</p> + +<p> +She came a step nearer, silent, and with that strange, defiant, steady shine in +her eyes that had always puzzled him. Now it stirred his wrath. +</p> + +<p> +His whiplash whistled through the air. He saw a red streak suddenly come out +through her white dress above her knee where it had struck. +</p> + +<p> +Without flinching and with the same unchanging dark glow in her eyes, Panchita +came steadily toward him through the strawberry vines. Dry Valley’s +trembling hand released his whip handle. When within a yard of him Panchita +stretched out her arms. +</p> + +<p> +“God, kid!” stammered Dry Valley, “do you mean—?” +</p> + +<p> +But the seasons are versatile; and it may have been Springtime, after all, +instead of Indian Summer, that struck Dry Valley Johnson. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>XVII<br /> +CHRISTMAS BY INJUNCTION</h2> + +<p> +Cherokee was the civic father of Yellowhammer. Yellowhammer was a new mining +town constructed mainly of canvas and undressed pine. Cherokee was a +prospector. One day while his burro was eating quartz and pine burrs Cherokee +turned up with his pick a nugget, weighing thirty ounces. He staked his claim +and then, being a man of breadth and hospitality, sent out invitations to his +friends in three States to drop in and share his luck. +</p> + +<p> +Not one of the invited guests sent regrets. They rolled in from the Gila +country, from Salt River, from the Pecos, from Albuquerque and Phoenix and +Santa Fe, and from the camps intervening. +</p> + +<p> +When a thousand citizens had arrived and taken up claims they named the town +Yellowhammer, appointed a vigilance committee, and presented Cherokee with a +watch-chain made of nuggets. +</p> + +<p> +Three hours after the presentation ceremonies Cherokee’s claim played +out. He had located a pocket instead of a vein. He abandoned it and staked +others one by one. Luck had kissed her hand to him. Never afterward did he turn +up enough dust in Yellowhammer to pay his bar bill. But his thousand invited +guests were mostly prospering, and Cherokee smiled and congratulated them. +</p> + +<p> +Yellowhammer was made up of men who took off their hats to a smiling loser; so +they invited Cherokee to say what he wanted. +</p> + +<p> +“Me?” said Cherokee, “oh, grubstakes will be about the thing. +I reckon I’ll prospect along up in the Mariposas. If I strike it up there +I will most certainly let you all know about the facts. I never was any hand to +hold out cards on my friends.” +</p> + +<p> +In May Cherokee packed his burro and turned its thoughtful, mouse-coloured +forehead to the north. Many citizens escorted him to the undefined limits of +Yellowhammer and bestowed upon him shouts of commendation and farewells. Five +pocket flasks without an air bubble between contents and cork were forced upon +him; and he was bidden to consider Yellowhammer in perpetual commission for his +bed, bacon and eggs, and hot water for shaving in the event that luck did not +see fit to warm her hands by his campfire in the Mariposas. +</p> + +<p> +The name of the father of Yellowhammer was given him by the gold hunters in +accordance with their popular system of nomenclature. It was not necessary for +a citizen to exhibit his baptismal certificate in order to acquire a cognomen. +A man’s name was his personal property. For convenience in calling him up +to the bar and in designating him among other blue-shirted bipeds, a temporary +appellation, title, or epithet was conferred upon him by the public. Personal +peculiarities formed the source of the majority of such informal baptisms. Many +were easily dubbed geographically from the regions from which they confessed to +have hailed. Some announced themselves to be “Thompsons,” and +“Adamses,” and the like, with a brazenness and loudness that cast a +cloud upon their titles. A few vaingloriously and shamelessly uncovered their +proper and indisputable names. This was held to be unduly arrogant, and did not +win popularity. One man who said he was Chesterton L. C. Belmont, and proved it +by letters, was given till sundown to leave the town. Such names as +“Shorty,” “Bow-legs,” “Texas,” “Lazy +Bill,” “Thirsty Rogers,” “Limping Riley,” +“The Judge,” and “California Ed” were in favour. +Cherokee derived his title from the fact that he claimed to have lived for a +time with that tribe in the Indian Nation. +</p> + +<p> +On the twentieth day of December Baldy, the mail rider, brought Yellowhammer a +piece of news. +</p> + +<p> +“What do I see in Albuquerque,” said Baldy, to the patrons of the +bar, “but Cherokee all embellished and festooned up like the Czar of +Turkey, and lavishin’ money in bulk. Him and me seen the elephant and the +owl, and we had specimens of this seidlitz powder wine; and Cherokee he audits +all the bills, C.O.D. His pockets looked like a pool table’s after a +fifteen-ball run. +</p> + +<p> +“Cherokee must have struck pay ore,” remarked California Ed. +“Well, he’s white. I’m much obliged to him for his +success.” +</p> + +<p> +“Seems like Cherokee would ramble down to Yellowhammer and see his +friends,” said another, slightly aggrieved. “But that’s the +way. Prosperity is the finest cure there is for lost forgetfulness.” +</p> + +<p> +“You wait,” said Baldy; “I’m comin’ to that. +Cherokee strikes a three-foot vein up in the Mariposas that assays a trip to +Europe to the ton, and he closes it out to a syndicate outfit for a hundred +thousand hasty dollars in cash. Then he buys himself a baby sealskin overcoat +and a red sleigh, and what do you think he takes it in his head to do +next?” +</p> + +<p> +“Chuck-a-luck,” said Texas, whose ideas of recreation were the +gamester’s. +</p> + +<p> +“Come and Kiss Me, Ma Honey,” sang Shorty, who carried tintypes in +his pocket and wore a red necktie while working on his claim. +</p> + +<p> +“Bought a saloon?” suggested Thirsty Rogers. +</p> + +<p> +“Cherokee took me to a room,” continued Baldy, “and showed +me. He’s got that room full of drums and dolls and skates and bags of +candy and jumping-jacks and toy lambs and whistles and such infantile truck. +And what do you think he’s goin’ to do with them inefficacious +knick-knacks? Don’t surmise none—Cherokee told me. He’s +goin’ to lead ’em up in his red sleigh and—wait a minute, +don’t order no drinks yet— he’s goin’ to drive down +here to Yellowhammer and give the kids—the kids of this here +town—the biggest Christmas tree and the biggest cryin’ doll and +Little Giant Boys’ Tool Chest blowout that was ever seen west of the Cape +Hatteras.” +</p> + +<p> +Two minutes of absolute silence ticked away in the wake of Baldy’s words. +It was broken by the House, who, happily conceiving the moment to be ripe for +extending hospitality, sent a dozen whisky glasses spinning down the bar, with +the slower travelling bottle bringing up the rear. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t you tell him?” asked the miner called Trinidad. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, no,” answered Baldy, pensively; “I never exactly seen +my way to. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Cherokee had this Christmas mess already bought and paid for; +and he was all flattered up with self-esteem over his idea; and we had in a way +flew the flume with that fizzy wine I speak of; so I never let on.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot refrain from a certain amount of surprise,” said the +Judge, as he hung his ivory-handled cane on the bar, “that our friend +Cherokee should possess such an erroneous conception of—ah—his, as +it were, own town.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it ain’t the eighth wonder of the terrestrial world,” +said Baldy. “Cherokee’s been gone from Yellowhammer over seven +months. Lots of things could happen in that time. How’s he to know that +there ain’t a single kid in this town, and so far as emigration is +concerned, none expected?” +</p> + +<p> +“Come to think of it,” remarked California Ed, “it’s +funny some ain’t drifted in. Town ain’t settled enough yet for to +bring in the rubber-ring brigade, I reckon.” +</p> + +<p> +“To top off this Christmas-tree splurge of Cherokee’s,” went +on Baldy, “he’s goin’ to give an imitation of Santa Claus. +He’s got a white wig and whiskers that disfigure him up exactly like the +pictures of this William Cullen Longfellow in the books, and a red suit of +fur-trimmed outside underwear, and eight-ounce gloves, and a stand-up, lay-down +croshayed red cap. Ain’t it a shame that a outfit like that can’t +get a chance to connect with a Annie and Willie’s prayer layout?” +</p> + +<p> +“When does Cherokee allow to come over with his truck?” inquired +Trinidad. +</p> + +<p> +“Mornin’ before Christmas,” said Baldy. “And he wants +you folks to have a room fixed up and a tree hauled and ready. And such ladies +to assist as can stop breathin’ long enough to let it be a surprise for +the kids.” +</p> + +<p> +The unblessed condition of Yellowhammer had been truly described. The voice of +childhood had never gladdened its flimsy structures; the patter of restless +little feet had never consecrated the one rugged highway between the two rows +of tents and rough buildings. Later they would come. But now Yellowhammer was +but a mountain camp, and nowhere in it were the roguish, expectant eyes, +opening wide at dawn of the enchanting day; the eager, small hands to reach for +Santa’s bewildering hoard; the elated, childish voicings of the +season’s joy, such as the coming good things of the warm-hearted Cherokee +deserved. +</p> + +<p> +Of women there were five in Yellowhammer. The assayer’s wife, the +proprietress of the Lucky Strike Hotel, and a laundress whose washtub panned +out an ounce of dust a day. These were the permanent feminines; the remaining +two were the Spangler Sisters, Misses Fanchon and Erma, of the Transcontinental +Comedy Company, then playing in repertoire at the (improvised) Empire Theatre. +But of children there were none. Sometimes Miss Fanchon enacted with spirit and +address the part of robustious childhood; but between her delineation and the +visions of adolescence that the fancy offered as eligible recipients of +Cherokee’s holiday stores there seemed to be fixed a gulf. +</p> + +<p> +Christmas would come on Thursday. On Tuesday morning Trinidad, instead of going +to work, sought the Judge at the Lucky Strike Hotel. +</p> + +<p> +“It’ll be a disgrace to Yellowhammer,” said Trinidad, +“if it throws Cherokee down on his Christmas tree blowout. You might say +that that man made this town. For one, I’m goin’ to see what can be +done to give Santa Claus a square deal.” +</p> + +<p> +“My co-operation,” said the Judge, “would be gladly +forthcoming. I am indebted to Cherokee for past favours. But, I do not +see—I have heretofore regarded the absence of children rather as a +luxury—but in this instance—still, I do not see—” +</p> + +<p> +“Look at me,” said Trinidad, “and you’ll see old Ways +and Means with the fur on. I’m goin’ to hitch up a team and rustle +a load of kids for Cherokee’s Santa Claus act, if I have to rob an orphan +asylum.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eureka!” cried the Judge, enthusiastically. +</p> + +<p> +“No, you didn’t,” said Trinidad, decidedly. “I found it +myself. I learned about that Latin word at school.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will accompany you,” declared the Judge, waving his cane. +“Perhaps such eloquence and gift of language as I possess will be of +benefit in persuading our young friends to lend themselves to our +project.” +</p> + +<p> +Within an hour Yellowhammer was acquainted with the scheme of Trinidad and the +Judge, and approved it. Citizens who knew of families with offspring within a +forty-mile radius of Yellowhammer came forward and contributed their +information. Trinidad made careful notes of all such, and then hastened to +secure a vehicle and team. +</p> + +<p> +The first stop scheduled was at a double log-house fifteen miles out from +Yellowhammer. A man opened the door at Trinidad’s hail, and then came +down and leaned upon the rickety gate. The doorway was filled with a close mass +of youngsters, some ragged, all full of curiosity and health. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s this way,” explained Trinidad. “We’re from +Yellowhammer, and we come kidnappin’ in a gentle kind of a way. One of +our leading citizens is stung with the Santa Claus affliction, and he’s +due in town to-morrow with half the folderols that’s painted red and made +in Germany. The youngest kid we got in Yellowhammer packs a forty-five and a +safety razor. Consequently we’re mighty shy on anybody to say +‘Oh’ and ‘Ah’ when we light the candles on the +Christmas tree. Now, partner, if you’ll loan us a few kids we guarantee +to return ’em safe and sound on Christmas Day. And they’ll come +back loaded down with a good time and Swiss Family Robinsons and cornucopias +and red drums and similar testimonials. What do you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“In other words,” said the Judge, “we have discovered for the +first time in our embryonic but progressive little city the inconveniences of +the absence of adolescence. The season of the year having approximately arrived +during which it is a custom to bestow frivolous but often appreciated gifts +upon the young and tender—” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand,” said the parent, packing his pipe with a +forefinger. “I guess I needn’t detain you gentlemen. Me and the old +woman have got seven kids, so to speak; and, runnin’ my mind over the +bunch, I don’t appear to hit upon none that we could spare for you to +take over to your doin’s. The old woman has got some popcorn candy and +rag dolls hid in the clothes chest, and we allow to give Christmas a little +whirl of our own in a insignificant sort of style. No, I couldn’t, with +any degree of avidity, seem to fall in with the idea of lettin’ none of +’em go. Thank you kindly, gentlemen.” +</p> + +<p> +Down the slope they drove and up another foothill to the ranch-house of Wiley +Wilson. Trinidad recited his appeal and the Judge boomed out his ponderous +antiphony. Mrs. Wiley gathered her two rosy-cheeked youngsters close to her +skirts and did not smile until she had seen Wiley laugh and shake his head. +Again a refusal. +</p> + +<p> +Trinidad and the Judge vainly exhausted more than half their list before +twilight set in among the hills. They spent the night at a stage road hostelry, +and set out again early the next morning. The wagon had not acquired a single +passenger. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s creepin’ upon my faculties,” remarked Trinidad, +“that borrowin’ kids at Christmas is somethin’ like +tryin’ to steal butter from a man that’s got hot pancakes +a-comin’.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is undoubtedly an indisputable fact,” said the Judge, +“that the— ah—family ties seem to be more coherent and +assertive at that period of the year.” +</p> + +<p> +On the day before Christmas they drove thirty miles, making four fruitless +halts and appeals. Everywhere they found “kids” at a premium. +</p> + +<p> +The sun was low when the wife of a section boss on a lonely railroad huddled +her unavailable progeny behind her and said: +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a woman that’s just took charge of the railroad +eatin’ house down at Granite Junction. I hear she’s got a little +boy. Maybe she might let him go.” +</p> + +<p> +Trinidad pulled up his mules at Granite Junction at five o’clock in the +afternoon. The train had just departed with its load of fed and appeased +passengers. +</p> + +<p> +On the steps of the eating house they found a thin and glowering boy of ten +smoking a cigarette. The dining-room had been left in chaos by the peripatetic +appetites. A youngish woman reclined, exhausted, in a chair. Her face wore +sharp lines of worry. She had once possessed a certain style of beauty that +would never wholly leave her and would never wholly return. Trinidad set forth +his mission. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d count it a mercy if you’d take Bobby for a while,” +she said, wearily. “I’m on the go from morning till night, and I +don’t have time to ’tend to him. He’s learning bad habits +from the men. It’ll be the only chance he’ll have to get any +Christmas.” +</p> + +<p> +The men went outside and conferred with Bobby. Trinidad pictured the glories of +the Christmas tree and presents in lively colours. +</p> + +<p> +“And, moreover, my young friend,” added the Judge, “Santa +Claus himself will personally distribute the offerings that will typify the +gifts conveyed by the shepherds of Bethlehem to—” +</p> + +<p> +“Aw, come off,” said the boy, squinting his small eyes. “I +ain’t no kid. There ain’t any Santa Claus. It’s your folks +that buys toys and sneaks ’em in when you’re asleep. And they make +marks in the soot in the chimney with the tongs to look like Santa’s +sleigh tracks.” +</p> + +<p> +“That might be so,” argued Trinidad, “but Christmas trees +ain’t no fairy tale. This one’s goin’ to look like the +ten-cent store in Albuquerque, all strung up in a redwood. There’s tops +and drums and Noah’s arks and—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, rats!” said Bobby, wearily. “I cut them out long ago. +I’d like to have a rifle—not a target one—a real one, to +shoot wildcats with; but I guess you won’t have any of them on your old +tree.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I can’t say for sure,” said Trinidad diplomatically; +“it might be. You go along with us and see.” +</p> + +<p> +The hope thus held out, though faint, won the boy’s hesitating consent to +go. With this solitary beneficiary for Cherokee’s holiday bounty, the +canvassers spun along the homeward road. +</p> + +<p> +In Yellowhammer the empty storeroom had been transformed into what might have +passed as the bower of an Arizona fairy. The ladies had done their work well. A +tall Christmas tree, covered to the topmost branch with candles, spangles, and +toys sufficient for more than a score of children, stood in the centre of the +floor. Near sunset anxious eyes had begun to scan the street for the returning +team of the child-providers. At noon that day Cherokee had dashed into town +with his new sleigh piled high with bundles and boxes and bales of all sizes +and shapes. So intent was he upon the arrangements for his altruistic plans +that the dearth of children did not receive his notice. No one gave away the +humiliating state of Yellowhammer, for the efforts of Trinidad and the Judge +were expected to supply the deficiency. +</p> + +<p> +When the sun went down Cherokee, with many wings and arch grins on his seasoned +face, went into retirement with the bundle containing the Santa Claus raiment +and a pack containing special and undisclosed gifts. +</p> + +<p> +“When the kids are rounded up,” he instructed the volunteer +arrangement committee, “light up the candles on the tree and set +’em to playin’ ‘Pussy Wants a Corner’ and ‘King +William.’ When they get good and at it, why—old Santa’ll +slide in the door. I reckon there’ll be plenty of gifts to go +’round.” +</p> + +<p> +The ladies were flitting about the tree, giving it final touches that were +never final. The Spangled Sisters were there in costume as Lady Violet de Vere +and Marie, the maid, in their new drama, “The Miner’s Bride.” +The theatre did not open until nine, and they were welcome assistants of the +Christmas tree committee. Every minute heads would pop out the door to look and +listen for the approach of Trinidad’s team. And now this became an +anxious function, for night had fallen and it would soon be necessary to light +the candles on the tree, and Cherokee was apt to make an irruption at any time +in his Kriss Kringle garb. +</p> + +<p> +At length the wagon of the child “rustlers” rattled down the street +to the door. The ladies, with little screams of excitement, flew to the +lighting of the candles. The men of Yellowhammer passed in and out restlessly +or stood about the room in embarrassed groups. +</p> + +<p> +Trinidad and the Judge, bearing the marks of protracted travel, entered, +conducting between them a single impish boy, who stared with sullen, +pessimistic eyes at the gaudy tree. +</p> + +<p> +“Where are the other children?” asked the assayer’s wife, the +acknowledged leader of all social functions. +</p> + +<p> +“Ma’am,” said Trinidad with a sigh, “prospectin’ +for kids at Christmas time is like huntin’ in a limestone for silver. +This parental business is one that I haven’t no chance to comprehend. It +seems that fathers and mothers are willin’ for their offsprings to be +drownded, stole, fed on poison oak, and et by catamounts 364 days in the year; +but on Christmas Day they insists on enjoyin’ the exclusive mortification +of their company. This here young biped, ma’am, is all that washes out of +our two days’ manoeuvres.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, the sweet little boy!” cooed Miss Erma, trailing her De Vere +robes to centre of stage. +</p> + +<p> +“Aw, shut up,” said Bobby, with a scowl. “Who’s a kid? +You ain’t, you bet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fresh brat!” breathed Miss Erma, beneath her enamelled smile. +</p> + +<p> +“We done the best we could,” said Trinidad. “It’s tough +on Cherokee, but it can’t be helped.” +</p> + +<p> +Then the door opened and Cherokee entered in the conventional dress of Saint +Nick. A white rippling beard and flowing hair covered his face almost to his +dark and shining eyes. Over his shoulder he carried a pack. +</p> + +<p> +No one stirred as he came in. Even the Spangler Sisters ceased their coquettish +poses and stared curiously at the tall figure. Bobby stood with his hands in +his pockets gazing gloomily at the effeminate and childish tree. Cherokee put +down his pack and looked wonderingly about the room. Perhaps he fancied that a +bevy of eager children were being herded somewhere, to be loosed upon his +entrance. He went up to Bobby and extended his red-mittened hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Merry Christmas, little boy,” said Cherokee. “Anything on +the tree you want they’ll get it down for you. Won’t you shake +hands with Santa Claus?” +</p> + +<p> +“There ain’t any Santa Claus,” whined the boy. +“You’ve got old false billy goat’s whiskers on your face. I +ain’t no kid. What do I want with dolls and tin horses? The driver said +you’d have a rifle, and you haven’t. I want to go home.” +</p> + +<p> +Trinidad stepped into the breach. He shook Cherokee’s hand in warm +greeting. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry, Cherokee,” he explained. “There never was a +kid in Yellowhammer. We tried to rustle a bunch of ’em for your swaree, +but this sardine was all we could catch. He’s a atheist, and he +don’t believe in Santa Claus. It’s a shame for you to be out all +this truck. But me and the Judge was sure we could round up a wagonful of +candidates for your gimcracks.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all right,” said Cherokee gravely. “The expense +don’t amount to nothin’ worth mentionin’. We can dump the +stuff down a shaft or throw it away. I don’t know what I was +thinkin’ about; but it never occurred to my cogitations that there +wasn’t any kids in Yellowhammer.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the company had relaxed into a hollow but praiseworthy imitation of a +pleasure gathering. +</p> + +<p> +Bobby had retreated to a distant chair, and was coldly regarding the scene with +ennui plastered thick upon him. Cherokee, lingering with his original idea, +went over and sat beside him. +</p> + +<p> +“Where do you live, little boy?” he asked respectfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Granite Junction,” said Bobby without emphasis. +</p> + +<p> +The room was warm. Cherokee took off his cap, and then removed his beard and +wig. +</p> + +<p> +“Say!” exclaimed Bobby, with a show of interest, “I know your +mug, all right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever see me before?” asked Cherokee. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know; but I’ve seen your picture lots of +times.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +The boy hesitated. “On the bureau at home,” he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s have your name, if you please, buddy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Robert Lumsden. The picture belongs to my mother. She puts it under her +pillow of nights. And once I saw her kiss it. I wouldn’t. But women are +that way.” +</p> + +<p> +Cherokee rose and beckoned to Trinidad. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep this boy by you till I come back,” he said. “I’m +goin’ to shed these Christmas duds, and hitch up my sleigh. I’m +goin’ to take this kid home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, infidel,” said Trinidad, taking Cherokee’s vacant +chair, “and so you are too superannuated and effete to yearn for such +mockeries as candy and toys, it seems.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like you,” said Bobby, with acrimony. “You +said there would be a rifle. A fellow can’t even smoke. I wish I was at +home.” +</p> + +<p> +Cherokee drove his sleigh to the door, and they lifted Bobby in beside him. The +team of fine horses sprang away prancingly over the hard snow. Cherokee had on +his $500 overcoat of baby sealskin. The laprobe that he drew about them was as +warm as velvet. +</p> + +<p> +Bobby slipped a cigarette from his pocket and was trying to snap a match. +</p> + +<p> +“Throw that cigarette away,” said Cherokee, in a quiet but new +voice. +</p> + +<p> +Bobby hesitated, and then dropped the cylinder overboard. +</p> + +<p> +“Throw the box, too,” commanded the new voice. +</p> + +<p> +More reluctantly the boy obeyed. +</p> + +<p> +“Say,” said Bobby, presently, “I like you. I don’t know +why. Nobody never made me do anything I didn’t want to do before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, kid,” said Cherokee, not using his new voice, “are +you sure your mother kissed that picture that looks like me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead sure. I seen her do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t you remark somethin’ a while ago about wanting a +rifle?” +</p> + +<p> +“You bet I did. Will you get me one?” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow—silver-mounted.” +</p> + +<p> +Cherokee took out his watch. +</p> + +<p> +“Half-past nine. We’ll hit the Junction plumb on time with +Christmas Day. Are you cold? Sit closer, son.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>XVIII<br /> +A CHAPARRAL PRINCE</h2> + +<p> +Nine o’clock at last, and the drudging toil of the day was ended. Lena +climbed to her room in the third half-story of the Quarrymen’s Hotel. +Since daylight she had slaved, doing the work of a full-grown woman, scrubbing +the floors, washing the heavy ironstone plates and cups, making the beds, and +supplying the insatiate demands for wood and water in that turbulent and +depressing hostelry. +</p> + +<p> +The din of the day’s quarrying was over—the blasting and drilling, +the creaking of the great cranes, the shouts of the foremen, the backing and +shifting of the flat-cars hauling the heavy blocks of limestone. Down in the +hotel office three or four of the labourers were growling and swearing over a +belated game of checkers. Heavy odours of stewed meat, hot grease, and cheap +coffee hung like a depressing fog about the house. +</p> + +<p> +Lena lit the stump of a candle and sat limply upon her wooden chair. She was +eleven years old, thin and ill-nourished. Her back and limbs were sore and +aching. But the ache in her heart made the biggest trouble. The last straw had +been added to the burden upon her small shoulders. They had taken away Grimm. +Always at night, however tired she might be, she had turned to Grimm for +comfort and hope. Each time had Grimm whispered to her that the prince or the +fairy would come and deliver her out of the wicked enchantment. Every night she +had taken fresh courage and strength from Grimm. +</p> + +<p> +To whatever tale she read she found an analogy in her own condition. The +woodcutter’s lost child, the unhappy goose girl, the persecuted +stepdaughter, the little maiden imprisoned in the witch’s hut—all +these were but transparent disguises for Lena, the overworked kitchenmaid in +the Quarrymen’s Hotel. And always when the extremity was direst came the +good fairy or the gallant prince to the rescue. +</p> + +<p> +So, here in the ogre’s castle, enslaved by a wicked spell, Lena had +leaned upon Grimm and waited, longing for the powers of goodness to prevail. +But on the day before Mrs. Maloney had found the book in her room and had +carried it away, declaring sharply that it would not do for servants to read at +night; they lost sleep and did not work briskly the next day. Can one only +eleven years old, living away from one’s mamma, and never having any time +to play, live entirely deprived of Grimm? Just try it once and you will see +what a difficult thing it is. +</p> + +<p> +Lena’s home was in Texas, away up among the little mountains on the +Pedernales River, in a little town called Fredericksburg. They are all German +people who live in Fredericksburg. Of evenings they sit at little tables along +the sidewalk and drink beer and play pinochle and scat. They are very thrifty +people. +</p> + +<p> +Thriftiest among them was Peter Hildesmuller, Lena’s father. And that is +why Lena was sent to work in the hotel at the quarries, thirty miles away. She +earned three dollars every week there, and Peter added her wages to his +well-guarded store. Peter had an ambition to become as rich as his neighbour, +Hugo Heffelbauer, who smoked a meerschaum pipe three feet long and had wiener +schnitzel and hassenpfeffer for dinner every day in the week. And now Lena was +quite old enough to work and assist in the accumulation of riches. But +conjecture, if you can, what it means to be sentenced at eleven years of age +from a home in the pleasant little Rhine village to hard labour in the +ogre’s castle, where you must fly to serve the ogres, while they devour +cattle and sheep, growling fiercely as they stamp white limestone dust from +their great shoes for you to sweep and scour with your weak, aching fingers. +And then—to have Grimm taken away from you! +</p> + +<p> +Lena raised the lid of an old empty case that had once contained canned corn +and got out a sheet of paper and a piece of pencil. She was going to write a +letter to her mamma. Tommy Ryan was going to post it for her at +Ballinger’s. Tommy was seventeen, worked in the quarries, went home to +Ballinger’s every night, and was now waiting in the shadows under +Lena’s window for her to throw the letter out to him. That was the only +way she could send a letter to Fredericksburg. Mrs. Maloney did not like for +her to write letters. +</p> + +<p> +The stump of the candle was burning low, so Lena hastily bit the wood from +around the lead of her pencil and began. This is the letter she wrote: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +D<small>EAREST</small> M<small>AMMA</small>:—I want so much to see you. +And Gretel and Claus and Heinrich and little Adolf. I am so tired. I want to +see you. To-day I was slapped by Mrs. Maloney and had no supper. I could not +bring in enough wood, for my hand hurt. She took my book yesterday. I mean +“Grimm’s Fairy Tales,” which Uncle Leo gave me. It did not +hurt any one for me to read the book. I try to work as well as I can, but there +is so much to do. I read only a little bit every night. Dear mamma, I shall +tell you what I am going to do. Unless you send for me to-morrow to bring me +home I shall go to a deep place I know in the river and drown. It is wicked to +drown, I suppose, but I wanted to see you, and there is no one else. I am very +tired, and Tommy is waiting for the letter. You will excuse me, mamma, if I do +it. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +Your respectful and loving daughter,<br /> +L<small>ENA</small>. +</p> + +<p> +Tommy was still waiting faithfully when the letter was concluded, and when Lena +dropped it out she saw him pick it up and start up the steep hillside. Without +undressing she blew out the candle and curled herself upon the mattress on the +floor. +</p> + +<p> +At 10:30 o’clock old man Ballinger came out of his house in his stocking +feet and leaned over the gate, smoking his pipe. He looked down the big road, +white in the moonshine, and rubbed one ankle with the toe of his other foot. It +was time for the Fredericksburg mail to come pattering up the road. +</p> + +<p> +Old man Ballinger had waited only a few minutes when he heard the lively +hoofbeats of Fritz’s team of little black mules, and very soon afterward +his covered spring wagon stood in front of the gate. Fritz’s big +spectacles flashed in the moonlight and his tremendous voice shouted a greeting +to the postmaster of Ballinger’s. The mail-carrier jumped out and took +the bridles from the mules, for he always fed them oats at Ballinger’s. +</p> + +<p> +While the mules were eating from their feed bags old man Ballinger brought out +the mail sack and threw it into the wagon. +</p> + +<p> +Fritz Bergmann was a man of three sentiments—or to be more +accurate— four, the pair of mules deserving to be reckoned individually. +Those mules were the chief interest and joy of his existence. Next came the +Emperor of Germany and Lena Hildesmuller. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” said Fritz, when he was ready to start, “contains +the sack a letter to Frau Hildesmuller from the little Lena at the quarries? +One came in the last mail to say that she is a little sick, already. Her mamma +is very anxious to hear again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said old man Ballinger, “thar’s a letter for +Mrs. Helterskelter, or some sich name. Tommy Ryan brung it over when he come. +Her little gal workin’ over thar, you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the hotel,” shouted Fritz, as he gathered up the lines; +“eleven years old and not bigger as a frankfurter. The close-fist of a +Peter Hildesmuller!—some day I shall with a big club pound that +man’s dummkopf—all in and out the town. Perhaps in this letter Lena +will say that she is yet feeling better. So, her mamma will be glad. <i>Auf +wiedersehen</i>, Herr Ballinger—your feets will take cold out in the +night air.” +</p> + +<p> +“So long, Fritzy,” said old man Ballinger. “You got a nice +cool night for your drive.” +</p> + +<p> +Up the road went the little black mules at their steady trot, while Fritz +thundered at them occasional words of endearment and cheer. +</p> + +<p> +These fancies occupied the mind of the mail-carrier until he reached the big +post oak forest, eight miles from Ballinger’s. Here his ruminations were +scattered by the sudden flash and report of pistols and a whooping as if from a +whole tribe of Indians. A band of galloping centaurs closed in around the mail +wagon. One of them leaned over the front wheel, covered the driver with his +revolver, and ordered him to stop. Others caught at the bridles of Donder and +Blitzen. +</p> + +<p> +“Donnerwetter!” shouted Fritz, with all his tremendous +voice—“wass ist? Release your hands from dose mules. Ve vas der +United States mail!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hurry up, Dutch!” drawled a melancholy voice. “Don’t +you know when you’re in a stick-up? Reverse your mules and climb out of +the cart.” +</p> + +<p> +It is due to the breadth of Hondo Bill’s demerit and the largeness of his +achievements to state that the holding up of the Fredericksburg mail was not +perpetrated by way of an exploit. As the lion while in the pursuit of prey +commensurate to his prowess might set a frivolous foot upon a casual rabbit in +his path, so Hondo Bill and his gang had swooped sportively upon the pacific +transport of Meinherr Fritz. +</p> + +<p> +The real work of their sinister night ride was over. Fritz and his mail bag and +his mules came as gentle relaxation, grateful after the arduous duties of their +profession. Twenty miles to the southeast stood a train with a killed engine, +hysterical passengers and a looted express and mail car. That represented the +serious occupation of Hondo Bill and his gang. With a fairly rich prize of +currency and silver the robbers were making a wide detour to the west through +the less populous country, intending to seek safety in Mexico by means of some +fordable spot on the Rio Grande. The booty from the train had melted the +desperate bushrangers to jovial and happy skylarkers. +</p> + +<p> +Trembling with outraged dignity and no little personal apprehension, Fritz +climbed out to the road after replacing his suddenly removed spectacles. The +band had dismounted and were singing, capering, and whooping, thus expressing +their satisfied delight in the life of a jolly outlaw. Rattlesnake Rogers, who +stood at the heads of the mules, jerked a little too vigorously at the rein of +the tender-mouthed Donder, who reared and emitted a loud, protesting snort of +pain. Instantly Fritz, with a scream of anger, flew at the bulky Rogers and +began to assiduously pummel that surprised freebooter with his fists. +</p> + +<p> +“Villain!” shouted Fritz, “dog, bigstiff! Dot mule he has a +soreness by his mouth. I vill knock off your shoulders mit your head— +robbermans!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yi-yi!” howled Rattlesnake, roaring with laughter and ducking his +head, “somebody git this here sour-krout off’n me!” +</p> + +<p> +One of the band yanked Fritz back by the coat-tail, and the woods rang with +Rattlesnake’s vociferous comments. +</p> + +<p> +“The dog-goned little wienerwurst,” he yelled, amiably. +“He’s not so much of a skunk, for a Dutchman. Took up for his +animile plum quick, didn’t he? I like to see a man like his hoss, even if +it is a mule. The dad-blamed little Limburger he went for me, didn’t he! +Whoa, now, muley—I ain’t a-goin’ to hurt your mouth agin any +more.” +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps the mail would not have been tampered with had not Ben Moody, the +lieutenant, possessed certain wisdom that seemed to promise more spoils. +</p> + +<p> +“Say, Cap,” he said, addressing Hondo Bill, “there’s +likely to be good pickings in these mail sacks. I’ve done some hoss +tradin’ with these Dutchmen around Fredericksburg, and I know the style +of the varmints. There’s big money goes through the mails to that town. +Them Dutch risk a thousand dollars sent wrapped in a piece of paper before +they’d pay the banks to handle the money.” +</p> + +<p> +Hondo Bill, six feet two, gentle of voice and impulsive in action, was dragging +the sacks from the rear of the wagon before Moody had finished his speech. A +knife shone in his hand, and they heard the ripping sound as it bit through the +tough canvas. The outlaws crowded around and began tearing open letters and +packages, enlivening their labours by swearing affably at the writers, who +seemed to have conspired to confute the prediction of Ben Moody. Not a dollar +was found in the Fredericksburg mail. +</p> + +<p> +“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said Hondo Bill to the +mail-carrier in solemn tones, “to be packing around such a lot of old, +trashy paper as this. What d’you mean by it, anyhow? Where do you +Dutchers keep your money at?” +</p> + +<p> +The Ballinger mail sack opened like a cocoon under Hondo’s knife. It +contained but a handful of mail. Fritz had been fuming with terror and +excitement until this sack was reached. He now remembered Lena’s letter. +He addressed the leader of the band, asking that that particular missive be +spared. +</p> + +<p> +“Much obliged, Dutch,” he said to the disturbed carrier. “I +guess that’s the letter we want. Got spondulicks in it, ain’t it? +Here she is. Make a light, boys.” +</p> + +<p> +Hondo found and tore open the letter to Mrs. Hildesmuller. The others stood +about, lighting twisted up letters one from another. Hondo gazed with mute +disapproval at the single sheet of paper covered with the angular German +script. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever is this you’ve humbugged us with, Dutchy? You call this +here a valuable letter? That’s a mighty low-down trick to play on your +friends what come along to help you distribute your mail.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s Chiny writin’,” said Sandy Grundy, peering over +Hondo’s shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re off your kazip,” declared another of the gang, an +effective youth, covered with silk handkerchiefs and nickel plating. +“That’s shorthand. I see ’em do it once in court.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ach, no, no, no—dot is German,” said Fritz. “It is no +more as a little girl writing a letter to her mamma. One poor little girl, sick +and vorking hard avay from home. Ach! it is a shame. Good Mr. Robberman, you +vill please let me have dot letter?” +</p> + +<p> +“What the devil do you take us for, old Pretzels?” said Hondo with +sudden and surprising severity. “You ain’t presumin’ to +insinuate that we gents ain’t possessed of sufficient politeness for to +take an interest in the miss’s health, are you? Now, you go on, and you +read that scratchin’ out loud and in plain United States language to this +here company of educated society.” +</p> + +<p> +Hondo twirled his six-shooter by its trigger guard and stood towering above the +little German, who at once began to read the letter, translating the simple +words into English. The gang of rovers stood in absolute silence, listening +intently. +</p> + +<p> +“How old is that kid?” asked Hondo when the letter was done. +</p> + +<p> +“Eleven,” said Fritz. +</p> + +<p> +“And where is she at?” +</p> + +<p> +“At dose rock quarries—working. Ach, mein Gott—little Lena, +she speak of drowning. I do not know if she vill do it, but if she shall I +schwear I vill dot Peter Hildesmuller shoot mit a gun.” +</p> + +<p> +“You Dutchers,” said Hondo Bill, his voice swelling with fine +contempt, “make me plenty tired. Hirin’ out your kids to work when +they ought to be playin’ dolls in the sand. You’re a hell of a sect +of people. I reckon we’ll fix your clock for a while just to show what we +think of your old cheesy nation. Here, boys!” +</p> + +<p> +Hondo Bill parleyed aside briefly with his band, and then they seized Fritz and +conveyed him off the road to one side. Here they bound him fast to a tree with +a couple of lariats. His team they tied to another tree near by. +</p> + +<p> +“We ain’t going to hurt you bad,” said Hondo reassuringly. +“’Twon’t hurt you to be tied up for a while. We will now pass +you the time of day, as it is up to us to depart. Ausgespielt—nixcumrous, +Dutchy. Don’t get any more impatience.” +</p> + +<p> +Fritz heard a great squeaking of saddles as the men mounted their horses. Then +a loud yell and a great clatter of hoofs as they galloped pell-mell back along +the Fredericksburg road. +</p> + +<p> +For more than two hours Fritz sat against his tree, tightly but not painfully +bound. Then from the reaction after his exciting adventure he sank into +slumber. How long he slept he knew not, but he was at last awakened by a rough +shake. Hands were untying his ropes. He was lifted to his feet, dazed, confused +in mind, and weary of body. Rubbing his eyes, he looked and saw that he was +again in the midst of the same band of terrible bandits. They shoved him up to +the seat of his wagon and placed the lines in his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Hit it out for home, Dutch,” said Hondo Bill’s voice +commandingly. “You’ve given us lots of trouble and we’re +pleased to see the back of your neck. Spiel! Zwei bier! Vamoose!” +</p> + +<p> +Hondo reached out and gave Blitzen a smart cut with his quirt. +</p> + +<p> +The little mules sprang ahead, glad to be moving again. Fritz urged them along, +himself dizzy and muddled over his fearful adventure. +</p> + +<p> +According to schedule time, he should have reached Fredericksburg at daylight. +As it was, he drove down the long street of the town at eleven o’clock +A.M. He had to pass Peter Hildesmuller’s house on his way to the +post-office. He stopped his team at the gate and called. But Frau Hildesmuller +was watching for him. Out rushed the whole family of Hildesmullers. +</p> + +<p> +Frau Hildesmuller, fat and flushed, inquired if he had a letter from Lena, and +then Fritz raised his voice and told the tale of his adventure. He told the +contents of that letter that the robber had made him read, and then Frau +Hildesmuller broke into wild weeping. Her little Lena drown herself! Why had +they sent her from home? What could be done? Perhaps it would be too late by +the time they could send for her now. Peter Hildesmuller dropped his meerschaum +on the walk and it shivered into pieces. +</p> + +<p> +“Woman!” he roared at his wife, “why did you let that child +go away? It is your fault if she comes home to us no more.” +</p> + +<p> +Every one knew that it was Peter Hildesmuller’s fault, so they paid no +attention to his words. +</p> + +<p> +A moment afterward a strange, faint voice was heard to call: +“Mamma!” Frau Hildesmuller at first thought it was Lena’s +spirit calling, and then she rushed to the rear of Fritz’s covered wagon, +and, with a loud shriek of joy, caught up Lena herself, covering her pale +little face with kisses and smothering her with hugs. Lena’s eyes were +heavy with the deep slumber of exhaustion, but she smiled and lay close to the +one she had longed to see. There among the mail sacks, covered in a nest of +strange blankets and comforters, she had lain asleep until wakened by the +voices around her. +</p> + +<p> +Fritz stared at her with eyes that bulged behind his spectacles. +</p> + +<p> +“Gott in Himmel!” he shouted. “How did you get in that wagon? +Am I going crazy as well as to be murdered and hanged by robbers this +day?” +</p> + +<p> +“You brought her to us, Fritz,” cried Frau Hildesmuller. “How +can we ever thank you enough?” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell mamma how you came in Fritz’s wagon,” said Frau +Hildesmuller. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” said Lena. “But I know how I got away +from the hotel. The Prince brought me.” +</p> + +<p> +“By the Emperor’s crown!” shouted Fritz, “we are all +going crazy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I always knew he would come,” said Lena, sitting down on her +bundle of bedclothes on the sidewalk. “Last night he came with his armed +knights and captured the ogre’s castle. They broke the dishes and kicked +down the doors. They pitched Mr. Maloney into a barrel of rain water and threw +flour all over Mrs. Maloney. The workmen in the hotel jumped out of the windows +and ran into the woods when the knights began firing their guns. They wakened +me up and I peeped down the stair. And then the Prince came up and wrapped me +in the bedclothes and carried me out. He was so tall and strong and fine. His +face was as rough as a scrubbing brush, and he talked soft and kind and smelled +of schnapps. He took me on his horse before him and we rode away among the +knights. He held me close and I went to sleep that way, and didn’t wake +up till I got home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rubbish!” cried Fritz Bergmann. “Fairy tales! How did you +come from the quarries to my wagon?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Prince brought me,” said Lena, confidently. +</p> + +<p> +And to this day the good people of Fredericksburg haven’t been able to +make her give any other explanation. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>XIX<br /> +THE REFORMATION OF CALLIOPE</h2> + +<p> +Calliope Catesby was in his humours again. Ennui was upon him. This goodly +promontory, the earth—particularly that portion of it known as +Quicksand—was to him no more than a pestilent congregation of vapours. +Overtaken by the megrims, the philosopher may seek relief in soliloquy; my lady +find solace in tears; the flaccid Easterner scold at the millinery bills of his +women folk. Such recourse was insufficient to the denizens of Quicksand. +Calliope, especially, was wont to express his ennui according to his lights. +</p> + +<p> +Over night Calliope had hung out signals of approaching low spirits. He had +kicked his own dog on the porch of the Occidental Hotel, and refused to +apologise. He had become capricious and fault-finding in conversation. While +strolling about he reached often for twigs of mesquite and chewed the leaves +fiercely. That was always an ominous act. Another symptom alarming to those who +were familiar with the different stages of his doldrums was his increasing +politeness and a tendency to use formal phrases. A husky softness succeeded the +usual penetrating drawl in his tones. A dangerous courtesy marked his manners. +Later, his smile became crooked, the left side of his mouth slanting upward, +and Quicksand got ready to stand from under. +</p> + +<p> +At this stage Calliope generally began to drink. Finally, about midnight, he +was seen going homeward, saluting those whom he met with exaggerated but +inoffensive courtesy. Not yet was Calliope’s melancholy at the danger +point. He would seat himself at the window of the room he occupied over +Silvester’s tonsorial parlours and there chant lugubrious and tuneless +ballads until morning, accompanying the noises by appropriate maltreatment of a +jangling guitar. More magnanimous than Nero, he would thus give musical warning +of the forthcoming municipal upheaval that Quicksand was scheduled to endure. +</p> + +<p> +A quiet, amiable man was Calliope Catesby at other times—quiet to +indolence, and amiable to worthlessness. At best he was a loafer and a +nuisance; at worst he was the Terror of Quicksand. His ostensible occupation +was something subordinate in the real estate line; he drove the beguiled +Easterner in buckboards out to look over lots and ranch property. Originally he +came from one of the Gulf States, his lank six feet, slurring rhythm of speech, +and sectional idioms giving evidence of his birthplace. +</p> + +<p> +And yet, after taking on Western adjustments, this languid pine-box whittler, +cracker barrel hugger, shady corner lounger of the cotton fields and sumac +hills of the South became famed as a bad man among men who had made a life-long +study of the art of truculence. +</p> + +<p> +At nine the next morning Calliope was fit. Inspired by his own barbarous +melodies and the contents of his jug, he was ready primed to gather fresh +laurels from the diffident brow of Quicksand. Encircled and criss-crossed with +cartridge belts, abundantly garnished with revolvers, and copiously drunk, he +poured forth into Quicksand’s main street. Too chivalrous to surprise and +capture a town by silent sortie, he paused at the nearest corner and emitted +his slogan—that fearful, brassy yell, so reminiscent of the steam piano, +that had gained for him the classic appellation that had superseded his own +baptismal name. Following close upon his vociferation came three shots from his +forty-five by way of limbering up the guns and testing his aim. A yellow dog, +the personal property of Colonel Swazey, the proprietor of the Occidental, fell +feet upward in the dust with one farewell yelp. A Mexican who was crossing the +street from the Blue Front grocery carrying in his hand a bottle of kerosene, +was stimulated to a sudden and admirable burst of speed, still grasping the +neck of the shattered bottle. The new gilt weather-cock on Judge Riley’s +lemon and ultramarine two-story residence shivered, flapped, and hung by a +splinter, the sport of the wanton breezes. +</p> + +<p> +The artillery was in trim. Calliope’s hand was steady. The high, calm +ecstasy of habitual battle was upon him, though slightly embittered by the +sadness of Alexander in that his conquests were limited to the small world of +Quicksand. +</p> + +<p> +Down the street went Calliope, shooting right and left. Glass fell like hail; +dogs vamosed; chickens flew, squawking; feminine voices shrieked concernedly to +youngsters at large. The din was perforated at intervals by the <i>staccato</i> +of the Terror’s guns, and was drowned periodically by the brazen screech +that Quicksand knew so well. The occasions of Calliope’s low spirits were +legal holidays in Quicksand. All along the main street in advance of his coming +clerks were putting up shutters and closing doors. Business would languish for +a space. The right of way was Calliope’s, and as he advanced, observing +the dearth of opposition and the few opportunities for distraction, his ennui +perceptibly increased. +</p> + +<p> +But some four squares farther down lively preparations were being made to +minister to Mr. Catesby’s love for interchange of compliments and +repartee. On the previous night numerous messengers had hastened to advise Buck +Patterson, the city marshal, of Calliope’s impending eruption. The +patience of that official, often strained in extending leniency toward the +disturber’s misdeeds, had been overtaxed. In Quicksand some indulgence +was accorded the natural ebullition of human nature. Providing that the lives +of the more useful citizens were not recklessly squandered, or too much +property needlessly laid waste, the community sentiment was against a too +strict enforcement of the law. But Calliope had raised the limit. His outbursts +had been too frequent and too violent to come within the classification of a +normal and sanitary relaxation of spirit. +</p> + +<p> +Buck Patterson had been expecting and awaiting in his little ten-by-twelve +frame office that preliminary yell announcing that Calliope was feeling blue. +When the signal came the city marshal rose to his feet and buckled on his guns. +Two deputy sheriffs and three citizens who had proven the edible qualities of +fire also stood up, ready to bandy with Calliope’s leaden jocularities. +</p> + +<p> +“Gather that fellow in,” said Buck Patterson, setting forth the +lines of the campaign. “Don’t have no talk, but shoot as soon as +you can get a show. Keep behind cover and bring him down. He’s a nogood +’un. It’s up to Calliope to turn up his toes this time, I reckon. +Go to him all spraddled out, boys. And don’t git too reckless, for what +Calliope shoots at he hits.” +</p> + +<p> +Buck Patterson, tall, muscular, and solemn-faced, with his bright “City +Marshal” badge shining on the breast of his blue flannel shirt, gave his +posse directions for the onslaught upon Calliope. The plan was to accomplish +the downfall of the Quicksand Terror without loss to the attacking party, if +possible. +</p> + +<p> +The splenetic Calliope, unconscious of retributive plots, was steaming down the +channel, cannonading on either side, when he suddenly became aware of breakers +ahead. The city marshal and one of the deputies rose up behind some dry-goods +boxes half a square to the front and opened fire. At the same time the rest of +the posse, divided, shelled him from two side streets up which they were +cautiously manoeuvring from a well-executed detour. +</p> + +<p> +The first volley broke the lock of one of Calliope’s guns, cut a neat +underbit in his right ear, and exploded a cartridge in his crossbelt, scorching +his ribs as it burst. Feeling braced up by this unexpected tonic to his +spiritual depression, Calliope executed a fortissimo note from his upper +register, and returned the fire like an echo. The upholders of the law dodged +at his flash, but a trifle too late to save one of the deputies a bullet just +above the elbow, and the marshal a bleeding cheek from a splinter that a ball +tore from the box he had ducked behind. +</p> + +<p> +And now Calliope met the enemy’s tactics in kind. Choosing with a rapid +eye the street from which the weakest and least accurate fire had come, he +invaded it at a double-quick, abandoning the unprotected middle of the street. +With rare cunning the opposing force in that direction—one of the +deputies and two of the valorous volunteers— waited, concealed by beer +barrels, until Calliope had passed their retreat, and then peppered him from +the rear. In another moment they were reinforced by the marshal and his other +men, and then Calliope felt that in order to successfully prolong the delights +of the controversy he must find some means of reducing the great odds against +him. His eye fell upon a structure that seemed to hold out this promise, +providing he could reach it. +</p> + +<p> +Not far away was the little railroad station, its building a strong box house, +ten by twenty feet, resting upon a platform four feet above ground. Windows +were in each of its walls. Something like a fort it might become to a man thus +sorely pressed by superior numbers. +</p> + +<p> +Calliope made a bold and rapid spurt for it, the marshal’s crowd +“smoking” him as he ran. He reached the haven in safety, the +station agent leaving the building by a window, like a flying squirrel, as the +garrison entered the door. +</p> + +<p> +Patterson and his supporters halted under protection of a pile of lumber and +held consultations. In the station was an unterrified desperado who was an +excellent shot and carried an abundance of ammunition. For thirty yards on +either side of the besieged was a stretch of bare, open ground. It was a sure +thing that the man who attempted to enter that unprotected area would be +stopped by one of Calliope’s bullets. +</p> + +<p> +The city marshal was resolved. He had decided that Calliope Catesby should no +more wake the echoes of Quicksand with his strident whoop. He had so announced. +Officially and personally he felt imperatively bound to put the soft pedal on +that instrument of discord. It played bad tunes. +</p> + +<p> +Standing near was a hand truck used in the manipulation of small freight. It +stood by a shed full of sacked wool, a consignment from one of the sheep +ranches. On this truck the marshal and his men piled three heavy sacks of wool. +Stooping low, Buck Patterson started for Calliope’s fort, slowly pushing +this loaded truck before him for protection. The posse, scattering broadly, +stood ready to nip the besieged in case he should show himself in an effort to +repel the juggernaut of justice that was creeping upon him. Only once did +Calliope make demonstration. He fired from a window, and some tufts of wool +spurted from the marshal’s trustworthy bulwark. The return shots from the +posse pattered against the window frame of the fort. No loss resulted on either +side. +</p> + +<p> +The marshal was too deeply engrossed in steering his protected battleship to be +aware of the approach of the morning train until he was within a few feet of +the platform. The train was coming up on the other side of it. It stopped only +one minute at Quicksand. What an opportunity it would offer to Calliope! He had +only to step out the other door, mount the train, and away. +</p> + +<p> +Abandoning his breastwork, Buck, with his gun ready, dashed up the steps and +into the room, driving upon the closed door with one heave of his weighty +shoulder. The members of the posse heard one shot fired inside, and then there +was silence. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +At length the wounded man opened his eyes. After a blank space he again could +see and hear and feel and think. Turning his eyes about, he found himself lying +on a wooden bench. A tall man with a perplexed countenance, wearing a big badge +with “City Marshal” engraved upon it, stood over him. A little old +woman in black, with a wrinkled face and sparkling black eyes, was holding a +wet handkerchief against one of his temples. He was trying to get these facts +fixed in his mind and connected with past events, when the old woman began to +talk. +</p> + +<p> +“There now, great, big, strong man! That bullet never tetched ye! Jest +skeeted along the side of your head and sort of paralysed ye for a spell. +I’ve heerd of sech things afore; cun-cussion is what they names it. Abel +Wadkins used to kill squirrels that way—barkin’ ’em, Abe +called it. You jest been barked, sir, and you’ll be all right in a little +bit. Feel lots better already, don’t ye! You just lay still a while +longer and let me bathe your head. You don’t know me, I reckon, and +’tain’t surprisin’ that you shouldn’t. I come in on +that train from Alabama to see my son. Big son, ain’t he? Lands! you +wouldn’t hardly think he’d ever been a baby, would ye? This is my +son, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Half turning, the old woman looked up at the standing man, her worn face +lighting with a proud and wonderful smile. She reached out one veined and +calloused hand and took one of her son’s. Then smiling cheerily down at +the prostrate man, she continued to dip the handkerchief, in the waiting-room +tin washbasin and gently apply it to his temple. She had the benevolent +garrulity of old age. +</p> + +<p> +“I ain’t seen my son before,” she continued, “in eight +years. One of my nephews, Elkanah Price, he’s a conductor on one of them +railroads and he got me a pass to come out here. I can stay a whole week on it, +and then it’ll take me back again. Jest think, now, that little boy of +mine has got to be a officer—a city marshal of a whole town! That’s +somethin’ like a constable, ain’t it? I never knowed he was a +officer; he didn’t say nothin’ about it in his letters. I reckon he +thought his old mother’d be skeered about the danger he was in. But, +laws! I never was much of a hand to git skeered. ’Tain’t no use. I +heard them guns a-shootin’ while I was gettin’ off them cars, and I +see smoke a-comin’ out of the depot, but I jest walked right along. Then +I see son’s face lookin’ out through the window. I knowed him at +oncet. He met me at the door, and squeezes me ’most to death. And there +you was, sir, a-lyin’ there jest like you was dead, and I ’lowed +we’d see what might be done to help sot you up.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I’ll sit up now,” said the concussion patient. +“I’m feeling pretty fair by this time.” +</p> + +<p> +He sat, somewhat weakly yet, leaning against the wall. He was a rugged man, +big-boned and straight. His eyes, steady and keen, seemed to linger upon the +face of the man standing so still above him. His look wandered often from the +face he studied to the marshal’s badge upon the other’s breast. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, you’ll be all right,” said the old woman, patting +his arm, “if you don’t get to cuttin’ up agin, and +havin’ folks shooting at you. Son told me about you, sir, while you was +layin’ senseless on the floor. Don’t you take it as meddlesome fer +an old woman with a son as big as you to talk about it. And you mustn’t +hold no grudge ag’in’ my son for havin’ to shoot at ye. A +officer has got to take up for the law—it’s his duty—and them +that acts bad and lives wrong has to suffer. Don’t blame my son any, +sir—’tain’t his fault. He’s always been a good +boy—good when he was growin’ up, and kind and ’bedient and +well-behaved. Won’t you let me advise you, sir, not to do so no more? Be +a good man, and leave liquor alone and live peaceably and goodly. Keep away +from bad company and work honest and sleep sweet.” +</p> + +<p> +The black-mitted hand of the old pleader gently touched the breast of the man +she addressed. Very earnest and candid her old, worn face looked. In her rusty +black dress and antique bonnet she sat, near the close of a long life, and +epitomised the experience of the world. Still the man to whom she spoke gazed +above her head, contemplating the silent son of the old mother. +</p> + +<p> +“What does the marshal say?” he asked. “Does he believe the +advice is good? Suppose the marshal speaks up and says if the talk’s all +right?” +</p> + +<p> +The tall man moved uneasily. He fingered the badge on his breast for a moment, +and then he put an arm around the old woman and drew her close to him. She +smiled the unchanging mother smile of three-score years, and patted his big +brown hand with her crooked, mittened fingers while her son spake. +</p> + +<p> +“I says this,” he said, looking squarely into the eyes of the other +man, “that if I was in your place I’d follow it. If I was a +drunken, desp’rate character, without shame or hope, I’d follow it. +If I was in your place and you was in mine I’d say: ‘Marshal, +I’m willin’ to swear if you’ll give me the chance I’ll +quit the racket. I’ll drop the tanglefoot and the gun play, and +won’t play hoss no more. I’ll be a good citizen and go to work and +quit my foolishness. So help me God!’ That’s what I’d say to +you if you was marshal and I was in your place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear my son talkin’,” said the old woman softly. “Hear +him, sir. You promise to be good and he won’t do you no harm. Forty-one +year ago his heart first beat ag’in’ mine, and it’s beat true +ever since.” +</p> + +<p> +The other man rose to his feet, trying his limbs and stretching his muscles. +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” said he, “if you was in my place and said that, and I +was marshal, I’d say: ‘Go free, and do your best to keep your +promise.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Lawsy!” exclaimed the old woman, in a sudden flutter, “ef I +didn’t clear forget that trunk of mine! I see a man settin’ it on +the platform jest as I seen son’s face in the window, and it went plum +out of my head. There’s eight jars of home-made quince jam in that trunk +that I made myself. I wouldn’t have nothin’ happen to them jars for +a red apple.” +</p> + +<p> +Away to the door she trotted, spry and anxious, and then Calliope Catesby spoke +out to Buck Patterson: +</p> + +<p> +“I just couldn’t help it, Buck. I seen her through the window +a-comin’ in. She never had heard a word ’bout my tough ways. I +didn’t have the nerve to let her know I was a worthless cuss bein’ +hunted down by the community. There you was lyin’ where my shot laid you, +like you was dead. The idea struck me sudden, and I just took your badge off +and fastened it onto myself, and I fastened my reputation onto you. I told her +I was the marshal and you was a holy terror. You can take your badge back now, +Buck.” +</p> + +<p> +With shaking fingers Calliope began to unfasten the disc of metal from his +shirt. +</p> + +<p> +“Easy there!” said Buck Patterson. “You keep that badge right +where it is, Calliope Catesby. Don’t you dare to take it off till the day +your mother leaves this town. You’ll be city marshal of Quicksand as long +as she’s here to know it. After I stir around town a bit and put +’em on I’ll guarantee that nobody won’t give the thing away +to her. And say, you leather-headed, rip-roarin’, low-down son of a +locoed cyclone, you follow that advice she give me! I’m goin’ to +take some of it myself, too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Buck,” said Calliope feelingly, “ef I don’t I hope I +may—” +</p> + +<p> +“Shut up,” said Buck. “She’s a-comin’ +back.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEART OF THE WEST ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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