DEPARTURE OF THE GUEST.
“BEN and me done travelled a good deal together,” said Rickard, with a
faint sigh; “he was the quickest chap on the shoot I ever met; I never
knowed him to miss when he had any show at all, and he was the luckiest
fellow that ever walked. Do you know what Ben’s rule was?” asked
Rickard, turning toward the cowboys, as if about to impart a piece of
delightful news.
“It was to shoot whenever he had the slightest excuse,” replied
Strubell, who evidently had little respect for one of the most famous
characters that Texas ever brought to the surface.
“Whenever he got into a shooting scrap he always let the other chap
fire first; for then, when _he_ let fly, he had a good case of
self-defence. He always done that, as he told me himself.”
I may be allowed to say that this remark about Ben Thompson, once City
Marshal of Austin, was true. He informed me that he had followed the
rule for years, and it doubtless helped to secure his acquittal in a
large number of the cases where he was tried for slaying others, though
the shameful admiration shown him by all classes had much to do with
his immunity from legal punishment. As has been hinted, however, there
came a time when Ben’s rule failed to work satisfactorily for himself.
It was down in San Antonio, the scene of more than one of his crimes,
that a half dozen men worked in a volley from their Winchesters ahead
of Ben’s revolver, and he died with his boots on, the last shot which
he fired before breathing his last causing the death of one of his
assailants.
It is hardly worth while to give the conversation which went on by the
camp fire for fully two hours, for it was not of a character that can
be commended to readers. There were stirring reminiscences of those
“bad men,” known a few years ago respectively as Bill Longley and John
Wesley Hardin. I suppose that Texas never produced two more desperate
men. When I saw Longley, he was as handsome a person as I ever met, and
proved to be one of the few legally hanged individuals in the Lone Star
State, his taking off occurring some years ago in Galveston.
Hardin was more ill-favored, as to personal appearance. He was the
son of a preacher, and was named for one of the great founders of
Methodism. When I last talked with the stumpy, broad-faced desperado he
was in the Austin penitentiary, serving a twenty-five years’ sentence
for horse stealing, the numerous capital crimes he had committed not
being taken into account.
The point I am making is that Bell Rickard, who, in his way, was as
evil a man as any one of those whom I have named, having entered the
camp as a prisoner, was treated as a guest. No one unacquainted with
the circumstances would have suspected there was any feeling other than
the strongest friendship between them.
They recalled the numerous stirring scrimmages in which they had taken
part, and generally with Strubell and Lattin as the deadly enemies of
Rickard and his friends. They laughed over the many close calls, when
their mutual escapes seemed to turn on a hair, and even referred to
those that were likely to occur again in the near future.
Nick Ribsam grew so interested that he forgot his duty as sentinel,
and, leaning on his gun, stared with open mouth at the attenuated
Texan, with his scraggly beard, restless gray eyes, and alert
movements, as he smoked and laughed and talked.
Suddenly Strubell turned to the youth and said:
“Nick, I guess you had better take a look at the animals; Bell may
have some friends around; if you get sight of any, don’t bother to ask
questions, but drop them at the first shot.”
Rickard stopped in the middle of a remark he was making, and looked
at the young man with a smile. Then he resumed his words, and the
conversation went on as before. Nick walked slowly out to where the
ponies were lying on the ground, wondering and puzzled by the new
phase of southwestern life as he saw it for the first time.
“Wal,” said Rickard, after talking a while longer, as he rose to his
feet, stretched his limbs, and yawned, “I guess I’ll have to be going,
pards. By-by.”
“By-by,” returned Strubell and Lattin, the latter adding:
“Take good care of yourself, Bell, till we meet again.”
“The same to you,” he returned, moving off in the darkness at a
leisurely gait, which showed that personal danger was the last thought
that entered his mind.
Nick Ribsam, who was still standing near the animals, saw the tall
figure, with slightly stooping shoulders, approaching.
“Helloa, younker, where are you?” he asked, coming to a halt and
peering round in the gloom, his opportunity for seeing the youth being
less favorable than that of Nick for observing him.
“I am here,” replied the lad, holding his Winchester in a tight grip
and apprehensive of trouble.
“I only wanted to say good-by to you; I think you and me will meet
before many days; till then, the best of luck to you.”
“The same to yourself,” replied Nick, who kept his eyes on the fellow
until he mingled with the gloom and became invisible.
Then he walked back to the camp fire, in answer to a whistle from
Strubell, who asked the time. It was not quite three o’clock, but was
so near that hour that the elder Texan told him to lie down while he
and Lattin looked after things for the rest of the night.
Nick hoped his friends would give an explanation of the strange
occurrence, but, though he waited several minutes, no reference was
made to it, and he lay down in his blanket beside the sleeping Herbert,
who had not once opened his eyes.
It was some time before the youth became unconscious, for he was
affected by what he had seen and heard. He was convinced that, however
friendly the feeling appeared to be between the Texans and their
visitor, the latter was a deadly enemy of himself. He believed, too,
that Rickard’s parting words contained a threat, and he was sure there
would be a meeting between them before many days.
Finally slumber overcame him and he did not awake until he heard the
voice of Herbert, and all were astir, with day fully come.
Strubell was busy preparing coffee over the coals, and cooking the
remains of the maverick shot the day before. The climate and the life
they were leading brought strong appetites, and all fell to with the
vigor of health and strength. Herbert was in fine spirits, and said he
felt better than at any time since leaving home. There was little doubt
that he had received wonderful benefit from his trip, and, if nothing
in the way of a set back occurred, he had the best reason to believe he
would be fully restored to health, long before the time came for his
return home.
The Texans still avoided all reference to Rickard, and Nick decided
to await a good opportunity before telling his young friend of the
remarkable incident. He was resolved to ask no questions and to show no
curiosity.
“I can stand it as long as they,” he said to himself, “and shall give
them their own time to speak about it or leave it alone as they may
prefer.”
It took the party but a brief time to load up their two pack animals,
and to saddle, bridle, and mount their ponies. Then, when they faced
the northwest, they formed a picturesque sight.
Each of the four was mounted on a wiry pony of Spanish stock, active,
intelligent, and enduring. Not one of them had ever felt the touch of
currycomb or brush. Nick and Herbert, who had aimed to equip themselves
as much like their adult companions as possible, were provided with
ponderous saddles of wood and leather, weighing fully a dozen pounds
apiece, with a pommel almost six inches in diameter. Those of the
cowboys were quite costly, being sprinkled with silver stars on
different parts of their surface.
Two cinches were required to hold each of the saddles in place, a
forward and a flank girth. The wardrobe of the Texans has already been
described, but I should have stated that the boys had imitated them in
that respect also. They were provided with the broad-brimmed wool hat,
known by the Mexican name of sombrero, with a jacket of ducking, shirts
of calico or hickory, trousers of stout stuff, over which were worn
leather leggings. All had heavy boots, to which were attached two-inch
rowels, and the pack animals, besides the heavy blankets, simple
cooking utensils, and various articles, carried a slicker of oiled
linen for each, which, when the weather was threatening, enveloped the
rider from head to heels.
There were two articles, however, carried by the cowboys which the boys
did not have. Those were lariats (called in Southern California only by
the name of lasso). They were about forty feet long and were composed
of eight pliable rawhide thongs, plaited into ropes of a half-inch
diameter. Strubell and Lattin were experts in the use of the lariat, an
accomplishment which the boys could not hope to attain, since they had
deferred the necessary practice until too late in life.