A HIGH OLD TIME.
The night has passed away, and the bright morrow has come.
Under a spreading old oak tree in the little valley where the
matrimonially inclined outlaw had built his little shanty, could be
seen a motley gathering, drawn together for the purpose of taking part
in the wedding festivities of Cheeky Charley and his buxom bride.
Full blooded Indians, yellowish half-breeds, full blooded whites, a
sprinkling of squaws and papooses, and one white woman, made up the
crowd that gathered to witness the nuptials.
With their backs against the aforesaid widespreading old oak tree,
well shaded by the far-reaching branches, sat two gentlemen of widely
different color and nationality, united together most strongly by
common bonds.
The bonds we speak of were figurative in point of fact, for the parties
were Barney Shea and Pomp.
They were both prisoners in the hands of a common foe, and,
additionally, they were both musicians.
Barney held his “darlint” fiddle against his breast, and sawed away
with might and main, while Pomp, with his banjo on his knee, managed to
pick a good tum to tum accompaniment to Barney’s fiddling.
In the clearing around them, many of the white men were having what is
called a stag-dance--that is, a square dance without females.
“Music hath charms,” etc.
They could not help moving their feet in accord to the tune of the
fiddle and the tinkling banjo.
They were having a high old time, for whisky was flowing freely, and
spirits were rising proportionately as spirits went down.
Not a man or woman in the party but what drank like fishes, danced and
cut up like Eastern dervishes, and raised the devil generally.
It was an extra occasion you see, and they had to let themselves out a
kink or two.
Cheeky Charley and his two friends, who acted in the time-honored
capacity of groomsmen, walked out into the clearing and held up his
hand.
The music instantly stopped.
“Now you want to hold just awhile,” said the bridegroom, who had fished
a flaming scarlet tie from somewhere, and was in extra good trim, “cos
yer see this here fandango has got to stop and let the nuptials go on.
The female what’s going to get hitched says she don’t want to be all
day about it, cos she kinder thinks as how she can have more freedom as
a married woman than she can when she’s a modest young gal.”
“Yes, by thunder, yer right, old man,” said the blooming bride,
bouncing out of the cabin door and stalking into the middle of the
clearing, “and, by jinks, yer’d better be lively in getting hitched or,
so help me Bob, I’ll tackle some likely cuss and elope. By thunder an’
lightnin’ I jest will now.”
Barney and Pomp took a look at her.
She was worth looking at.
She was about five feet ten inches and a half in height,
broad-shouldered and big-armed, and was as coarse, freckled, bloated
with gin and foul-mouthed as any woman could have possibly been.
“Now see here, Sal,” put in Cheeky Charley, in coaxing tones, “yer
hain’t got no sort o’ cause to git talkin’ in that shape, for I want to
git spliced real bad. Give us yer paw, old gal.”
“I’m here, my jolly young galoot,” said the blushing bride, and covered
his ordinary sort of hand with her immense paw; “see here, you red and
white cusses, I want yer all to know as how this hitches me to this
galoot, for as long as we ’gree to hang together in this here vale o’
tears.”
“Hear ye, hear ye,” roared Cheeky Charley, in imitation of an Inspector
of Election, “this is to let you know as how this here female is my
wife, and the cuss what tramples on her has got to trample on me, he
has by glory, and when any son of a gun spits in her face, he’s got to
lam one of the very worst galoots in America. Friends, let’s take a
drink.”
Well, perhaps the red-skin portion of the wedding guests didn’t
understand all about it, but they certainly knew when they were asked
to take a drink.
They were marched up to the barrels that stood on the side of the
clearing, and drank to the health of bridegroom and bride.
“Here you are,” cried Cheeky Charley, marching up to the musicians with
a tin pan half-filled with brandy; “drink hearty, for you know yer
welcome, by thunder!”
“Guess so, mas’r,” said Pomp, and he put his banjo down, and then did
likewise with a pint of the liquor.
“For the love o’ pace howld on, ye little black divil,” roared Barney,
as the tin pan went higher and higher. “Musha, my gad, an’ do ye think
I have no mouth at all? Have the extrame nateness to hand over that
sauce-pan, av ye plase.”
“Only had a tooffull,” said Pomp. “Dat’s good stuff.”
“I belave ye,” said Barney, “ye can safely be relied on for judgment in
the matter of whisky and pistols. Ah-h-h, be me sowl that’s foine.”
“Give us a song,” cried Cheeky Charley to Pomp. “Give us one of the
reg’ler old down South songs.”
“All right,” said Pomp, and after tuning up he launched forth in a
melodious voice, with:
“DAT COON HUNT.
“Massa went out for to hunt the coon,
He went for to hunt by de light of the moon,
He find the critter mighty soon;
Ker-flew dar, ker-flew.
“De coon was up in a great big tree,
De highest tree yer eber did see,
An’ he got stung by a bumble bee,
Ker-flew dar, ker-flew.
“De coon he begin to bite and bite,
An’ we pepper way wi’ all our might,
An’ down came he, dead to right,
Ker-flew dar, ker-flew.”
This piece of nonsense received a great deal of applause from all
parties, and then the next thing in order was a drink.
After that the bridegroom, being master of ceremonies, called upon
Barney to favor the company with a real genuine, rattling old Irish jig.
“An I’ll thry,” said Barney. “Master Pomp.”
“Yes, sar,” returned the grinning darkey.
“Will ye have the extrame nateness to rattle me off a breakdown,
loively, ye moind?”
“I bet yer,” cried Pomp, and struck up that rattling old timer: “Did
you ever see the devil?”
Away went Barney, rattling away in good time, and putting in some
excellent steps, such as the beats and the rattlers, the straight fives
and others.
The company went wild over him.
“Excellent,” cried Cheeky Charley.
“Bully,” said his more emphatic bride. “That Irish son of a sea cook
can just everlastin’ly shake his foot. He can now, by thunder.”
Pomp got wound up and kept on going faster and faster, and then the
half-tipsy Irishman put in all sorts of extra heel and toe flourishes.
The spectators grew excited, and their feet began to hitch uneasily.
In less than a minute Cheeky Charley and his bride were dancing a
Western edition of the can-can, the white men were either clogging or
jigging, and the redskins, male, female and papooses, went into a wild
corn-feast dance, and such yells and cries, leaps and quirks, twists
and bends, mixed up with half-drunken singing was never before seen
and heard in the wide West, and still Pomp kept up his exhilarating
tum-te-tum-tum.
They went perfectly wild, and cut up most comical figures as they
danced around the drunken Irishman, who kept slinging his brogans in
alarming style, but they were scattered like chaff when a succession
of shrill whistles rang out close at hand, and with giant strides the
Steam Horse and the Steam Man rushed pell-mell through the dancing
crowd.