JOE NELSON INDULGES IN A LITTLE MATCH-MAKING
The moonlight had revealed the grotesque features of Joe Nelson!
Tresler returned his gun to its holster precipitately, and his action
had in it all the chagrin of a man who has been "had" by a practical
joker. His discomfiture, however, quickly gave way before the humor of
the situation, and he burst into a roar of laughter.
He laughed while he watched his bear drop again to his hands and
knees, and continue to crawl toward him, till the tears rolled down
his cheeks. On came the little fellow, enveloped in the full embracing
folds of a large brown blanket, and his silent dogged progress warned
Tresler that, as yet, his own presence was either unrealized or
ignored in the earnestness of his unswerving purpose. And the nature
of that purpose--for Tresler had fully realized it--was the most
laughable thing of all. Joe was stalking his buckskin pony with the
senseless cunning of a drunken man.
At last the absurdity of the position became too much, and he hailed
the little choreman in the midst of his laughter.
"Ho! You, Joe!" he called. "What the blazes d'you think you're doing?"
There was no reply. For all heed the man under the blanket gave, he
might have been deaf, dumb and blind. He just came steadily on.
Tresler shouted again, and more sharply. This time his summons had its
effect. It brought an answer--an answer that set him off into a fresh
burst of laughter.
"Gorl darn it, boys," came a peevish voice, from amidst the blanket,
"'tain't smart, neither, playin' around when a feller's kind o'
roundin' up his plug. How'm I goin' to cut that all-fired buckskin out
o' the bunch wi' you gawkin' around like a reg'ment o' hoboes? Ef you
don't reckon to fool any, why, some o' you git around an' head him off
from the rest of 'em. I'd do it myself on'y my cussed legs has given
out."
"Boys, eh?" Tresler was still laughing, but he checked his mirth
sufficiently to answer, "Why, man, it's the whisky that's fooling you.
There are no 'boys,' and no 'bunch' of horses here. Just your horse
and mine; and I've got them both safe enough. You're drunk,
Joe--beastly drunk."
Joe suddenly struggled to his feet and stood swaying uncertainly, but
trying hard to steady himself. He focussed his eyes with much effort
upon the tall figure before him, and then suddenly moved forward like
a man crossing a brook on a single, narrow, and dangerously swaying
plank. He all but pitched headlong into the waiting man as he reached
him, and would undoubtedly have fallen to the ground but for the aid
of a friendly hand thrust out to catch him. And while Tresler turned
to pacify the two thoroughly frightened horses, the little man's angry
tones snapped out at him in what was intended for a dignified
protest. In spite of his drunken condition, his words were distinct
enough, though his voice was thick. After all, as he said, it was his
legs that had given way.
"Guess you're that blazin' 'tenderfoot' Tresler," he said, with all
the sarcasm he was capable of at the moment. "Wal, say, Mr. a'mighty
Tresler, ef it wa'n't as you wus a 'tenderfoot,' I'd shoot you fer
sayin' I wus drunk. Savee? You bein' a 'tenderfoot,' I'll jest mention
you're side-tracked, you're most on the scrap heap, you've left the
sheer trail an' you're ditched. You've hit a gait you can't travel,
an' don't amount to a decent, full-sized jackass. Savee? I ain't
drunk. It's drink; see? Carney's rotgut. I tell you right here I'm
sober, but my legs ain't. Mebbe you're that fool-headed you don't
savee the difference."
Tresler restrained a further inclination to laugh. He had wasted too
much time already, and was anxious to get back to the ranch. He quite
realized that Joe knew what he was about, if his legs were
_hors-de-combat_, for, after delivering himself of this, his
unvarnished opinion, he wisely sought the safer vantage-ground of a
sitting posture.
Tresler grabbed at the blanket and pulled it off his shoulders.
"What's this?" he asked sharply.
Joe looked up, his little eyes sparkling with resentment.
"'Tain't yours, anyway," he said. Then he added with less anger, and
some uncertainty, "Guess I slept some down at the bushes. Durned plug
got busy 'stead o' waitin' around. The fool hoss ain't got no manners
anyways."
"Manners? Don't blither." Tresler seized him by the coat collar and
yanked him suddenly upon his feet. "Now, hand over that letter to
Sheriff Fyles. I've orders to deliver it myself."
Joe's twisted face turned upward with a comical expression of
perplexity. The moonlight caught his eyes, and he blinked. Then he
looked over at the horses, and, shaking his head solemnly, began to
fumble at his pockets.
"S-Sheriff F-Fyles," he answered doubtfully. He seemed to have
forgotten the very name. "F-Fyles?" he repeated again. "Letter? Say,
now, I wus kind o' wonderin' what I cum to Forks fer. Y' see I mostly
git around Forks fer Carney's rotgut. Course, ther' wus a letter. Jest
wher' did I put that now?" He became quite cheerful as he probed his
pockets.
Tresler waited until, swaying and even stumbling in the process, he
had turned out two pockets; then his impatience getting the better of
him, he proceeded to conduct the search himself.
"Now see here," he said firmly, "I'll go through your pockets. If
you've lost it, there'll be trouble for you when you get back. If
you'd only kept clear of that saloon you would have been all right."
"That's so," said Joe humbly, as he submitted to the other's search.
Tresler proceeded systematically. There was nothing but tobacco and
pipe in the outside pockets of his coat. His trousers revealed a
ten-cent piece and a dollar bill, which the choreman thanked him
profusely for finding, assuring him, regretfully, that he wouldn't
have left the saloon if he had known he had it. The inside pocket of
the coat was drawn blank of all but a piece of newspaper, and Tresler
pronounced his verdict in no measured terms.
"You drunken little fool, you've lost it," he said, as he held out the
unfolded newspaper.
Joe seemed past resentment with his fresh trouble. He squinted hard to
get the newspaper into proper focus.
"Say," he observed meekly, "I guess it wus in that, sure. Sure, yes,"
he nodded emphatically, "I planted it that a-ways to kep it from the
dirt. I 'member readin' the headin' o' that paper. Et wus 'bout some
high-soundin' female in New Yo----"
"Confound it!" Tresler was more distressed for the little man than
angry with him. He knew Jake would be furious, and cast about in his
mind for excuses that might save him. The only one he could think of
was feeble enough, but he suggested it.
"Well, there's only one thing to do; we must ride back, and you can
say you lost the letter on the way out, and have spent the day looking
for it."
Joe seemed utterly dejected. "Sure, yes. There's on'y one thing to
do," he murmured disconsolately. "We must ride back. Say, you're sure,
plumb sure it ain't in one of my pockets? Dead sure I must 'a' lost
it?"
"No doubt of it. Damn it, Joe, I'm sorry. You'll be in a deuce of a
scrape with Jake. It's all that cursed drink."
"That's so," murmured the culprit mournfully. His face was turned
away. Now it suddenly brightened as though a fresh and more hopeful
view of the matter had presented itself, and his twisted features
slowly wreathed themselves into a smile. His deep-set eyes twinkled
with an odd sort of mischievous humor as he raised them abruptly to
the troubled face of his companion.
"Guess I kind o' forgot to tell you. I gave the sheriff that letter
this mornin' 'fore I called on Carney. Mebbe, ef I'd told you 'fore
I'd 'a' saved you----"
"You little----"
Tresler could find no words to express his exasperation. He made a
grab at the now grinning man's coat collar, seized him, and, lifting
him bodily, literally threw him on to the back of his buckskin pony.
"You little old devil!" he at last burst out; "you stay there, and
back you go to the ranch. I'll shake the liquor out of you before we
get home."
Tresler sprang into his saddle, and, turning his mare's head homeward,
led the buckskin and its drunken freight at a rattling pace. And Joe
kept silence for a while. He felt it was best so. But, in the end, he
was the first to speak, and when he did so there was a quiet dryness
in his tone that pointed all he said.
"Say, Tresler, I'm kind o' sorry you wus put to all that figgerin' an'
argyment," he said, shaking up his old pony to bring him alongside the
speedy mare. "Y' see ye never ast me 'bout that letter. Kind o' jumped
me fer a fool-head at oncet. Which is most gener'ly the nature o' boys
o' your years. Conclusions is mostly hasty, but I 'lows they're
reas'nable in their places--which is last. An' I sez it wi'out
offense, ther' ain't a blazin' thing born in this world that don't
reckon to con-clude fer itself 'fore it's rightly begun. Everything
needs teachin', from a 'tenderfoot' to a New York babby."
Joe's homily banished the last shadow of Tresler's ill-humor. The
little man had had the best of him in his quiet, half-drunken manner;
a manner which, though rough, was still irresistible.
"That's all right, Joe. I'm no match for you," he said with a laugh.
"But, setting jokes on one side, I think you're in for trouble with
Jake. I saw it in his eye before I started out."
"I don't think. Guess I'm plumb sure," Joe replied quietly.
"Then why on earth did you do it?"
Joe humped his back with a movement expressive of unconcern.
"It don't matter why. Jake's nigh killed me ha'f a dozen times. One o'
these days he'll fix me sure. He'll lace hell out o' me to-morrow, I'm
guessin', an' when it's done it won't alter nothin' anyways. I've jest
two things in this world, I notion, an'--one of 'em's drink. 'Tain't
no use in sayin' it ain't, 'cos I guess my legs is most unnateral
truthful 'bout drink. Say, I don't worrit no folk when I'm drunk;
guess I don't interfere wi' no one's consarns when I'm drunk; I'm jest
kind o' happy when I'm drunk. Which bein' so, makes it no one's
bizness but my own. I do it 'cos I gits a heap o' pleasure out o' it.
I know I ain't worth hell room. But I got my notions, an' I ain't
goin' ter budge fer no one." Joe's slantwise mouth was set
obstinately; his little eyes flashed angrily in the moonlight, and his
whole attitude was one of a man combating an argument which his soul
is set against.
As Tresler had no idea of arguing the question and remained silent,
the choreman went on in a modified tone of morbid self-sympathy
sympathy--
"When the time comes around I'll hand over my checks wi'out no fuss
nor botheration; guess I'll cash in wi' as much grit as George
Washington. I don't calc'late as life is wuth worritin' over anyways.
We don't ast to be born, an', comin' into the world wi'out no
by-your-leave, I don't figger as folks has a right to say we've got to
take a hand in any bluff we don't notion."
"Perhaps you've a certain amount of right on your side." Tresler felt
that this hopeless pessimism was rather the result of drink than
natural to him. "But you said you had two things that you considered
worth living for?"
"That's so. I ain't goin' back on what I said. It's jest that other
what set me yarnin'. Say, guess you're mostly a pretty decent feller,
Tresler, though I 'lows you has failin's. You're kind o' young. Now I
guess you ain't never pumped lead into the other feller, which the
same he's doin' satisfact'ry by you? You kind o' like most fellers?"
Tresler nodded.
"Jest so. But I've noticed you don't fancy folks as gits gay wi' you.
You kind o' make things uneasy. Wal, that's a fault you'll git over.
Mebbe, later on, when a feller gits rilin' you you'll work your gun,
instead of trying to thump savee into his head. Heads is mighty
cur'us out west here. They're so chock full o' savee, ther' ain't no
use in thumpin' more into 'em. Et's a heap easier to let it out. But
that's on the side. I most gener'ly see things, an' kind o' notice
fellers, an' that's how I sized you up. Y' see I've done a heap o'
settin' around M'skeeter Bend fer nigh on ten years, mostly watchin'.
Now, mebbe, y' ain't never sot no plant, an' bedded it gentle wi'
sifted mould, an' watered it careful, an' sot right ther' on a box,
an' watched it grow in a spot wher' ther' wa'n't no bizness fer
anythin' but weeds?"
Tresler shook his head, wonderingly.
"No; guess not," Joe went on. "Say," he added, turning and looking
earnestly into his companion's face, "I'm settin' on that box right
now. Yes, sir, I've watched that plant grow. I've picked the stones
out so the young shoots could git through nice an' easy-like. I've
watered it. I've washened the leaves when the blights come along. I've
sticked it against the winds. I've done most everythin' I could, usin'
soap-suds and soot waters, an' all them tasty liquids to coax it on.
I've sot ther' a-smilin' to see the lovesome buds come along an' open
out, an' make the air sweet wi' perfumes an' color an' things. I've
sot right ther' an' tho't an' tho't a heap o' tho'ts around that
flower, an' felt all crinkly up the back wi' pleasure. An' I ain't
never wanted ter leave that box. No, sir, an' the days wus bright, an'
nothin' seemed amiss wi' life nor nothin'. But I tell you it ain't no
good. No, sir, 'tain't no good, 'cos I ain't got the guts to git up
an' dig hard. I've reached out an' pulled a weed or two, but them
weeds had got a holt on that bed 'fore I sot the seedlin', an' they've
growed till my pore flower is nigh to be choked. 'Tain't no use
watchin' when weeds is growin'. It wants a feller as can dig; an' I
guess I ain't that feller. Say, ther's mighty hard diggin' to be done
right now, an' the feller as does it has got to do it standin' right
up to the job. Savee? I'm sayin' right now to you, Tresler, them weeds
is chokin' the life out o' her. She's mazed up wi' 'em. Ther' ain't no
escape. None. Her life's bound to be hell anyways."
"Her? Whom?" Tresler asked the question, but he knew that Joe was
referring to Diane; Diane's welfare was his other interest in life.
The little man turned with a start "Eh? Miss Dianny--o' course."
"And the weeds?"
"Jake--an' her father."
And the two men became silent, while their horses ambled leisurely on
toward home. It was Tresler who broke the silence at last.
"And this is the reason you've stayed so long on the ranch?" he asked.
"Mebbe. I don't reckon as I could 'a' done much," Joe answered
hopelessly. "What could a drunken choreman do anyways? Leastways the
pore kid hadn't got no mother, an' I guess ther' wa'n't a blazin' soul
around as she could yarn her troubles to. When she got fixed, I guess
ther' wa'n't no one to put her right. And when things was hatchin',
ther' wa'n't no one to give her warnin' but me. 'What is the trouble?'
you ast," the little man went on gloomily. "Trouble? Wal, I'd smile.
Ther' ain't nothin' but trouble around M'skeeter Bend, sure. Trouble
for her--trouble all round. Her trouble's her father, an' Jake. Jake's
set on marryin' her. Jake," in a tone of withering scorn, "who's only
fit to mate wi' a bitch wolf. An' her father--say, he hates her. Hates
her like a neche hates a rattler. An' fer why? Gawd only knows; I
ain't never found out. Say, that gal is his slave, sure. Ef she raises
her voice, she gits it. Not, I guess, as Jake handles me, but wi' the
sneakin' way of a devil. Say, the things he does makes me most ready
to cry like a kid. An' all the time he threatens her wi' Jake fer a
husband. An' she don't never complain. Not she; no sir. You don't know
the blind hulks, Tresler; but ther', it ain't no use in gassin'. He
don't never mean her fer Jake, an' I guess she knows it. But she's
plumb scared, anyways."
Tresler contemplated the speaker earnestly in the moonlight. He
marveled at the quaint outward form of the chivalrous spirit within.
He was trying to reconcile the antagonistic natures of which this
strange little bundle of humanity was made up. For ten years Joe had
put up with the bullying and physical brutality of Jake Harnach, so
that, in however small a way, he might help to make easy the rough
life-path of a lonely girl. And his motives were all unselfish. A
latent chivalry held him which no depths of drunkenness could drown.
He leant over and held out his hand.
"Joe," he said, "I want to shake hands with you and call you my
friend."
The choreman held back for a moment in some confusion. Then, as though
moved by sudden impulse, he gripped the hand so cordially offered.
"But I ain't done yet," he said a moment later. He had no wish to
advertise his own good deeds. He was pleading for another. Some one
who could not plead for herself. His tone had assumed a roughness
hardly in keeping with the gentle, reflective manner in which he had
talked of his "flower." "Tresler," he went on, "y're good stuff, but
y' ain't good 'nough to dust that gal's boots, no--not by a sight.
Meanin' no offense. But she needs the help o' some one as'll dig at
them weeds standin'. See? Which means you. I can't tell you all I
know, I can't tell you all I've seed. One o' them things--I guess on'y
one--is that Jake's goin' to best blind hulks an' force him into
givin' him his daughter in marriage, and Gawd help that pore gal. But
I swar to Gawd ef I'm pollutin' this airth on the day as sees Jake
worritin' Miss Dianny, I'll perf'rate him till y' can't tell his
dog-gone carkis from a parlor cinder-sifter."
"Tell me how I can help, and count me in to the limit," said Tresler,
catching, in his eagerness, something of the other's manner of
expression.
It was evident by the way the choreman's face lit up at his friend's
words that he had hoped for such support, but feared that he should
not get it. Joe Nelson was distinctly worldly wise, but with a heart
of gold deep down beneath his wisdom. He had made no mistake in this
man whose sympathies he had succeeded in enlisting. He fully
understood that he was dealing with just a plain, honest man,
otherwise he would have kept silence.
"Wal, I guess ther' ain't a deal to tell." The little man looked
straight ahead toward the dark streak which marked the drop from the
prairie land to the bed of the Mosquito River. "Still, it's li'ble to
come along right smart."
The man's suggestion puzzled Tresler, but he waited. His own mind was
clear as to what he personally intended, but it seemed to him that Joe
was troubled with other thoughts besides the main object of his
discourse. And it was these very side issues that he was keen to
learn. However, whatever Joe thought, whatever confusion or perplexity
he might have been in, he suddenly returned to his main theme with
great warmth of feeling.
"But when it comes, Tresler, you'll stand by? You'll plug hard fer
her, jest as ef it was you he was tryin' to do up? You'll stop him?
Say, you'll jest round that gal up into your own corrals, an' set your
own brand on her quick, eh? That's what I'm askin'."
"I see. Marry her, eh?"
"An' why not?" asked Joe quickly. "She's a heap too good fer you.
Ther' ain't a feller breathin' amounts to a row o' beans aside o' her.
But it's the on'y way to save her from Jake. You'll do it. Yes, sure,
you'll do it. I ken see it in your face."
The little fellow was leaning over, peering up into Tresler's face
with anxious, almost fierce eyes. His emotion was intense, and at that
moment a refusal would have driven him to despair.
"You are too swift for me, Joe," Tresler said quietly. But his tone
seemed to satisfy his companion, for the latter sat back in his saddle
with a sigh of relief. "It takes the consent of two people to make a
marriage. However," he went on, with deep earnestness, "I'll promise
you this, Miss Marbolt shall never marry Jake unless it is her own
wish to do so. And, furthermore, she shall never lack a friend, ready
to act on her behalf, while I am in the country."
"You've said it."
And the finality of Joe's tone brought silence.
In spite of the punishment he knew to be awaiting him, Joe was utterly
happy. It was as though a weight, which had been oppressing him for
years, had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. He would
cheerfully have ridden on to any terror ever conceived by the ruthless
Jake. Diane's welfare--Diane's happiness; it was the key-note of his
life. He had watched. He knew. Tresler was willing enough to marry
her, and she--he chuckled joyfully to himself.
"Jake ain't a dorg's chance--a yaller dorg's chance. When the
'tenderfoot' gits good an' goin' he'll choke the life out o' Master
Jake. Gee!"
And Tresler, too, was busy with his thoughts. Joe's suggestion had
brought him face to face with hard fact, and, moreover, in a measure,
he had pledged himself. Now he realized, after having listened to the
little man's story, how much he had fallen in love with Diane. Joe, he
knew, loved her as a father might love his child, or a gardener his
flowers; but his was the old, old story that brought him a delight
such as he felt no one else had ever experienced. Yes, he knew now he
loved Diane with all the strength of his powerful nature; and he knew,
too, that there could be little doubt but that he had fallen a victim
to the beautiful dark, sad face he had seen peering up at him from
beneath the straw sun-hat, at the moment of their first meeting. Would
he marry Diane? Ay--a thousand times ay--if she would have him. But
there it was that he had more doubts than Joe. Would she marry him? he
asked himself, and a chill damped the ardor of his thoughts.
And so, as they rode on, he argued out the old arguments of the lover;
so he wrestled with all the old doubts and fears. So he became
absorbed in an ardent train of thought which shut out all the serious
issues which he felt, that, for his very love's sake, he should have
probed deeply. So he rode on impervious to the keen, studious,
sidelong glances wise old, drunken old Joe favored him with;
impervious to all, save the flame of love this wild old ranchman had
fanned from a smouldering ember to a living fire; impervious to time
and distance, until the man at his side, now thoroughly sobered,
called his attention to their arrival at the ranch.
"Say, boy," he observed, "that's the barn yonder. 'Fore we git ther'
ther's jest one thing more. Jake's goin' to play his hand by force.
Savee? Mebbe we've a notion o' that force--Miss Dianny an' me----"
"Yes, and we must think this thing thoroughly out, Joe. Developments
must be our cue. We can do nothing but wait and be ready. There's the
sheriff----"
"Eh? Sheriff?" Joe swung round, and was peering up into Tresler's
face.
"Ah, I forgot." Tresler's expression was very thoughtful. They had
arrived at the barn, and were dismounting. "I was following out my own
train of thought. I agree with you, Joe, Red Mask and his doings are
at the bottom of this business." His voice had dropped now to a low
whisper lest any one should chance to be around.
Without a word Joe led his horse into the barn, and, off-saddling him,
fixed him up for the night. Tresler did the same for his mare. Then
they came out together. At the door Joe paused.
"Say," he remarked simply, "I jest didn't know you wus that smart."
"Don't credit me with smartness. It's--poor little girl."
"Ah!" Joe's face twisted into his apish grin. "Say, you'll stick to
what you said?"
"Every word of it."
"Good; the rest's doin' itself, sure."
And they went their several ways; Joe to the kitchen of the house, and
Tresler to his dusty mattress in the bunkhouse.