FLUSH DAYS IN TEXAS.
The Texas steer, with the long horns and the brand bigger than a
gridiron, has passed away. With this half-wild “beef critter” has
likewise passed the old-time grizzle-faced herder with his cowhide
boots and appalling profanity. Grade shorthorns, Herefords, and other
swells in the kingdom of range cattle have taken the longhorn’s
place, and the present-day cattleman is a keen, shrewd business man
who has reduced cattle raising and feeding to a science.
Perhaps the elimination of the longhorn and the picturesque soldier
of circumstance who looked after him is not a subject for regret; yet
in the early days--the days of this chronicle--the rangy steer of
the wide horns was bringing a flood of wealth into Texas. Those were
really flush days for the cattle barons.
In those boom times, ranchers whose principal asset was cattle, had
more money than they had ever possessed before--and more, it is
said, than they have ever had since. Just what caused the boom was a
mystery; nevertheless, the boom was a very real event, and some of
the barons took in more money than they knew how to spend. When such
a thing happens to a free and easy-going people, foolish extravagance
is the result.
This sort of extravagance, therefore, took the cattle country by
the throat, and shook a golden stream out of its pockets. Now and
then a cigar was lighted with a ten-dollar bill--whenever a baron
wished to be particularly spectacular. It may not have proved that
the ranchers had money to burn, yet it proved that they did burn it
nevertheless.
Many of the ranchers burned their money in “sparks,” otherwise
diamonds, paying three or four times what the stones were worth per
karat. There was much rivalry in the possession of these gems. If a
baron’s neighbor flashed a gem as big as a Mexican bean on his little
finger, then the other baron made haste to get one as big as a lima
bean and display it ostentatiously.
A class of peddlers was brought into being, by this desire of the
barons for jewels, whose like had never been known before and
probably will never be known again. Hebrews with satchels traveled
the cow country, each satchel containing a king’s ransom in diamonds.
These stones were peddled from ranch to ranch. The idea of a man
toting from one hundred thousand to two hundred thousand dollars’
worth of diamonds through the range lands, alone and unattended and
yet without molestation, formed rather a strange commentary on those
wild and troublous times. Yet this was one angle of the situation in
the flush days.
When the craze for diamonds had died out, the barons developed
another hobby. This time their barbaric fancy ran to watches, watch
charms, and chains.
Wild Bill, old Nomad and Little Cayuse reached Hackamore in time to
witness an object lesson in the reckless extravagance of the time
and place. They were in the town many hours before Buffalo Bill had
dropped through the roof of the dugout; in fact, they had reached
Hackamore in ample time to put out their horses and sit in at dinner
in the shack hotel.
The baron was not with them. He had heard of a German rancher,
living five miles out of Hackamore, and had separated from his
pards to make the rancher’s acquaintance and gossip for a while in
the language of the fatherland. Whenever the baron met a fellow
countryman, there always followed a talkfest--and the baron would go
many miles out of his way for a talkfest.
Dinner over, Wild Bill, Nomad, and Cayuse strolled out into
Hackamore’s main street. Their legs were cramped from much saddle
work and needed stretching. Also, anything in the nature of a
town appealed to them after miles of lonely plains and unoccupied
wilderness.
Hackamore was a mighty poor apology for a town, yet it had a huddle
of buildings which formed a nucleus for people--and it was buildings
and people the pards were eager to see.
There was a crowd in the street in front of the hotel.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Wild Bill of a lanky individual who was
leaning against a post and picking his teeth with a sliver.
“Aw, shucks!” answered the lank person; “Lige Benner an’ Hank Phelps
aire cuttin’ capers with their jewelry. All dumb foolishness, but I
allow it kain’t be helped.”
The long Texan nibbled at a bar of tobacco, and settled back against
the post with a resigned air.
Wild Bill elbowed his way through the crowd and came upon the two
cattlemen.
Hank Phelps wore a high Mexican hat with tinkling silver ornaments
festooned around the brim. His jacket was short, his trousers flared
at the bottoms, and his waist was begirt with a gaudy sash. Phelps
was American, through and through, but Mexican clothes were more
spectacular, and for this reason alone he wore them.
Lige Benner affected black. His black sombrero was set off with a
twisted silver cord; there was a flowing white tie under the collar
of his black silk shirt, and the bottoms of his black trousers were
thrust into the tops of knee boots of patent leather. There were
ornate silver spurs at the heels of the boots.
When close enough, the Laramie man saw that the buttons on Phelps’
short jacket were set with diamonds.
“Ugh!” muttered Wild Bill. “I wonder where they left the rest of
their show? They’re got up like heroes in a blue-fire melodrama.”
“Did you speak?” demanded Benner, whirling on Wild Bill.
“I did,” answered Wild Bill. “You’re in mourning for somebody. Tell
me who, and we’ll both weep.”
A gleam crept into Benner’s eyes. But he whirled away without giving
further notice to the Laramie man.
“Look at this turnip, Hank,” said Benner, taking a watch from his
pocket and passing it to the other baron for inspection.
Phelps took the timepiece and turned it over and over in his hands.
It was big and of an eighteen-karat yellow. There was a steer’s head
engraved on the front, and a prairie scene on the back. The steer’s
eyes were diamonds. The chain was as large as a steel hawser, and the
dangling charm was massive and encrusted with “sparks.”
“Um!” mused Phelps. “How much did you pay for this timepiece, Lige?”
“Five hundred,” was the careless answer.
Phelps handed back the watch and pulled another from somewhere under
his short jacket.
“I got one that’s just as good, an’ it only cost me four hundred.”
Benner pondered for a moment.
“Say, Hank,” said he, as a bright idea gathered in his brain. “I’ll
bet a hundred I can throw my watch farther down the street than you
can throw yours.”
“Well, great horn-toads!” muttered the Laramie man. “I wonder how far
it is to the nearest asylum for the feeble-minded.”
“Did you speak?” asked Hank Phelps, whirling on Wild Bill.
“I did. I was wondering if they throw in a watch with every suit of
greaser clothes they sell in this town?”
“Buy a suit and find out!”
“Whoosh! With all those diamond buttons? Mañana!”
Phelps, with a disgusted flirt of the shoulders, turned to Benner.
“Go you,” he said brusquely.
The money was flashed in a minute, another baron offering himself as
stakeholder. The street was cleared down the middle, a long line of
men grouped on either side.
A dollar was flipped into the air to see which should throw first.
Benner won the toss.
Meanwhile, Wild Bill had been working out a mental problem. He
measured Benner’s height and guessed at the possible strength of his
arm; then he guessed at the weight of the watch. With these items to
work on, he found a place down the street where he believed Benner’s
watch would land.
The Laramie man was prompted by curiosity alone. He wanted to see how
much would be left of the expensive timekeeper when it hit the ground.
Benner drew back his arm. For a second, Wild Bill doubted whether
he would keep his nerve and go on with his folly. But there was no
backing down on the part of the cattle baron.
The hand came forward and the five-hundred dollar missile shot
through the air, reflecting the sun like a live coal. It smashed to
earth within a yard of where Wild Bill stood.
“Hooray for the man in black!” roared Wild Bill. “I had a notion he
wouldn’t be fool enough to throw--but he was.”
“Hesh, neighbor!” said a Texan, who stood close to Wild Bill. “Don’t
ye go fer ter git Lige Benner down on ye. He’s a power in these
parts, an’ he won’t stand fer any funnin’.”
“No?” returned the Laramie man. “Well, I didn’t know they raised such
trash in this part of the Lone Star State.”
At the head of the double line of spectators stood Hank Phelps, ready
to sacrifice his own timepiece. There was no backing down for him, of
course. He stood to win a hundred--by smashing a four-hundred-dollar
watch. Profitable business! Anyhow, the crowd expected Hank Phelps to
make good his side of the bet, and Hank Phelps wasn’t the man to let
another outdo him.
The second watch shimmered along through the air and dropped into the
dust a foot beyond Benner’s.
“Phelps has won!” roared the crowd. “The money belongs ter Phelps!”
The condition of those superb tickers was enough to make a blacksmith
weep. The works had fallen out of Benner’s watch and rolled on into
the dust. Phelps’ timepiece was crushed.
Wild Bill, however, had lost interest in the condition of the
watches. A small square of paper had fallen from Benner’s watch with
the works. The Laramie man had picked up the paper with the intention
of returning it. There was writing on the small square. One glance
at the writing was enough to make Wild Bill change his mind about
handing the scrap to the owner of the watch. Instead of doing that,
he pushed through the clamoring crowd in a hurried hunt for old Nomad.
Some people have a habit of carrying important memoranda inside their
watch cases. Properly inscribed on thin paper, notes may be easily
carried under the lid of a timepiece, the watch thus answering, in a
way, for a secret pocket.
Wild Bill figured that Benner had been using his five-hundred-dollar
watch for this purpose, and that, in the excitement of his wager with
Phelps, he had forgotten the paper.
The breaking of the watch had released the scrap. The Laramie man, as
we have seen, had picked it up, glanced at it, changed his mind about
handing it over to Benner, and begun a search for the trapper.
Wild Bill found old Nomad standing in front of the hotel airing his
opinion, in no uncertain language, about using watches for missiles
when stones were so handy.
“Waugh!” rumbled Nomad, holding forth to a little group that had
formed about him, “they ort ter lock up fellers what does things
like thet. Only a couple o’ ijuts would make sich er locoed play,
anyways. Sufferin’ hyeners! Ain’t ther any fool killers eround these
hyar parts?”
“Ye’d better stow yer guff,” cautioned a man in the crowd. “Them
fellers aire cattle barons. If some o’ their punchers was ter hear
ye, they might turn loose with their guns. Punchers is touchy,
that-a-way.”
“I’m some techy myself, pilgrim, when et comes ter playin’ baseball
with five-hunnerd-dollar tickers.”
At that moment Wild Bill stepped up and caught the old trapper by the
arm.
“Trail along with me,” said the Laramie man. “I’ve got something
important to talk over with you.”
There was a crowd in the hotel office, so the pards did not go in.
Instead of entering the hotel, they went around behind.
“What’s ter pay, Wild Bill?” queried Nomad. “I jedge thar’s er screw
loose, from ther looks o’ yer face.”
“You saw those ombrays throw the watches?” returned Hickok.
“Waugh! I was jest airin’ my opinions erbout thet fool pufformance
when ye blowed up an’ made me break off. I reckon I could hev worked
up er fight with some o’ them fellers ef ye’d ’a’ let me alone fer a
minute longer.”
“Benner smashed his watch good and plenty, Nick. The works rolled out
of the case, and a scrap of paper rolled out with the works.”
“Whatever was a scrap o’ paper doin’ in er watch?”
“This scrap had writing on it. More than likely Benner tucked it away
under the watch lid for safe-keeping. I picked it up and was going
to give it to him; then I glanced at the paper and changed my mind.”
“Ye had a reason fer changin’ yore mind, I’ll bet a stack o’ blues!”
exclaimed the old trapper, with growing interest. “What was et?”
Wild Bill lifted his right hand, palm upward, and opened his fingers.
The little square scrap lay in the palm.
“It’s a corner torn off a playing card, Nick,” said the Laramie man.
“Here’s what’s written on it.”
The writing was in a fine hand and Hickok lifted it closer to his
eyes as he read:
“Dick Perry captured and held at my place. It’s a risky game, and I
want you to come over in the morning and take him away.”
Finishing the reading, Hickok minced the scrap fine and flung the
pieces away.
“H’m,” mused the trapper. “Thet sounds like underhand doin’s, all
right, an’ yit, I dunno what bizness we got mixin’ in.”
“You got to have a good excuse for every blamed thing?” asked the
Laramie man, with gentle irony. “I don’t believe Pard Cody will get
here from Texico before some time to-morrow. Do you want to sit
around and cool your heels till he comes, or would you like a little
excitement by way of passing the time?”
“Snarlin’ catermounts, Hickok!” growled Nomad, “ye know I’m allers
ripe an’ ready fer anythin’ with ginger in et, but we ain’t got much
of er holt on the bizness thet consarns thet scrap o’ paper. Whose
watch was et in?”
“Benner’s--the ombray in the black clothes.”
“Who sent et ter him? Thet’s the p’int.”
“I don’t know who sent it to him, and that isn’t the point. This Dick
Perry is the bank that gets our gilt. Why was he captured? Why was
the capture risky business? Why is Benner to take Dick Perry away in
the morning?”
Nomad removed his hat and ran his fingers through his long hair.
“Pass ther ante, Wild Bill,” he replied. “Thar’s a hull lot erbout
thet scrap o’ paper I don’t know, an’ I reckon thar’s a hull lot you
don’t.”
“We can find out a little. Wait here a minute.”
The Laramie man disappeared around the front of the hotel. When he
came back, which was only two or three minutes later, he was towing
the lanky Texan whom he had seen leaning against the post just before
the cattle barons performed with their watches.
“Whatever d’ye want with me, neighbor?” queried the Texan.
“You’re acquainted pretty well in this section?” asked Wild Bill.
“Tollable.”
“What’s your label?”
“Sim Pierce. Come from San Antone, ’riginally. Mebby ye’ve heerd tell
o’ the Pierces o’ San Antone?”
“No. My name’s Hickok, and this is my pard, old Nomad. We belong with
Buffalo Bill’s outfit of trouble-chasers.”
“Shucks!” muttered Sim Pierce. “I’ve heerd of all o’ ye. Tickled
plumb through ter make yer acquaintance.”
They shook hands elaborately.
“What we want,” said Wild Bill, “is to get a little information.”
“Waal, let ’er go. If I got the brand ye want, et’s on tap.”
“Do you know a man called Dick Perry?”
Sim Pierce gave a jump that almost unjointed his shambling frame.
“Sure I know him,” said he. “But why?”
He squinted his eyes apprehensively at Wild Bill. From his manner,
the Laramie man knew that he had opened up a pay streak that it would
pay to develop.
“I’m just asking for information, that’s all,” said Wild Bill.
Sim Pierce seemed very much disturbed. After squinting around him
apprehensively, he went on in a lowered voice.
“Come out flatfooted, neighbor, an’ tell me whether ye’re inquirin’
as a friend o’ Perry’s er a friend o’ the cattle baron?”
“Cattle barons? Which cattle barons?”
“Principally Benner an’ Phelps, them fellers that throwed the
watches.”
“Pard,” rumbled Nomad, with an expression of profound disgust, “don’t
fer a minit reckon we’re friends o’ them locoed rawhides, kase we
ain’t. Us fellers hes got some self-respect. Ye hurt my dignity a
hull lot by askin’ whether we’re friends o’ them fool mavericks.”
“Then, I take it,” pursued Sim Pierce, still with his air of mystery,
“thet ye’re friendly ter Perry? The feller needs friends, an’ I
reckon I’m the only one he’s got in this town, less’n it is the
sky pilot, Jordan, who breezes in here oncet a month on his gospel
circuit. But I ain’t talkin’ erbout my friendship fer Perry so’st
every one kin hear. Not me. I got too much regyard fer my health.”
“What’s the matter with Perry?”
“Nothin’, only the barons aire down on him.”
“Why are they down on him?”
“Kain’t savvy, but they’re makin’ life hard fer Perry, an’ no
mistake. They’re tryin’ ter freeze him out o’ the grazin’ lands on
the Brazos.”
“This Perry is straight goods?”
“Straight as a string.”
“And the cattle barons have got it in for him, and are trying to kick
him out of these parts?”
“That’s the way the land lays.”
“Then I’m his friend right from the drop of the hat!”
“Me, too!” chimed in old Nomad. “Them watch-slingers hev showed their
calibre a-plenty, so fur’s I’m consarned. I’m fer Perry.”
“Then stand right hyer an’ hold yer bronks a spell,” whispered Sim
Pierce.
He vanished toward the front of the hotel. In less than five minutes
he came back, bringing with him a slightly built, boyish-looking chap
in a long, black coat.
“Gents,” said Sim Pierce, flourishing one of his long arms, “this
here’s the Reverend Ben Jordan. He’s a gospel sharp, but it ain’t
struck in enough so’t it hurts. He’s one o’ the boys, Ben Jordan is.
He’s done more ter chase the devil off this range than ary other man
in Texas.”
The Reverend Ben Jordan laughed. It was a whole-souled, hearty laugh
that made Nomad and Wild Bill his friends right from the jump.
“There’s a good deal of the devil still left on the range, Sim,” said
the sky pilot, “in spite of my efforts. These gentlemen are Wild
Bill and old Nomad, I believe you said, pards of Buffalo Bill’s?”
“Kerect,” answered Pierce.
Jordan grabbed Wild Bill’s hand, and then Nomad’s.
“I’m mighty glad to meet up with you,” said the sky pilot. “I’m
an admirer of Buffalo Bill’s--an unknown admirer--and to meet his
compadres is a pleasure I shall long remember. Sim says you gentlemen
are also friends of Dick Perry’s. I’m glad of that, too. Perry, just
now, needs all his friends. If----”
At that moment, Lige Benner and Hank Phelps came hurrying around the
end of the hotel.
“There he is!” cried Benner, pointing to Wild Bill.
“Make him give up!” called Phelps.
Old Nomad edged around to Wild Bill’s side, and the pards presented
a solid front. Benner and Phelps slackened pace. They were not in so
much of a hurry as they had been, but they still had something on
their minds--something that wasn’t pleasant.