“The latter, Dobie.”
“Well, why don’t you get us a divorce if you don’t care to live with
me?” I asks.
Then uncle has to put in his oar like this:
“I advised her not to. A divorce costs money, Dobie, and I figured that
after a while you’d either change your ways or somebody would kill you.
You can’t expect her to live with you while you act like you have since
you came here.”
“I ain’t had a fair chance,” says I. “All I need is a chance. When do I
take up the reins of business again, uncle?”
“The business is going good now,” says he, “and I can’t take a chance on
changing my luck, Mister Joner.”
“That’s the second time you’ve called me by that name,” says I. “I ain’t
traveling under no alias, and you know what my right name is.”
“I’m glad to hear there is something right about you,” says he, and the
conversation lags to such an extent that I takes my hat and goes away.
When I got down-town, I runs across Jim Scott, who punches cows for the
Bridle Bit outfit, and I admires his pinto bronc.
“Nice little painted horse,” says Jim. “Try him, Dobie.”
I ain’t had a good bronc between my knees for a long time, Hank, and I
sure feel homelike. I rode off down the road a ways, and all to once I
got to thinking. You know how my mind grasps at chances, Hank, and all
to once this strikes me: why not try to find that lost stage?
I ain’t got a thing but my bare hands to cope with, Hank, but I’ve got
mostly all of them skinned when it comes to daring. I swings off across
the hills and swings in around the head of Cinnabar Creek. I drifts to
the top of a high bluff, and below me on the creek I can see a
ranch-house. Now, Hank, you can believe me if you want to, but out in
front of that house is that lost stage with them four broncs hitched.
It sure proves that brains count. I slips off that pinto and sneaks down
the hill. There ain’t a soul in sight, and, as I said before, I ain’t
got no gun; so I sneaks around the corner of that house, hops aboard,
kicks off the brake and throws the whip into them animals.
If you asks me, Hank, I can tell you that we drifted away from there. I
looks back and sees two men come to the door, and, just as we dips over
the ridge, a bullet comes along and hives up in the back of the seat. To
be a hero you got to take chances, Hank; so I slips the leather to them
broncs, and we sure covered territory.
Devil Creek must have had a pardner, ’cause it ain’t long until I sees
two men on horses fogging along my back trail. I’m as good a driver as
ever yanked a line, but it don’t make no never-mind how good a driver
you are, Hank; you can’t outrun a saddle-horse.
I got every bit of speed them four buzzard-heads owned, but I can see
it’s a losing proposition.
“Dobie,” says I, “you ain’t going to let them get this stage back again,
are you?” And then I answers myself, “No, a thousand times—no!”
Maybe the idea ain’t so good as some I’ve thought out in my time, Hank,
but you got to figure that most of my time is taken up trying to keep on
the road.
I lopes them animals down to the bank of Trail River, which is carrying
a Spring flood. I stops at the edge, hops out and unhooks the wheelers.
Then I takes a rope and fastens it to the doubletree and to the end of
the tongue, with a half-hitch, and then I hops on to a wheeler and
swings the whole outfit into the river.
Hank, I sure took a chance, but you can’t win unless you do. And in
about a second later we’re all going down the river like a steamboat.
When we drifted out to the middle, I yanked on that rope, which cut the
stage loose. The last I seen of that vehicle, it was hooked up with a
cottonwood snag, and the whole works was drifting towards the Pacific
Ocean.
I figured on throwing the harness off that wheeler and riding him to
Mesquite and herding the rest of the team. See the idea? Well, Hank,
that wheeler was a plumb docile animal in the water, but, when he got
his hoofs on dry ground, he sure changed ends with me a plenty. I lit
flat on my back in the sand and didn’t get up until a bullet comes along
and made me forget physical discomforts.
Hank, I sure had a time dodging them outlaws, but I finally crawls into
an old wolf den, and they missed me. I thought they had me once, Hank,
’cause I hears a shot real close, and the next minute a whole bunch of
young coyotes whoops into that hole and hives up in my bosom.
Hank, I hears voices outside for a while, and them pups accepts me as
part of the scenery. But pretty soon I has to sneeze. Never sneeze in
the midst of coyote pups, Hank. I got bit in seventeen places to once.
Them little whelps wasn’t satisfied with one bite, Hank. They tries it
over and over again until I gets disgusted and hauls myself out of there
and right into the face of the old lady.
She takes one look, yips like the devil had her and fades out of there,
while I shakes her offsprings loose and went the other way.
Then I has to walk back to Mesquite, Hank. I made it by ten o’clock that
night, which is awful good time for a man on foot with his hide full of
teeth-marks. Also I made it without a whimper, Hank. When you comes to
look at it, Hank, I must be a wonderful constitution to stand so much.
Naturally I wants to break the news to Emmeline first of all; so I limps
up to the house and finds her setting on the porch.