I didn’t think for a minute that you stole that calf. I didn’t intimate
no such a thing. Don’t you worry, Hank, I ain’t going to tell no
sheriff, ’cause I ain’t got nothing but Devil Creek’s word for it, and
I’d as soon take your word as I would his. If the sheriff finds it out
and asks me, I’ll say I just heard it—that’s all.
There ain’t nobody to prove it, Hank, unless the widder saw you take it,
which is careless if so. I’d advise you to forget it, Hank, as it must
be quite a cow by this time—or dead and the money spent.
I spoke about you paying for my ribs, but you ignores same; so will say
just let ’em drop. Nobody around here respects a cripple, anyway.
Anything you can send me will be duly acknowledged at once, also
appreciated according to size.
In my last letter I didn’t tell you everything; so I will tell you what
happened later on.
When uncle got through with me, I found myself on the ground with my
feet in the horse-trough. It is dark in the office. I can feel that I’ve
been wronged deep-like; so like a stricken animal I crawled away into a
hay-loft to die or sleep as the thing may be.
The next morning I’m dreaming that Uncle Gabe is chasing me with a
bayonet, and, when I wakes up, there stands Harmony with a pitchfork in
his hands.
“Ex-cuse me,” says he. “Did I stick you?”
“You’re excusable,” says I. “I’m used to it. What’s the good news?”
“Good news?” he repeats. “There’s a posse after you.”
“After me?”
“Uh-huh. I reckon so. Saw a bunch pull out a while ago.”
Hank, I’d forgot all about that pinto bronc. I set there on the hay and
stares at Harmony. I reckon my physical condition touches his heart,
’cause he says:
“Dobie, I’d hate to be born without no brains, but it must be hard to be
shy on luck, too. What you going to do?”
“I ain’t going to die in no hay-loft,” says I. “Can you stay here for
five minutes, Harmony, and forget that you ever seen me?”
“Uh-huh,” he nods. “There’s a rangy roan down there in the last stall
what belongs to me, Dobie. Turn her loose when you don’t need her, and
she’ll come home. She’s got saddle-marks on her back.”
“I don’t wish to deprive you, Harmony,” says I.
“No depravity,” says he and goes to shoveling hay like he enjoyed it.
I slips down and looks at that mare. She looks like speed; so I slips a
hull on her back. Hanging beside the stable office is a belt with a gun
in the holster; so I drapes it around me.
Hank, I reckon them saddle-marks must have been harness scars, ’cause I
don’t no more than fork that brute before she begins to show signs of
nervousness.
I slaps her side of the head with my hat, and we went out of the stable
door like a rocket and right into the bosom of the posse.
The posse didn’t have me, but they did have that stage I put into the
river. They’re bringing it in with their ropes snubbed to its tongue,
and, Hank, I’d rise to remark that there is something going on right
there. That roan went deaf and dumb to all advice, and them other broncs
seeems to get into the holiday spirit, too. I sees Bliz Hughes’ bronc
try to get into the saddle with “Wayward” Wayland. Both animals went
into the dirt, and my mount sunfishes right over them.
“Slim” Seeley’s gray went into the door of the stage far enough to knock
Slim off into the street. Two of the Bridle Bit broncs got dry and went
into a saloon amid much busting of glass. Then me and Jim Scott bucks
back and forth into each other for a couple of hundred yards, when his
animal stands on its head, and I went on alone.
Hank, I’d tell a man that bronc could buck. I sees a lot of familiar
places, hears a cinch snap, and, when I woke up, I’ve got the smell of
flowers in my nose. I’m laying on my back in one of uncle’s flower-beds,
and there is my Emmeline standing on the porch looking down at me.
“Don’t grieve, Emmeline,” says I. “I’m in my right mind.”
“Thank Heaven!” she gasps. “Do you mean it, Dobie?”
“Don’t get excited,” says I, and she says:
“Who wouldn’t get excited at a statement like that if they knowed you as
long as I have. Where are you going?”
Hank, I thought about that posse; so I got up and threw the
sweet-williams out of my hair and says:
“I don’t know yet, wife, but I do know that this ain’t the end of my
pilgrimage. If I don’t move soon, I’ll have some flowers over me instead
of under me.”
“Dobie, for my sake be careful,” says she, and I says:
“You don’t think about nobody but you. How about my sake, eh?”
That’s the way to talk to them, Hank. I limped away from there as fast
as I can. I figure that I’m better off in town, where there is places to
hide during the day. I can sneak as soon as it gets dark. I’ve still got
that gun on my hip, and I’m almost in the mood to use it. I climbs up on
top of a shed back of the Palace saloon and lays down. Nobody can see me
there; so I sort of relaxes.
Pretty soon I hears a noise below me; so I sneaks to the edge and looks
over.
Hank, you can believe me if you want to, but right under me is Devil
Creek, alias Dynamite Carson, or vicy versa. Right through my fertile
brain flashes a thousand-dollar thought like lightning, and I rolls
right off on top of him.
Hank, I lit right on top of his head, and we went into the dirt. I hit
him so hard that he sort of acts dazed-like, and, like the coward he is,
he reached for his gun. Well, Hank, that makes me mad; so I bent my gun
over his head. I sure licked him a plenty.
“Now,” says I, “I’m going to vindicate myself and still have money
enough to pay all my debts and not have to ask Hank for anything more.”
I picks that supine body up in my strong arms and packs him plumb down
to the jail.
The door is open; so I packs him right in and dumps him down in the
middle of the floor. There is the sheriff and Uncle Gabe setting there.
I couldn’t wish for a better audience, Hank, ’cause a feller needs folks
around when he’s heroing.
I leans on the table while I gets my wind back, and then I points at
Devil Creek.
“Anybody else would have done the same if they had been me,” says I,
’cause I don’t wish no crown of bay-leaves.