I take my pen in hand and stare at your letter. I wonder if you have
been crossed in love or something. You act like somebody which has been
accused of stealing a cow and ain’t got no alias.
Hank, if you’re in trouble confide in me and I’ll advise you what to do.
I won’t advise you wrong if I know what’s right, and I’ve got the law
behind me in all my advising and it’s cheap.
You better get a dictionary, Hank, and find out things. You say I should
have used the word “asphalt” instead of alabaster, in speaking of my
brow. I looked it up, Hank, and I know you’re wrong. Asphalt is black,
while alabaster is white. Didn’t you mean concrete? Likely you did.
You say that Pete made a fool out of me, but you know that can’t be
done, and you say that you don’t dare to tell me what you want to in a
letter, on account of the government. What has Uncle Sam got to do with
secrets between me and you, as long as we ain’t moonshining or
smuggling?
Maybe you’ve done something awful and are afraid to tell me by letter.
If you have, Hank, you can lay it all at the feet of ignorance. If I had
hold of you for a while I’d sure wise you up for your own safety. This
world is filled with pitfalls for the ignorant.
You say that anybody’d know I wasn’t a Injun. Ha, ha, ha. You’re showing
ignorance, Hank.
I walked the last fifteen miles into Mesquite, just because I fooled a
man with my disguise. I was riding on top of a box-car, and a brakeman
came along and seen me. He says to me, “You’re going to enjoy this,” and
I says, “Siax mux wux hoodledoo,” which sounds like a pleasant reply in
some language.
I don’t know what it means, Hank, but maybe he did, because he gets
sore. The train is going along fast, and the brakeman has a big club and
two big feet.
He says to me, “Injun, you better hang on to your religion, because my
great-great-grandfather was scalped by Injuns, and I’ve hated them ever
since.”
Hank, as indifferent to pain as I am, I will never look upon barb-wire
with compassion again. I bounced twice after I lit, and the last bounce
left me in a barb-wire fence, where I had to leave some of my
Pokyhontas’ pants and a lot of flesh and blood.
I had the satisfaction of knowing that I fooled the brakeman on my
nationality and also that I jumped ahead of his kick. A couple of
ordinary punchers comes riding along, and one of them says, “That’s the
first time I ever seen a blond Injun hung up to dry.”
Believe me, Hank, it takes some Injun disguise to get past with if
you’ve got blond hair, eh? You know where I told them to go, Hank, but
they likely won’t go. Cow-punchers are ornery hounds, Hank, and you
ought to quit it.
Well, I got to Mesquite intact. Likely you don’t know what that word
means, so I will say I got all of me there without making two trips.
Hank, I felt right at home here. I figured there ought to be some mail
for me; so I went to the post-office. I went right up and looked the
postmaster in his eye.
“Well,” says he, “what do you want?”
Hank, I thinks awful quick in a emergency, and I remembers my disguise.
“You catchum mail for Pokyhontas?” I asks.
Sam McAllister is the postmaster, Hank, and I’ll bet a broom could knock
his eyes off. He looks at me for a minute and then says—
“Are you the one what saved John Smith?”
I says: “Maybe I am. I’ve knowed so many Smiths in my life that saving
one or two don’t make me remember nothing.”
“Nothing for Pokyhontas,” says he, and, Hank, just then in comes my
loving wife Emmeline and my uncle by marriage and they’re packing my son
and heir. Sam McAllister makes a lot of fuss over the kid, and you would
too, Hank, because he sure looks like me in every way.
“There ain’t no doubt about him being a Galesburg,” says McAllister, and
my uncle by marriage says: “He sure is. Everybody says he looks just
like me,” which is a darn lie, Hank. Then my uncle by marriage asks if
there’s any mail, and McAllister says: “A letter for Dobie Dalton. You
want that?” and he says, “No, we sure don’t, because it must be somebody
asking him to pay back borrowed money.”
Ain’t that a nice way to act, Hank? When a dog is down they all kick
him. You know how I felt, standing there in reach of my loving wife and
son and heir, and I can’t touch them on account of me being a detective
in disguise. I wanted to get a look at my own flesh and blood; so I
slips over and peeks over my loving wife’s shoulder.
Well, Hank, there ain’t nothing much ever happens around here. This
place is deader than a skinned snake and folks are clannish and cold.
Anyway, I got a good look at my own little son, and he’s worth it, you
bet. In a way, I can’t blame my uncle by marriage, after thinking it
over, because I wouldn’t want no Injuns peeking over my wife’s shoulder
and feasting their eyes upon my kid.
If you don’t think my Injun disguise was good, Hank, you ought to have
seen me light on my hands and knees out in the street. I got up and
looked back, but decided that if I went back and licked him I’d get a
lot of notoriety from licking my uncle by marriage, and my secret would
be made public.
I went on across the street and into a saloon. I leans up against the
bar, and says to the bartender, “Whusky.” I could have said whisky, but
when you’re a Injun you’ve got to talk broken. The bartender comes
around in front of the bar and walks up to me.
Hank, he was a man of low degree like a sidewinder, and I hope to die if
I ever forgive him. He got up close and says, “You think you’re cute,
don’t you?” and I says, “I know I am,” and he says: “No U. S. marshal
will ever convict me of selling booze to a Injun by a stool-pigeon like
you. This is one job you fall down on.”