THE INTUITIONS OF MR. ALLISON
For a moment the signs promised hugely of smoke and flying lead and
sudden death, and the interest of Dodge was awakened. Later, when the
episode had been thoroughly searched, it grew to be the popular
conclusion that the affair was wholly of the surface. Mr. Allison
himself said that he was saved in a manner occult, and not to be
understood, and explained how his intuitions warned him of a pending
peril. Had it not been for those warning impressions, which he insisted
came from guardian spirits interested for his safety, Mr. Allison held
that the business might have taken on a serious not to say a sanguinary
hue.
Cimarron Bill declined the theory of guardian spirits as maintained by
Mr. Allison; he took the blame of that gentleman’s escape upon himself.
“Clay never got no speritual hunch,” said Cimarron. “Which it was my own
ontimely cur’osity that give him warnin’. I’m in the Long Branch at the
time, an’ nacherally, after gettin’ Bat’s word, I keep protroodin’ my
head a whole lot, expectin’ every minute’s goin’ to be Clay’s next; an’
he ups an’ notices it.”
Mr. Short joined with Cimarron, and expressed a skepticism as to Mr.
Allison having been bucklered by disembodied influences.
“I never did go a foot,” concluded Mr. Short, “on speritualism, with its
table-tippin’ an’ its ghost-dancin’. Cimarron’s argument sounds a heap
more feasible. In my opinion, Clay saw thar was a hen on by Cimarron’s
face.”
“You can gamble a handful of reds,” remarked Cimarron Bill, disgustedly,
“he sees it in my face. Which it’ll be a lesson to me to hide myse’f the
next time one of them Las Animas terrors comes bulgin’ into camp, ontil
Bat’s added him to the list. I shore won’t sp’ile another sech a layout
by bein’ prematoorly inquisitive that a-way.”
“Well,” returned Mr. Masterson, with whom Mr. Short and Cimarron Bill
were in talk, “whether Clay was saved by spirits, or by just his own
horse sense, I’m glad it ended as it did.”
The chances favour the assumption that, had Mr. Masterson been up and
about, the trouble would have had no beginning. In that event he would
have been more or less in the company of Mr. Allison. Such a spectacle,
while it might not instruct the mean intelligence of the Ground Owl,
would have at least advised his caution. He would have gained therefrom
some glint of Mr. Allison’s position in the world, and refrained from
insults which, when the latter reviewed them by the light of liquor
afterwards obtained, sent him on the wretched Ground Owl’s trail.
Those differences between Mr. Allison and the Ground Owl began at the
Wright House breakfast table. They did not culminate, however, until
late in the morning, and when, commonly, Mr. Masterson would have been
abroad about his duty. But the night before had been a trying one for
Mr. Masterson. He was employed until broad day in keeping Mr. McBride
from slaying Bobby Gill, and never sought his blankets until an hour
after dawn.
Mr. McBride had been a brother scout with Mr. Masterson in the Cheyenne
wars. Later he came to Dodge, as he said, to “quiet down.” In carrying
out his plan of quieting down, Mr. McBride espoused and took to wife,
one Bridget, who for years had been recognised as the official scold of
Dodge.
In an elder day, Bridget would have graced a ducking-stool. Dodge,
however, owned no such instrument of correction. Neither, save during
the June rise, was there a sufficient depth of water in the Arkansas to
make a ducking-stool effective. Mr. McBride following marriage lived in
terror of Bridget’s awful tongue, which served him right, so people
said, for having been a fool.
At the end of their first wedded year, that is to say upon the third day
prior to the trouble between Mr. Allison and the Ground Owl, Mr.
McBride, by some lucky thick-skull utterance as to what should be a
government policy touching Cheyennes, incurred the contempt of Bridget.
The word “lucky” is employed because the contempt induced was beyond
power of words to express, and Bridget became so surcharged of views
derogatory to Mr. McBride that she burst a blood-vessel and died. Mr.
McBride’s release left him in a pleasant daze. Being, however, a slave
to the conventional, he did not laugh, but lapsed into lamentations,
wound his sombrero with black and, with woe-lengthened visage, made
ready for the last rites.
On the day of the funeral, it being the immemorial custom of Dodge to
attend such ceremonies in a body, the house of Mr. McBride was full. Mr.
McBride felt the tribute, and his heart swelled with excusable pride. He
glanced out through his tears, and counted as present the best faces of
the town.
The occasion would have been forever cherished among the proudest
memories of Mr. McBride, had it not been for the untoward conduct of
Bobby Gill. This latter ignobility was the pet barbarian of Dodge, just
as Bridget had been its pet virago. Also, there had existed feud between
Bridget and Bobby; they had felt for one another the jealous hate of
rivals. Bridget at the mere sight of Bobby Gill was wont to uncork the
vitriol of her anger. She would sear him verbally, while he replied in
kind, Dodge standing by to listen and admire.
Still, Bridget was never permitted a victory over Bobby. While she could
say more than he could, his observations had a cutting force beyond her
genius. As Mr. Kelly—who was deep in the lore of guns—observed:
“Bridget’s like a Winchester, while old Bobby’s like a Sharp’s. She can
shoot faster than he can; but thar’s more powder behind what Bobby says.
Also, he’s got more muzzle velocity. An’ he carries further.”
“I entertains opinions similar,” said Cimarron Bill, who as Aunt Nettie
Dawson’s nephew was no mean judge of a tirade.
As Mr. McBride was feeding that pardonable vanity chronicled and
flattering himself with a review of the mourning throng, Bobby Gill
appeared at the door. Bobby toed in like an Indian or a pigeon, and
because he walked on the ball of his foot as does the wolf, he possessed
a lurking, spying manner.
Bobby came in, his wool hat held between his fingers, in a tight roll.
Being in he began peeping and peering, right and left, and craning over
intervening shoulders as though to get a glimpse of the casket. Mr.
McBride crossed over to Bobby with a step serious and slow:
“Bobby,” said Mr. McBride, manner gloomly firm, “you an’ Bridget never
agreed, an’ you’ll obleege me by hittin’ the street.”
Bobby backed softly out. At the door, as though to vindicate the
respectful innocence of his motives, he paused.
“Say, Mack,” he whispered, in mingled apology and reproach, “I only jest
wanted to see was she shore dead.”
It wasn’t until late in the evening, when the sad responsibilities of
the day had been lifted from his mind, that Mr. McBride became a burden
upon the hands of Mr. Masterson. Mr. McBride said that he’d been
insulted; the memory of Bridget he averred had met with disrespect.
Thereupon he buckled on his six-shooter—which had been laid aside in
funeral deference to the day—and announced an intention to hunt down
Bobby Gill.
“Come, Mack!” argued Mr. Masterson, soothingly, “it isn’t creditable to
you—isn’t creditable to Bridget.”
“But, Bat,” sobbed Mr. McBride, as he half-cocked his Colt’s-45, and
sadly revolved the cylinder to make sure that all worked smoothly, “I’ve
put up with a heap from Bobby—me and Bridget has—an’ now I’m goin’ to
nacherally discontinue him a lot.”
“You oughtn’t to mind old Bobby,” Mr. Masterson insisted. “Everybody
knows he’s locoed.”
“If he’s locoed,” Mr. McBride retorted through his grief, “I’m locoed,
too. Sorrow over Bridget an’ the onmerited contoomely of that old
profligate has shore left me as crazy as a woman’s watch. Bat, don’t
stop me! Which I’ve sot my heart on his h’ar.”
Mr. Masterson was granite. There was no shaking him off. He persuaded,
commanded, explained, and gave his word that Bobby Gill should make
humble amends. At last, Mr. McBride, realising the inevitable,
surrendered, and promised to be at peace.
“For all that, Bat,” concluded Mr. McBride, with a gulp, “old Bobby’s
queered them obsequies for me. I can never look back on ’em now without
regret.”
It was the bluish dawn before Mr. Masterson felt justified in leaving
the widowed Mr. McBride. He was so worn with his labours that he made no
more profound arrangements for slumber than casting aside his coat and
kicking off his boots. A moment later he was as sound asleep as a tree.
Mr. Masterson had been asleep four hours, when Jack broke in upon him
with the rude word that Mr. Allison had “turned in to tree the town.”
“You can nail him from the window,” puffed Jack, who was out of breath
with hurry. “You haven’t time to pull on your boots and go down. Your
best hold is to get the drop on him from the window, an’ when he makes a
break, cut loose.”
Mr. Masterson sprang from the blankets and caught up his Sharp’s for the
honour of Dodge. To permit Mr. Allison to give the town an unchecked
shaking up would mean immortal disgrace. For all the hurry, however, Mr.
Masterson had time to admire the military sagacity of Jack.
“Some day you’ll make a marshal, Jack,” quoth Mr. Masterson, and the
“cluck-cluck!” of the buffalo gun as he cocked it served to punctuate
the remark.
Some cynic, with a purpose to injure that commonwealth only equalled by
his sour carelessness of truth, once said that Indiana was settled by
folk who had started for the West, but lost their nerve. This is
apparent slander, and not to be believed of a people who later endowed
us with Ade, Tarkington, David Graham Phillips and Ben Hur. The one
disgrace traceable to Indiana is that in some unguarded moment she gave
birth to the Ground Owl, and sent him forth to vex the finer sentiments
of Dodge. Also the Ground Owl, with his insolences, imbecilities, and
feeble timidities, was the harder to bear since he never once offered
the outraged public, in whose side he was the thorn, an opening to be
rid of him by customary lead and powder means.
The Ground Owl had come to Dodge in fear and trembling. He did not want
to come, but for reasons never fathomed he couldn’t remain in Indiana.
It was a wholesale firm in Chicago that asked Mr. Wright to employ him
as salesman in his store; and Mr. Wright, acting after those reckless
business methods that obtain in the West and are a never flagging
wellspring of trouble, consented without waiting to see the Ground Owl
or estimate his length and breadth and depth as a communal disaster. For
this blinded procedure Mr. Wright was often sorely blamed.
And yet to Mr. Masterson, rather than to Mr. Wright, should be charged
the prolonged infliction of the Ground Owl’s presence. Once installed
behind the counters of Mr. Wright, the Ground Owl lost no time in
seeking Mr. Masterson. Every Dodgeian wore a gun, and this display of
force excited the Ground Owl vastly. The latent uncertainties of his
surroundings alarmed him. Dodge was a volcano; an eruption might occur
at any time! The air to-day was wholesome; to-morrow it might be as full
of lead as the Ozarks! In this fashion vibrated the hair-hung fears of
the Ground Owl, and with a cheek of chalk he sought out Mr. Masterson to
canvass ways and means to best conserve his safety. Mr. Masterson, who
could hardly grasp the notion of personal cowardice on the part of any
man, was shocked. However, he made no comment, evinced not the least
surprise, but asked:
“You’re afraid some of the boys’ll shoot you up?”
“In some moment of excitement, you know!” returned the Ground Owl,
quaveringly.
“And you want to know what to do to be saved?”
“Yes,” said the Ground Owl, attention on the strain.
“Then never pack a gun.”
Mr. Masterson explained to the Ground Owl that to slay an unarmed man,
whatever the provocation, was beyond an etiquette. The West would never
sink to such vulgar depths. No one, however locoed of drink, would make
a target of the Ground Owl while the latter wasn’t heeled.
“Of course,” observed Mr. Masterson, by way of qualification, “you’re
not to go hovering about scrimmages in which you’ve no personal concern.
In that case, some of the boys might get confused and rub you out
erroneously.”
That golden secret of how to grow old in the West went deep into the
aspen soul of the Ground Owl. As its direct fruit he would as soon take
arsenic as belt on a pistol. There was a faulty side, however, to the
Masterson suggestion. In time, realising an immunity, the Ground Owl
grew confident; and the confidence bred insolence, and a smart weakness
for insulting persiflage, that were among the most exasperating features
of a life in Dodge while the Ground Owl lasted.
It is a revenge that cowards often take. Make them safe, and you are apt
to make them unbearable. They will offer outrage when they know there
can be no reprisal. Thus they humour themselves with the impression of a
personal courage on their coward parts, and prevent self-contempt from
overwhelming them.
The Ground Owl owned another name—a rightful name. It was Bennington Du
Pont, and he capitalized the “Pont.” The name was thrown away on Dodge,
for Cimarron Bill rechristened him the Ground Owl.
“What may I call you?” Cimarron had demanded. Then, as though explaining
a rudeness: “The reason I inquire is that, if you-all continues to grow
on me, I might want to ask you to take a seegyar.”
“Bennington Du Pont,” faltered the Ground Owl. “My name is Bennington Du
Pont.”
“Which you’ll pardon me,” returned Cimarron Bill, severely, “if
yereafter I prefers to alloode to you as the Ground Owl.”
“The Ground Owl!” exclaimed the renamed one, his horror giving him a
desperate courage. “Why the Ground Owl?”
“Why the Ground Owl?” repeated Cimarron. Then solemnly: “Because the
rattlesnakes don’t kill ’em, an’ no one knows wherefore.”
Thus it befell that within twenty-four hours after his advent every ear
in Dodge had heard of the Ground Owl, and not one of Bennington Du Pont.
The Ground Owl’s address was the Wright House. It was at this hostelry
he received his earliest glimpse of Mr. Allison, and organised those
insult-born differences.
Mr. Allison’s country was Las Animas and the region round about. He had
been over in the Panhandle, and was spurring homeward by way of Dodge.
Having put his weary pony in the corral, he sought his own refreshment
at the Wright House.
Mr. Allison was celebrated for force of character, and the democratic
frankness of his six-shooters. His entrance into Las Animas’ social
circles had been managed with effect. That was seven years before, and
Mr. Hixenbaugh told this of Mr. Allison’s début.
“Which I was in the Sound Asleep Saloon,” explained Mr. Hixenbaugh,
“tryin’ to fill a club flush, when the music of firearms floats over
from across the street. I goes to the door on the lope, bein’ curious as
to who’s hit, an thar on t’other side I observes a sport who’s sufferin’
from one of them deeformities called a clubfoot, and who’s got a gun in
each hand. He’s jest caught Bill Gatling in the knee, an’ is bein’
harassed at with six-shooters by Gene Watkins an’ Len Woodruff, who’s
whangin’ away at him from Crosby’s door. I lands on the sidewalk in time
to see him hive Gene with a bullet in the calf of his laig. Then Gene
an’ Bill an’ Len, the first two bein’ redooced to crawl on hands an’
knees by virchoo of them bullets, takes refooge in Crosby’s, an’ surveys
this club-foot party a heap respectful from a winder. As I crosses over
to extend congratyoolations, he w’irls on me.
“‘Be you too a hostile?’ he asks, domineerin’ at me with his guns.
“‘Hostile nothin’!’ I replies; ‘I’m simply comin’ over in a sperit of
admiration. What’s the trouble?’
“‘Stranger,’ he says, ‘that question is beyond me. I’ve only been in
your town four minutes, an’ yet thar seems to be a kind o’ prejewdyce
ag’inst me in the minds of the ignorant few. But never mind,’ he
concloods; ‘we’re all cap’ble of mistakes. My name’s Clay Allison, an’
these folks’ll know me better by an’ by. When they do know me, an’ have
arrived at a complete onderstandin’ of my pecooliarities, they’ll walk
’round me like I was a swamp.’”
Following this introduction, it would appear that Mr. Allison was taken
into fellowship by Las Animas. The crippled foot and the consequent limp
were lost sight of when he was in the saddle. When he was afoot they
went verbally unnoticed, since it was his habit to use a Winchester for
a crutch.
After eight weeks in Las Animas, Mr. Allison felt as much at home as
though he had founded the town. Also, he became nervously sensitive over
the public well-being, and, mounted on a milk-white pony, which he
called his “wah hoss,” rode into open court, and urged that convention
of justice, then sitting, to adjourn. Mr. Allison made the point that a
too persistent holding of court militated against a popular repose.
Inasmuch as he accompanied his opinions with the crutch-Winchester
aforesaid, their soundness was conceded by the presiding judge. The
judge, as he ordered an adjournment, said that in the face of what
practical arguments were presented by Mr. Allison he was driven to
regard the whole theory of courts as at best but academic.
Later, by two months, Mr. Allison was driven to slay the Las Animas
marshal. In this adventure he again demonstrated the accurate workings
of his mind. The marshal, just before he drifted into the infinite, had
emptied the right barrel of a Greener 10-gauge into Mr. Allison’s
brother, John. A shotgun has two barrels, and the jury convoked in the
premises, basing decision on that second barrel and arguing from all the
circumstances that the late officer was gunning for the entire Allison
family, gave a verdict of self-defence.
Mr. Allison was honourably acquitted, and the acquittal much encouraged
his belief in justice. It showed him too the tolerant spirit of Las
Animas, and he displayed his appreciation thereof by engaging in that
rugged Western pastime known as “Standing the Town on Its Head.” Indeed,
Mr. Allison made the bodily reversal of Las Animas a sacred duty to be
performed twice a year; but since he invariably pitched upon Christmas
and the Fourth of July for these pageantries, the public, so far from
finding invidious fault, was inclined to join with him. In short, so
much were Mr. Allison and Las Animas one in soul and sentiment, that the
moment they had conquered the complete acquaintance of each other
they—to employ a metaphor of the farms—“fell together like a shock of
oats.” Mr. Allison was proud of Las Animas, while Las Animas looked upon
Mr. Allison as the chief jewel in its crown.
On the breath of admiration some waif-word of the hardy deeds of Mr.
Allison would now and again be wafted down the river to Dodge. Envious
ones, who hated Dodge and resented its high repute as “a camp that was
never treed,” had been even heard to prophesy that Mr. Allison would one
day devote a leisure hour to subjecting Dodge to those processes of
inversion which Las Animas had enjoyed, and leave its hitherto
unconquered heels where its head should be. These insolent anticipations
would wring the heart of Cimarron Bill.
“You can hock your spurs an’ pony,” he was wont to respond, “that if
Clay ever shakes up Dodge, he’ll shake it in the smoke.”
Mr. Masterson, when the threats of an Allison invasion were brought to
his notice, would say nothing. He held it unbecoming his official
character to resent a hypothesis, and base declarations of war on an
assumption of what might be.
“It’s bad policy,” quoth Mr. Masterson, “to ford a river before you
reach it. It’ll be time to settle what Dodge’ll do with Clay, when Clay
begins to do things to Dodge. He’ll have to open a game, however, that
no one’s ever heard of, if Dodge don’t get better than an even break.”
“Shore!” coincided Cimarron Bill, confidently. “The idee, because Clay
can bluff ’round among them Las Animas tarrapins without gettin’ called,
that he can go dictatin’ terms to Dodge, is eediotic. He’d be too dead
to skin in about a minute! That’s straight; he wouldn’t last as long as
a drink of whiskey!”
The Ground Owl was alone in the breakfast room of the Wright House when
Mr. Allison limped in. All men have their delicate side, and it was Mr.
Allison’s to regard the open wearing of one’s iron-mongery as bad form.
Wherefore, he was accustomed to hide the Colt’s pistols wherewith his
hips were decked, beneath the tails of a clerical black coat. Inasmuch
as he had left the crutch-Winchester with his sombrero at the hat-rack,
even an alarmist like the Ground Owl could discover nothing appalling in
his exterior. The halting gait and the black coat made for a harmless
impression that went far to unlock the derision of the Ground Owl. He
treated himself to an evil grin as Mr. Allison limped to a seat
opposite; but since Mr. Allison didn’t catch the malicious gleam of it,
the grin got by unchallenged.
It was a breakfast custom of the Wright House to provide doughnuts as a
fashion of a side-dish whereat a boarder might nibble while awaiting the
baking-powder biscuit, “salt hoss,” canned tomatoes, tinned potatoes,
coffee and condensed milk that made up the lawful breakfast of the
caravansary. Las Animas being devoid of doughnuts, Mr. Allison had never
met one. Moved by the doughnut example of the Ground Owl, he tasted that
delicacy. The doughnut as an edible proved kindly to the palate of Mr.
Allison, and upon experiment he desired more. The dish had been drawn
over to the elbow of the Ground Owl, and was out of his reach.
Perceiving this, Mr. Allison pointed with appealing finger. “Pard,” said
Mr. Allison, politely, “please pass them fried holes.”
“Fried holes!” cried the Ground Owl, going off into derisive laughter.
“Fried holes! Say! you limp in your talk like you do in your walk! Fried
holes!” and the Ground Owl again burst into uninstructed mirth.
The Ground Owl’s glee was frost-bitten in the bud. The frost that nipped
it was induced by a Colt’s pistol in the hand of Mr. Allison, the
chilling muzzle not a foot from his scared face. The Ground Owl’s veins
ran ice; he choked and fell back in his helpless chair. Not less
formidable than the Colt’s pistol was the fury-twisted visage of Mr.
Allison.
Even in his terror the Ground Owl recalled the word of Mr. Masterson.
“Don’t shoot,” he squeaked. “I’m unarmed!”
For one hideous moment Mr. Allison hesitated; it was in his mind to
violate a precedent, and slaughter the gunless Ground Owl where he sat.
But his instincts and his education made against it; he jammed his
weapon back into its scabbard with the terse command:
“Go heel yourse’f, you bull-snake! Dodge’ll have you or me to plant!”
The Ground Owl groped his frightened way to the door. A moment later he
was burrowing deep beneath a stack of alfalfa hay in Mr. Trask’s corral,
and it would have been necessary to set fire to the hay to find him. Mr.
Allison sat glaring, awaiting the Ground Owl’s return—which he never
doubted. He no longer wanted breakfast, he wanted blood.
Dodge knew nothing of these ferocious doings—the insult, the flight of
the Ground Owl, and the vicious waiting of Mr. Allison. The first news
of it that reached Dodge was when Mr. Allison—rifle in its
saddle-scabbard, six-shooters at his belt—came whooping and spurring,
the sublimation of warlike defiance, into the town’s main thoroughfare.
He had saddled that bronco within twenty feet of the Ground Owl,
shivering beneath the hay. The explosive monologue with which he had
accompanied the saddling, and wherein he promised a host of bloody
experiences to the Ground Owl, rendered that recreant as cold as a key
and as limp as a rag.
After a mad dash up and down the street, enlivened by divers war shouts,
Mr. Allison pulled up in front of Mr. Webster’s Alamo Saloon. Sitting in
the saddle, he fiercely demanded the Ground Owl at the hands of the
public, and threatened Dodge with extinction in case he was denied.
Affairs stood thus when Jack turned Mr. Masterson out of his blankets.
The soul of Jack was in arms. It would have broken his boy’s heart had
Mr. Allison flung forth his challenge in the open causeways of Dodge and
departed, unaccommodated, unrebuked, to cheer Las Animas with a recount
of his prowess.
“That’s business!” exulted Jack, as the double “cluck!” of Mr.
Masterson’s buffalo gun broke charmingly upon his ear. “Send daylight
plumb through him! Don’t let him go back to Las Animas with a yarn about
how Dodge laid down to him!”
It was the first impression of Mr. Masterson that Mr. Allison’s purpose
was to merely feed his self-love by a general defiance of Dodge. He
would ride and shout and shoot and disport himself unlawfully. In this
he would demonstrate the prostrate sort of the Dodgeian nerve.
Mr. Masterson was clear that this contumely must be checked. It would
never do to let word drift into Texas that Dodge had wilted. Were that
to occur, when the boys with the Autumn herds came in, never a mirror in
town would survive; the very air would sing and buzz with contemptuous
bullets. Mr. Masterson, from his window, came carefully down on Mr.
Allison with the buffalo gun; he would reprove that fatuous egotist,
whose conceit it was to fancy that he could stand up Dodge.
Mr. Masterson would have instantly shot Mr. Allison from the saddle, but
was withstood by a detail. Mr. Allison’s six-shooters were still in his
belt; his Winchester was still in its scabbard beneath his leg. These
innocuous conditions constrained Mr. Masterson to pause; he must,
according to the rule in such case made and provided, wait until a
weapon was in the overt hand of Mr. Allison.
Mr. Masterson could make neither head nor tail of what Mr. Allison was
saying. For the most it was curse, and threat, coupled with pictures of
what terrific punishments—to cure it of its pride—Mr. Allison would
presently inflict upon Dodge. This being all, however, Mr. Masterson
could do no more than wait—being at pains, meanwhile, to see the
oratorical Mr. Allison through both sights of the buffalo gun. When Mr.
Allison snatched a pistol from his belt, that would be Mr. Masterson’s
cue; he would then drill him for the good of Dodge and the instruction
of Las Animas.
Having the business wholly in hand, it was next the thought of Mr.
Masterson to obviate interference. He turned to Jack:
“Skip out, and tell Kell and Short and Cimarron not to run in on Clay.
Tell ’em I’ve got him covered and to keep away. If they closed in on
him, they might blank my fire.”
When Jack was gone, Mr. Masterson again settled to his aim, picking out
a spot under the right shoulder of Mr. Allison wherein to plant the
bullet. “It’s where I’d plug a buffalo bull,” ruminated Mr. Masterson,
“and it ought to do for Clay.”
Mr. Allison maintained his verbal flow unchecked. He had elocutionary
gifts, had Mr. Allison, and flaunted them. Mingling scorn with reproach,
and casting defiance over all, he spake in unmeasured terms of Dodge and
its inhabitants. But never once did he lay hand to gun; it was solely an
exhibition of rhetoric.
Mr. Masterson waxed weary. There were spaces when the mills of Mr.
Allison’s vituperation ran low; at such intervals Mr. Masterson would
take the buffalo gun from his shoulder. Anon, Mr. Allison’s choler would
mount, his threats and maledictions against all things Dodgeian would
soar. Thereupon, hope would relight its taper in the eye of Mr.
Masterson; he would again cover Mr. Allison with his buffalo gun. Mr.
Allison’s energy would again dwindle, and the light of hope again sink
low in the Masterson eye. The buffalo gun would be given another recess.
First and last, by the later word of Mr. Masterson, Mr. Allison was
covered and uncovered twenty times. It was exceedingly fatiguing to Mr.
Masterson, who was losing respect for Mr. Allison, as one all talk and
no shoot.
While Mr. Allison vituperated, his glance roved up and down the street.
“What’s the matter with him!” considered Mr. Masterson disgustedly. “Why
doesn’t he throw himself loose!”
Mr. Masterson’s disgust became amazement when Mr. Allison turned in his
saddle, and asked in tones wherein was more of complaint than challenge:
“Where’s Bat Masterson? He’s on the squar’! He won’t let no cheap store
clerk put it all over me, an’ get away! Where’s Bat?”
As though seeking reply, Mr. Allison in a most pacific manner got down
from the saddle, and limped away out of range into Mr. Webster’s Alamo.
Mr. Masterson pitched the buffalo gun into a corner, put on his more
personal artillery, and repaired to the Alamo with the thought of
investigating the phenomenon. In the Alamo he found Mr. Allison asking
Mr. Webster—who looked a bit pale—to send for Mr. Masterson.
“Have somebody round Bat up,” said Mr. Allison, peevishly. “Which I want
a talk with him about my injuries.”
“What’s wrong, Clay?” asked Mr. Masterson—outwardly careless, inwardly
as alert as a bobcat. “What’s gone wrong?”
“Is that you, Bat?” demanded Mr. Allison, facing around on his lame
foot. “Wherever have you been for the last half hour? I’ve hunted you
all over camp.”
“Where have I been for a half hour? I’ve been seesawing on you with a
Sharp’s for the better part of it.”
“Is that so!” exclaimed Mr. Allison, while his face lighted up with a
kind of pleased conviction. “Thar, d’ye see now! While I was in that
saddle I could feel I was covered every moment. It was the sperits
tellin’ me! They kept warnin’ me that if I batted an eye or wagged a
year I was a goner. It was shore one of them prov’dential hunches which
is told of by gospel sharps in pra’r-meetin’s.”
Mr. Masterson’s indignation was extreme when he had heard the story of
Mr. Allison’s ill usage. And at that, his anger rested upon the wrongs
of Dodge rather than upon those of Mr. Allison.
“One may now see,” said Mr. Masterson, “the hole into which good people
can be put by a cowardly outcast of the Ground Owl type. That disgusting
Ground Owl might have been the means of killing a dozen men. Here he
turns in an’ stirs Clay up; and then, when he’s got him keyed to concert
pitch, he sneaks away and hides, and leaves us with Clay on our hands!”
Cimarron Bill came into the Alamo; his brow turned dark with the scandal
of those friendly relations between Mr. Masterson and Mr. Allison, which
he saw and did not understand. Drawing aside, he stood moodily at the
end of the bar, keeping a midnight eye the while on Mr. Allison,
thirsting for an outbreak.
Mr. Masterson approached him craftily—being diplomatic and having a mind
to preserve the peace.
“There’s something I want you to do, Cimarron,” said Mr. Masterson,
easily. The other brightened. “No, not that!” continued Mr. Masterson,
intercepting a savage look which Cimarron bestowed upon Mr. Allison,
“not Clay.”
“Who then?” demanded Cimarron, greatly disappointed.
“The other one,” responded Mr. Masterson. “Still I don’t want you to
overplay. You must use judgment, and while careful not to do too little,
be equally careful not to do too much. This is the proposition: You are
to go romancing ’round until you locate that miscreant Ground Owl. Once
located, you are to softly, yet sufficiently, bend a gun over his head.”
“Leave the Ground Owl to me,” said Cimarron Bill, his buoyant nature
beginning to collect itself. As he went forth upon his mission, he
tossed this assurance over his shoulder: “You gents’ll hear a dog howl
_poco tempo_, an’ when you do you can gamble me an’ that Ground Owl
clerk has crossed up with one another.”
“That,” observed Mr. Short, who arrived in time to hear the commission
given Cimarron Bill, “that’s what I call gettin’ action both ways from
the jack. You split out Cimarron from Clay here; an’ at the same time
arrange to stampede that malignant Ground Owl out o’ camp. Which I
always allowed you had a head for business, Bat.”
Cimarron Bill was wrong. He did not cut the trail of the vermin Ground
Owl—lying close beneath the alfalfa of Mr. Trask! Neither did any dog
howl that day. But Dodge was victorious without. It was rid of the
offensive Ground Owl; when the sun went down that craven one crept
forth, and fled by cloak of night.
“Which it goes to show,” explained Cimarron Bill, judgmatically, when a
week later he was recovered from the gloom into which Mr. Allison’s
escape had plunged him, “which it goes to show that every cloud has a
silver linin’. Clay saves himse’f; but that Ground Owl has to go. It’s a
stand-off. We lose on Clay; but we shore win on that Ground Owl man.”