THE RESCUE OF CIMARRON BILL
Opinion has been ever divided as to the true reason of Ogallala’s
objection to Cimarron Bill. Some there were who said it was born of
Ogallala’s jealousy of Dodge, the latter metropolis being as all men
know the home of Cimarron. Others held it to be offspring of the
childish petulance of Ogallala, which resented the unseemly luck of
Cimarron who had played at cards with its citizens. The latter would
appear the better solution; for when the committee, which consisted of
Mr. Jenkins of the Sheaf of Wheat Saloon, Mr. Sopris and Mr. Smart,
notified Cimarron to depart, the ostracism was expressly based upon the
good fortune which throughout four nights of draw-poker had waited upon
the obnoxious one.
The committee, in a spirit of fairness that did it credit, explained how
Ogallala did not intend by its action to accuse Cimarron of having
practiced any fraud. Had such been the case, Ogallala would have hanged
him instead of bidding him depart in peace. What was meant came to be no
more than this: Ogallala was new and small, and per consequence poor,
and could not afford the luxury of Cimarron’s presence. Under the
circumstance the committee urged him to have avail of the first train
that passed through. Leaving with him a time table and the suggestion
that he study it, the committee withdrew.
Cimarron Bill was possessed of many of the more earnest characteristics
of a bald hornet. Also, he held that the position assumed towards him by
Ogallala was in violation of his rights under a scheme of government
which guaranteed him life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The
last franchise in particular he construed as covering in his favour the
privilege of remaining what space he pleased in Ogallala, and diverting
himself with cards at the expense of those members of the body politic
willing to play with him. Thinking on these lines, he resolved to defy
the sentiment of Ogallala, and stay where he was.
In preparation for what might happen, Cimarron Bill repaired to the
Midland Hotel and got his six-shooter, which weapon, in compliment to
Ogallala, he had theretofore avoided wearing. Being girt for his
defence, he wended to the Arcade, a place of refreshment next neighbour
to Mr. Jenkins’ Sheaf of Wheat, and seating himself at a table called
calmly for a drink. Word of these manoeuvres was conveyed to Mr.
Jenkins, who as chairman of the notification committee felt compelled to
vindicate the dignity of Ogallala.
It was an hour later and, being in the hot middle of an August
afternoon, the Sheaf of Wheat was deserted. Likewise was the Arcade,
save for the presence of Cimarron Bill. Mr. Jenkins made sure of this by
glancing through the window of the Arcade when returning from a brief
invented trip to the post-office.
Believing that the time to move had come, Mr. Jenkins arranged a shotgun
on the shelf below the level of the Sheaf of Wheat bar. There was a
charge of buckshot in each barrel, and Mr. Jenkins entertained hopes of
what might be accomplished therewith. When fully organised, Mr. Jenkins
took a six-shooter and blazed away at the floor. He relied on the
curiosity of Cimarron, certain in this fashion to be aroused, to bring
him within range.
Mr. Jenkins was so far correct as to the inquisitive nature of Cimarron
Bill that the smoke was still a-curl about the low ceiling of the Sheaf
of Wheat when the latter came rushing through the door. But the door of
Cimarron’s advent was the rear and not the front door, as had been
confidently anticipated by Mr. Jenkins. He had dropped the six-shooter
and caught up the Greener with a purpose of potting Cimarron the moment
he appeared. This reversal of doors, however, was so disconcerting that
in the hurry of wheeling, and because of the nearness of Cimarron, he
missed that lively gentleman altogether.
Cimarron Bill replied to Mr. Jenkins with his Colt’s-45, and the bullet
glancing on the fore-end of the Greener cut away the second, third and
little fingers of Mr. Jenkins’ left hand. The blow to his nervous system
sent Mr. Jenkins to the floor, where, being a prince for prudence and no
mean strategist, he remained a-sprawl, feigning death. This pretense
imposed upon Cimarron who, after helping himself to a drink at the
expense, as he supposed, of Mr. Jenkins’ estate, shot a hole through the
bar mirror in registration of his contempt, and sauntered into the
street.
Mr. Jenkins, following the going of Cimarron Bill, scrambled to his
feet, thrust a fresh cartridge into the empty barrel of the Greener, and
hastened to the door. Having advantage of the back of Cimarron, that
personage being distant forty yards, he poured a charge from the Greener
into him. As Cimarron went down, Mr. Jenkins—who was no one to slight
his work—unslewed the second barrel. It went wild, and did no scathe
beyond sending one buckshot through the Ogallala _Harbinger_, which Mr.
Sopris, chair tilted against the front of the Cowboy’s Rest, was
reading, while the balance of the load shattered the front window of
that justly popular resort. Mr. Jenkins, believing that the honor of
Ogallala had been retrieved, sought the local doctor, while several
unengaged members of the public gathered about the prostrate Cimarron.
The luck which had attended upon Cimarron Bill during his stay in
Ogallala did not abandon him in his off-and-on duel with Mr. Jenkins.
Sundry of those cartridges which were as the provender of the Greener
had been filled with bird not buckshot, being designed for the
destruction of prairie hens. Mr. Jenkins, in the hurry of reloading that
right barrel, had selected a prairie-hen cartridge. So far from
resembling one of those diminutive fowls, Cimarron was a gentleman of
vitality and powers of recuperation. The birdshot peppered but did not
kill. Even as they gazed, those who surrounded Cimarron observed signs
of returning life.
This revival of the stricken one bred sorrow in the Ogallala heart; not
because of an innate inhumanity, but, as events had adjusted themselves,
it would have been better had Mr. Jenkins extinguished Cimarron. There
is that unwritten jurisprudence of the gun; and the politer, not to say
more honourable, technicalities were peculiarly on the side of Cimarron.
If the story were sent abroad it would serve for the discredit of
Ogallala; and a western town is as nervously concerned for its good fame
as any woman. Hence the popular sadness over Cimarron’s restoration.
Acting for the best under circumstances so discouraging, the public,
first caring for Cimarron’s pistol in order to preserve a future’s
quiet, formally placed him under arrest. Then, since Ogallala had no
jail and because he lay wounded to helplessness, he was conveyed to the
Midland, and Mr. Smart detailed to hold him prisoner. In these steps it
is believed that Ogallala planned nothing beyond a version of the affair
that should bear upon its own repute as lightly as it might. Beyond
saving its skirts from criticism, it would restore Cimarron to a
pristine health, and finish by devising ways and means, honourable of
course to Ogallala, for letting him go free.
When the doctor had tied up the three finger-stumps of Mr. Jenkins, he
repaired to the Midland and picked the shot—number eight, they were—out
of Cimarron. Following these improvements, the latter called for a
drink; then, addressing himself to Mr. Smart, he exhausted invective
upon Ogallala and her manner towards sojourners within her limits.
Cimarron Bill was still in bed and still reviling Ogallala when Mr.
Masterson was given a recount of his troubles. Aside from their several
years of friendship, it chanced in times gone by that during a
dance-hall rumpus at Tascosa, Cimarron Bill had stood over Mr.
Masterson, on the floor with a bullet-shattered knee, and with
six-shooters spitting fire held the crowded foe at bay. This, according
to the religion of Mr. Masterson, made a claim upon his gratitude which
would last while Cimarron lived. Wherefore, and because a Western
gratitude is never passive, Mr. Masterson no sooner heard of Cimarron’s
plight than he started to his relief.
Since he must go by roundabout trails, it was precisely one week from
the day of Cimarron’s battle with Mr. Jenkins before Mr. Masterson drew
into Ogallala, and wrote “William Brown, Hays City,” in the account book
which the Midland employed in lieu of a more formal register. Also, Mr.
Masterson developed an unusual fastidiousness, and asked to be shown the
rooms before one was assigned him. The request being complied with, Mr.
Masterson in his ramble located Cimarron’s room by locating Mr. Smart,
who stood or rather sat on guard at the door—for Mr. Smart had brought
out a chair to comfort his watch and ward—and chose the room next to it.
“Thar’s a prisoner in thar,” doubtfully observed the proprietor of the
Midland, who was acting as guide to Mr. Masterson’s investigations, “an’
as he mostly cusses all night, he may disturb you.”
“Disturb me?” repeated the bogus Mr. Brown. “Never! I know of nothing
more soothing to the slumbers of an honest man than the howls of the
wicked under punishment.”
Being installed, Mr. Masterson’s earliest care was to provide himself
with a demijohn of Midland whiskey; for he had noted an encarmined nose
as a facial property of Mr. Smart, and that florid feature inspired a
plan. There would be a train from the West at three o’clock A. M.; it
was now two o’clock P. M. This would give Mr. Masterson thirteen hours
wherein to ripen his device; and thirteen is a fortunate number!
When Mr. Masterson passed Mr. Smart in the hall, bearing—as the Greeks
bore gifts—that engaging demijohn, he spake casually yet pleasantly with
Mr. Smart; and next, after a fashion perfect in the West, he invited Mr.
Smart to sample those wares which the demijohn contained. Mr. Smart
tasted, and said it was the Midland’s best. Upon this promising
discovery Mr. Masterson proposed a second libation, which courtesy Mr.
Smart embraced.
Mr. Masterson apologized to Mr. Smart for a thoughtlessness that had
asked him to drink with a total stranger. He made himself known to Mr.
Smart as “Mr. Brown of Hays.” Mr. Masterson remarked that he would go
abroad in Ogallala about the transaction of what mythical business had
brought him to its shores. Meanwhile, the demijohn was just inside his
door. Would Mr. Smart do him the honour to cheer his vigils with such
references to the demijohn as it might please him to make?
Mr. Masterson was about to depart when a volley of bad words was heard
to issue from Cimarron’s room. The voice was strong and full, and
fraught of a fine resolution; this delighted Mr. Masterson as showing
Cimarron to be in no sort near the door of death. A second volley
climbed the transom to reverberate along the hall, and Mr. Masterson,
jerking the thumb of inquiry, asked:
“Any gent with him?”
“No,” responded Mr. Smart, leering amiably, albeit indefinitely, “no;
he’s plumb alone. He’s jes’ swearin’ at a mark.”
When Mr. Masterson returned he found Mr. Smart blurred and incoherent.
It was no part of Mr. Masterson’s policy to reduce Mr. Smart to a
condition which should alarm the caution of Ogallala, and cause it to
relieve his guard. Mr. Smart was the man for the place; to preserve him
therein, Mr. Masterson withdrew the demijohn from circulation.
Mr. Smart, even through the happy mists which enveloped him, spoke well
of this step. After supper, the demijohn could be recalled. The
friendship which Mr. Smart and Mr. Masterson had conceived for one
another might then be expanded, and its foundation deepened and secured.
Thus sufficiently if not distinctly spake Mr. Smart; and Mr. Masterson
coincided with him at every angle of his argument.
It was nine o’clock, and supper had been over two hours when Mr.
Masterson again sought Mr. Smart at that gentleman’s post in the hall.
Mr. Masterson had much to talk about. The more he had seen of Ogallala
the better he liked it. As for Mr. Smart, he was among Ogallala’s best
features. It had become Mr. Masterson’s purpose to go into business in
Ogallala. Possessing boundless capital, he would engage in every scheme
of commerce from a general outfitting store to a corral. Mr. Smart
should be with him in these enterprises. While Mr. Masterson dilated,
Mr. Smart drank, and the pleasant character of the evening was conceded
by both.
At one A. M. Mr. Masterson supported Mr. Smart to his cot in Cimarron’s
room. The invalid roused himself to say more bad words of both Mr. Smart
and Mr. Masterson; for the room being unlighted, he assailed Mr.
Masterson ignorantly and in the dark. Mr. Smart no sooner felt the cot
beneath him than he fell into deep sleep, and his snorings shook the
casements like a strong wind.
At half after two Mr. Masterson stepped confidently into Cimarron’s
room. He found Mr. Smart as soundly asleep as a corpse. Mr. Masterson
shook Cimarron gently by the shoulder:
“Steady!” he whispered.
“Is that you, Bat?” Cimarron asked, coming at once to an understanding
of things.
“How hard are you hit?” asked Mr. Masterson. “Can you walk?”
“I’m too stiff and sore for that.”
“Then it’s a case of carry.”
It was within five minutes of the train. Mr. Masterson wrapped the
wounded Cimarron in the bed-clothes; thus disguised he resembled a long
roll of gray army blankets.
Being a powerful man, Mr. Masterson tossed Cimarron over his shoulder,
and started down the stair. The injured one ground his teeth with the
anguish of it, but was as mute as a fox. There was still a drunken voice
or two in the barroom of the Midland, but Mr. Masterson—who had looked
over the route in the afternoon—eliminated whatever risk existed of
meeting anyone by making for a side door.
Once in the dark street, by circuitous paths, Mr. Masterson sought the
station. He did not go to the depot proper, but found a place a little
distance up the track, where the smoking-car would stop. Also, he took
the side opposite to that on which passengers got on and off the train.
There he waited in the deep shadow of a line of freight cars, supporting
the drooping Cimarron against the nearest car. The two were in time; Mr.
Masterson could see the headlight, and hear the scream of the engine.
The express swept in and stopped; by the best of best fortunes the
forward platform of the smoking-car paused squarely in front of Mr.
Masterson and Cimarron. Cautiously Mr. Masterson picked up his charge
and placed him upon the topmost step. Then he swung himself aboard and
made ready to drag Cimarron inside. The latter met the situation in a
manner excessively limp and compliant; for all his iron nerve, he had
fainted.
As Mr. Masterson bent over Cimarron, some unauthorized person came from
out the darkness.
“Whom have you got there?”
As the one in search of knowledge hove in reach, Mr. Masterson smote him
upon the head with his heavy eight-inch pistol. The inquiring one went
over backward, and Mr. Masterson was pleased to see that he fell free of
the wheels. Yes, it was right; the unknown had sinned the sin of an
untimely curiosity.
The engine whistled, the train moved, and Mr. Masterson packed the
unconscious Cimarron into the car and placed him in the nearest seat.
There were half a dozen passengers scattered about; all were soundly
slumbering. Mr. Masterson drew a breath of relief, and wiped his face;
for the night was an August night and the work had been hot. Then he
rearranged Cimarron’s blankets, and threw a cupful of water in his face
by way of restorative. That, and the breeze through the lifted window,
caused Cimarron to open his eyes.
“Give me some whiskey.”
Mr. Masterson looked conscience-stricken.
“I forgot the whiskey!”
“Forgot the whiskey!” repeated Cimarron, in feeble scorn. “What kind of
a rescue party do you call this? I’d sooner have stayed where I was!
Besides, I had it laid out how I’d finish shootin’ up that Jenkins party
the moment I could totter over to the Sheaf of Wheat.”
Mr. Masterson, to whom the petulance of the sick was as nothing,
vouchsafed no return, and Cimarron sank back exhausted.
When the conductor appeared, the wary Mr. Masterson met that functionary
in the car door.
“Got any children?” asked Mr. Masterson.
“Five,” said the conductor, whom it is superfluous to say was a married
man; “five; an’ another in the shops.”
“The reason I ask,” observed Mr. Masterson, “is that my brother over
there has measles, and I wouldn’t want you to go packing it back to your
babies. I have to wrap him up to keep him from catching cold. The doctor
said that if he ever caught cold once we’d have some fun.”
While Mr. Masterson was exploring Ogallala and perfecting his scheme of
rescue, he had purchased tickets to Grand Island. He bought tickets to
Grand Island because he intended to get off at North Platte; the
ticket-buying was a ruse and meant to break the trail. The conductor, as
he received Mr. Masterson’s tickets, thanked him for his forethought in
defending his children from the afflicted brother.
“I’m a father myself,” said Mr. Masterson, who in amplification of any
strategy was ever ready to round off one mendacity with another.
The dawn was showing when the train drew in at North Platte. Shouldering
the helpless Cimarron, Mr. Masterson stepped onto the deserted station
platform. Cimarron gave a querulous groan.
“Where be you p’intin’ out for now?” he demanded. “I’m gettin’ a heap
tired of this rescue. It’s too long, an’ besides it’s too toomultuous.”
“Tired or no,” responded Mr. Masterson, steadily, “you’re going to be
rescued just the same.”
The Cochino Colorow was a gentleman whose true name was Mr. Cooper. He
had been rebaptised as the “Cochino Colorow,” which means the “Red Hog,”
by the Mexicans and the Apaches when he was a scout for General Crook,
and about the time the latter gained from the same sources his own title
of the “Gray Fox.”
Mr. Cooper was not heralded as the Cochino Colorow because of any
aggressive gluttonies; but he was round and with a deal of jowl, and
suffered from a nose that, colour and contour, looked like the ace of
hearts. Besides, Mr. Cooper had red hair. These considerations induced
the Mexicans and Apaches to arise as one man and call him the Cochino
Colorow; and the name stuck.
Mr. Masterson and the Cochino Colorow had been fellow scouts under the
wise Ben Clark when the latter guided the Black Kettle wanderings of
General Custer. Since then the Cochino Colorow had adopted more peaceful
pursuits as proprietor of the Bank Exchange in North Platte, and on the
morning when Mr. Masterson, with Cimarron over his shoulder like a sack
of oats, came seeking him, he was a familiar as well as a foremost
figure of that commonwealth.
The Bank Exchange was almost empty of customers when Mr. Masterson and
his burden arrived; a few all-night souls were still sleepily about a
faro table, and the Cochino Colorow himself was behind the box. “Hello,
Bat!” exclaimed the Cochino Colorow, manifestly surprised, and turning
the box on its side to show a recess in the deal. “Where in the name of
Santa Ana do you come from? What’s that you’re totin’?”
“I’m totin’ a friend,” replied Mr. Masterson.
The Cochino Colorow hastily assigned a talented person who was keeping
the case, to deal the interrupted game, while he in person waited upon
the wants of the fugitives. Mr. Masterson told the story of their
adventures to the Cochino Colorow.
“And for all my walking in the water about those tickets,” concluded Mr.
Masterson, “I’m afraid the Ogallala outfit will cross up with us before
ever I can freight Cimarron into Dodge. The moment that drunkard Smart
comes to, or the rest of ’em find they’re shy Cimarron, they’ll just
about take to lashing and back-lashing the situation with the telegraph,
and I figure they’ll cut our trail.”
“Which if they should,” confidently returned the Cochino Colorow, “we’ll
stand ’em off all right. Between us, I’m the whole check-rack in North
Platte.”
Mr. Masterson’s fears were justified. As early as the afternoon of the
same day, Mr. Sopris and a companion, whom Mr. Masterson, because of the
handkerchief which bound his brows, suspected to be the inquisitive one,
walked into the Bank Exchange. Mr. Masterson and the Cochino Colorow had
remarked their approach from a window while they were yet two blocks
away.
“Is either of ’em that Jenkins crim’nal?” asked the Cochino Colorow.
“No,” said Mr. Masterson.
“I’m shore sorry,” replied the Cochino Colorow. “If one of ’em now was
that Jenkins crim’nal, we’d nacherally prop pore Cimarron up by this
yere window, an’ let him have a crack at him with my Winchester.”
The Cochino Colorow suggested that Mr. Masterson retire to the room
where lay the invalid Cimarron. He said that he could best treat with
the visitors alone.
Cimarron was tossing to and fro on a couch in a cubby-hole of an
apartment immediately to the rear of the Bank Exchange bar. Since the
intervening partition was of pine boards, an inch for thickness, what
passed between the Cochino Colorow and the invaders fell plainly upon
the listening ears of Mr. Masterson and Cimarron.
The visitors laid bare their mission. They set forth the escape of
Cimarron; and while they would not pretend that Ogallala hungered to
destroy that individual, they did urge a loss to the Ogallala honour if
he were permitted to walk off in a manner of open, careless insolence.
“It ain’t what this Cimarron does,” explained Mr. Sopris; “it ain’t that
he’s done more’n shoot away three of Jenks’ fingirs, an’ as they was on
the left hand, they may well be spared. What Ogallala objects to is the
manner of this person’s escape. It not only puts Mr. Smart in the hole,
speshul, but it reflects on Ogallala for hoss sense.”
“Well, gents,” returned the Cochino Colorow with cool nonchalance, “you
can’t expect me to bother myse’f to death about what comes off in
Ogallala. Which, speakin’ general, I’m that numbed by my own
misfortunes, I don’t care much what happens, so it don’t happen to me.”
“It wasn’t,” retorted Mr. Sopris, “that we allowed you’d feel a heap
concerned, but we got a p’inter that you’re harborin’ these yere felons
personal.”
“Is that so?” observed the Cochino Colorow, assuming airs of chill
dignity. “Gents, since you impugns my integrity, my only word is, ‘Make
your next move.’”
“Our next move,” observed Mr. Sopris, “will be to go squanderin’ about
into the uttermost corners of this yere deadfall, an’ search out our
game.”
“Shore!” exclaimed the Cochino Colorow, picking up a rifle that stood in
the corner. “An’ bein’ plumb timid that a-way, of course I’ll neither
bat an eye nor wag a year ag’in the outrage.”
The Cochino Colorow cocked the Winchester. Mr. Sopris shook his head, as
might one whose good nature had been abused.
“That’s plenty!” said Mr. Sopris. “Since sech is your attitoode of
voylence, we jest won’t search this joint.”
“No, I don’t reckon none you will,” retorted the Cochino Colorow,
fingering the Winchester. “You two delegates from Ogallala had better
hit the trail for home. An’ don’t you never come pirootin’ into North
Platte searchin’ for things no more.”
Mr. Masterson and Cimarron overheard this conversation, and the dialogue
so affected the latter that Mr. Masterson had his work cut out to keep
him in his blankets. As the colloquy ended and the retreating footfalls
told the departure of the committee from Ogallala, Cimarron, sore, sick
and exhausted, turned his face to the wall with a sigh of shame.
“Bat,” he said, pleadingly, “would you mind leavin’ the room a moment
while I blush?” Then he continued while his tears flowed: “We’re a fine
pair of centipedes to lie bunched up in yere while the Red Hog plays our
hands!”
“They were only four-flushing,” said Mr. Masterson, soothingly, by way
of consolation.
In the corral to the rear of the Bank Exchange stood a ramshackle
phaeton, which was one of the sights that North Platte showed to
tourists. This conveyance belonged to the mother-in-law of the Cochino
Colorow. The lady in question, who was of a precise, inveterate temper,
was in the East visiting relatives, and the Cochino Colorow, after
sundry drinks to convey his courage to the needed height, endowed Mr.
Masterson and Cimarron with the phaeton to assist them in a
cross-country break for Dodge. After this generous act the Cochino
Colorow was troubled in spirit.
“I’ll fight Injuns for fun,” explained the Cochino Colorow, defensively
to Mr. Masterson, “but whether you deems me weak or not, I simply
shudders when I think of my said mother-in-law an’ what she’ll say about
that buggy. But what could we-all do? Cimarron has got to _vamos_. Them
Ogallala sharps will most likely be showin’ up to-morry with a warrant
an’ a comp’ny of milishy, an’ that vehicle is the one avenoo of escape.
While her language will be mighty intemperate, still, in the cause of
friendship, a gent must even face his mother-in-law.”
“What do you reckon she’ll do?” asked Mr. Masterson, who was not a
little disturbed by the evident peril of the good Cochino Colorow.
“Mebby Cimarron had better give himself up.”
“No,” replied the desperate one. “It shall never be said that anything,
not even a well-grounded fear of that esteemable lady whom I honours
onder the endearin’ name of mother-in-law, could keep me from rushin’
with her phaeton to the rescue of a friend beset.”
The Cochino Colorow roped and brought up a mud-hued, ewe-necked,
hammer-headed beast of burden, and said its name was Julius Cæsar. This
animal, which had a genius for bolting one moment and backing up the
next, he hooked to the phaeton. Cimarron, whose helplessness was not of
the hands, could hold the reins and guide Julius Cæsar. Mr. Masterson
would ride a pinto pony furnished by the generous partisanship of the
Cochino Colorow. It would take a week to make Dodge, and a week’s
provisions, solid and liquid, were loaded into the phaeton.
The faithful Cochino Colorow rode with them on a favourite sorrel as far
as Antelope Springs. Arriving at that water, he bade the travellers
farewell.
“Good luck to you,” cried the Cochino Colorow, waving a fraternal hand.
“Give my regyards to Wright an’ Kell an’ Short.”
“I hope you won’t have trouble with that outfit from Ogallala,” returned
Mr. Masterson.
The Cochino Colorow snapped his fingers.
“Since my mind’s took to runnin’ on my mother-in-law,” he said, “I’ve
done quit worryin’ about sech jim-crow propositions.”
And thus they parted.
It was a week later when Mr. Masterson and the rescued one made Dodge.
When he had seen the suffering Cimarron safely in bed at the Wright
House, Mr. Masterson began looking after his own welfare at the Long
Branch.
“You cert’nly had a strenuous time, Bat,” observed Mr. Short,
sympathetically.
“Strenuous!” repeated Mr. Masterson. “I should say as much! Cimarron was
as ugly as a sore-head dog, and wanted everything he could think of from
a sandwich to a six-shooter. I was never so worn to a frazzle. It was
certainly,” concluded Mr. Masterson, replenishing his glass, “the most
arduous rescue in which I ever took a hand; and we’d have never pulled
it off if it hadn’t been for the Cochino Colorow. Here’s hoping he can
square himself with that relative he robbed. She’s as sour as pig-nuts,
and I don’t feel altogether easy about the Cochino Colorow. However, if
the lady puts up too rough a deal, I told him he’d find a ready-made
asylum here.”