It’s a curious thing—life. Ya might just as well ask a kitten to
chase her own tail or a dog to bay at the evenin’ star, or a
periodical spring to run constant, as to ask a feller right out to
tell a story. Some things can only be done spontaneous.
Friar Tuck used to say ’at whenever he could cut it, he allus got on
the lee side o’ human nature and let it blow down on him natural; and
my way o’ gettin’ to the lee side o’ human nature in story-tellin’ is
not to ask for a story, but to start tellin’ one myself. And it’s a
good plan not to put over too good a one either; ’cause if it seems as
though a feller is short run on stories, some listener is likely to
take pity on him and fit him out with a new assortment so as he won’t
be such bad company for himself when he’s alone again. This is the way
I’ve picked up most o’ my stories.
Then again, it’s allus hard for me to tell what is the true beginnin’
of a story. It’s easy enough to tell cream from milk—after the milk
has stood long enough for the cream to rise to the top; but the great
trouble is, that a man’s own recollections haven’t stood long enough
for him to skim out just what part he might be in need of.
Without meanin’ the least mite o’ disrespect to any one, it does seem
to me that if I was able to plan out any sort of a memory at all, I
could have made a few improvements on the ones we now have.
My own memory is as stubborn as a mule and as grippy as a bulldog.
What it does remember, it calls up in the shape o’ pictures; and I see
old things just as plain as livin’, breathin’ beings; but try as I
would, I never could keep my memory from loadin’ herself down with so
many trifles that sometimes I’ve had to spade it over as many as six
times to turn up some important item which I was actually in need of.
When my memory’s in a good humor, I like to start a pipe and lean back
and just watch old scenes over again, the same as if I was in a
the-ater; and I can see every twinkle in a pair o’ well-known eyes,
which have been lookin’ up through six feet of earth for this many a
long year, and I can hear—actually hear—the half tones ripplin’
through voices which have no more part in my to-day than the perfume
o’ last year’s flowers; and then, like as not, my memory’ll lay her
ears back and refuse to confide what I did with my shavin’ soap.
When I look back at my own life and compare it with others, it seems
like a curious, patch-worky sort of affair, and not much more my own
than the lives o’ those others with which I compare it. I allus liked
my work, and yet it never attracted my attention much. Side-trips and
such-like stand out plain as figures in a hand-painted picture, such
as I’ve seen in hotels down at Frisco; but the work part is just a
blotchy, colorless sort of smudge, the same as the background o’ one
o’ these pictures.
When I first took on with Jabez—every one called him ol’ Cast Steel
Judson at this time—they wanted to know if I could ride. I was
nothin’ but a regular kid then, so I handed in a purty high average as
to my ridin’ ability; though, truth to tell, I wasn’t no bronco buster
those days. They gave me a genuwine mean one as a starter, and told me
to ride him clean or step off and walk.
At that time I didn’t even know how to discard a hoss when I couldn’t
stand the poundin’ any longer; so when I felt my backbone gettin’
wedged too far into my skull, I made a grab for the horn. My luck was
on the job that day and I got the quirt, instead. At his next pitch,
my hand went up as natural as ever, and I slammed down the quirt as
hard as I could. It landed on a ticklish spot and before he had time
to make up his mind, the cayuse had started to run, me whalin’ him at
every jump and givin’ thanks between ’em. I rode him good and out as
soon as he started to stampede, and they all thought I was a real
rider. Well, this gave me a lot o’ trouble—tryin’ to live up to my
reputation—but that’s a good sort o’ trouble for a kid to have.
Now I can feel all the sensations o’ this ride as plain as though it
was this mornin’; but the’s a thousand rides since then which have all
melted an’ run together. The same with most o’ the rest o’ my work: I
allus aimed to do my bit a little quicker and cleaner ’n the rest; but
as soon as I learned all the tricks of it, it fell into a rut, like
breathin’ and seein’. Easteners seem to have an idee that our life
must be as carefree and joyous as goin’ to a different circus every
day in the year; but it ain’t: it’s work, just like all other work.
We’re a good bit like our ridin’ ponies: when we’re in the thick of it
we’re too busy to take notice; and when we’re through, we’re
hungry—and that’s about the whole story.
Jabez Judson was a high peak, and once a feller knew him, he never ran
any risk o’ gettin’ him mixed up with any one else. He was the settest
in his ways of any man I ever had much doin’s with; but he didn’t
change about any—if he faced north on a question one day, he faced
north on it always; so a feller could tell just how any action would
strike him, and this made livin’ with him as accurate as workin’ out a
problem in multiplication, which I claim to hold qualities o’ comfort.
His daughter, Barbie, was a little tot when I first took on; and she
was the apple of ol’ Cast Steel’s eye; an’ his curb bit, and his spurs
as well. Barbie and I were pals from one end o’ the trail to the
other, and this explains a lot o’ my life which otherwise wouldn’t
have any answer. My ordinary work at the Diamond Dot wasn’t
out-standin’ enough to give me any special privileges; but I happened
to come back one time when the Brophy gang was about to clean things
out, and Jabez gave me credit for savin’ Barbie’s life; so ’at he
didn’t check up my time any and I did purty much as I pleased, only
quittin’ him when I couldn’t put up with his set ways any longer. I
aimed to play fair with Jabez, and he with me; but once in a while we
locked horns, though not often, takin’ everything into account.
It was shortly after ol’ Cast Steel had bought in the D lazy L brand,
an’ we was still pickin’ up strays here an’ there. Whenever he bought
up a brand he allus put the Diamond Dot on the stuff as soon as he
could, his mark commandin’ more respect than some o’ the little
fellers’.
When I’d get tired o’ loafing about the home place, I’d take one o’
the boys an’ we’d start out to look for stray hosses. Spider Kelley
was with me this time, an’ we had meandered here an’ there until we
had picked up a big enough string to stand as an excuse for our trip,
and were about minded to start back.
We had just forded a little crick when we heard a man’s voice singin’
off to the right. The’ was a mess o’ cottonwoods between us, an’ we
stopped to listen. Now I had never heard that voice before, an’ I had
never seen the man who was running it; but right then I was ready to
believe anything he had a mind to tell me. It was a deep, rich voice;
but mellow an’ tender, an’ a feller could tell that he was singin’
simply because he couldn’t help it.
Spider looked at me with his face shinin’, an’ I could feel a sort o’
pleasant heat in my own face. The’ was a lift an’ a swing, and a sort
of rally-around-the-flag to this voice which got right into ya, an’
made you want to do something.
“’T is thine to save from perils of perdition
The souls for whom the Lord His life laid down;
Beware, lest, slothful to fulfill thy mission,
Thou lose one jewel that should deck His crown.
Publish glad tidings; tidings of peace;
Tidings of Jesus, redemption and release.”
“That feller can sing some,” sez Spider Kelley; but just then the
ponies turned back on us an’ by the time we had started ’em on again,
the singer had passed on up the trail, so I didn’t make any reply.
I was tryin’ to figure out whether it was the words or the tune or the
voice, or what it was that had made my whole body vibrate like a
fiddle string. As I said before, I see things in pictures an’ I also
remember ’em in pictures: a sound generally calls up a picture to me
an’ it ain’t allus a picture anyways connected with the sound itself.
This song, for instance, had called to my mind a long procession of
marchin’ men with banners wavin’ an’ set faces, shinin’ with a glad
sort o’ recklessness. There ain’t no accountin’ for the human mind: I
had never seen such a procession in real life, nor even in a picture;
but that was what this song out there on the open range suggested to
me, an’ I hurried out o’ the cottonwoods eager to measure the singer
with my open eyes.
When we climbed up out of the woods, we saw him goin’ up the pass
ahead of us with our ponies followin’ behind as though they was part
of his outfit. We could just catch glimpses of him; enough to show
that he was a big man on a big roan hoss, an’ that he was a ridin’ man
in spite o’ the fact that he was wearin’ black clothes made up Eastern
style. He was still singin’ his song, an’ I straightened up in my
saddle, an’ beat time with my hand as though I held a genuwine sword
in it; which is a tool I’ve never had much doin’s with.
We scrambled on up the trail, an’ when we reached the top we found a
little park with the grass knee high an’ a fringe o’ spruce trees
about it. The song had come to a sudden end, an’ we found the singer
on foot with a noose about his neck an’ nine rather tough-lookin’
citizens holdin’ a parley with him. We came to the same sort of a stop
the song had, an’ Spider Kelley sez in a low tone, “What do ya suppose
this is?”
“I don’t know,” sez I, touchin’ my pony, “but I’m with the singer”; so
me an’ Spider rode on down to ’em.
I purty well sensed what it was: the’ was a heap o’ rebrandin’ bein’
done at that time, an’ stringin’ a man up was supposed to be the only
cure; but I was willin’ to bet my roll that this singer wasn’t a
rustler. The feller in charge o’ the posse was an evil-lookin’ cuss,
an’ if he’d ’a’ had the rope around his neck, it wouldn’t have looked
so misplaced. He was ridin’ a Cross brand hoss; so I guessed him to
belong to the Tyrrel Jones outfit. Most o’ the others in the posse was
ridin’ the same brand o’ hosses an’ wearin’ the same brand of
expressions. It was a tough-lookin’ bunch.
We came up to ’em an’ they looked our ponies an’ us over an’ nodded.
We nodded back an’ I asked ’em what seemed to be the trouble.
“We’ve finally got the feller who has been doin’ the rustlin’ out this
way,” sez the leader, whose name was Flannigan, Badger-face Flannigan.
“That’s good,” sez I; “but he don’t look the part.”
“He acts it all right,” growls Badger-face, showin’ his fangs in what
was meant for a grin. “He’s ridin’ one of our hosses, an’ leadin’ a
string o’ D lazy Ls.”
“Leadin’ ’em?” sez I.
“Yes, he’s got some sort of a charm in his voice. Whiskers, here, saw
him go up on foot an’ rope this colt an’ lead him off the same as a
plow hoss.”
“Did Whiskers, here, see him charm the loose string, too?” I asked.
“No, he came in an’ collected the posse, an’ we decided that this
would be a good place to try him; so we cut up the other pass an’
waited for him. When he came up, this bunch o’ ponies was taggin’
after him.”
I looked at the man with the noose about his neck, an’ he was grinnin’
as easy an’ comfortable as I ever saw a man grin in my life. He was
wearin’ a vest without buttons an’ a gray flannel shirt. He had a
rifle on his saddle an’ a sixshooter on his right hip. He had big gray
eyes set wide apart under heavy brows, an’ they were dancin’ with
laughter. I grinned into ’em without intendin’ to, an’ sez: “Well, I
don’t really think he charmed these loose ponies intentional. Me an’
Spider was takin’ ’em in to the Diamond Dot an’ we had a hard time
makin’ ’em ford the crick. I’m some thankful to him for tollin’ ’em up
the pass.”
Badger-face scowled. “Well, anyhow, he charmed the beast he’s ridin,
all right; an’ he has to swing for it.”
“Are you all done with tryin’ him,” sez I.
“What’s the use of a trial?” snarled Badger-face. “Ain’t he ridin’ a
Cross brand hoss, ain’t the brand unvented, don’t every one know that
we never sell a hoss without ventin’ the brand, an’ can’t any one see
’at this hoss was never rode before?”
“Got anything to say for yourself, stranger?” I asked.
“Not much,” sez the prisoner. “I have an appointment to keep at
Laramie; my hoss gave out; so I just caught a fresh one an’ started
on.”
“What more do you want?” asked Badger-face of me.
“Well, now, the’ ain’t any particular hurry; an’ I’m kind o’ curious
to learn a little more of his methods,” sez I impartial. “Don’t ya
know ’at this is what they call hoss-stealin’ out this way?” I asked
of the stranger.
“No, this is not stealin’,” he replied. “I turned another hoss loose
that I had picked up a hundred miles or so farther back; and I should
have turned this one adrift as soon as he had tired. They allus wander
back to their own range.”
This wasn’t no unheard-of custom to practice out our way; but it was a
new sort o’ defence for a man with a noose about his neck to put up,
an’ I see that some o’ the others was gettin’ interested. The big man
had a smile like a boy, an’ steady eyes, an’ a clear skin; an’ he
didn’t look at all the kind of a man to really need stretchin’.
“What’s your plan for earnin’ a livin’?” I asked.
“I am a kind of apostle,” sez he, “an’ I live on the bounty of
others.”
“Do you mean ’at you’re a preacher?” asked Badger-face.
“Yes,” the stranger replied with a smile.
[Illustration: We found the singer on foot with a noose about his neck
an’ nine rather tough-lookin’ citizens holdin’ a parley with him]
“Well, I never see a preacher with as short hair as yours, nor one who
carried so much artillery, nor one who made a practice o’ pickin’ up a
fresh hoss whenever he felt like it. Where’d you learn to ride, an’
where’d you learn to rope?”
“Eastern Colorado. I lived there four years, an’ travelled on
hossback,” sez the stranger.
“I’ll bet you left there mighty sudden,” sez Badger-face with an evil
leer.
“Yes,” replied the stranger, with a grin, “an’ I also left on
hossback.”
“Well, ya satisfied now?” grunted Badger-face to me.
Livin’ out doors the way I had, I naturally had a big respect for
brands. It’s mighty comfortin’ to feel that ya can turn your stuff
loose an’ know that it’s not likely to be bothered; so I was up
something of a stump about this new doctrine. “Where’d you get your
commission from to pick up a hoss whenever you feel like it?” sez I to
the stranger.
He had a little leather sack hangin’ from his saddle horn, an’ he
reached into it an’ fished out a small book with a soft leather cover.
The feller ’at was holdin’ his hoss eyed him mighty close for fear it
was some sort of a gun; but the stranger ran over the leaves with his
fingers as ready as a man would step into the home corral an’ rope his
favorite ridin’ pony.
“Here’s my commission,” sez he, as self-satisfied as though he was
holdin’ a government document; an’ then he read aloud with that deep,
mellow voice o’ his, the story of the time the Lord was minded to let
himself out a little an’ came into Jerusalem in state. He read it all,
an’ then he paused, looked about, holdin’ each man’s eyes with his own
for a second, an’ then he read once more the part where the Lord had
sent in a couple of his hands after the colt that no man had ever
backed before—an’ then he closed the book, patted it gentle an’
shoved it back into the leather bag. I looked around on the posse, an’
most of ’em was rubbin’ their chins, an’ studyin’. I’ve noticed that
while the earth is purty well cluttered up with pale-blooded an’
partially ossified Christians, the’s mighty few out an’ out atheists
among ’em.
“That don’t go,” sez Badger-face, after he’d taken time to pump up his
nerve a little.
No one said anything for a space, an’ then the stranger put a little
edge on his voice, but spoke in a lower tone than before: “That does
go,” he said. “No matter what else in life may be questioned, no
matter how hard and fast a title may stick, it must crumble to dust
when one comes and says, ‘The Lord hath need of this.’ It may be your
life or it may be your property or it may be the one being you love
most in all the world; but when the Lord hath need, your own needs
must fall away.
“Now, boys, I love the West, I glory in the fact that I can lay
something down and go on about my business an’ come back a month later
and find it just where I left it; and if I was takin’ these hosses to
sell or trade or use for my own selfish ends, why, I wouldn’t have a
word to say again’ your stringin’ me up. I brought my own hoss into
this country and when it gave out I didn’t have time to barter an’
trade for another one; so I just caught one, and when it grew weary, I
turned it adrift. I don’t claim the hosses I ride; I don’t want to own
them; I simply borrow them for a while because my Lord hath need of
them. I treat them well, and when they weary, send ’em back to their
own range with a pat, and pick up another. The next fellow who rides
that hoss will find it a little less trouble than if I hadn’t used it,
and there’s no harm done at all. I’m working with you, I’m going to
make your own work easier out here by raisin’ the respect for brands,
not by makin’ property rights any looser; and you are goin’ to work
with me—whether you want to or not. Now then, how much longer are you
goin’ to keep this fool noose about my neck?”
That posse wasn’t easy minded, not by a jugful. This stranger was
speakin’ as though he had power an’ authority an’ public opinion all
on his side, and they felt consid’able like the tenderfoot who’d roped
the buffalo—they was willin’ to quit any time he was.
The Cross brand boys were purty sullen an’ moody; but four o’ the
posse belonged to another outfit, an’ they couldn’t stand the strain.
One of ’em, a grizzled old codger with one lamp missin’, lifted the
noose from the prisoner’s neck, an’ sez most respectful: “Parson, I’m
an old man. I ain’t heard a sermon for forty years, an’ I’d be right
obliged to ya if you’d make us one.”
Badger-face, he snorted scornful; but the rest of the posse was
scattered all the way from repentance to sheepishness, an’ the
stranger he stepped to a little rise an’ he certainly did speak us a
sermon. First off, he sang us St. Andrew’s hymn—I got to learn a good
many of his songs after this, but o’ course at that time I was as shy
on hymns as the rest o’ the crowd.
I tell you it was wonderful up in that little park, with the lush
grass for a carpet, the spruce trees for panelin’, the bare peaks
stickin’ out for rafter-beams, the blue sky above for ceiling, and
that soft, deep voice fillin’ the whole place an’ yet stealin’ into a
feller’s heart as easy an’ gentle as a woman’s whisper. He sort o’
beat time as though playin’ on an instrument, until before he was
through we were all hummin’ in time with him—an’ then he preached.
He told us about the fisher folks an’ how they lived out doors under
the stars the same as we did; and that this was probably why the Lord
had chose ’em first to follow him. He said that city folks got to
relyin’ on themselves so much ’at they was likely to forget that the
whole earth was still held in the hollow of the hand which had created
it; but that men who lived with nature, out under the sun and the
stars, through the heat and the cold, the wind and the rain, the
chinook and the blizzard, felt the forces and the mysteries all about
them and this kept ’em in touch, even when they didn’t know it
themselves, with the great central Intelligence back o’ these forces
and mysteries. Then he told ’em how grand their lives might be if they
would only give up their nasty little habits of thought, and learn to
think broad and free and deep, the same as they breathed.
He told ’em ’at their minds could breathe the inspiration of God as
easy as their lungs could breathe the pure air o’ the mountains, if
they’d only form the habit. Then he talked to ’em friendly an’
confidential about their natural devilment. He didn’t talk like a
saint speakin’ out through a crack in the gates o’ Paradise, like most
preachers do. He called the turn on the actual way they cut up when
they went to town, and just how it hurt ’em body an’ soul; and his
face grew set and earnest, and his eyes blazed; and then he said a few
words about mothers an’ children and such, and wound up with a short
prayer.
Well two o’ those fellers owned up right out in public and said that
from that on they was goin’ to lead a decent sort of life; and one
other said ’at he didn’t have any faith in himself any longer; but he
insisted on signin’ the pledge, and said if that worked, why, he’d go
on an’ try the rest of it.
The preacher shook hands with ’em all around—he had a grip ’at
wouldn’t be no disgrace for a silver-tip—an’ then he sez that if any
of ’em has the notion that bein’ a Christian makes a weakling of a
man, why, he’s willin’ to wrastle or box or run a race or shoot at a
mark or do any other sort of a stunt to show ’at he’s in good order;
but they size him up and take his word for it.
“Now, boys,” sez he, “I hope we’ll meet often. I’m your friend, and I
want you to use me any time you get a chance. Any time or any place
that I can serve one of you, just get me word and I’ll do the best I
can. It don’t matter what sort o’ trouble you get into, get me word
and I’ll help—if I can find a way. And I wish ’at you’d speak it
around that I’m hard on hosses, so that the other fellows will
understand when I pick one up, and not cause any delay. I’ll have to
hurry along now. Good-bye; I’m sorry I’ve been a bother to ya.”
He swung up on the big roan, waved his hand and trotted out o’ the
park; and just as he went down the pass on the other side, it seemed
that he couldn’t hold it in any longer; so he opened up his voice in
his marchin’ song again, an’ we all stayed silent as long as we could
hear the sound of it.
“Well we are a lot of soft marks!” sez Badger-face at last.
“That there is a true man,” replied old Grizzly, shakin’ his head,
“an’ I’ll bet my boots on it.”
This seemed to be the general verdict, an’ the Cross brand fellers
went off discussin’ the parson, an’ me an’ Spider Kelley collected our
ponies an’ went along to the ranch, also discussin’ him.
That was the first time I ever saw Friar Tuck; I made up my mind about
him just from hearin’ his voice, an’ before I ever saw him; but I
never had to make it up any different. New lead an’ new steel look
consid’able alike; but the more ya wear on lead, the sooner it wears
out, while the more you wear on steel, the brighter it gets. The Friar
was steel, an’ mighty well tempered.