I’m only about twice as old as I feel; but I’ve certainly seen a lot
o’ changes take place out this way. I can look back to the time when
what most of us called a town was nothin’ but a log shack with a
barrel of cheap whiskey and a mail-bag wanderin’ in once a month or
so, from goodness-knows-where. I’ve seen the cattle kings when they
set their own bounds, made their own laws, and cared as little for
government-title as they did for an Injun’s. Then, I’ve seen the sheep
men creep in an inch at a time until they ate the range away from the
cattle and began to jump claims an’ tyrannize as free and joyous as
the cattle men had. Next came the dry farmer, and he was as comical as
a bum lamb when he first hove into sight; but I reckon that sooner or
later he’ll be the one to write the final laws for this section.
We’re gettin’ a good many towns on our map nowadays, we’re puttin’ up
a lot o’ hay, we’re drinkin’ cow milk, and we’re eatin’ garden truck
in the summer. The old West has dried up and blown away before our
very eyes, and a few of us old timers are beginnin’ to feel like the
last o’ the buffalo. The’s more money nowadays in boardin’ dudes ’n
the’ is in herdin’ cattle, an’ that’s the short of a long, long story.
But still we hammered out this country from the rough, and no one can
take that away from us. The flag follers trouble, an’ business follers
the flag, an’ law follers business, an’ trouble follers the law; but
always the first trouble was kicked up by boys who had got so ’at they
couldn’t digest home cookin’ any longer and just nachely had to get
out an’ tussle with nature an’ the heathen.
They’re a tough, careless lot, these young adventurers; an’ they’re
always in a state of panic lest the earth get so crowded the’ won’t be
room enough to roll over in bed without askin’ permission; so they
kill each other off as soon as possible, and thus make room for the
patienter ones who follow after. From what I’ve heard tell of history,
this has been about the way that the white race has managed from the
very beginning.
As a general rule it has been purt’ nigh a drawn fight between the
dark-skins an’ the wild animals; then the lads who had to have more
elbow-room came along, and the dark-skins and the wild animals had to
be put onto reservations to preserve a few specimens as curiosities,
while the lads fussed among themselves, each one tryin’ to settle down
peaceable with his dooryard lappin’ over the horizon in all
directions. Room, room, room—that was their constant cry. As soon as
one would get a neighbor within a day’s ride, he’d begin to feel shut
in an’ smothered.
Tyrrel Jones was one o’ the worst o’ this breed. He came out at an
early date, climbed the highest peak he could find, and claimed
everything ’at his gaze could reach in every direction. Then he
invented the Cross brand, put it on a few cows, and made ready to
defend his rights. The Cross brand was a simple one, just one straight
line crossin’ another; and it could be put on in about one second with
a ventin’ iron, or anything else which happened to be handy. Tyrrel
thought a heap o’ this brand, an’ he didn’t lose any chances of
puttin’ it onto saleable property. His herd grew from the very
beginning.
His home ranch was something over a hundred miles northwest o’ the
Diamond Dot; but I allus suspicioned that a lot of our doggies had the
Cross branded on to ’em. Tyrrel was mighty particular in the kind o’
punchers he hired. He liked fellers who had got into trouble, an’ the
deeper they was in, the better he liked ’em. Character seeks its
level, the same as water; so that Tyrrel had no trouble in gettin’ as
many o’ the breed he wanted as he had place for. They did his
devilment free and hearty, and when they had a little spare time, they
used to devil on their own hook in a way to shame an Injun.
The sayin’ was, that a Cross brand puncher could digest every sort o’
beef in the land except Cross brand beef. Tyrrel used to grin at this
sayin’ as though it was a sort of compliment; but some o’ the little
fellers got purty bitter about it. When a small outfit located on a
nice piece o’ water, it paid ’em to be well out o’ Ty’s neighborhood.
No one ever had any luck who got in his road; but his own luck boomed
right along year after year. He allus kept more men than he needed;
an’ about once a month he’d knock in the head of a barrel o’ whiskey,
an’ the tales they used to tell about these times was enough to raise
the hair. Ty would work night an’ day to get one of his men out of a
scrape; but once a man played him false, he either had to move or get
buried. He wasn’t a bad lookin’ man, except that he allus seemed keyed
up an’ ready to spring.
His men all had to be top-notch riders, because he hadn’t any use for
a gentle hoss; he didn’t want his hosses trained, he wanted ’em
busted, an’ the cavey he’d send along for a round-up would be about as
gentle and reliable as a band o’ hungry wolves. If a man killed a
hoss, why Ty seemed to think it a good joke, an’ this was his gait all
the way along—the rougher the men were, the better they suited him.
He kept a pack o’ dogs, and the men were encouraged to kick an’ abuse
’em; but if one of ’em petted a dog, he was fired that instant—or
else lured into a quarrel. The’ didn’t seem to be one single soft spot
left in the man, an’ when they got to callin’ him Tyrant Jones instead
of Tyrrel, why, it suited him all over, an’ he used it himself once in
a while.
The next time I saw Friar Tuck, he recognized me at first glance, an’
his face lit up as though we had been out on some prank together an’
was the best pals in the world ever since. He wanted to know all I
knew about the crowd that had started to string him up; and when I had
finished paintin’ ’em as black as I could, what did he do but say that
he was goin’ up their way to have a talk with ’em.
I told him right out that it was simply wastin’ time; but he was set
in his ways, so I decided to ride part way with him. He had two hosses
along this trip, with his bed an’ grub tied on the spare one; and on
the second day we reached a little park just as the sun was setting.
It was one o’ the most beautiful spots I ever saw, high enough to get
a grand view off to the west, but all the rest shut in like a little
room. He jumped from his hoss, had his saddle off as soon as I did,
and also helped me with the pack. Then he looked about the place.
“What a grand cathedral this is, Happy!” he sez after a minute.
I didn’t sense what he meant right at first, and went on makin’ camp,
until I happened to notice his expression. He was lookin’ off to the
west with the level rays of the sun as it sank down behind a distant
range full in his face. The twilight had already fallen over the low
land and all the hazy blues an’ purples an’ lavenders seemed to be
floatin’ in a misty sea, with here an’ there the black shadows of
peaks stickin’ out like islands. It really was gorgeous when you
stopped to give time to it.
It had been gruelin’ hot all day, an’ was just beginnin’ to get cool
an’ restful, and I was feelin’ the jerk of my appetite; but when I
noticed his face I forgot all about it. I stood a bit back of him,
half watchin’ him, an’ half watchin’ the landscape. Just as the sun
sank, he raised his hands and chanted, with his great, soft voice
booming out over the hills: “The Lord is in His holy temple—let all
the earth keep silence before Him.”
He bent his head, an’ I bent mine—I’d have done it if the’d been a
knife-point stickin’ again’ my chin. I tell you, it was solemn! It
grew dark in a few moments an’ the evening star came out in all her
glory. It was a still, clear night without a speck in the air, and she
was the only star in sight; but she made up for it, all right, by
throwing out spikes a yard long.
He looked up at it for a moment, and then sang a simple little hymn
beginnin’, “Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh; shadows of the
evening steal across the sky.” It didn’t have the ring to it of most
of his songs; it was just close an’ friendly, and filled a feller with
peace. It spoke o’ the little children, and those watchin’ in pain,
and the sailors tossin’ on the deep blue sea, and those who planned
evil—rounded ’em all up and bespoke a soothin’ night for ’em; and I
venture to say that it did a heap o’ good.
Then he pitched in an’ helped me get supper. This was his way; he
didn’t wear a long face and talk doleful; he was full o’ life an’
boilin’ over with it every minute, and he’d turn his hand to whatever
came up an’ joke an’ be the best company in the world; but he never
got far from the Lord; and when he’d stop to worship, why, the whole
world seemed to stop and worship with him.
We had a merry meal and had started to wash up the dishes when he
happened to glance up again. He had just been tellin’ me a droll story
about the first camp he’d ever made, and how he had tied on his pack
so ’at the hoss couldn’t comfortably use his hind legs and had bucked
all his stuff into a crick, an’ I was still laughin’; but when he
looked up, my gaze followed his. It was plumb dark by now, an’ that
evening star was fair bustin’ herself, and the light of it turned the
peaks a glisteny, shadowy silver. He raised his hands again and
chanted one beginning: “Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is
within me, praise His holy name.”
The’ was a part in this one which called upon all the works o’ the
Lord to praise Him, and I glanced about to see what was happenin’. A
faint breeze had sprung up and the spruce trees were bowin’ over
reverently, the ponies had raised their heads and their eyes were
shinin’ soft and bright in the firelight as they looked curiously at
the singer; and as I stood there with a greasy skillet in my hand,
something inside of me seemed to get down on its knees, to worship
with the other works o’ the Lord.
It was one o’ those wonderful moments which seem to brand themselves
on a feller’s memory, and I can see it all now, and hear the Friar’s
voice as it floated away into the hills until it seemed to be caught
up by other voices rather than to die away.
Well, we sat up about the fire a long time that night. He didn’t fuss
with me about my soul, or gettin’ saved, or such things. I told him
the things I didn’t understand, and he told me the things he didn’t
understand; and I told him about some o’ my scrapes, and he told me
about some o’ his, and—well, I can’t see where it was so different
from a lot of other nights; but I suppose I’d be sitting there yet if
he hadn’t finally said it was bedtime.
He stood up and looked at the star again, and chanted the one which
begins: “Lord, now let thy servant depart in peace”; after which he
pulled off some of his clothes and crawled into the tarp. I crawled in
beside him about two minutes later; but he was already asleep, while I
lay there thinkin’ for the best part of an hour.
Next mornin’ he awakened me by singin’, “Brightest and best of the
sons of the morning”; and after that we got breakfast, and he started
on to Ty Jones’s while I turned back to the Diamond Dot. I didn’t
think he’d be able to do much with that gang; but after the talk I’d
had with him the night before, I saw ’at they couldn’t do much to him,
either. I had got sort of a hint at his scheme of life; and there
isn’t much you can do to a man who doesn’t value his flesh more ’n the
Friar did his.