Ty stood in his door as the Friar rode up, and he recognized him from
the description Badger-face had turned in. Badger-face had been purty
freely tongue-handled for not havin’ lynched the Friar, and Ty Jones
was disposed to tilt his welcome even farther back than usual; so he
set his pack on the Friar. He had six dogs at this time, mastiffs with
a wolf-cross in ’em which about filled out his notion o’ what a dog
ought to be.
The Friar had noticed the dogs, but he didn’t have an idee that any
man would set such creatures on another man; so he had dismounted to
get a drink o’ water from the crick, it havin’ been a hot ride. The
pack came surgin’ down on him while he was lyin’ flat an’ drinkin’ out
o’ the crick. His ponies were grazin’ close by, and as soon as he saw
’at the dogs meant business, he vaulted into the saddle just in time
to escape ’em.
They leaped at him as fast as they came up, and he hit ’em with the
loaded end of his quirt as thorough as was possible. He was ridin’ a
line buckskin with a nervous disposition, and the pony kicked one or
two on his own hook; but as the Friar leaned over in puttin’ down the
fifth, the sixth jumped from the opposite side, got a holt on his arm
just at the shoulder, an’ upset him out of the saddle. In the fall the
dog’s grip was broke an’ he and the Friar faced each other for a
moment, the Friar squattin’ on one knee with his fists close to his
throat, the dog crouchin’ an’ snarlin’.
As the dog sprang, the Friar upper-cut him in the throat with his left
hand and when he straightened up, hit him over the heart with his
right. He says that a dog’s heart is poorly protected. Anything ’at
didn’t have steel over it was poorly protected when the Friar struck
with his right in earnest. The dog was killed. One o’ the dogs the
pony had kicked was also killed, but the other four was able to get up
and crawl away.
The Friar shook himself and went on to where Ty Jones and a few of his
men were standin’. “That’s a nice lively bunch o’ dogs you have,” sez
he, smilin’ as pleasant as usual; “but they need trainin’.”
“They suit me all right,” growls Ty, “except that they’re too blame
clumsy.”
The Friar looked at him a minute, and then said drily, “Yes, that’s
what I said; they need trainin’.”
Ty Jones scowled: “They don’t get practice enough,” sez he. “It’s most
generally known that I ain’t a-hankerin’ for company; so folks don’t
usually come here, unless they’re sure of a welcome.”
“I can well believe you,” said the Friar, laughin’, “and I hope the
next time I come I’ll be sure of a welcome.”
“It’s not likely,” sez Ty shortly.
The Friar just stood and looked at him curiously. He didn’t believe
that Ty could really mean it. The’ wasn’t a streak of anything in his
own make-up to throw light on a human actin’ the way ’at Ty Jones
acted; so he just stood and examined him. Ty stared back with a sneer
on his face, and I’m sorry I couldn’t have been there to see ’em
eyein’ each other.
“Do you really mean,” sez the Friar at last, “that you hate your
fellow humans so, that you’d drive a perfect stranger away from your
door?”
“I haven’t any use for hoss-thieves,” sez Ty.
The Friars face lighted. “Oh, that’s all right,” sez he in a relieved
tone. “As long as you have a special grievance again’ me, why, it’s
perfectly natural for you to act up to it. It wouldn’t be natural for
most men to act up to it in just this way, but still it’s normal;
while for a man to set his dogs on a total stranger would be
monstrous. I’m glad to know ’at you had some excuse; but as far as
hoss-stealin’ goes, that roan is back with your band again. I saw him
as I came along.”
Ty was somewhat flabbergasted. He wasn’t used to havin’ folks try out
his conduct and comment on it right to his face; and especially was he
shocked to have his morals praised by a preacher. He knew ’at such a
reception as had just been handed to the Friar would have taken the
starch out o’ most men an’ filled ’em with a desire for revenge ever
after; but he could see that the Friar was not thinkin’ of what had
been handed to him, he was actually interested in himself, Ty Jones,
and was honestly tryin’ to see how it was possible for such a
condition to exist; and this set Ty Jones back on his haunches for
true.
“For all time to come,” he sez slow and raspy, “I want you to leave my
stuff alone. If you ever catch up and ride one of my hosses again,
I’ll get your hide; and I don’t even want you on my land.”
Then the Friar stiffened up; any one in the world, or any thing, had
the right to impose upon the Friar as a man; but when they tried to
interfere with what he spoke of as his callin’, why, he swelled up
noticeable. The Friar’s humility was genuine, all right; but it was
about four times stiffer an’ spikier than any pride I’ve ever met up
with yet.
“I shall not ride your hosses,” sez he, scornful, “nor shall I tread
upon your land, nor shall I breathe your air, nor drink your water;
but in the future, as in the past, I shall use for the Lord only those
things which belong to the Lord. The things which are the Lord’s were
His from the beginning, the things which you call yours are merely
entrusted to your care for a day or an hour or a moment. I do not
covet your paltry treasures, I covet your soul and I intend to fight
you for it from this day forward.”
The Friar spoke in a low, earnest tone; and Ty Jones stared at him. Ya
know how earnest an insane man gets? Well, the’ was something o’ this
in the Friar when he was talkin’ business. You felt that he believed
that what he was sayin’ was the truth, and you felt that if it was the
truth, it was mighty well worth heedin’, and you also felt that in
spite of its bein’ so everlastin’ different from the usual view o’
things, it might actually be the truth after all and a risky thing to
pass up careless.
After waitin’ a minute without gettin’ a reply, the Friar turned on
his heel to walk away, stumbled, and slipped to the ground, and then
they noticed a pool of blood which had dripped from him as he stood.
He had forgotten that the dog had torn him, an’ the men had looked
into his eyes, as men always did when he talked, and they had forgot
it, too. Now, when he fell, Olaf the Swede stepped forward to help him
up.
Olaf was the best man ’at Ty Jones had, from Ty’s own standpoint. Ty
had happened to be over at Skelty’s one night when Skelty was givin’ a
dance. Skelty had six girls at this time, an’ he used to give a dance
about once a week. Along about midnight, they got to be purty lively
affairs. This night Skelty had bragged what a fine shot he was, an’
the boys were kiddin’ him about it, because Skelty wasn’t no shot at
all as a rule. It was a moonlight night, and while they was sheepin’
Skelty about his shootin’, two strangers rode up, tied their hosses to
the corral, an’ started up the path toward the door.
Skelty looked at ’em an’ sez, “Why, if I had a mind to, I could pick
one o’ those fellers off with this gun as easy as I could scratch my
nose.” He pulled his gun and held it over his shoulder.
All the boys fair hooted, an’ Skelty dropped his gun an’ shot one o’
the strangers dead in his tracks. The other came along on the run with
Skelty shootin’ at him as fast as he could pop; but he only shot him
once, through the leg, and he limped in an’ made for Skelty with his
bare hands. Skelty hit him in the forehead, knocked him down an’
jumped on him. He kept on beatin’ him over the head until the stranger
managed to get a grip on his wrists. He held one hand still, an’
puttin’ the other into his mouth, bit off the thumb.
The’s somethin’ about bein’ bit on the thumb which melts a man’s
nerve; and in about five minutes, the stranger had Skelty’s head
between his knees, and was makin’ him eat his own gun. It must have
been a hideous sight! Some say that he actually did make Skelty eat
it, and some say that he only tore through the throat; but anyway,
Skelty didn’t quite survive it, and Ty Jones hired the stranger, which
was Olaf the Swede.
Olaf was one o’ those Swedes which seem a mite too big for their
skins. The bones in his head stuck out, his jaws stuck out prodigious,
his shoulders stuck out, his hands stuck out—he fair loomed up and
seemed to crowd the landscape, and he was stouter ’n a bull. When he
let himself go he allus broke somethin’; but he had a soft streak in
him for animals, an’ Ty never could break him from bein’ gentle with
hosses, nor keep him from pettin’ the dogs once in a while. Olaf
hadn’t no more morals ’n a snake at this time, an’ when it came to
dealin’ with humans, he suited Ty to the minute; but he just simply
wouldn’t torture an animal, and that was the end of it. Olaf wasn’t a
talkin’ man; he never used a word where a grunt would do, and he was
miserly about them; but he certainly was set in his ways.
The Friar hadn’t fainted, he had just gone dizzy; so when Olaf gave
him a lift he got to his feet and walked to his horse. He allus
carried some liniment an’ such in his saddle bags, an’ he pulled off
his shirt and cleaned out the wound and tied it up, with Olaf standin’
by and tryin’ to help. Now, it made something of a murmur, when the
Friar took off his shirt. In the first place, the dog had give him an
awful tear, and for the rest, the Friar was a wonderful sight to
behold. He was as strong as Olaf without bein’ bulgey, and his skin
was as white and smooth as ivory. He was all curves and tapers with
medium small hands and feet, and a throat clean cut and shapely like
the throat of a high-bred mare. Olaf looked at him, and nodded his
head solemnly. Badger-face hated Olaf, because Olaf had a curious way
of estimatin’ things and havin’ ’em turn out to be so, which made Ty
Jones put faith in what Olaf said, over and above what any one else
said.
As soon as the Friar had finished tyin’ up the wound, he turned and
walked up to Ty Jones. “Friend,” he said, “I don’t bear you a grain o’
malice, and nothing you can ever do to me will make me bear you a
grain o’ malice. I know a lot about medicine, and perhaps I can help
you that way sometime. I want to get a start with you some way; I want
to be welcome here, and I wish ’at you’d give me a chance.”
“Oh, hell!” sneered Ty Jones. “Do you think you can soft-soap me as
easy as you did the boys? You’re not welcome here now, and you never
will be. I’ve heard all this religious chatter, and there’s nothin’ in
it. The world was always held by the strong, by the men who hated
their enemies and stamped them out as fast as they got a chance; and
it always will be held by the strong. Your religion is only for
weaklings and hypocrits.”
The Friar’s face lighted. “Will you discuss these things with me?” he
asked. “I shall not eat until this scratch is healed, I have my own
bed and will not bother you; won’t you just be decent enough to invite
me to camp here, give me free use of water, and grass for my hosses,
while you and I discuss these things fully?”
“I told you I didn’t want you about, and I don’t,” sez Ty. “The’s
nothin’ on earth so useless as a preacher, and I can’t stand ’em.”
“Let me work for you,” persisted the Friar. “All I ask is a chance to
show ’at I’m able to do a man’s work, and all the pay I ask is a
chance to hold service here on Sundays. If I don’t do my work well,
then you can make me the laughin’ stock o’ the country; but I tell you
right now that if you turn me away without a show, it will do you a
lot more harm than it will me.”
Ty thought ’at probably the Friar had got wind o’ some of his
devilment, and was hintin’ that his own neck depended on his men
keepin’ faith with him; so he stared at the Friar to see if it was a
threat.
The Friar looked back into his eyes with hope beamin’ in his own; but
after a time Ty Jones scowled down his brows an’ pointed the way ’at
the Friar had come. “Go,” sez he, stiff as ever. “The’ ain’t any room
for you on the Cross brand range; and if ya try anything underhanded,
I’ll hunt ya down and put ya plumb out o’ the way.”
So the Friar he caught his ponies and hit the back trail; but still it
had been purty much of a drawn battle, for Ty Jones’s men had used
their eyes and their ears, and they had to give in to themselves ’at
the preacher had measured big any way ya looked at him; while their
own boss had dogged it in the manger to a higher degree ’n even they
could take glory in.
As the Friar rode away, he sagged in his saddle with his head bent
over; and they thought him faint from his wound; but the truth was,
that he was only a little sad to think ’at he had lost. He was human,
the Friar was; he used to chide himself for presumptin’ to be
impatient; but at the same time he used to fidget like a nervous hoss
when things seemed to stick in the sand; and he didn’t sing a note as
long as he was on the Cross brand range—which same was an uncommon
state for the Friar to be in, him generally marchin’ to music.