The Diamond Dot, while it was about the idealest ranch in the West
from most standpoints, was run a little loose. Jabez didn’t have any
luxurious tastes, and he wasn’t miserly; so he didn’t strain things
down to the last penny—not by a whole lot. All he asked was to have
his own way and be comfortable; and so he allus kept more punchers ’n
he had actual need of, and unless they got jubilant over imposin’ on
him, he just shut his eyes and grinned about it.
Takin’ his location and outfit into account, and he just simply
couldn’t help but make money; so we all had a fairly easy time of it
and grew tender feelin’s, the same as spoiled children; which is why
we sometimes quit, for we never had any other excuse for it.
Barbie was a notice-takin’ child, if ever the’ was one; and she stood
out for company as a general and standin’ order. Company didn’t affect
ol’ Cast Steel one way or the other; they were just the same to him as
a couple o’ hundred head o’ ponies, more or less; and so the news got
out that we allus had a lot of extra beds made up and any one was
welcome to stretch out in ’em who wanted to. The result o’ this was,
’at we drew visitors as easy as molasses draws flies. I lived at the
home house on account o’ bein’ Barbie’s pal, and so I got into the
habit o’ bein’ a sort of permanent reception committee. Some o’ these
visitors was a plague to me; but Jabez didn’t like to run any risk of
havin’ ’em ruined beyond repair, so it was generally understood that I
had to use ex-treme caution when I started in to file the clutch off
their welcome.
This spring ’at I have in mind, we had as visitor one o’ the
easternest dudes I was ever tangled up with. He came out for his
health, which is the excuse most of ’em gives; but this one took more
ways of avoidin’ health ’n airy other of ’em I ever saw. He smoked
cigars all day long, big black ones, strong enough to run a sawmill,
he ate fattenin’ food from mornin’ till night, and when he drove out
in the buckboard to take his exercise, he suffered from what he called
fatigue. He used to sit up as wide awake as an owl till along about
ten every night; and half the time he didn’t crawl out until near
seven in the mornin’. He certainly was a pest!
What he complained of most, was his nerves; and he’d sit for hours,
talkin’ about ’em to anything ’at had ears. He said the worst of it
was, he couldn’t sleep nights. I had, of course, heard o’ nerves
before ever I saw him; but I had never heard of ’em turnin’ to and
devilin’ a man, the way his did; so at first I was honestly
interested, and asked him all I could think up about ’em; but after a
day or so, I’d ’a’ been perfectly willin’ to put up the coin out o’ my
own pocket to have him go to a dentist and have every last one of his
nerves pulled.
I don’t begrudge sympathy to any afflicted individual; but the more I
sympathized with this feller, the more affectionate toward me he got;
and he used to trot about after me, warbilin’ out dirges about his
nerves until I was tempted to tie a stone around his neck and lose him
down the cistern.
He ran to language, too, this one did. His conversation was so full of
it that a feller could scarcely understand what he was tryin’ to say.
He was ferociously interested in the ancient Greeks; and if a man
succeeded in wedgin’ him away from his nerves, he began immediate to
discourse about these ancient Greeks. Now, I didn’t have a single
thing again’ any o’ these ancient Greeks before this Dude struck us,
none of ’em ever havin’ crossed my trail before; but they sure did
have a rotten outfit o’ names, and they were the most infernal liars
’at ever existed. Three-headed dogs, and women with snakes for hair,
were as common in their tales as thieves among the Sioux. Barbie
didn’t have any use for this Eastener either; so I decided to fit him
out with a deep-rooted desire for home influences.
I took ol’ Tank Williams into my confidence, he bein’ the most
gruesome lookin’ creature we had in our parts. He was a big man of
curious construction and he had one eye which ran wild. Tank never
knew what this free eye was up to; and while he would be examinin’ the
ground, the free eye would be gazin’ up at a tree as intent as though
he had set it to watch for a crow. Durin’ his younger days, Tank had
formed the habit of indulgin’ in gang fights as much as possible, and
all of his features had been stampeded out o’ their natural orbits;
but this free eye beat anything I ever see.
They had him down on his back one time, and he was gnawin’ away
contentedly at some feller’s thumb, when the feller reached up his
trigger finger and scooped out Tank’s eye. The shape and color weren’t
hurt a bit; but some o’ the workin’ parts got disconnected, so that he
couldn’t see with it; but it appeared to be full as good an eye as the
one he looked with.
All the sleep Tank ever wanted was six hours out o’ the twenty-four,
and he didn’t care how he got ’em—ten minutes at a time, or all in
one lump. He could sleep sittin’ up straight, or ridin’, or stretched
out in bed, or most any way. I think he could sleep while walkin,’
though I was never able to surprise him at it. He agreed to back me
up, and Spider Kelley also said he was willin’ to do everything in his
power to furnish our guest some pleasant recollections after he’d gone
back to a groove which fitted him better.
As soon as I began to plan my trip, I started to rehearse curious
secrets about Tank to the Eastener, whose name was Horace Walpole
Bradford. I told Horace that Tank had a case o’ nerves which made his
’n seem like a bundle of old shoe-laces; and that if something wasn’t
done for him soon, I feared he was goin’ to develop insanity. I said
that even now, it wasn’t safe to contrary him none, and that I’d be a
heap easier in my own mind if Tank was coralled up in a cell
somewhere, with irons on.
I didn’t tell Tank what sort of a disposition I was supplyin’ him with
for fear he’d overdo it. Tank didn’t know a nerve from an ingrowin’
hair; but when he and Horace paired off to tell each other their
symptoms, I’ll have to own up that his tales of anguish an’ sufferin’
made Horace’s troubles sound like dance music.
I told Horace that a trip through the mountains would soothe and
invigorate him, until he’d be able to sleep, hangin’ by his toes like
a bat; but the trouble was to find something which interested him
enough to lure him on the trip. There was a patent medicine almanac at
the place, and I studied up its learnin’ until I had it at my tongue’s
end, and I also used a lot o’ Friar Tuck’s health theories; so that I
got Horace interested enough to talk my eardrums callous; but not
enough to take the trip.
I didn’t know much about nerves; but I was as familiar with sleep as
though I had graduated from eleven medical colleges, and I knew if he
would just follow my directions, it would give him such an appetite
for slumber that he’d drop into it without rememberin’ to close his
eyelids. Ol’ Jabez happened to mention an Injun buryin’ ground with
the members reposin’ on top o’ pole scaffolds, and this proved to be
the bait. Horace wanted to see this, and it was a four days’ drive by
buckboard; so I heaved a sigh o’ relief and prepared to do my duty.
When all was ready, we packed our stuff in the good buckboard, putting
in an extra saddle for the accident we felt sure was goin’ to happen.
Spider started as driver, while I rode behind, leadin’ a horse with
Tank’s saddle on, though Horace thought it was Spider’s. We had told
him that it made our backs ache to ride in a buckboard all day, so we
would change off once in a while. Horace wanted to do the drivin’
himself; but we pointed out that he wasn’t used to our kind o’ roads,
and consequently favored the little hills too much. He was inhumanly
innocent, and it was almost like feedin’ a baby chalk and water.
We trotted along gentle, until the rear spring came loose goin’ down a
little dip to a dry crick bed, about ten miles out. We talked it over
and decided ’at the best plan would be for Spider to drive back and
get the old buckboard; so after unloadin’ our stuff, I took the tap
out o’ my pocket, fixed the spring, tied a rope about it to deceive
Horace, and Spider drove back for the old buckboard which had been
discarded years before, but which we had fixed up for this trip and
painted until it looked almost safe to use.
Before long we saw the buckboard comin’ back; but much to our
surprise, Tank Williams was drivin’ it, an’ givin’ what he thought was
the imitation of a nervous man. He would stand up an’ yell, crack his
mule-skinner, and send the ponies along on a dead run. He came up to
us, and said that he had had an attack o’ nerves, hadn’t slept a wink
the night before; and when Spider Kelley had refused to let him go in
his place, he had torn him from the seat an’ had trampled him.
“I trampled him,” sez Tank solemnly, his free eye lookin’ straight
into the sun. “I hope I didn’t destroy him; but in my frenzy I
trampled him.”
Horace looked worried. “Tank,” sez I soothin’ly, “we don’t really need
any one else along. You just help us to load, an’ then go back, like a
good feller.”
Tank stood up on the seat, an’ held the whip ready. “My life depends
on me takin’ this trip!” he yelled. “My life depends on it; it depends
on it, I tell you. My life depends on me takin’ this trip!”
He went on repeatin’ about his life dependin’ on his takin’ that trip,
until I made a sign to Horace, and said ’at we’d better let him go
along. Horace wasn’t ambitious to be trampled; so he concluded to
concur, an’ climbed into the seat beside Tank. Any one else would ’a’
noticed that it was Tank’s saddle on the hoss I was leadin’; but
Horace never noticed anything which wasn’t directly connected with his
own body. He didn’t even have any idee that the sun had set habits in
the matter o’ risin’ an’ settin’—which was another fact I had took
into account.
We were drivin’ four broncs to the buckboard, an’ they was new to the
game and in high spirits. Tank was also in high spirits, an’ we went
at a clip which was inspirin’, even to sound nerves. We did our level
best to give Horace somethin’ real to worry about, an’ from the very
start his nerves was so busy handin’ in idees an’ sensations that his
mind was took up with these instead of with the nerves themselves as
was usual.
Well, we sure had a delightful ride that afternoon: every time ’at
Horace would beseech Tank to be more careful in swingin’ around
down-hill curves, Tank would seize him by the arm with his full
squeezin’ grip, an’ moan: “It’s my nerves, my pore nerves. This is one
o’ the times when I’m restive, I got to have action; my very life
depends on it! Whoop, hit ’em up—Whee!” an’ he’d crack his
mule-skinner about the ears o’ the ponies, an’ we’d have another
runaway for a spell.
Horace hadn’t the mite of an idee in which direction he was travelin’;
all he did was to hang on and hope. The confounded buckboard was
tougher ’n we had figured on, and it didn’t bust until near dark. As
they went up the slope, I could see the left hind wheel weavin’ purty
rapid, an’ as they tore down the grade to Cottonwood Crick, things
began to creak an’ rattle most threatenin’. We had decided to camp on
the crick, an’ Tank swung up his team with a flourish. The hind wheel
couldn’t stand the strain, an’ when it crumbled, Horace, an’ the rest
o’ the baggage, whip-crackered off like a pinwheel. Of course when one
wheel went, the others dished in company, an’ the whole thing was a
wreck.
The ponies were comfortable weary, an’ after I had roped one an’ the
rest had fallen over him, we soothed ’em down without much trouble,
an’ started to make camp. Horace was all in, an’ was minded to sit on
his shoulder blades an’ rest; but this wasn’t part o’ the plan, an’ we
made him hustle like a new camp-boy. As soon as supper was over, he
lit a cigar, an’ prepared to take a rest. We had decided that those
big, black cigars wasn’t best for his nerves, so we had smuggled out
the box, an’ had worked a little sulphur into all but the top row. He
lit his cigar and gave us one apiece, but he was so sleepy he couldn’t
keep his on fire; and it was comical to watch him.
Every time he’d nod off, Tank would utter an exclamation, an’ walk up
an’ down, rubbin’ his hands an’ cussin’ about his nerves. Horace was
dead tired from bein’ jounced about on the buckboard all day; but he
was worried about Tank, an’ this would wake him effectual.
About ten o’clock I sez: “Tank, what happened that night when you got
nervous up in the Spider Water country?”
“Oh, don’t ask me, don’t ask me,” sez Tank, gittin’ up an’ walkin’ off
into the darkness.
“I wish to glory he hadn’t come along,” I sez to Horace. “I fear we’re
goin’ to have trouble; but chances are that a good night’s rest’ll
quiet him, all right.”
Purty soon Tank came back, lit his pipe, an’ sat facin’ Horace with
his lookin’ eye, an’ everything else in the landscape with his free
one. “You know how it is with nerves,” he sez to Horace. “You perhaps,
of all them I have ever met up with, know how strained and twisted
nerves fill a man’s heart with murder, set his teeth on edge and put
the taste of blood in his throat; so I’m goin’ to tell the whole o’
that horrid experience, which I have never yet confided to a livin’
soul before. Have you got a match?”
Tank’s pipe allus went out at the most interestin’ times; and he
couldn’t no wise talk without smokin’. We all knew this; so whenever
Tank got headed away on a tale, we heaved questions at him, just to
see how many matches we could make him burn. He’d light a match and
hold it to his pipe; but he allus lit off an idee with the match, and
when he’d speak out the idee, he’d blow out the match. Or else he’d be
so took up by his own talkin’, he’d hold the match until it burnt his
fingers; then, without shuttin’ off his discourse, he’d moisten the
fingers on his other hand, take the burnt end of the match careful,
and hold it until it was plumb burnt up, without ever puttin’ it to
his pipe. I didn’t want to waste matches on this trip so I told Horace
to hand Tank his cigar. Horace had already wasted two cigars, besides
the ones he had given us; and I wanted him to get to the sulphur ones
as soon as convenient.
Tank’s mind was preoccupied with the tale we had made up; so he took
Horace’s fresh cigar, lit his pipe by it, threw the cigar into the
fire, and said moodily: “He was unobligin’. Yes, that cross-grained
old miner was unobligin’. Of course, I wouldn’t have done it if I
hadn’t been nervous; but I say now, as I’ve allus thought, that he
brought it on himself by bein’ unobligin’.”
Tank’s gloomy tones had wakened Horace up complete; and as he started
to light another cigar, I got ready for bed. “You two have already got
nerves,” I sez to ’em; “but I don’t want to catch ’em, so I’ll sleep
alone, and you can bunk together.” I unrolled my tarp close to the
fire and crawled into it, intendin’ to take my rest while I listened
to Tank unfold his story.
It was a clean, fresh night, just right for sleepin’; and it almost
seemed a shame to put that innocent little Eastener through his
treatment; but it was for his own good so I stretched out with a sigh
o’ content, and looked at the other two by the fire.
Horace was short and fat around the middle with stringy arms and legs.
He wore some stuff he called side-burns on his face. They started up
by his ears, curved along his jaws and were fastened to the ends of
his stubby mustache. He kept ’em cropped short and, truth to tell,
they were an evil-lookin’ disfigurement, though he didn’t seem to feel
a mite o’ shame at wearin’ ’em. His face was full o’ trouble, and yet
he was so sleepy he had to hitch his eyebrows clear up to his hair to
keep his eyes open. Tank’s face never did have what could rightly be
called expressions. His features used to fall into different kinds o’
convulsions; but they were so mussed up it was impossible to read ’em.
I looked at these two a minute, and then I had to pull my head under
the tarp to keep from laughin’.