The next day Horace walked easier ’n any of us. Now I’m tellin’ this
to ya straight ’n’ you can believe it or not just as ya please; but
that little cuss stepped right along, began to notice the scenery, an’
even cracked a few jokes now an’ again; while me an’ Tank just plodded
with our minds fixed on the meal we were goin’ to get that night.
Horace had give up all thought o’ meals, so they didn’t pester him
any.
At the end of the third day Horace had lost his appetite complete.
Friar Tuck had swore that hunger didn’t worry a man more ’n three
days, an’ sure enough, it didn’t. Horace didn’t care whether he ever
et again or not. He’d get a little dizzy when he’d start out, an’ once
in a while he’d feel a bit fainty; but as far as bein’ ravenous went,
me an Tank had him beat a mile.
“Where is the joke o’ this fool trip?” growled Tank to me on the
evenin’ of the fourth day as we were eatin’ the supper Spider Kelley
had brought out. “He ain’t a human at all, Horace ain’t; he’s a
reptile, an’ can live without food.”
Spider was tickled a lot, and said he didn’t care if he did lose his
bet, that it was worth it to find how everlastin’ tough a little
half-hand like Horace could be when drove to it. I’d been thinkin’ it
over all day, but I didn’t say anything.
Friar Tuck had said it was a question of will power, more ’n anything
else: that if a man just held his thoughts away from food it wouldn’t
bother him; but if he kept thinkin’ of it, the digestin’ juices would
flow into his stomach an’ make him think he was starvin’; so I was
minded to try a new plan next day.
“Spider,” I sez, “you put a cow an’ calf up in Nufty’s Corral”—which
was the name of a little shut-in park we would go through the next
afternoon. “Put ’em there in the mornin’, a cow with an off brand, if
you can find one, an’ trim their hoofs down close, so they won’t go
back to the bunch. Remember ’at we’re on foot, an’ trim ’em close
enough to make it hurt ’em to walk. I’m goin’ to make Horace hungry if
I can.”
“I hate to play again’ him and my own bet,” sez Spider; “but I’ll have
the cow there, just to see what you’re up to. If you’re goin’ to
butcher it, though, I don’t see why a young steer wouldn’t be better.”
“I’ll count on you havin’ it there,” sez I; an’ then Spider rode back
to the ranch house, an’ me an’ Tank went to sleep.
Next mornin’ me an’ Tank put the cartridges out of our belts into our
pockets. As soon as we started to walk I began to talk about my
hunger, an’ weakness, an’ the empty feelin’ in my head an’ stomach. At
first Horace didn’t pay any heed; but from the start, ol’ Tank
Williams caught every symptom I suggested; until I feared he’d curl up
on the trail an’ die o’ starvation. Finally, though, Horace began to
pay heed to my suggestions, an’ to sigh an’ moan a little. What
finally got him was my gnawin’ at my rope an’ gauntlet. Tank an’ I had
saved our ropes, ’cause we expected to have need of ’em; and when noon
came an’ I sat with a stupid look in my face, chewin’ first the rope,
an’ then the wrist o’ the gauntlet, Horace began to have some of the
symptoms I was fishin’ for. Finally he borrowed one o’ my gauntlets,
an’ after he had munched on it a while, he was as hungry as any one
could wish.
“I can’t go another peg,” he sez when I got up to start on again.
“How does that come?” I asked him. “When we stopped to rest you was
feelin’ more chipper ’n any of us.”
“I’m dyin’ o’ hunger,” he replied, solemn. “I’ve got a gnawin’ pain in
my stomach, an’ I’m all in. I fear my stomach is punctured or stuck
together or somethin’.”
I had had a lot o’ discussions with Friar Tuck about the power o’
suggestion; but I had never took much stock in it. I could see now,
though, that it actually did work. As long as Horace was tellin’
himself that everything was all right, why, it was all right. Then
when I suggested ’at we were dyin’ of hunger, why, he actually began
to die of hunger; an’ it was wonderful to see the change in him. He
showed us how he had ganted down; and the fact was, his bones had
become purty prominent without any help from suggestin’. He didn’t
have any more belly ’n a snake; but his eyes were bright, an’ his skin
clear, except that it was peelin’ off purty splotchy, from sun-burn.
We finally left him an’ started on; and after we’d got some distance,
he staggered after us; but he was just goin’ on his nerve now, an’ not
gettin’ much joy out of existence.
About four in the afternoon, we reached Nufty’s Corral, a fine little
park with only a narrow entrance at each end. Horace was up with us by
this time, an’ we were all ploddin’ along head down. Suddenly Horace
grabbed us by the arms. “Hush!” he sez.
“What’s up?” sez I, lookin’ at him.
“Look,” he whispers, pointin’ at the cow an’ calf; “there’s food.”
We drew back an’ consulted about it. “The great danger after a fast,”
I sez in warnin’, “lies in overeatin’. All we can do is to drink a
little blood for the first few hours.”
“Why can’t we broil a steak over some coals?” sez Horace.
“It would kill us to eat steak now,” sez I.
He held out for the steak; but I finally sez that if he won’t promise
to be temperate an’ eat only what I tell him, I’ll drive off the cow;
and then he comes around, and agrees to it.
“You sneak around to the far openin’, Tank,” I sez, then I pauses, an’
looks at him as though shocked. “Where’s your cartridges, man?” I
asked.
Tank felt of his belt, and seemed plumb beat out, then he looked at
mine, an’ yelled, “Where’s yours?”
We both sat down on stones an’ went over what we had done every minute
o’ the time since we had started out; until Horace became frantic, an’
sez: “What’s the difference what became of ’em? Your revolvers are
loaded. You can sure kill one cow out o’ twenty-four shots.”
“Twenty shots,” I corrected. “We allus carry the hammer on an empty
chamber; an’ I’m so bloomin’ weak I doubt if I could hit a cow in ten
shots.”
Horace turned loose an’ told us what he thought of us, an’ it was
edifyin’ to hearken to him—he hit the nail on the head so often.
Finally I sez: “Well, a man can do no more than try—Go ahead, Tank,
but don’t let her get by you, whatever happens.”
The cow, which was a homely grade-whiteface with a splotch on her nose
which made it look as if most of the nose had been cut off, stood in
the center of the park, an’ she was beginnin’ to get uneasy, although
the wind was from her way.
As soon as Tank got to his entrance he shot in the air; an’ she came
chargin’ down on me. I shot over her, an’ she charged back. We kept
this up until Horace lost patience an’ called me a confounded dub.
“Here,” sez I, “the’s two cartridges left. You fire ’em, I won’t.”
At first he refused, but he was desperate, and finally after I’d told
him to use both hands, he took a shot. The cow was standin’ closest to
us, but lookin’ Tank’s way, an’ Horace nicked her in the ham. Instead
of chargin’ Tank, like a sensible cow, she came for us head on. Now,
when a bull charges, he picks out somethin’ to steer for, then closes
his eyes, and sets sail; but a cow keeps her eyes open, an’ she don’t
aim to waste any plunges either. Horace stood out in the center of the
entrance an’ banged away again, strikin’ the ground about ten feet in
front of him.
“Run!” I yells to him, jumpin’ back behind a big rock, “Run!”
He forgot all about bein’ hungry, an’ he started to backtrail like a
scared jack-rabbit. The cow had forgot all about havin’ had her hoofs
pared, an’ she took after him like a hungry coyote. As she passed me,
I roped her, took a snub around the rock, an’ flopped her; but she did
just what I thought she’d do—rolled to her feet an’ took after me.
She was angry. I’d have given right smart for a tough little pony
between my knees.
[Illustration: The cow had forgot all about havin’ had her hoofs
pared, an’ she took after him like a hungry coyote]
The rock was too big to get a half hitch over, so I just ran at right
angles from her, hopin’ to stretch out more rope ’n she could cover. I
did it by a few feet; but she swung around into my rope head on, an’
this flung me up again’ her side. I managed to hang on to the rope,
however, an’ this fixed her, ’cause she’d have had to pull that rock
over before she could ’a’ come any farther. Horace had stopped an’ was
gappin’ at us from a safe distance; but Tank arrived by this time an’
put another rope on her an’ we had her cross-tied between two big
rocks by the time Horace arrived.
“What ya goin’ to kill her with?” he asked, his eyes dancin’ like an
Injun’s at the beef whack-up.
“My cartridges are all gone,” sez Tank.
“Mine too,” sez I.
“Can’t you use a knife, or a stone?” sez Horace, the dude.
“You can try it if you want to,” sez I; “but hanged if I will.”
He took a big stone an’ walked to the head of the cow, but his nerve
gave out, an’ he threw down the stone. “What in thunder did you tie
her up for, then?” sez he.
“I beg your pardon,” sez I, “but I thought perhaps she might be a
little vexed with you on account o’ your shootin’ her up. She was
headed your way.”
He sat down on a stone an’ looked at the cow resentful. Suddenly his
face lit up. “Why don’t you milk her?” sez he. “We can live on milk
for weeks.”
It’s funny how much alike hungry animals look. As Horace sat on the
stone with his anxious face, his poppin’ eyes, his mussed up
side-burns, an’ the water drippin’ from his mouth at thought o’ the
milk, he looked so much like a setter pup I once knew that it was all
I could do to hold a straight face.
“Do you know how to milk, Tank?” I sez.
“I don’t,” sez Tank; “nor I don’t know what it tastes like.”
“Go ahead an’ milk her, Mr. Bradford,” I sez. “You’re the only one
what knows how to milk, or who cares to drink it. What you goin’ to
milk it in?”
“I never milked in my life,” sez he; “but I saw it done once when I
was a boy, an’ I’m goin’ to try to milk in my hat.”
He had a bad time of it; but he only got kicked twice, an’ both times
it was short, glancin’ blows, not much more ’n shoves. Finally, he
came over to where me an’ Tank was settin’ an’ flopped himself down
beside us. “Can’t you strangle her with those ropes?” he sez, in what
might well be called deadly earnest.
We shook our heads, an’ continued to sit there lookin’ at the cow as
though we expected she’d point the way out of our trouble. Presently
the calf remembered his own appetite, an’ rushed up an’ gave a
demonstration of what neat an’ orderly milkin’ was. Horace sighed.
“Gee, I bet that’s good,” he said, the water drippin’ from his lips
again. He had been four days without food, walkin’ all that time
through the mountains, sleepin’ out doors with no cover but a slicker;
and he had about burned up all his waste products, which Friar Tuck
said was a city man’s greatest handicap. His eyes got a little red as
he watched the calf, an’ I saw that he meant to slaughter it; so I sez
to him: “That’s the way to milk, Mr. Bradford. Why don’t you sneak up
on the other side an’ try it that way, the same time the calf is?”
He studied a moment, an’ then shook his head. “No, she could tell me
from the calf,” he said sorrowful. “Our foreheads are shaped
different, an’ I’d have to get down on my hands and knees. She’d tell
me in a minute, an’ I don’t want to be on my hands an’ knees when she
kicks me.”
“We could throw an’ hog-tie her,” sez Tank; “and you could get it easy
an’ comfortable. Would you want us to do that, Mr. Bradford?”
Horace jumped to his feet an’ shook his fist in Tank’s face. “Don’t
call me Mister again,” he yelled. “I’m plumb sick of it. If I ever
live to get another bath an’ back East where the’s food in plenty,
why, I’ll take up the Mister again; but now that I’ve got to a point
where I have to suck milk from a hog-tied cow, you call me Horace, or
even Dinky—which was my nickname at school. Yes, for heaven’s sake,
tie the cow. I have to have milk, an’ that’s the only way I see to get
it.”
Well, Tank an’ I was so full o’ laugh we could hardly truss up the
cow; but we finally got her on her back so ’at she couldn’t do nothin’
but snap her tail, an’ then Horace threw his hat on the ground, an’
started in. I was entirely joyful: I knew ’at Spider Kelley, an’ as
many o’ the boys as could sneak away, were watchin’ us from up on the
hill, an’ this was the grand triumph of my treatment for nerves.
Horace approached the cow with consid’able caution, as she was in an
awkward position. The calf had been interrupted in his meal, before he
had squenched his thirst, an’ he was still prospectin’ about on his
own hook.
“Here,” said Horace, givin’ him a push, “this is my turn.”
You know how a calf is: a calf ain’t afeared o’ nothin’ except hunger.
Here was his food-supply bein’ robbed, right when he was needin’ it.
He blatted down in his throat, an’ tried to nose Horace out of the
way. Horace was findin’ that milk the best stuff he had ever tasted,
an’ he fought off the calf with his right hand, while he steadied
himself by puttin’ his left on the hind leg o’ the calf’s mother, an’
got a nice coat o’ creamy froth in his side-burns. He was so blame
hungry he didn’t see a speck o’ humor in it; but me an’ Tank nearly
died.
“Say,” sez Horace, raisin’ his head, the milk drippin’ from his lips,
“can’t one o’ you fellers fend off this calf till I finish?”
Tank held the calf while I advised Horace to be temperate, an’ after a
bit he gave a sigh an’ said, that that was all he could hold just
then, but not to let the cow escape. We loosened her, left one o’ the
ropes on for a drag picket, an’ took off the other. She was purty well
subdued; but we refused to give Horace any more milk that night, an’
he went to sleep before we had a fire built. Spider Kelley was
wabblin’ with laughter when he brought us our supper. He had been the
only one who could stay after bringin’ up the cow; but he said he
wouldn’t ’a’ missed it for three jobs.