Next mornin’ we fed Horace all the milk he could hold, an’ tried to
drive the cow along with us; but her hoofs had been pared so thin that
it made her cross an’ we had to give that projec’ up.
“How far are we from the ranch house?” asked Horace.
“About sixty miles,” sez Tank.
“That’s what I thought,” sez he. “Now, I can’t see any sense in all of
us hoofin’ that distance. I’d go if I knew the way; but one of you
could go, an’ the other stay with me an’ the cow. Then the one which
went could bring back food on the buckboard, and it would be as good
as if we all went.”
Now this was a fine scheme; but neither Tank nor I had thought of it.
We had intended to follow our own windin’ circle back every step o’
the way; but when the milk set Horace’s brain to pumpin’, he fetched
up this idee which saved us all a lot o’ bother.
“I shall go myself,” sez Tank; “weak as I am, I’ll go myself.”
It was only about fifteen or twenty miles by the short cut, an’ this
would get him back to regular meals in short order; so he left me his
rope an’ set out. Horace helped me with the cow that night, an’ he
proved purty able help. He was feelin’ fine, an’ the milk had filled
him out wonderful. He said he hadn’t felt so rough ’n’ ready for
twenty years; but Spider Kelley failed to arrive with my meal that
night, and I went to bed feelin’ purty well disgusted. Tank had met
him before noon that day, an’ he had gone in for a hoss; and they had
decided that it would be a good stunt to give me some o’ my own
treatment.
Next mornin’ I felt as empty as a balloon; so after Horace had enjoyed
himself, I took a little o’ the same, myself; but I didn’t take it
like he did. I held my mouth open an’ squirted it in, an’ it was
mighty refreshin’.
“Huh,” sez Horace, “you’re mightily stuck up. The calf’s way is good
enough for me.”
“I got a split lip,” I sez, half ashamed o’ myself.
They left us there three days to allow for the time it would have
taken Tank to walk if it had been as far as we claimed it was; and
then Tillte Dutch drove out the buckboard. He said ’at Spider an’ Tank
had quit and gone into Boggs for a little recreation; but after I had
eaten my first meal out o’ the grub he brought, I didn’t bear ’em any
ill will. The joke was on me as much as it was on Horace; but I’d ’a’
gone through twice as much to test that theory, an’ I’d had the full
worth o’ my bother. Horace was a new man: he was full o’ vim an’ snap,
an’ he gave me credit for it an’ became mighty friendly an’
confidential.
He stood up in the buckboard an’ made a farewell speech to the cow
which lasted ten minutes. He also apologized to the calf, an’ told him
that when he got back East, he would raise his hat every time he
passed a milk wagon. He sure felt in high spirits, and made up a
ramblin’ sort of a song which lasted all the way back to the house. It
had the handiest tune ever invented and he got a lot o’ fun out of it.
It began:
“Oh we walked a thousand miles without eatin’ any food,
An’ then we met a cow an’ calf, an’ gee, but they looked good!
Her eyes like ancient Juno’s were so in-o-cent an’ mild,
We couldn’t bear to take her life, we only robbed her child.
She strove to save the lactual juice to feed her darling boy;
So we had to fling her on her back to fill our souls with joy.
Now Tank an’ Happy were too proud to compete with a calf,
So they sat them down an’ dined on wind, while they weakly
tried to laugh.
I’m but a simple-minded cuss, not proud like one of these;
So I filled myself so full of milk, I’m now a cottage cheese.”
Horace was as proud o’ this song as though it was the first one ever
sung. He used the same tune on it that blind men on corners use. I
reckon that tune fits most any sort of a song; it’s more like the
“Wearin’ of the Green” than anything else but ten times sadder an’
more monotonous. He said he had once wrote a Greek song at college but
it wasn’t a patch on this one, and hadn’t got him nothin’ but a medal.
I used to know twelve or eighteen verses, but I’ve forgot most of it.
It was a hard one to remember because the verses wasn’t of the same
length. Sometimes a feller would have to stretch a word all out of
shape to make it cover the wave o’ the tune, an’ sometimes you’d have
to huddle the words all up into a bunch. Horace said that all high
class music was this way; but it made it lots more bother to learn
than hymns.
The verse which pleased me the most was the forty-third. Horace
himself said ’at this was about as good as any, though he liked the
seventy-ninth one a shade better, himself. The forty-third one ran:
“A cow-boy does not live on milk, that’s all a boy-cow’ll drink;
But the cow-ma loves the last the most, which seems a funny think,
I do not care for milk in pans with yellow scum o’er-smeared.
I like to gather mine myself; and strain it through my beard.”
I never felt better over anything in my life than I did over returnin’
Horace in this condition. It was some risk to experiment with such a
treatment as mine on a feller who regarded himself as an invalid; but
here he was, comin’ back solid an’ hearty, with his shape shrunk down
to normal, an’ full o’ jokes an’ song.
Tillte Dutch had been one o’ the braves in Spider’s Injun party; so
when we got in, about ten in the evenin’, he lured the rest o’ the
pack out to the corral, an’ we agreed not to make the details of our
trip public. The ol’ man wouldn’t have made a whole lot o’ fuss seein’
as it had turned out all right; but still, he was dead set on what he
called courtesy to guests; and he might ’a’ thought that we had played
Horace a leetle mite strong. Barbie noticed the change in Horace and,
o’ course, she pumped most o’ the story out o’ me.
Horace himself was as game a little rooster as I ever saw. He follered
me around like a dog after that, helpin’ with my chores, an’ ridin’
every chance he had. He got confidential, an’ told me a lot about
himself. He said that he hadn’t never had any boyhood, that his mother
was a rich widow, an’ was ambitious to make a scholar out of him; that
she had sent him to all kinds o’ schools an’ colleges an’
universities, and had had private tutors for him, and had jammed his
head so full o’ learnin’ that the’ wasn’t room for his brain to beat;
so it had just lain smotherin’ amidst a reek of all kinds o’ musty old
facts. He said that he never had had time for exercise, and had never
needed money; so he had just settled into a groove lined with books
an’ not leadin’ anywhere at all. He said that since his mother’s death
he had been livin’ like a regular recluse, thinkin’ dead thoughts in
dead languages, an’ not takin’ much interest in anything which had
happened since the fall o’ Rome; but now that he had learned for the
first time what a world of enjoyment the’ was in just feelin’ real
life poundin’ through his veins, he intended to plunge about in a way
to increase the quality, quantity, and circulation of his blood.
Ya couldn’t help likin’ a feller who took things the way he did—we
all liked him. He told us to treat him just as if he was a
fourteen-year-old boy, which we did, an’ the’ wasn’t nothin’ in the
way of a joke that he wasn’t up against before the summer was over;
but he came back at us now an’ again, good an’ plenty.
Tank an’ Spider tossin’ up their jobs had left me with more work on my
hands ’n I generally liked, so I had to stick purty close to the line
until they went broke an’ took on again. Then one day me an’ Horace
took a ride up into the hills. We had some lunch along and about noon
we sat down in a grassy spot to eat it. We had just finished and had
lighted our pipes for a little smoke when we heard Friar Tuck comin’
up the trail. I hadn’t seen him for months, an’ I was mighty glad to
hear him again. He was fair shoutin’, so I knew ’at things was right
side up with him. He was singin’ the one which begins: “Oh, come, all
ye faithful, joyful an’ triumphant,” and he shook the echoes loose
with it.
Horace turned to me with a surprised look on his face; “Who’s that?”
he sez.
“That’s Friar Tuck,” sez I, “an’ if you’ve got any troubles tell ’em
to him.”
“Well, wouldn’t that beat ya!” exclaimed Horace, an’ just then the
Friar came onto our level with his hat off an’ his head thrown back.
He was leadin’ a spare hoss, an’ seemed at peace with all the world.
When he spied me, he headed in our direction, an’ as soon as he had
finished the chorus, he called: “Hello, Happy! What are you hidin’
from up here?”
I jumped to my feet, an’ Horace got to his feet, too, an’ bowed an’
said: “How do ya do, Mr. Carmichael?”
A quick change came over the Friar’s face. It got cold an’ haughty;
and I was flabbergasted, because I had never seen it get that way
before. “How do you do,” he said, as cheery an’ chummy as a
hail-storm.
But he didn’t need to go to the trouble o’ freezin’ himself solid;
Horace was just as thin skinned as he was when it was necessary, an’
he slipped on a snuffer over his welcomin’ smile full as gloomy as was
the Friar’s. I was disgusted: nothin’ pesters me worse ’n to think a
lot o’ two people who can’t bear each other. It leaves it so blame
uncertain which one of us has poor taste.
Well, we had one o’ those delightful conflabs about the weather an’
“how hot it was daytimes, but so cool an’ refreshin’ nights,” an’, “I
must be goin’ now,” an’ “oh, what’s the use o’ goin’ so soon”—and so
on. Then Horace an’ the Friar bowed an’ the Friar rode away as silent
an’ dignified as a dog which has been sent back home.
“Well,” sez Horace, after we’d seated ourselves again, “I never
expected to see that man out here. I wouldn’t ’a’ been more surprised
to have seen a blue fish with yaller goggles on, come swimmin’ up the
pass.”
“Oh, wouldn’t ya?” sez I. “Well, that man ain’t no more like a blue
fish with goggles on than you are. He’s ace high anywhere you put him,
an’ don’t you forget that.”
“You needn’t arch up your back about it,” he sez. “I haven’t said
anything again’ him. I gave up goin’ to church on his account.”
“That’s nothin’ to brag about,” sez I. “A man’ll give up goin’ to
church simply because they hold it on Sunday, which is the one day o’
the week when he feels most like stackin’ up his feet on top o’
somethin’ an’ smokin’ a pipe. A man who couldn’t plan out an excuse
for not goin’ to church wouldn’t be enough intelligent to know when he
was hungry.”
“You must ’a’ set up late last night to whet your sarcasm!” sez
Horace, swellin’ up a little. “Why don’t you run along and hold up a
screen, so ’at folks can’t look at your parson.”
“How’d you happen to quit church on his account?” sez I.
“He was only a curate, when I first knew him,” sez Horace.
“He’s a curate yet,” sez I. “I tried one of his cures myself, lately;
an’ it worked like a charm.” I turned my head away so ’at Horace
wouldn’t guess ’at he was the cuss I had tried it on.
“A curate hasn’t nothin’ to do with doctorin’,” sez Horace. “A curate
is only the assistant of the regular preacher which is called a
rector. The curate does the hard work an’ the rector gets the big
pay.”
“That’s the way with all assistants,” sez I; “so don’t bother with any
more details. Why did you quit goin’ to church?”
“I quit because he quit,” sez Horace.
“What did he quit for,” sez I; “just to bust up the church by drawin’
your patronage away from it?”
“He quit on account of a girl,” sez Horace; an’ then I stopped my
foolishness, an’ settled down to get the story out of him. Here I’d
been wonderin’ for years about Friar Tuck; an’ all those weeks I had
been with Horace I had never once thought o’ tryin’ to see what he
might know.