Horace had left, I felt purty lonely for a while. It’s hard for me to
look back and keep things in regular order; because the different
lines cross each other and get mixed up. Always, little Barbie’s
affairs came first with me; but I reckon most of you have heard her
story, so I’m keepin’ shy of it this time. First of all there was my
innermost life, which would have been mostly mine no matter where I’d
gone; then there was the part of my life which touched Barbie’s, and
this was the best and the highest part of it; and then there was the
part which touched Friar Tuck an’ a lot of others, each one of which
helped to make me what I am; but back of it all was my work; so it’s
not strange if I find it hard to stick to the trail of a story.
Anyway, it was while I was feelin’ lonesome about Horace leavin’ that
the Friar first began to use me as a trump card, and called on me for
whatever he happened to want done. I was mighty fond o’ bein’ with the
Friar; so I lent myself to him whenever I could, and we got mighty
well acquainted. He loved fun of a quiet kind; but the’ was allus a
sadness in his eyes which toned down my natural devilment and softened
me. The’ was lots o’ things I used to enjoy doin’, which I just
couldn’t do after havin’ been with the Friar a spell, until I had give
myself a good shakin’, like a dog comin’ up out o’ water.
For several quiet years about this time, I used to act as scout for
him, now and again, goin’ ahead to round up a bunch when he had time
to give ’em a preachin’; or goin’ after him when some one who couldn’t
afford a doctor was took sick. We talked about purt’ nigh everything,
except that some way, we didn’t talk much about women; so I was never
able to pump his own story out of him, though he knew exactly how I
felt toward Barbie, long before I did myself.
Durin’ these years, the Friar tried his best to get on terms with the
Ty Jones crowd; but they refused to get friendly, and the more he did
to make things better in the territory, the more they hated him.
It was right after the spring round-up that I first heard the Friar’s
name mixed up with a woman. This allus makes me madder ’n about
anything else. When a man and a woman sin, why, it’s bad enough, and
I’m not upholdin’ it; but still in a way it’s natural, the same as a
wolf killin’ a calf. It’s the cow-puncher’s business to kill the wolf
if he can, and he ought to do it as prompt as possible. This is all
right; but gossip and scandal is never all right.
Gossip and scandal is like supposin’ the wolf had only wounded the
calf a little, and a posse would gather and tie the two of ’em
together, the wolf and the wounded calf; and take ’em into the center
square of a town and keep ’em tied there for all to see until they had
starved to death; and then to keep on stirrin’ up the carrion day
after day as long as a shred of it remained.
The Friar was allus a great one to be talkin’ about the power of
habits. He said that if folks would just get into the habit of lookin’
for sunshiny days, an’ smilin’ faces an’ noble deeds, and such like,
that first thing they knew they’d think the whole world had changed
for the better; but instead o’ this they got into the habit of lookin’
for evil, and as that was what they were on the watch for, o’ course
they found it. He said it was like a cat watchin’ for a mouse. The cat
would plant herself in front of the mouse hole and not do anything
else but just watch for the mouse. While she would be on guard, a king
might be assassinated, a city might fall in an earthquake, and a
ship-load o’ people go down at sea; but if the mouse came out and the
cat got it, she would amuse herself with it a while, eat it and then
curl up before the fire and purr about what a fine day it had been,
all because she had got what she had been lookin’ for; and the’s a lot
in this.
Now, when I came to think it over, I hadn’t heard the Friar express
himself very free on women. I had heard him say to allus treat ’em
kind an’ square, the good ones and the bad; but when ya come to ponder
over this, it wasn’t no-wise definite. Still I couldn’t believe ill of
him; so I took a vacation an’ started to hunt him up.
The feller who had told me didn’t know much about it, but the feller
who had told him knew it all. When I found this feller, he was in the
same fix; and he sent me along to the one who had told him. They were
all a lot alike in not knowin’ it all; but I finally found out who the
girl was.
She was a girl named Kit Murray, and she allus had been a lively young
thing with a purty face, an’ could ride an’ shoot like a man. She had
took part in a couple o’ frontier-day exhibitions, and it had turned
her head, and she had gone out with a show. When she had come back,
she had put on more airs ’n ever, and naturally the boys were some
wild about her—though I hadn’t seen her myself.
News o’ this kind travels fast, and I heard buzzin’ about it
everywhere; but it was just like all other scandal. Most people, when
they gossip, believe an’ tell the story which comes closest to what
they’d ’a’ done if they’d had the same chance; and what I figured out
to be true was, that Olaf the Swede and another Cross-brander by the
name o’ Bud Fisher had scrapped about the girl, Olaf near killin’ the
kid and the girl runnin’ off to the Friar. Now, all the good deeds ’at
the Friar had done hadn’t caused much talk; but this news spread like
wild-fire; and a lot o’ those he had helped the most turned again’ him
and said they wished they could find out where he was hidin’.
I took it just the other way; I knew the Friar purty well, and what I
feared most was, that he wasn’t hidin’ at all, and that Olaf would
find him before I could give him warnin’. It was two weeks before I
found the Friar; but once I came upon Olaf, face to face, and we eyed
each other purty close. This was the first time I ever noticed his
eyes. They were the queerest eyes I ever saw, a sort of blue; but a
deeper blue, a bluer blue ’n anything I had ever seen outside a
flower. The’s a flower on the benches in June just the color of his
eyes, a soft, velvety flower; but Olaf’s eyes weren’t soft and velvety
the day we met, and they gave me a queer, creepy feelin’. I hope I
didn’t show it any; but I did feel relieved after I’d passed him.
Finally I found the Friar, just as I might have expected—by the sound
of his voice. I had got clear over into the Basin and was crossin’
through Carter Pass when I heard his voice above me, singin’ one of
his marchin’ songs. I was mightily rejoiced to find him; but I had
that all out of my face by the time I had wound around up to him. He
was totin’ a log on his shoulder, and struttin’ along as jaunty as
though the whole earth was simply his backyard.
“Here,” I growls to him, indignant, “what do you mean by makin’ such a
noise? Haven’t you got a grain o’ gumption!”
He looked up at me with the surprise stickin’ out from under his grin.
“Well, well, well!” sez he. “Who are you—the special officer for the
prevention of noise?”
“I ain’t no special officer of anything,” I answers; “but the’s people
lookin’ for you, and you ought to have sense enough to keep quiet.”
“And I’m lookin’ for people,” sez he, grinnin’ like a boy; “and the
best way to find ’em is by makin’ a noise. The’ ain’t any rules again’
walkin’ on the grass up here, is there?”
“Olaf the Swede is after you on account o’ the gal,” I blunted; “and
he ain’t no bluffer. He intends to do away with you for good and all;
and you’d better be makin’ your plans.”
“Goin’ to do away with me for good an’ all,” he repeats, smilin’.
“Well, Olaf the Swede is a gross materialist. The worst he can do will
be to tear off my wrapper and leave me free to find out a lot of
things I’m deeply interested in. Why, Happy, you’re all worked up!
You’ve lost your philosophy, you’ve become a frettish old woman. What
you need is a right good scare to straighten you up again. This Olaf
the Swede is part of Ty Jones’s outfit, isn’t he?”
“He is,” I replied, shakin’ my head in warnin’, “and the whole gang’ll
back him up in this.”
“Good!” sez the Friar, smackin’ his hand. “I’ve wanted an openin’
wedge into that outfit ever since I came out here. Of a truth, the
Lord doth move in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform.”
“Well, he certainly will have to perform some mysterious wonders to
get you out of this scrape,” I said. I was put out at the way he took
it.
“Don’t be irreverent, Happy,” sez he, the joy-lights dancin’ in his
eyes. “We are all merely instruments, and why should an instrument
take it upon itself to question the way it is used. Where is this
Olaf?”
“I met him yesterday; and for all I know, he’s been followin’ me.”
“Fine, fine!” sez the Friar. “Now, you go on back to the Diamond Dot,
and I’ll go back over your trail and save Olaf as much bother as
possible.”
“I’m goin’ along with you,” I sez.
“No,” sez he.
“Yes,” sez I.
“It’ll make folks think ’at I’m afraid for my skin, and have you along
for protection,” sez he, gettin’ earnest.
“If you had good judgment, you would be afraid for your skin,” sez I.
“I tell you that Olaf is after your blood. He’s one o’ the worst; he
kills with his bare hands when he gets the chance.”
“Fine, fine!” sez the Friar again, his eyes glowin’ joyous. “I’d have
a right to defend myself with my hands, Happy. I would have a right to
do this, for the sake of Olaf, you see—to prevent him from risking
his own soul by committin’ murder. This is a great chance for me,
Happy; now, please, please, go on back like a good fellow.”
I was secretly tickled at the argument the Friar had put up for a
chance at physical warfare—and a barehand fight between him and Olaf
would have been worth goin’ a long way to see—but I was as obstinate
as either of ’em; so I just said ’at I was goin’ along.
“Well, you’re not goin’ with, me,” sez the Friar, as pouty as a
schoolboy. “I’ll not speak to ya, and I’ll not have a thing to do with
ya”; and he threw down his log and glared at me.
I took a certain amount o’ pride because the Friar lived up to his own
standards; but I also found a certain deep-rooted amusement in havin’
him slip out from under ’em for a spell and display a human
disposition which was purty much kindred to my own. “What do you
purpose doin’ with that club, Friar?” I asked, pointin’ to the log he
had flung down.
He pulled in his glare and looked to be a little discomposed. “Why
I—I’m livin’ in a cave I got back there.”
“Are you dead set again’ havin’ a little company?” sez I, slow an’
insinuatin’, “or are ya livin’ alone?”
First off, he was inclined to be resentful, then he grinned,
shouldered his log again, and said: “Come and see.”
I follered him back into the hills until we came to a little park in
which his ponies were grazin’, and then I hobbled mine, cached my gear
alongside his, and trailed after him again. His path turned a crag and
then skirted along the edge of a cliff as straight up and down as the
real truth. The path kept gettin’ narrower, until every time the Friar
turned a corner ahead of me, I expected to see him walkin’ off in the
air with the log still on his shoulder.
Presently I turned a corner around which he had disappeared, and there
wasn’t a soul in sight. The ledge still led along the cliff; but it
had got thinner than a lawyer’s excuse, and a worm couldn’t have
walked along it without hangin’ on. While I stood there puzzlin’ about
it, a hand reached out o’ the side of the cliff, and the Friar’s voice
said mockingly: “Take my hand, little one; and then shut your eyes for
fear you might get dizzy.”
Then I saw a jag of rock stickin’ out just above my head, I grabbed it
with my left hand, and swung around into what was the mouth of a cave.
It was nothin’ but a crack about eighteen inches wide, and the far
side was sunk in enough to keep it hid from where I was standin’. The
Friar was standin’ a few feet back in the entrance with his log
leanin’ up again’ the side. “I know not what other animals may have
sought shelter here,” he said, “but for the past three years this has
been my castle, and, Happy Hawkins,”—here the Friar bowed
low—“obstinate and unreasonable as you are, I offer you a hearty
welcome.”
The Friar said this in fun, but the’ was an undertone to it which
tightened the laces around my heart consid’able. Well, that cave was a
sure enough surprise; he had three or four pelts and a couple of Injun
blankets on the floor, he had a couple o’ barrels fixed to catch snow
water, he had some cookin’ tools; and books! Say, he must have had as
many as a hundred books, all of ’em hard-shells, and lookin’ so
edicated an’ officious that I had to take off my hat before I had
nerve enough to begin readin’ the titles.
After I’d taken everything in, I sat down in an easy chair he’d made
out o’ saplin’s and rawhide, and looked all about; but I couldn’t see
any signs of their bein’ any other rooms to this cave; and then I
jumped square for the mark, and sez: “Friar, the’s a lot o’ talk about
you havin’ run off with Kit Murray. Now I want the straight of it.”
His face went grave and a little hurt. “It’s strange,” he said after a
time, “how hard it is for a man to believe in his own guilt, and how
easy for him to believe in the guilt of his neighbor. Have you had any
dinner?”
“Yes,” sez I. “I didn’t know just where I was headin’; so I et three
different times this mornin’ to make sure of havin’ enough to run on
in case of emergency.”
“It’s a fine thing to be an outdoor animal,” sez the Friar, smilin’.
“Well then, I’ve made up my mind to take you to see Kit Murray.”
He didn’t waste any time askin’ me not to talk about what was other
folks’ affairs; he just went to the door, grabbed the jag of rock,
swung around to the ledge, and I follered after.
We saddled up, rode down a windin’ path ’at I’d never heard of before,
and then rode up again until we came to a little clump o’ swamp
shrubbery, backed up again’ the north face o’ Mount Mizner. We
follered a twisty path through this and finally came out on an open
space in which stood a fair-sized cabin. He whistled a five-note call,
and the door was opened by an old woman who was a stranger to me.
“Mother Shipley, this is Happy Hawkins,” sez he. “How’s Kit?”
The old woman gave me a gimlet look, and then her sharp features
expanded to a smile, and she bobbed her head. “Kit’s gettin’ hard to
manage,” sez she.
We went into the cabin, and found Kit with a bandage around her ankle,
sittin’ in a rockin’ chair, and lookin’ patiently disgusted. She was a
fine-lookin’ girl, with a fair streak of boy in her, and she had never
had enough practice at bein’ an invalid to shine at it. Her face lit
up at the Friar; but her gaze was mighty inquirin’ when she turned it
at me.
“You know Happy Hawkins, don’t ya?” sez the Friar. She nodded her
head, and he went on. “Well, he’s one o’ the fellers you can trust, if
you trust him entire; but he’s got such a bump of curiosity that if
you don’t tell it all to him in the first place, he can’t do no other
work until he finds it out on his own hook. He’s my friend, and he’ll
be your friend; so I want you to tell him just how things are, and
then he’ll be under obligations to do whatever we want him to.”
So Kit cut loose and told me her story. Her father, ol’ Jim Murray,
had got crippled up about ten years before, and since then had become
a professional homesteader, nosin’ out good places, an’ then sellin’
out to the big cattle outfits. He also made it his business to find
ways to drive off genuwine homesteaders; and in addition to this he
was a home tyrant and hard to live with. He allus had plenty o’ money,
but was generally dead broke when it came to pleasant words an’
smiles—which was why Kit had gone off with the show.
While she was away, she had married a low-grade cuss, who had misused
her beyond endurance; so when he had skipped with another woman, she
had come back to the old man. She didn’t want folks ’at knew her to
find out how bad hit she’d been; so she had tried to bluff it out; but
the young fellers kept fallin’ in love with her and wantin’ to marry
her. She hadn’t meant no harm; but she had played one again’ the
other, hopin’ they’d soon have their feelin’s hurt and let her alone.
This was a fool notion, but she had been honest in it.
Bud Fisher, the Texas kid in the Ty Jones outfit, had got daffy about
her; and then one night at a dance she had shot some smiles into the
eyes of Olaf the Swede. She said he was such a glum-lookin’ cuss she
had no idee he would take it serious; but he had stood lookin’ into
her eyes with his queer blue ones, until she had felt sort o’ fainty;
and from that on, he had declared war on all who glanced at her.
Bud Fisher thought it a fine joke for Olaf to fall in love, and he had
teased him to the limit. This made a bad condition, and all through
the spring round-up, each had done as much dirt as possible to the
other; but Ty was mighty strict about his men fightin’ each other; so
they hadn’t come to a clash.
Finally the kid brags that he is goin’ to elope with Kit; and then
Olaf kicks off his hobbles an’ starts to stampede. The kid was wise
enough to vamoose; so Olaf rides down to ol’ man Murray’s, and reads
the riot act to him. Kit was hidin’ in the back room and heard it all.
He told the old man that he would slaughter any one who eloped with
Kit or who had a hand in it; and then he had gone back to hunt the kid
again.
The ol’ man turned in and gave Kit a complete harrowin’ as soon as
Olaf had left and she had told him pointedly that she’d eat dirt
before she’d eat his food again; so she saddled her pony and started
to ride without knowin’ where. Her pony had slipped on Carter Pass and
she had sprained her ankle so bad she couldn’t stand. Just at this
junction, the Friar had come along, and had put her up on his horse
and held her on with one arm about her, because the pain in her ankle
made her head light. On the way they came smack up again’ the kid, and
he gave ’em a grin, and went out without askin’ questions.
He went straight to Olaf, and told him that Kit had eloped with the
Friar. The Friar had brought her up to Shipley’s, they havin’ been
friends of his in Colorado. They had a daughter livin’ up in Billings,
Montana; and as soon as her ankle could stand it, Kit was goin’ up to
live with the daughter, she havin’ three little children and a
railroad husband who was away from home more ’n half the time.
This was the whole o’ the story; but you can easy see what a fine
prospect it made for gossip, and also what a fine time a young imp
like Bud Fisher could have with a sober feller like Olaf. Olaf
wouldn’t have just grounds for makin’ away with Bud for doin’ nothin’
except grin, so long as the Friar remained alive with the girl in his
keepin’. It was a neat little mess; and from what we found out
afterwards, the kid was as irritatin’ as a half-swallered cockle-burr.
Big, silent fellers like Olaf are just like big, new boilers. A little
leaky boiler fizzes away all the time, but when it comes to explode,
it hasn’t anything on hand to explode with; while a big, tight boiler,
when it does go off, generally musses up the landscape consid’able;
and when Olaf started to stampede he made more noise in a week ’n Bud
Fisher had in his whole life.
When Kit had finished tellin’ me the story, I shook hands with her,
and said that while she hadn’t used the best judgment the’ was, she
had probably used the best she had; and that it was more the men’s
fault than hers, so she could count on me as far as I could travel.
Then I went outside while the Friar and ol’ Mother Shipley fixed up
her ankle.
They all seemed pleased about the way it was healin’, and after it was
tied up, Kit stood on it and even took a few steps. It twisted her
face a time or two at first; but after she’d gone across the room and
back a few times, she said it felt better ’n it had for years. This
made us all laugh, ’cause fact was, she hadn’t been housed in near up
to the average of a sprained ankle. The Friar allowed ’at she’d be fit
to travel day after the next; so it was planned to start in the
evenin’, and for both of us to go with her. Then we had an early
supper an’ started home.
On the way, I complained about the foolish way in which Kit had acted,
for the sole purpose of drawin’ the Friar out and gettin’ his views on
women. Nearly always when I got him started, I was able to pick up
some little sayin’ which furnished me with more thought-food than his
blocked-out sermons did.
“Of course Kit was foolish,” he admitted; “but what show has she ever
had? Her father never was fit to bring her up; and he didn’t even do
the best he could. A woman has more vital strength than a man, because
the future of the race depends on her; but she also has more emotions,
so ’at the wear an’ tear is greater. Man, on the other hand, has more
muscle ’n woman, and more brutality. Foolin’ man has been the best way
a woman had to fight for a good many centuries; and this was the way
poor Kit tried to fight. The plain, simple truth generally works best;
but it takes wisdom to see this, and wisdom is seldom anything more
than the dregs o’ folly. The’ was no one to teach Kit wisdom; so she
has had to strain off her own folly; but she is a fine, brave girl,
and I think she will profit by experience.”
Now this was a new thought to me, about wisdom bein’ nothin’ but the
dregs o’ folly; but it’s a good tough thought, and I’ve had a heap o’
chewin’ on it since then; so I feel repaid in havin’ took sides again’
Kit and lurin’ the Friar into heavin’ it at me.
It was dark when we reached his twistin’ path along the ledge, and I
stepped as cautious as a glow-worm in a powder-mill; but as soon as we
had our pipes an’ the fire goin’, I wouldn’t have swapped seats with
the fattest king in the universe.