It’s curious how hard it is, sometimes, to get trouble started. We all
knew ’at the Cross-branders was ready to clean us out, an’ itchin’ for
the job; but the’s one curious little holdback in the make-up of every
healthy animal in the world. Every sane animal the’ is wants
self-defence as his excuse for takin’ life. I admit that now and again
beasts an’ men both get a sort o’ crazy blood-lust, an’ just kill for
the sake of it; but it’s the rare exception.
One of us allus made it a point to go along with Horace; an’ most
times when we’d meet up with any o’ the Cross-branders, they’d never
miss the chance to fling some polite smart talk at him; but the little
cuss could sass back sharper ’n they could, an’ I reckon they was
suspicious that he wouldn’t ’a’ been so cool if he hadn’t had bigger
backin’ than was in sight. It was perfectly natural to think ’at he
had been sent out as a lure by some big cattle outfit, or even the
government; so they went cautious till they could nose out the game.
One day Badger-face an’ the two Greasers came along when Horace was
out ridin’ with Tillte Dutch. Dutch was one o’ these innocent-lookin’
Germans—big, wide-open eyes, a half smile, an’ a sort of a leanin’ to
fat. He never had but one come-back to anything—which was to
splutter; but he was dependable in a pinch.
“Whatever made you so unspeakable little?” sez Badger-face to Horace.
Horace looked behind him, an’ all about, an’ then sez in surprise:
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you,” sez Badger-face. “You seem to dry down a little smaller
each day.”
“Well,” sez Horace, speakin’ in a low secret-tellin’ tone, “I’ll tell
ya; but I don’t want ya to blab it to every one ya see. When I was a
young chap, I used to go with a big, awkward, potato-brained slob,
about your size. I could out-shoot him, out-ride him, run circles
around him, an’ think seven times while he was squeezin’ the cells of
his brain so they’d touch up again’ each other; but one day he made a
bet that he could eat more hog-meat ’n I could; an’ he won the bet.
When I found out that the’ was one single thing ’at this big,
loose-jointed galoot could beat me at, I felt so blame small that I
never got over it, an’ this is why I disguise myself in these
whiskers.”
The two Greasers couldn’t help but grin, an’ the fool Dutchman
sniggered. This was more ’n Badger-face could stand. He shot his hand
across an’ pulled his gun quick as a flash; but Horace didn’t move, he
just sat still, with a friendly smile on his face; an’ Badger-face sat
there with his gun in his hand, scowlin’ jerk-lightnin’ at him.
Spider an’ Slim had gone after meat that day, an’ they came into view
with the carcase of a doe, just as Badger drew his gun. Me an’ Tank
was listed to wrangle in the bunch, an’ we came ridin’ along just
after the other two came into view. The Greasers gave a little cough
an’ Badger-face looked up an’ saw us. It looked like a put-up job, all
right; an’ chariots of fire, but he was mad! Pullin’ a gun on a man is
the same as shootin’ at him. Badger-face had been tricked into givin’
us just grounds to slaughter him, and he wasn’t quite sure what move
to make next. Our outfit had been purty well advertized, through
cleanin’ out the Brophy gang, me an’ Mexican Slim were both two-gun
men an’ known to be quick an’ accurate, while Tank was ever-lastin’ly
gettin’ into trouble, owin’ to his friendly feelin’s for liquor. As we
drew closer we made our smoke-wagons ready, while his two Greasers
kept their hands in plain view, and harmless.
Badger had a trapped look in his face; but he didn’t say anything, an’
he didn’t cover Horace with his gun; he just held it ready. We did the
same with ours, an’ it was the foolest lookin’ group I was ever part
of. Ol’ Tank was the one who finally started things. “Look here,
Badger-face,” he bellowed, “if you so much as harm a hair o’ those
blamed ol’ whiskers, why, we’ll have to put ya out o’ business.”
Horace turned an’ looked at Tank in surprise. “Aw, put up your gun,”
he said. “Badger-face ain’t in earnest. We had an argument the other
day: I said ’at a man lost time crossin’ his hand to pull his gun, an’
he said it could be done quicker that way ’n any other; so to-day he
joked me about bein’ as small in the body as he is in the brain, an’ I
came back at him, also jokin’ in a friendly way; an’ he took this
excuse to pull his gun on me, without any ill intent; but only to
prove how quick he could do it. It stuck in his holster, though; an’
if we’d been in earnest, I’d have had to kill him. I’ve had him
covered all this time; but you can see for yourselves ’at his gun
ain’t cocked. Now put up your guns, and next time, don’t be silly.”
I know ’at Horace didn’t have any gun in his hand when we came up; but
when he stopped speakin’, he pulled his hand with a cocked gun in it
out from under his hoss’s mane, an’ Badger-face was the most surprised
of any of us.
“Come on down to supper, Badger-face, an’ I’ll sing ya my song,” sez
Horace. “We allus seem to have fresh deer meat when you happen along.”
We all put up our guns along with Badger-face, an’ he mumbled some
sort of an excuse an’ rode away with the Greasers. O’ course we’d
ought to ’a’ killed him right then, ’cause he was more full o’ hate
than a rattler; but the simple truth was, that Horace had gained
control over us complete, an’ we let him have his way.
“When did you get that gun in your hand, Horace?” I sez to him after
supper. “You didn’t have no gun when I rode up.”
“That’s what’s puzzlin’ Badger-face right this minute,” sez Horace. “I
didn’t draw that gun until Tank made his talk; but at the same time I
wasn’t as defenceless as I looked. I have told you all the time ’at
that man didn’t have the nerve to harm me. He’s a coward.”
“I reckon you’ll be killed one o’ these days, still believin’ that,”
sez ol’ Tank. “How much fightin’ experience have you ever had?”
“How much did Thesis ever have?” asked Horace.
“Never heard of him,” sez Tank. “Who was he?”
“He was a Greek hero,” sez Horace. “He never had had a fight till he
started out to go to his father; but he cleaned out all the toughs
along the way, an’ when he reached his father, who was king of Athens,
he found ’em just ready to send out seven young men an’ seven maidens,
which they offered up each year to the Minnietor, which was a beast
with the body of a man, and the head of a bull, just like Badger-face.
Thesis volunteered, an’ what he did was to kill the Minnietor an’ end
all that nonsense.”
“Well, I never heard tell o’ that before, an’ I don’t more ’n half
believe it now,” sez Tank; “but I’m willin’ to bet four dollars ’at
the Minnietor didn’t know as much about gunfightin’ as what
Badger-face does. He’ll get ya yet, you see if he don’t.”
“Tell ya what I’m game to do,” sez Horace. “I’m game to go right to Ty
Jones’s ranch house alone. Do ya dare me?”
“No, you don’t do that,” sez I. “That’s a heap different proposition.
Ty Jones wouldn’t pull his gun without shootin’; and besides, he’d
most likely set his dogs on ya.”
“Well, I own up ’at I don’t want no dealin’s with dogs,” sez Horace,
thoughtful. “Dogs haven’t enough imagination to work on. If they’re
trained to bite, why, that’s what they do; but give a human half a
chance, an’ he’ll imagine a lot o’ things which are not so. You
couldn’t tell Badger-face a big enough tale about me to make him doubt
it. I tell ya, I got him scared.”
We didn’t argue with him none; the’ was some doubt about him havin’
Badger-face fooled; but the’ wasn’t any doubt about him havin’ himself
fooled—which is the main thing after all, I reckon. Anyway, we let
Horace sit there the whole evenin’, tellin’ Greek-hero tales which
must have blistered the imagination o’ the feller ’at first made ’em
up.
Along about nine o’clock we began to stretch an’ yawn; but before we
got to bed, Mexican Slim said ’at he heard a noise at the corral, an’
we all looked at one another, thinkin’ it was the Cross-branders; but
Horace was the first one to get back into his boots an’ belt; an’ he
also insisted on bein’ the first to open the door, which he did as
soon as we blew out the candle. Then we all filed out an’ sneaked down
toward the corral; but first thing we knew, a voice out o’ the dark
whispered: “This is me—Olaf. Is everything all right?”
We told him it was, an’ he whistled three times. You could ’a’ knocked
me down with a feather when Kit Murray an’ the Friar came ridin’ up;
an’ then we turned the ponies loose an’ went into the house. It only
had two rooms, countin’ the lean-to kitchen, an’ we made consid’able
of a crowd; but we were all in good spirits, on account of Olaf
gettin’ the girl an’ us bein’ able to hand him back his stuff with not
one head missin’.
It had been some interval since I’d seen Kit Murray, an’ I was
surprised to view the change in her. She didn’t look so much older,
but all the recklessness had gone out of her face, an’ it had a sort
of a quiet, holy look about it. “Kit,” I sez, “I wish ya all the joy
the’ is; but I’d ’a’ been willin’ to have bet my eyes ’at you’d never
take Olaf. I was glad to see him go up after ya, ’cause gettin’
knocked on the head is some better ’n bein’ kept hangin’ on a hook;
but you sure got your nerve with ya. This homestead is purty likely to
get in some other folks’ way.”
Kit had as snappy a pair o’ black eyes as was ever stuck in a face;
and now they flashed out full power. “I know it’s goin’ to be hard to
hold this place,” sez she, “but I reckon I can help a little. I can
ride an’ shoot as well as a man, if I have to, and you know it. I
don’t want anything but the quietest sort of a life the’ is; but I’m
ready to stand for any sort o’ luck ’at comes along. As for Olaf, he’s
the only man in the world for me. I saw something o’ the big cities
back east, an’ Billings, an’ the boys on the range here, and out of
’em all, Olaf’s my man. The thing I hope more ’n anything else is,
that we can die together.”
Her voice caused a hush to come to the room. I had meant to be jovial
an’ hearty; but the’ was an undercurrent of earnestness in her voice
which put a tingle into a feller. Kit Murray had changed a heap, but
all for the better.
Olaf cleared his throat, an’ we all took a look at him. He had
changed, too. He had lost the chained-bear look he generally wore, an’
the’ was a light o’ pride an’ satisfaction in his face which was good
to look upon. “Boys,” he said, “I’ve been purty tough an’ unsociable,
an’ I don’t see why you’ve took so much trouble for me; but I tell ya
right here that I stand ready to square it in any way or at any time I
can. Now, it seems mighty funny ’at Kit Murray should love me, an’ I
can’t account for it any more ’n you can; but I knew right from the
start that she did love me—I could tell by the light. If ever the
time comes that she don’t love me any more, I get out of her way,
that’s all about that; but I’m not goin’ to make her stay here any
longer ’n I have to. I sell out when I get the first chance. Friar
Tuck, he softened my heart, an’ he watched over her. He’s a man.
That’s all I can say.”
Well, this was an all-around noble speech for a stone image like Olaf
had been, an’ we cheered him to the echo; but Horace had sort o’ been
jostled to the outside an’ forgot. Now, he come forward an’ shook Olaf
by the hand an’ congratulated him, an’ sez: “The’s one thing I’d like
mightily to know, an’ that is—what the deuce do you mean by this
light you’re allus alludin’ to?”
Olaf was some embarrassed; but it never seemed to fuss Horace any when
he had turned all the fur the’ was in sight the wrong way; so he just
waited patiently while Olaf spluttered about it.
“I don’t know myself,” sez Olaf. “Always, since I was a little child,
I have seen a floating light about people. I thought every one saw
this light an’ I spoke of it when I was a child an’ asked my mother
about it many times; but at first she thought I lie, an’ then she
thought my head was wrong; so I stopped talkin’ about it; but always I
see it an’ it changes with the feelings and with the health. All the
colors and shades I cannot read, but some I know. I knew that Kit
Murray loved me before she knew it, and I knew that the Friar was a
true man when they told me tales of him. Animals, too, have this
floatin’ light about ’em, an’ I can tell when they are frightened an’
when they are mean. This is why I handle hosses without trouble. Now I
do not know why my eyes are this way; but I have told you because you
have been good friends to me. I do not want you to tell of this
because it makes people think I am crazy.”
“Course it does,” sez Horace. “It made me think you were crazy. I
never heard of anything like this before. Tell me some more about it.”
“There is no more to tell,” sez Olaf. “When I see the flame I do not
see the people. The flame wavers about them, and sometimes I have seen
it at night, but not often. I do nothing to make myself see this way.
Always my eyes did this even when I was only a baby.”
“Well, you have everything beat I ever saw yet,” sez Horace. “What do
you think o’ this, Friar?”
“I never heard of such a case,” sez the Friar; “although it may have
been that many have had this gift to some extent. I think it is due to
the peculiar blue of Olaf’s eyes. I think that this blue detects
colors or rays, not visible to ordinary eyes. I wish that some
scientist would study them.”
“I’ll pay your way back East, Olaf,” sez Horace, “if you’ll have your
eyes tested.”
“No, no,” sez Olaf, shakin’ his head. “I don’t want to be a freak.
What is the use? I can not tell how I do it, so it cannot be learned;
and I do not want things put into my eyes for experiments. No, I will
not do it.”
“Tell me how Badger-face looks to you,” sez Horace.
“Oh, he is bad,” sez Olaf. “He has the hate color, he loves to kill;
but he is like the wolf; he does not like the fight, he wants always
to kill in secret.”
“I bet my eyes are a little like yours,” sez Horace, noddin’ his head.
“I knew ’at Badger-face was this way as soon as I saw him.”
“Oh, here now,” sez the Friar. “You are puttin’ down a special gift to
the level of shrewd character-readin’.”
“What sort of a flame does a dead person have, Olaf?” sez Horace.
A queer look came into Olaf’s face, a half-scared look. “A dead person
has no flame,” sez he, with a little shudder. “It is a bad sight. I
have watched; I have seen the soul leave. When a man is killed, the
savage purple color fades into the yellow of fear, then comes the
blue, it gets fainter and fainter around the body; but it gathers like
a cloud above, and then it is silver gray, like moonshine. It is not
in the shape of the body, it is just a cloud. It floats away. That is
all.”
“Well, that’s enough,” sez Horace. “Can you see any flame about a
sleeping person?”
“Yes,” sez Olaf, “just like about a waking person; and there is marks
over a wound or a sick place.”
“Well, Mrs. Svenson,” sez Horace to Kit, “you’ll have to be mighty
careful or your husband will find you out.”
“I am perfectly willin’,” sez Kit with a proud little smile. She was
game, all right, Kit was.
“That is why I say it is all right,” sez Olaf. “She is young, she
cannot know how she will change. If ever she no longer love me, I will
not bother her. That would be a foolishness; but so long as she love
me, no other man will bother her. That would be devilishness!”
“You certainly have a nice, simple scheme of life,” sez Horace. “If
ever you change your mind, I’ll put up the money to take you back
East, an’ pay you high wages.”
“No,” sez Olaf, “I hate circuses an’ shows, an’ such things. I not
go.”
“You say you can tell sick places, an’ fear, an’ hate, an’ honesty,”
sez Horace. “Now, when I came out here, I was just punk all over. You
give me a look-over, an’ tell right out what you see.”
At first Olaf shook his head, but we finally coaxed him into it; an’
he opened his eyes wide an’ looked at Horace. As he looked the blue in
his eyes got deeper an’ deeper, like the flowers on the benches in
June, then when the pupil was plumb closed, the blue got lighter
again, and he said: “You have not one sick point, you have good
thoughts, you are very brave, you are too brave—you are reckless. You
have very great vitality, an’ will live to be very old—unless you get
killed. I knew an old Injun—over a hundred years old he was—he had a
flame like yours. It is strange.”
You could actually see Horace swellin’ up with vanity at this; but it
made ol’ Tank Williams hot to see such a fuss made about a
small-caliber cuss; so he rumbles around in his throat a minute, an’
sez: “Well, you fellers can fool around all night havin’ your souls
made light of, if ya want to; but as for me I’m goin’ to bed.”
Kit insisted that we sleep on the floor just as we had been, while she
an’ Olaf bunked in the lean-to; but a warm chinook had been blowin’
all day, an’ it was soft an’ pleasant, so we took our beds out in the
cottonwoods. Horace an’ the Friar got clinched into some kind of a
discussion; but the rest of us dropped off about as soon as we
stretched out. The moon was just risin’, an’ one sharp peak covered
with glitterin’ snow stood up back o’ the rim. I remember thinkin’ it
might be part o’ the old earth’s shiny soul.