After this we tied Badger-face in bed an’ kept watch of him. He kept
on gettin’ stronger all the time, an’ a good percent of his meanness
came back with his strength. Sometimes he’d spend hours tauntin’
Horace an’ the Friar; but they didn’t mind it any more ’n if Badger
had been a caged beast. Then one night he concluded to try cussin’. He
started in to devise somethin’ extra fancy in the way o’ high-colored
profanity; but he hadn’t gone very far on this path, before Olaf came
in as black as a thunder cloud.
“Do you want to be whipped with a whip?” he demanded.
“Naw, I don’t want to be whipped with a whip,” sez Badger-face.
“Then you stop swearin’,” sez Olaf. “We been to enough trouble about
you, and I don’t intend to have my wife listen to any more o’ your
swearin’. If you don’t stop it, I whip all your skin off. You say you
want to die—I whip you to death before your very eyes.”
Badger heaved at his ropes a time or two, an’ then he realized his
weakness, sank back on the bed, an’ the tears rolled down his cheeks.
He fair sobbed. “You’re a set o’ cowards,” he yelled, “the whole pack
o’ you! You wouldn’t let me die, and now you threaten to whip me to
death. I dare any one of ya to shoot me—you yellow-hearted cowards!”
“I care not for what you say I am,” said Olaf. “You know if I am a
coward, and you know if I keep my word. I say to you, slow an’
careful, that if you yell swear words again in my house, I whip your
hide off.”
Well, this had a quietin’ influence on Badger’s conversation; but he
fretted himself a good deal as to what we intended to do with him.
Finally one day when he began to look a little more like a live man
than a skeleton, Horace sez to him: “Badger, you said you didn’t have
any friends, an’ it must be true, ’cause not one of your own outfit
has ever been to see you, not even Ty Jones.”
“Ty Jones don’t stay out here through the winter,” sez Badger-face.
“If he’d been here, he’d have squared things up for this, one way or
another.”
“Where does he go?” asked Horace.
“I don’t know,” sez Badger-face.
Horace asked Olaf about it, and Olaf said ’at Ty Jones allus pulled
out in December, an’ didn’t come back until March.
Then Horace came in and sat by Badger again. “I’ve got a proposition
to make to you,” sez he, “and you think it over before you answer. I
have plenty o’ money; but I’ve wasted most o’ my life, sittin’ down.
If you are sick of livin’ like a wolf, I’ll pay your expenses and half
again as much as Ty Jones is payin’ you, and all you’ll have to agree
to is to go along as a sort of handy-man for me. I think we can get to
be purty good friends, but that can wait. I intend to ramble around
wherever my notions take me. If you’ll give your word to be as decent
as you can, I’ll give my word to stand by you as far as I’m able. Your
life is forfeit to me, an’ if you’ll do your part, I intend to make
the balance of it worth while to ya. Now, don’t answer me; but think
it over an’ ask all the questions you want to. I’ll answer true what I
do answer; but I won’t answer any ’at I don’t want to.”
If Horace had crept in an’ cut off his two ears, Badger wouldn’t have
been any more surprised. Well, none of us would, as far as that goes;
though why we should let anything ’at Horace chose to do surprise us
by this time is more ’n I know.
He an’ Badger talked it over complete for several days, Horace
agreein’ that he wouldn’t ask Badger to go anywhere the army or the
law was likely to get him an’ not to make him do any stunts ’at would
make him look foolish. He told Horace ’at he had served one enlistment
an’ got a top-notch discharge, an’ had then took on again; but a
drunken officer had him tied on a spare artillery wheel because Badger
had laughed when the officer had fallen off his horse into a mud
puddle. He said they had laid the wheel on the ground and him across
it, the small of his back restin’ on the hub o’ the wheel, an’ his
arms an’ legs spread an’ tied to the rim, an’ had kept him there ten
hours. He said that he had deserted the first chance he got; but he
refused to tell what had happened to the officer afterward.
Finally Badger said he would take up Horace’s proposition; an’ Horace
called Olaf in to see if Badger was speakin’ true. This was the first
Badger had ever heard about Olaf’s eyes seein’ soul-flames; but he
said ’at this explained a lot to him he hadn’t understood before. Olaf
looked at him careful; an’ Badger held up his right hand an’ said that
as long as Horace treated him square, he would be square with Horace,
even to the point of givin’ up his life for him.
“He is speakin’ true,” sez Olaf; and from that very minute,
Badger-face became a different man, an’ Horace took off the ropes.
“You do look some like a badger with that bum beard on,” sez Horace;
“but I don’t like this name, and I want you to pick out a new one.
Pick out some Christian name, your own or any other; but now that you
are startin’ on a new life, it will help to have a new name.”
Badger-face studied over this a long time, but he couldn’t root up any
name to suit him so he told Horace to pick out a name, and he’d agree
to wear it.
“Well,” sez Horace, after he’d give it a good thinkin’ over, “I think
I’ll call you Promotheus.”
Badger looked at him purty skeptical. “I don’t intend to take no
Greaser name,” sez he. “Is that Mexican?”
“No,” sez Horace. “That’s Greek; an’ the original Promotheus was an
all around top-notcher. He was a giant, so you couldn’t complain none
on your size; he rebelled again’ the powers, so you couldn’t call him
a dog-robber; but the thing ’at you two are closest together in, is
your infernal stubbornness. They tried to break Promotheus down by
chainin’ him to a rock while the vultures fed on his liver, but they
couldn’t make him give in. ‘Pity the slaves who take the yoke,’ sez
he; ‘but don’t pity me who still have my own self-respect.’”
Badger-face was so blame weak that his eyes filled up with tears at
this; an’ the only way he could straighten himself up was to put a few
florid curses on his own thumby left-handedness; but Olaf had gone
after some wood, so it didn’t start anything. “I’ll take that name,”
sez he, “an’ I’ll learn how to spell an’ pronounce it as soon as I
can; but you’ve diluted down my blood so confounded thin with your
doggone, sloppy milk diet that I’m a long way from havin’ that
feller’s grit, right at this minute.”
Horace stood over Badger-face, an’ pointed his finger at him, fierce.
“Listen to me,” sez he. “The next time you heave out an insult to
milksops or milk diets, I’ll sing you my entire song—to the very last
word.”
We set up a howl; but Badger-face didn’t realize all he was up against
when he took on with Horace, so he only smiled in a sickly way, an’
looked puzzled.
“I’ll tell ya what I’m willin’ to do, Dinky,” said he, as soon as we
stopped our noise; “now that I’ve took a new name, I don’t need to
wear this sort of a beard any more, an’, if ya want me to, I’ll trim
it up the same fool way ’at you wear yours; an’ I’ll wear glasses,
too, if you say the word.”
“We’ll wait first to see how you look in a biled shirt,” sez Horace;
“but in honor of your new name, I’m goin’ to let you have some
deer-meat soup for your dinner, an’ a bone to gnaw on.”
We had a regular feast that day, and called Badger-face Promotheus
every time we could think up an excuse; so as to have practice on the
name. The Friar did his best to take part; but I knew every line in
his face, and it hurt me to see him fightin’ at himself.
After dinner we took a walk together; but we didn’t talk none until we
had climbed the rim, fought the wind for a couple of hours, an’
started back again. It was his plan to think of some big, common chunk
of life when he was in trouble, so as to take his mind as much as
possible off himself; and he started to talk about Horace an’
Promotheus. He even laughed a little at the combination which
Promotheus Flannigan an’ Horace Walpole Bradford would make when they
settled down on the East again.
“The more I think it over,” said the Friar, “the plainer I can see
that most of our sorrow an’ pain and savageness comes from our custom
of punishin’ the crops instead of the farmers. Look at the
possibilities the’ was in Promotheus when he started out. He has a
strong nature, and in spite of his life, he still has a lot o’ decent
humanity in him. Who can tell what he might have been, if his good
qualities had been cultivated instead o’ smothered?”
“That’s true enough,” sez I; “and look at Horace, too. They simply let
him wither up for forty years, and yet all this time he had in him
full as much devilment as Promotheus himself.”
“Oh, we waste, we waste, we waste!” exclaimed the Friar. “Instead o’
usin’ the strength and vigor of our manhood in a noble way, we let
some of it rust and decay, and some of it we use for our own
destruction. The outlaw would have been the hero with the same
opportunity, and who can tell what powers lie hidden behind the mask
of idleness!”
“Well, that’s just it,” sez I. “A human bein’ is like a keg o’ black
stuff. For years it may sit around perfectly harmless; and only when
the right spark pops into it can we tell whether it’s black sand or
blastin’ powder. Even Horace, himself, thought he was black sand; but
he turned out to be a mighty high grade o’ powder.”
We walked on a while without talkin’; but the Friar was wrastlin’ with
his own thoughts, an’ finally he stopped an’ asked me as solemn as
though I was the boss o’ that whole country: “If you had started a lot
o’ work, and part of it promised to yield a rich harvest with the
right care, and part of it looked as though it might sink back to
worse than it had been in the beginnin’—is there anything in the
world which could make you give it up?”
The Friar knew my life as well as I did; so I didn’t have to do any
pertendin’ with him. “Yes,” I sez, “the right woman would.”
The Friar didn’t do any pertendin’ with me either. He stood, shakin’
his head slowly from side to side. “I wish I knew, I wish I knew,” he
said.
We walked on again, an’ when we came in sight o’ the cabin, I sez to
him, in order to give him a chance to free his mind if he saw fit:
“Horace told me what he knew about it.”
“Yes, I know,” sez the Friar; “but no one knew very much. She was a
splendid brave girl, Happy. I had known her when she was a little girl
and I a farmer boy. I was much older than she was, but I was allus
interested in her. There wasn’t one thing they could say against
her—and yet they drove her out o’ my life. I thought she was dead, I
heard that she was dead; so I buried her in my heart, and came out
here where life was strong and young, because I could not work back
there. I tried to work in the slums of the cities; but I could not
conquer my own bitterness, with the rich wastin’ and the poor starvin’
all about me. I have found joy in my life out here; but she has come
to life again with that picture, and once more I am at war with
myself.”
“Well, I’ll bet my eyes, Friar,” sez I, “that you find the right
answer; but I haven’t got nerve enough to advise ya—though I will say
that if it was me, I’d pike out an’ look for the girl.”
“I wish I knew, I wish I knew,” was all the Friar said.
Promotheus didn’t have any set-backs after this. We talked over
whether it would be better to have him go up to Ty’s an’ tell the boys
some big tale about Dinky Bradford, or to just pull out an’ leave ’em
guessin’; and we finally came to the conclusion ’at the last would be
the best.
He was still purty weak by the first o’ February; but he was beginnin’
to fret at bein’ housed up any longer, so we began to get ready to hit
the back-trail. By takin’ wide circles we could get through all right,
at this season; but with Promotheus still purty wobbly, it wasn’t
likely to be a pleasant trip, an’ we didn’t hurry none with our
preparations. Horace insisted on payin’ Olaf two hundred dollars for
his share o’ the bother, an’ I’m purty certain he slipped Kit another
hundred. He wasn’t no wise scrimpy with money.
We started on the tenth of February, Promotheus ridin’ a quiet old
hoss, an’ still lookin’ purty much like a bitter recollection. They
were consid’able surprised when we arrived at the Diamond Dot; but we
only told ’em as much of our huntin’ as we felt was necessary.
Horace intended to start for the East at once; but next day when he
put on his dude clothes again, Promotheus purty nigh bucked on him.
Most of Horace’s raiment was summer stuff, nachely; but he had a long
checked coat ’at he wore with a double ended cap, which certainly did
look comical. He had cut some fat off his middle, an’ had pushed out
his chest an’ shoulders consid’able; so that his stuff wrinkled on
him; and it took a full hour to harden Promotheus to the change.
“Do I have to look like that?” sez he.
“You conceited ape you!” sez Horace. “You couldn’t look like this if
you went to a beauty doctor for the rest o’ time; but as soon as we
get where they sell clothes for humans, I’m goin’ to provide you with
somethin’ in the nature of a disguise.”
Disguise sounded mighty soothin’ to Promotheus, so he gritted his
teeth, an’ said he wouldn’t go back on his word. The fact was, that it
did give ya an awful shock to see Horace as he formerly was. We had
got so used to seein’ him gettin’ about, able an’ free, that it almost
seemed like a funeral to have him drop down to those clothes again.
The Friar went over to the station with us, and he an’ Horace had a
confidential talk; and then Horace and Promotheus got on the train and
scampered off East.
“I’m goin’ to stick right here, Happy,” sez the Friar. “I have let my
work get way behind, in tendin’ to Promotheus; but from now on I’m
goin’ to tie into it again. I’d like to do something to put the cattle
men and the sheep men on better terms; but this seems like a hard
problem.”
“Yes,” sez I, “that ain’t no job for a preacher, and I’d advise you to
let it alone. The cattle men will put up the same sort of an argument
for their range ’at the Injuns did; but between you and me, I doubt if
they stand much more show in the long run.”
“I can’t see why there isn’t room for both,” sez the Friar. “It seems
to me that the cattle men are too harsh.”
“Nope,” sez I, “there ain’t room for ’em both, an’ the’s somethin’
irritatin’ about sheep that makes ya want to be harsh with all who
have dealin’s with ’em. Hosses can starve out cattle an’ sheep can
starve out hosses; but after a sheep has grazed over a place, nothin’
bigger ’n an ant can find any forage left. Cattle are wild an’
tempestus, an’ they bellow an’ tear around an’ fight, and the men who
tend ’em are a good bit like ’em; while sheep just meekly take
whatever you’ve a mind to give ’em; but they hang on, just the same,
an’ multiply a heap faster ’n cattle do. A sheep man is meek—like a
Jew. If a Jew gets what he wants he’s satisfied, an’ he’s willin’ to
pertend ’at he’s had the worst o’ the deal; but a cattle man is never
satisfied unless he has grabbed what he wanted away from some one
else, an’ then shot him up a little for kickin’ about it. It’ll
probably be fifty or a hundred years yet, before the sheep men are
strong enough to worry the cattle men; but they’ll sure do it some
day.” That’s what I told the Friar that time at the station, an’ I
guessed the outcome close enough, though I didn’t make much of a hit
as to the time it was goin’ to take.
Well, the Friar, he rode away east to Laramie, and I went north to the
Diamond Dot, and got things ready for the summer work.