Bosco was a regular town with twenty or thirty houses, a post office,
two general stores, three saloons, an’ all such things; and right on a
good stage road runnin’ north an’ south. We stopped with the
meat-market undertaker, ’cause they didn’t think it quite respectable
for the Friar to live off the profits of the liquor traffic; though
the Friar allus said ’at he had a heap more respect for a square
saloon-keeper ’n for a sneaky drygoods merchant.
Shindy Smith was the saloon-keeper, an’ Bill Duff was the undertaker.
Duff was the absent-mindedest man I ever got intimate with, an’ about
drove his wife to distraction, she bein’ one o’ these hustlers who
never make a false move. He had the idee that bein’ an undertaker took
away his license to laugh, so he allus walked on his toes an’
disported as solemn a face as nature would allow; but nature had
intended him for a butcher, an’ had made his face round and jowly.
Whenever he didn’t have anything else to do, he used to sit down an’
practice lookin’ solemn. He’d fix his eyes on the ceilin’, clasp his
hands across his stomach, pull up his eyebrows, droop his mouth, an’
look for all the world like a man dyin’ o’ the colic.
He was so absent-minded that he’d raise his cup to take a drink of
coffee, forget what he had started to do, an’ like as not pour it over
his flapjacks for syrup. He started to engineer a funeral once with
his butcher’s apron on, and they told all sorts of stories about him
which was shockin’ to an extent; though his wife kept such a sharp eye
on him, that I don’t believe more ’n half of ’em. Still it wasn’t any
sort o’ business for an absent-minded man to be in.
It was an uncertain business. Of course all lines o’ trade in a thinly
settled country go by fits an’ starts; but his was worst of all.
Sometimes he’d have as many as three funerals a month, and at others
it would take him six weeks to sell out a beef carcass. A feller who
had a spite again’ him started the story ’at he soaked his meat in
embalmin’ fluid, an’ then if they came an extra special rush in both
lines of his business at the same time, he’d—but then his wife kept
such a skeptical eye on him, ’at I don’t believe a word of these
stories, an’ I’m not goin’ to repeat ’em. The worst I had again’ him
was that he was so everlastin’ careless. I lay awake frettin’ about
his carelessness till I couldn’t stand it a second longer; and then I
rolled up half the beddin’ an’ started to sleep on the side porch.
“Where you goin’?” sez the Friar.
“This here Bill Duff is too absent-minded an’ forgetful for me,” sez
I.
“What do ya mean?” sez the Friar.
“Well,” sez I, “I don’t want to make light o’ sacred things, nor
nothin’ like that; but Bill Duff’s got somethin’ stored up in this
room which should ’a’ been a funeral three weeks ago, and I intend to
sleep outside.”
The Friar chuckled to himself until he shook the whole house; but it
wasn’t no joke to me; so I shunted the beddin’ out on the roof o’ the
porch, which was flat, and prepared to take my rest where the air was
thin enough to flow into my nostrils without scrapin’ the lid off o’
what Horace called his ol’ factory nerve.
As soon as the Friar could recover his breath, he staggered to the
window, an’ sez: “That’s nothin’ but cheese, you blame tenderfoot.
Limburger cheese is the food Bill Duff is fondest of, and he has four
boxes of it stored in this room.”
“Then,” sez I, comin’ in with the beddin’, “I’ll sleep in the bed, an’
the cheese can sleep on the porch; but hanged if I’ll occupy the same
apartment with it.” I set the cheese out on the porch—it was the
ripest cheese in the world, I reckon—and it drew all the dogs in town
before mornin’. After they found it was above their reach, I’m
convinced they put up the best fight I ever listened to.
It took a long time for the memory o’ that cheese to find its way out
the window; and I lay thinkin’ o’ the Friar’s work, long after he had
drifted off himself. He wasn’t squeamish about small things, the Friar
wasn’t, and this was one of his main holts. When we had got ready to
eat that night, Mrs. Duff had tipped Bill a wink to ask the Friar to
say blessin’. Bill was in one of his vacant spells, as usual, so he
looked solemn at the Friar, and sez: “It’s your deal, Parson.” Now, a
lot o’ preachers would ’a’ gone blue an’ sour at that; but the Friar
never blinked a winker.
Then after supper, all the young folks o’ that locality had swooped in
to play with him. This winnin’ o’ young folks was a gift with the
Friar, and it used to warm me up to watch him in the midst of a flock
of ’em. He showed ’em all kinds o’ tricks with matches an’ arithmetic
numbers, an’ taught ’em some new games, and then he put up a joke on
’em. He allus put up one joke on ’em each visit.
This time he puts a glass of water under his hat, looks solemn, and
sez ’at he can drink the water without raisin’ the hat. They all bet
he can’t, and finally he goes into a corner, makes motions with his
throat, and sez he is now ready to prove it. Half a dozen rush forward
and lift the hat, and he drinks the water, and thanks ’em for liftin’
the hat for him so he could drink the water an’ make his word good.
Some folks used to kick again’ him and say he was worldly; but his
methods worked, an’ that’s a good enough test for me. He took out the
shyness an’ the meanness an’ the stupidity, and gave the good parts a
chance to grow; which I take it is no more again’ religion than the
public school is. Why, he even taught ’em card tricks.
He could take a deck of cards and turn it into a complete calendar,
leap year and all; and then he could turn it into a bible, showin’
easy ways to learn things, until a feller really could believe ’at
cards was invented by the early Christians who had to live in caves,
as some claim. All the time he was playin’ with ’em, he was smugglin’
in wise sayin’s with his fun, pointin’ out what made the difference
between deceivin’ for profit, and deceivin’ for a little joke, tellin’
’em how to enjoy life without abusin’ it—Why, he even went so far as
to say that if a feller couldn’t be religious in a brandin’ pen he
couldn’t be religious in a cathedral—which is a two-gun church with
fancy trimmin’s.
By the time he had expanded the young folks and made ’em easy and at
home, the older ones had arrived; and then he held a preachin’. The
whole outfit joined in with the singin’, and when he began to talk to
’em every eye in the room was glistenin’. You see, he knew them and
their life; and they knew him and his. He had nursed ’em through
sickness, he had tended their babies, he had helped to build their
cabins an’ turn ’em into homes; so the words flowed out of his heart
and into theirs without any break between. This was the Friar and this
was his work—but I can’t put it into a story.
The’ was a no-account cuss by the name o’ Jim Stubbs who lived—if ya
could call it livin’—at Boggs; and the Friar induced him to go along
on one of his trips. When Jim came back he was a made-over man, and
every one asked him if he had religion. “Hell, no,” sez Jim, tryin’ to
be independent, “I ain’t got religion; but a feller catches somethin’
from the Friar the same as if he had the measles; and I don’t covet to
be a bum no more.”
This gives ya the best idy of the Friar that I can think of; and I
finally fell asleep there at Bill Duff’s, with my mind made up to bury
my own heartache, keep the grave of it green, but live out my life as
hard as the Friar was livin’ his.
We had intended to projec about in the Basin next day to rustle up
some new trade in the Friar’s line; but my pony turned up lame, so we
held over to get him shod. When the stage pulled in that evenin’, me
an’ the Friar went down to see it. A little feller sat on the seat
with the driver. His hat was covered with dust an’ pulled down over
his eyes, an’ what ya could see of him was the color o’ coffee; but
the moment I lay eyes on his side-burns, I grabbed the Friar’s arm an’
whispered, “Horace!” and by dad, that’s who it was. Promotheus was in
the back seat, an’ he looked for all the world like an enlarged copy,
except that his side-burns were red an’ gray, while Horace’s were
mostly brown. But they were cut exactly the same, startin’ from his
ears, runnin’ across his cheeks an’ lips, an’ then curvin’ down to the
crook of his jaw, close cropped an’ bristly.
Horace an’ Promotheus hit the ground as soon as the stage stopped, an’
me an’ the Friar dropped back out o’ sight inside the hotel. Horace
gave orders about his two boxes an’ started into the hotel. Just as he
came through the door, I stepped out an’ gave him a shove. “You can’t
come in here,” I growled.
He stepped back as fierce as a rattler. “I can’t, huh?” he piped.
“Well, we’ll see if I can’t.”
Then he recognized me, an’ we began to pump hands. He said ’at he and
Promotheus had only reached home three weeks before; but they couldn’t
stand it, an’ so had made a streak for the West. He said they had been
in Africa an’ India, until they had become plumb disgusted with
tropical heat, an’ so had come out the northern route, expectin’ to
outfit at Bosco an’ ride down to the Diamond Dot.
We suppered with ’em an’ next day they bought a string o’ hosses,
packed their stuff on ’em, an’ said they were ready for some
amusement. Horace had got a little snappier in his talk an’ his
movements; but that was about the only change. As soon as we told ’em
about Ty Jones havin’ a woman, that settled it. Horace insisted upon
seein’ the woman, an’ Promotheus echoed anything ’at Horace said,
though his face clouded a bit at the idee of foolin’ around the Cross
brand ranch. The Friar didn’t feel any call to go along with us; but
it was more to my mind just then ’n his line was, so I jumped at the
chance.
Horace was also mighty glad to add me to his outfit. He had been used
to havin’ a lot o’ Zulus an’ Hindus waitin’ on him, and hadn’t
adjusted himself to a small outfit yet. He said he had sent a lot o’
hides an’ heads an’ horns and other plunder from London, England, to
the Diamond Dot; but had been too busy to write durin’ the past few
years. He and the Friar had quite a talk together before we left; but
I could tell from their faces ’at Horace didn’t have any news for him.
We had high jinks when we reached Olaf’s; but Horace didn’t make any
hit with the kid. The kid had a jack-in-the-box toy ’at looked
consid’able like Horace, an’ the kid couldn’t square things in his own
mind, to see a big size one, out an’ walkin’ about like a regular
human; but when he also got to studyin’ Promotheus, he was all undone.
Olaf tried to have him make up to Horace, but he wouldn’t stand for
it. He’d sit on Olaf’s knee and look first at his jack-in-the-box,
then at Horace, and wind up with a long look at Promotheus. Promotheus
would try to smile kind an’ invitin’, and then the kid would twist
around and bury his face in Olaf’s vest. Horace nor Promotheus didn’t
mind it any; but as far as that goes, the kid was only actin’ honest
an’ natural, accordin’ to his lights, an’ the jack-in-the-box had as
much of a kick comin’ as anybody.
Ty had been down there just the day after we had left, an’ had wanted
to buy Olaf’s place; but only offered half what it was worth. He had
done this half a dozen times, an’ allus insulted Olaf as much as he
could about it. Olaf had wanted to sell out at first; but Kit had been
able to see ’at they had a homestead fit for any thing, and she had
allus insisted that they get full price or hang on. Now, it was
improved way beyond common, an’ they were both fond of it; so they had
decided to stick it out.
“This is goin’ to be a dry summer,” sez I.
Olaf’s face clouded up but he only shut his lips tighter. We told ’em
we were on our way up to try an’ have a look at Ty Jones’s woman, and
Olaf said he’d go along if he didn’t have to trail his cattle up to
the Raw Hide, this bein’ part o’ the deal he had made. He said it
would take him about ten days probably, an’ wanted us to camp in the
Spread, an’ keep an eye on his stuff. Olaf clipped the first joint off
o’ Promotheus’s name, an’ I was glad of it.
We chucked our stuff into the barn next mornin’ an’ started to stalk
the Cross brand neighborhood. Horace had a small field glass which was
a wonder, and we worked as careful as we could. It was only fifteen
miles across from Olaf’s; but all we were able to do the first day was
to find a little sheltered spot up back o’ the ranch buildin’s where
we could get a good view of ’em through the field glass.
Next day Olaf an’ Oscar started with the bunch o’ cattle, an’ we rode
along part way with ’em to give ’em a good start; but Olaf had handled
his stuff so gentle that it was no trouble, an’ we turned back an’
took up our watch again. We watched for a week without seein’ a thing,
ridin’ in each night to sleep back of Olaf’s shack. Me an’ Theus—I
had seen Olaf’s ante an’ had raised him one—were gettin’ purty weary
o’ this sort o’ work; but Horace was as patient as a spider. Finally
though, we got a little more risky, and leavin’ our hosses up in our
sheltered spot, we follered down a ravine to get nearer to the new
cabin.
We had caught several glimpses of a woman to prove to us ’at the’ was
one there; but that was about all, an’ so we went down this ravine,
tryin’ to figure out what excuse we’d give if we came across any of Ty
Jones’s men. Neither me nor The—Promotheus had said ’at we couldn’t
be no politer ’n he could, so he had lopped off the last joint, and
now had as neat a workin’ name as any one, although Horace still
insisted on usin’ the whole outfit when he had occasion to address
him. Well, neither me nor The felt just easy in our minds at snoopin’
about Ty’s when we hadn’t any business to, especially The; but Horace
was as selfcomposed as though he was herdin’ lions out o’ tall grass,
which it seems had been his favorite pastime durin’ the last few
years.
The knew the ravine well; he said it ran full o’ water in the spring,
but after that was dry all the year. We got about half-way down it,
an’ then we came to a path ’at was plain enough to see. The stopped
an’ wagged his head. “No one ever used to use this,” sez he.
“Well, some one uses it purty constant, now,” sez I.
“The woman is the one who uses it,” sez Horace. “She’s lonely, that’s
plain enough. The path climbs the opposite bank—let’s cross an’ go
up.”
Me an’ The bucked at this for some time; but Horace hung out; so we
went along with him. We finally came to a little glen with a spring in
it, an’ grass, and in a little clump o’ small trees, we came across a
book lyin’ face down on a Navajo blanket.
“That’s gettin’ close,” sez Horace.
“Yes!” sez we, in low tones.
We scouted all around; but no one was there, an’ then we took a line
on the hill back of us, picked out a likely spot, and returned the way
we had come, this bein’ the only direct way. We didn’t meet a soul—at
least none wearin’ bodies, though from the creepy feelin’ I had part
of the time, I won’t ever be certain we didn’t meet any souls.
Next day, we circled the peak and got up to the spot we had picked
out. We could see the clump o’ trees plain enough; and along about
three in the afternoon, we saw the woman come up the path, walkin’
slow an’ actin’ weary. She had two big dogs with her, and whenever
she’d stop to rest a bit, she’d pet ’em. “Well,” sez The, “things has
changed a heap when ol’ Ty Jones stands for havin’ his dogs patted.”
We couldn’t get a good view of her face from where we were, but we
could get a fine view o’ the ranch buildin’s. The’ didn’t seem to be
much work on hand, and we saw eight or ten men foolin’ around an’
pretendin’ to do chores. The recognized the two Greasers he had been
ridin’ with the day he had pulled on Horace, and one or two others;
but most of ’em was strangers to him. He said the Greasers were about
the most devilish speciments he had ever herded with—an’ Ty’s whole
outfit was made up o’ fellers who had qualified to wear hemp.
Horace was keen to go on down to her an’ get a good look; but me an’
The took the bits in our teeth at this. We knew what those dogs were
like, an’ refused pointblank to go a peg unless he could think up a
good enough excuse for us to give to Ty Jones—and we wouldn’t let
Horace go down alone.
“The best plan I can see,” sez I, pointin’ to a cluster o’ big rocks
down the slope to the left, “is to circle back to those rocks. We can
see her face plain from there when she comes back the path.”
After examinin’ this plan we decided it was the best; but when we went
after our hosses, Horace’s had broke his reins an’ gone back through
the hills. By the time me an’ The had rounded him up, it was too late,
so we had to wait till next day.
Next day I left the other two at our first look-out and rode on to the
new one. As soon as she came in sight, I waved my hat to ’em and they
sneaked down to the bunch o’ rocks. I rode back an’ left my hoss with
theirs, an’ then joined ’em.
She didn’t come into view till after five o’clock. When she reached
the edge of the ravine an’ started down, she paused an’ looked off
into the valley with her face in plain view. Horace looked at it
through his glasses, gave a start, and then handed the glasses to The.
“Have you ever seen any one who looked like her?” sez he.
The looked and broke out into a regular expression. “That’s the
original of the photograph I had,” sez he.
“That’s the Friar’s girl, sure as the sky’s above us,” sez Horace.
I grabbed the glass and took a look. She did look like the picture,
but older and more careworn. Some way I had allus thought o’ the
Friar’s girl as bein’ young and full of high spirits, with her head
thrown back an’ her eyes dancin’; but just as I looked through the
glasses, she pressed her hands to her head, and her face was wrinkled
with pain. She was better lookin’ than common, but most unhappy.
“That devil, Ty Jones, is mean to her!” I growled between my teeth.
“Dogs or no dogs, I’m goin’ down to have a talk with her,” sez Horace.
He started to get up, but I pulled him back to the ground. I had kept
my eyes on her, and had seen the two dogs turn their heads down the
ravine, and her own head turn with a jerk, as though some one had
called to her. Horace looked through the glasses again, and said he
could see her lips move as though talkin’ to some one, and then she
went down into the ravine. We couldn’t see the bottom of the ravine
from where we were, nor we couldn’t see the ranch buildin’s; so we
hustled back through some washes to our look-out, and reached it just
as she and Ty came out at the bottom.
They were walkin’ side by side, but Horace, who was lookin’ through
the glasses, said they seemed to be quarrelin’. “It’s moonlight
to-night,” sez Horace, “and I’m goin’ to sneak down and try to see
her.”
We argued again’ it all we could, but he stood firm; so all we could
do was to sit there and wait for the lights to go out in the
bunk-house. As she was a reader, we figured ’at she’d be the last one
to turn in; normal habits an’ appetites not havin’ much effect on
book-readers.