The Friar had been in earnest tryin’ to get to Olaf; so ’at the four
Simpson boys had finally been forced to throw, an’ sit on him. As soon
as it was over, they got up and apologized, offerin’ to let him take
out any spite on ’em he saw fit, and promisin’ not to feel any
ill-will; but the Friar wasn’t angry. He was hurt and sad to think ’at
we’d do such a thing; but he had no resentment towards us.
“I know most of you men well,” said he; “and I know you have done this
because you felt it was right. I don’t put you on one side and myself
on the other. I take my full share o’ the blame. It merely proves that
my influence with you during the many years we have been together has
not been for the best, and I am very sorry to learn how poor my work
has been.”
He turned and went up to the house; and we all felt nearly as bad
about the way he had taken it as though the confounded Greasers had
got away altogether. We talked it over and finally loaded their bodies
into Olaf’s wagon, and hauled ’em up on the rim, where we buried ’em
and heaped a lot o’ stones over ’em. We began to feel better after
this, and shook hands all around, and the Simpsons and their three
friends rode away.
Then we told the others about havin’ seen the Friar’s girl at Ty
Jones’s and held a council as to how we should tell him. We finally
delegated Horace to do it, though he wasn’t ambitious for the job. The
Friar had told Kit that it was all over, and had left to take a walk
without eatin’ any supper. We still felt purty low-spirited, and we
didn’t eat much ourselves; though we felt certain he wouldn’t bother
his head much about a couple o’ Greasers, as soon as he found out his
own girl was Ty Jones’s woman.
The boys had come light from the Diamond Dot, but Horace had outfitted
way beyond his needs, intendin’ to do consid’able campin’ around, and
Olaf also had a couple of extra tarps and plenty o’ beddin’; so we
fixed up our old bunk-shack which had been left standin’, and settled
down as though the interval between our previous visit hadn’t been
more ’n ten days.
The Friar came back about ten o’clock. He came into our shack as quiet
as he could; but Horace was sittin’ before the fire waitin’ for him.
It was a warm night; but we had built the fire to make it a little
more cheerful, and had left the door wide open. Horace saw the Friar
the minute he reached the doorway, and he got up and went outside with
him.
They were gone nearly an hour, and then Horace sneaked in, and wakened
me up. I follered him outside; and he said that the Friar intended to
ride down to see Ty Jones as soon as it was day, and that he insisted
on ridin’ alone. The Friar was walkin’ up and down in the moonlight,
his face was all twisted up, through his tryin’ to hold it calm, when
I took my turn at reasonin’ with him; but it wasn’t any use.
“Well, you’ll not go alone,” I said at last; “and you can make up your
mind to that now. We don’t know how much Ty already knows about our
puttin’ the Greasers out o’ the game, and we don’t know how much of it
he’ll lay to you; but we do know that he hates you, and would wipe
your name off the list the first good chance he had. I’m goin’ along.”
The Friar was hot; we stood there in the moonlight facin’ each other
and takin’ each other’s measures. He was a shade taller and some
heavier ’n I was; and ya could see ’at he’d have given right smart to
have felt free to mix it with me. “Do you think I’m a baby?” he burst
out. “Do you think ’at I’m not fit to be trusted out o’ your sight?
You take entirely too much on yourself, Happy Hawkins!”
I didn’t want to taunt him to hurt him—I’d rather been kicked by a
hoss than to do this—but I did want to arouse him to a sense o’ the
truth. “You have adjusted yourself to this locality purty well,
Friar,” sez I; “but the’s still a lot you don’t quite savvy. Some
cases must be settled by a man himself, but some must be left to the
law. If this woman is the wife o’ Ty Jones, he has the law on his
side.”
He turned from me and stamped off into the night with his hands
clenched. He disappeared in the cottonwoods, and I was just beginnin’
to wonder if I hadn’t better foller him, when he came back again. “Oh,
I’ve been a fool, I’ve been a fool!” he cried. “All my life I have
tried not to judge others, but all my life I have judged them. I have
tried to put myself in their place, but allus I judged and condemned
them for giving way to temptations which I felt that I, in their
place, could have resisted. I have been a fool, and I still am a fool.
I admit that you are right, and I am wrong—but, I am going to Ty
Jones’s at dawn, and I’m goin’ alone.”
Well, that settled it—me an’ the Friar had to buck each other again.
He continued to stalk up an’ down through moonlight and shadow; while
I tried to plan a way to head him off. I was dead sleepy, but I went
around and wakened up all the other fellers, and told ’em not to get
up in the mornin’ until called; next I got Tank to help me, and we
waited until the Friar had walked in the opposite direction, and then
we took the ponies out o’ the corral and headed ’em toward the hills.
The farther we got, the rougher with ’em we got, and then we turned
our own mounts loose, and sent ’em after the bunch. It was a big job
to pack our saddles back on our heads, but we did it, and tore down
the fences to pertend ’at the ponies had vamoosed on their own hook.
Horace was walkin’ with the Friar now, arguin’ the benefit of a little
sleep, so ’at he’d be at his best. After a time the Friar did go to
bed in Horace’s tarp in the corner.
I didn’t wake up till after seven, myself, and all the fellers were
pertendin’ to sleep as though it wasn’t more ’n three. The Friar
didn’t wake up till eight. He was beside himself when he found the
ponies gone; but he ate breakfast as calm as he could, and then set
out with us to wrangle in some hosses on foot.
Goin’ after hosses on foot is sufficiently irritatin’ to a ridin’
outfit to make it easy enough to believe ’at this was all an accident,
and we didn’t come up with the ponies till nearly noon. When we
cornered ’em up, I never in my life saw as much poor ropin’, nor as
much good actin’; but we finally got enough gentle ones to ride
bareback, so we could wrangle in the rest; and after a quick lunch,
the Friar started to make his hoss ready.
We all started along with him. He stopped and faced on us, givin’ us a
long, cold look-over. You can say all you want to again’ swearin’, but
the’s times when it springs out of its own accord in a man, as natural
and beautiful and satisfyin’ as the flowers blossom forth on the
cactus plants; and I haven’t a shred of doubt that if the Friar had
handed us some o’ the remarks that came ready-framed to his tongue
just then, they’d have been well worth storin’ up for future needs;
but all he did was to fold his arms, and say: “Your methods are not my
methods. I am not goin’ there to start trouble, and I do not even wish
to give them the slightest excuse to start it of their own vo-lition.
If you are my friends, you will respect my wishes.”
“Well, but you’ll take at least one of us along, won’t ya, Friar?” sez
ol’ Tank. “Likely as not we wouldn’t take it up, nohow; but still if
they made away with ya, we’d sort o’ like to know about it as early as
possible, in order not to feel suspensed any longer ’n was necessary.”
“I should like to take one man along as a guide, as I am not entirely
familiar with the trail from here,” sez the Friar, still talkin’ to us
as though we were a lot of evil-lookin’ strangers. “If one of you were
to go along until we came within sight o’ the ranch buildin’s—No,
they might see him and get the idee that he had gone back to join a
reserve body, and I do not wish them to have the slightest grounds for
resorting to force on their side. I shall have to go alone.”
“I can see what you’ve been drivin’ at, now,” sez Tank, whose face was
so muddled up that no one ever tried to read his thoughts in his
features, and so he could lie with impunity. “Yes, I can see what you
mean, now, and I got to own up ’at you’re right about it. Still, you
know, Friar, we’re bound to worry about ya. How long do you want us to
wait before we start to projectin’ around to get some news of ya?”
A look of relief came to the Friar’s face: “Why, if I don’t come back
within a week,” sez he, “I haven’t any objections to your notifyin’
the legal authorities that you fear something has happened to me—but
don’t make much fuss, for it doesn’t really matter.”
We all kicked about waitin’ a week, but finally compromised on five
days as bein’ about the right interval to allow before notifyin’ the
legal authorities. Then we advised the Friar to go down by the ravine
as it would take him to the ranch by the back way where he wouldn’t be
so likely to attract attention, especially from the dogs.
He asked Horace to ride with him until he could get a landmark; so
Horace flung his saddle on a hoss an’ started along, while the rest of
us made ready to go trout-fishin’, or take a snooze, or shake the
cards, accordin’ to the way we generally amused ourselves when
loafin’. The Friar turned back once on the pretense that he wanted to
get a good drink o’ water before startin’; but he found us scattered
out peaceful an’ resigned, so he headed away at good speed.
Horace took him the open road, while we went mostly through cuts, the
way we had allus gone to our look-out. Our way was some the longer;
but we pushed our hosses a little more, and made the look-out just as
the Friar reached the point where the path went down into the ravine.
Horace had agreed to do all he could to get the Friar to go up to the
clump of bushes where the woman spent her afternoons, though he said
he doubted if the Friar would do it.
I had the field glasses with me, and kept ’em on the Friar’s face when
he paused to examine the spot and make sure he was right. He couldn’t
see the ranch buildin’s from where he was, nor the path leadin’ to the
clump of trees. I could see his face plain through the glasses, and he
had taken the guy ropes off and let it sag into just the way he felt.
It was filled with pain an’ sufferin’.
As soon as Horace came, he and I sneaked down to the bunch o’ big
rocks from which we could see the path as it dipped from the opposite
edge of the ravine, leavin’ the rest of the boys to watch the ranch
buildin’s. We could see them from where we were, and they could see
us, and we had a signal for us to come back, or them to come to us;
and another that the Friar was gettin’ it bad down below, and to make
a rush for him. We hadn’t seen any one about the buildin’s, except the
Chinese cook. Our plan was to not rush the buildin’s right away,
unless we saw the Friar gettin’ manhandled beyond his endurance.
Horace said ’at the Friar had refused to go to the clump o’ trees to
see the woman, as it might give the impression that she had sent word
to him to meet her there, and he wouldn’t cast the slightest suspicion
upon her name.
“Horace,” I said, as an awful fear struck me, “supposin’ after all, it
ain’t the right woman!”
Horace’s eyes stuck out like the tail lights on a freight caboose.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s the same woman,” sez he. “Course she’s changed
some; but we couldn’t all three be mistaken.”
“I still think it’s the same woman,” sez I; “but as far as all three
not bein’ mistaken, the’s nothin’ to that. Half o’ the fellers who
make bets are mistaken, and most of us make bets. Still I think she’s
the same woman.”
In spite of this doubt, I was feelin’ purty comfortable. The other
time we had been there, I hadn’t been able to think up any excuse as
to why; but this time I felt I was in right and it left me free to
enjoy the prospects of a little excitement. I allus try to be honest
with myself; and when I’m elated up over anything, I generally aim to
trail back my feelin’s to their exact cause. I’m bound to admit that
when I’m certain that any trouble likely to arise will be thrust upon
me in spite of my own moral conduct, I allus take a pleasant
satisfaction in waitin’ for it.
The Friar slid his hoss down the bank o’ the ravine, and disappeared
just a few moments before we saw the woman comin’ along the path from
the clump of trees. We kept glancin’ up at the look-out now and again,
but mostly we glued our eyes on the woman. Horace hogged the field
glasses most o’ the time, but my eyes were a blame sight better ’n
his, so I didn’t kick about it much.
When she reached the edge o’ the ravine, she paused and gave a little
start. “Does she know him, Horace?” I sez.
“She don’t seem to,” sez Horace. “She’s speakin’ down at him; but her
face looks as though she didn’t know him.”
“If it’s the wrong woman,” sez I, “I’m goin’ to start to the North
Pole to locate the fool-killer.”
While I spoke, she started down the path slow and matter o’ fact; and
me an’ Horace scuttled back to the look-out to be in time to see ’em
come out at the bottom—providin’ the Friar went on with her.
We didn’t get there more ’n two minutes before they came out at the
bottom; but it seemed a week. When they finally came into sight, the
Friar was walkin’ an’ leadin’ his hoss, and she was walkin’ at his
side about four feet from him with a big dog on each side of her. Just
then we saw six Cross-branders ride in toward the corral.
“It looks calm an’ quiet,” drawled ol’ Tank, his free eye bouncin’
about like a rubber ball; “but I’ll bet two cookies again’ the hole in
a doughnut that we have a tol’able fair sized storm before mornin’.”