As Friar Tuck and the woman came out of the mouth of the ravine, Ty
Jones came out of the back door of the old cabin. He stopped a moment,
lookin’ at ’em, rubbed his eyes an’ looked again. Then he walked
towards ’em. He spoke somethin’ to the Friar, and the Friar answered
it. The woman didn’t pay any heed at all; but went around the new
cabin to the door which was on the other side. Three more
Cross-branders rode in, and Ty Jones shook his fist at the Friar.
Ol’ Tank was cussin’ under his breath for comfort, but it didn’t keep
him from gettin’ fidgetty. “Isn’t the’ no sort of a tool, Horace,” he
blurted out, “that’ll stretch out your hearin’ the way these field
glasses stretch out your eyesight? I’d be willin’ to have one of my
ears run as wild as my free eye, forever after, if it could just hear,
now, what Ty Jones is a-speakin’ to the Friar. I’m beginnin’ to get
nervous.”
We all felt about the same way; but it was about two miles down to
where they were, so all we could do was to watch.
Olaf had come with us, leavin’ Oscar with Kit, and now Horace turned
to him and said: “You and Promotheus know more about Ty Jones ’n the
rest of us. I have never tried to pump Promotheus, but now I want you
to tell us what you think he’ll do with the Friar.”
They said ’at Ty was generally purty cold blooded, and likely to take
enough time in gettin’ rid of a feller to make it purty hard to tell
just how it had been done; but that when he once let go of himself, he
didn’t care what happened, and if the Friar angered him about the
woman, the chances were ’at the Friar would never leave the ranch
alive.
The shadows were beginnin’ to fall, down in the valley; but Ty and the
Friar kept on talkin’, Ty wavin’ his hands now and again, while the
Friar stood straight with his hands hangin’ easy at his side. I
couldn’t stand it any longer.
“I believe ’at a feller could get almost to ’em without bein’ seen, by
goin’ along the edge o’ the ravine,” sez I; “and I’m goin’ to do it.
It’ll be dark in a few minutes. If you want me to hustle to the Friar,
wave a torch up and down; if you want me to come back here, wave it
sideways.”
“I’m goin’, too,” sez Horace.
“So ’m I,” sez Olaf and The.
“Well, that’s full enough,” sez I, “and the rest of ya keep a sharp
watch, and also keep the hosses ready, in case we need ’em.”
The four of us started down the side o’ the slope at good speed. There
were only two places on the way down where we caught sight o’ the
ranch buildin’s; but just before we reached the top o’ the cliff, we
heard a sound down below in the ravine. Glancin’ cautious over the
side, I saw the Friar comin’ back alone, on foot and leadin’ his hoss.
I drew back and whispered to the others, and we felt purty blame
cheap. We hardly knew what to do, as the Friar was likely to see us if
we tried to run back to our look-out before he reached the place where
the path came up out o’ the ravine, and most of all, we didn’t want
him to know ’at we were follerin’ him.
He had passed us by this time, so we looked over the edge o’ the
ravine at him. He was walkin’ slow with his head down, and his hands
in his pockets. “He’ll ride home slow,” sez I; “and we can easy beat
him.”
“Hush,” sez The, draggin’ us back from the edge, “the’s two fellers
follerin’ him.”
“Horace,” I said, quick and firm, so as not to have any back-talk,
“you go about forty yards up the ravine, and keep your eyes on these
fellers. Don’t shoot ’em unless they try to pass you. Hurry, now! I’ve
given you the most important post. If you shoot, shoot in earnest.”
Horace stooped over and ran to where a rock jutted out. “Now, then,”
sez I, “as soon as these fellers pass us, we’ll try to bowl ’em over
with one stone each, and then drop back out o’ sight. We don’t want to
shoot unless we have to.”
“They’re wavin’ us to come back,” whispered The, who had took a glance
at our look-out.
“Never mind,” sez I, lookin’ down and seein’ the two fellers crouched
over and sneakin’ after the Friar. “Now then, throw and drop back.”
We stood on our knees, threw one stone each, and dropped back. They
rattled in the ravine below, and we heard a sharp yelp of pain. I had
only dodged away from the edge of the ravine and ran to where Horace
was.
“One feller was hit in the shoulder and knocked down,” sez he; “but he
got up again right away, and both of ’em ran back.”
“What did the Friar do?” I asked, not darin’ to look over, lest he see
me.
“He turned around and started back,” sez Horace. “I was afraid he’d
see my head again’ the sky, so I pulled it back. I haven’t heard him
move since those fellers started to run.”
“Well, I don’t believe ’at even the Friar would be daffy enough to go
back,” sez I; “so we’ll just lay here and listen. They signalled us
from above a while back, but they’ve stopped again.”
We waited some time without hearin’ any one pass us, and then we
sneaked up along the edge of the ravine. Before long we saw the Friar
come up the side. He paused on top and looked back, then mounted and
started for Olaf’s at a slow shuffle. As soon as he was well under
way, we pushed for the look-out, and mounted.
“Slim, you and Tillte wouldn’t be missed as soon as the rest of us; so
you trail the Friar, while we try to beat him home,” sez I. “If you
need us, shoot. Otherwise come in as unnoticeable as you’re able.”
We reached Olaf’s, had our saddles off and the hosses turned loose
before the Friar rode in. His face was white, but this was the only
thing ’at showed what he was goin’ through. We made a big fuss about
his gettin’ back all right and asked him plenty o’ questions, without
overdoin’ it enough to make him suspicious. He answered our questions
right enough, but he didn’t open up and talk free. Slim and Tillte
joined us at supper without bein’ noticed.
After supper we gathered around the fire in Olaf’s settin’ room, and
the Friar gave us a purty complete account of what had happened. He
said that it was his old girl all right; but he said that the’ was
somethin’ the matter with her, that she didn’t recognize him even
after he had made himself known to her. He said she seemed dazed-like
and not to take any interest in anything.
He said they had walked down the ravine together, and she had told him
that she was comfortable enough but not happy. That she had lost
something which she could not find; but that she was getting stronger
since havin’ come out to the mountains. He said ’at when Ty Jones saw
’em together, he had carried on somethin’ fierce, and had ordered her
into the house. Then he had turned on the Friar and told him that he
would give him two weeks to leave the state and after that his life
wouldn’t be safe in it. He said he had tried to reason with Ty; but it
wasn’t any use; so he had just come away.
“If he had set upon you, would you have shot him?” asked Tank.
“I didn’t have anything to shoot him with,” sez the Friar. “I was
careful to leave my weapons behind.”
“Well, you didn’t show much judgment in doin’ it,” sez Tank. “He might
have sent a couple o’ fellers after ya, and finished you out in the
dark somewhere so ’at we never could ’a’ proved it on him.”
“I did think for a minute that some one was follerin’ me,” sez the
Friar. “I heard a rattle of stones and a cry a few hundred feet behind
me in the ravine; but I think it was some animal slippin’ down the
side.”
“Like as not,” sez Tank. “If it had been any o’ Ty’s gang, they
wouldn’t have give it up so easy; but another time we’ll some of us go
along with you; so as to get your last words anyhow, if so be ’at
you’re bent on suicide. What do you intend to do now?”
“That’s the worst of it,” sez the Friar. “I don’t know what to do. She
said she did not think she was married; but she was not sure; and Ty
refused to give me any satisfaction about it.”
“Isn’t the’ any law out here, at all?” sez Horace. “Seems to me as
though there ought to be some way to get at Ty Jones.”
“What would you charge him with?” asked the Friar. “She is not being
abused or kept a prisoner, she says she is comfortable and gettin’
stronger—I can’t think of any way to bring him under the law. If you
had not taken the law into your own hands in regard to his two men, we
might have made the claim that he was behind them in this; but really,
I do not see where we have any just grounds to go to law.”
“That little matter o’ the Greasers don’t hobble us none,” sez ol’
Tank. “Don’t you get the idee that you’re bound in any way by this.
The whole country would uphold us; so if you want to use it as a
lever, just make your claims again’ Ty to the law officers, and we’ll
tell ’em ’at the Greasers confessed ’at Ty put ’em up to it.”
This seemed to us like sage advice; and we all chipped in and urged
the Friar to act on it. Laws are all right, I haven’t a word to say
again’ laws. Fact is, I believe ’at we’re better off for havin’ a few
than not; but after all, laws come under the head of luxuries like
diamonds and elevators and steam heat. We all know there is such
things, and we haven’t any objections to those usin’ ’em who can
afford it; but most of us have to wear cut-glass, pack in our own
wood, do our climbin’ on foot or hossback, and settle our troubles in
our own way with as little bother as possible. When you figure it down
to the foundation, laws depend on public opinion, not public opinion
on laws; and all the public opinion worth takin’ into account would
have said ’at we had done the right thing with those Greasers. If
they’d ’a’ tried to law us for a little thing like this, it would have
started an upraisin’ which would have let the law see how small a
shadow it really does throw when it comes to a show-down.
The Friar didn’t answer us right away, and when he did, it was in the
most discouraged voice I’d ever heard him use. “I’m in the dark,
boys,” sez he, “I don’t know what to do. Even if I could find some way
to take her away from Ty Jones, I do not know what to do with her. She
is not herself, she needs care and protection—and I am not in a
position to supply them. I have an income of three hundred and fifty
dollars a year, which is much more than enough for my own needs, for I
live mostly upon the hospitality of my friends as you well know”—we
also knew ’at he spent most of his money in helpin’ those who never
saw enough money to get on intimate terms with it; while all they gave
him in return was a little meal and bacon for savin’ their souls and
doctor-bills. “I don’t know what I could do for her, even if I had the
right to take her away from him,” continued the Friar. “My life has
been a good deal of a failure; and I—”
“For the love o’ common sense, Friar!” broke in Horace. “You don’t
seem to have the smallest degree o’ judgment. You know mighty well ’at
I’m bothered to death to know what to do with my money. You get her if
you can, send her to any sort of a sanitarium you want to, and I’ll
foot the bills. Don’t you ever sit around and whine about money in my
presence again. It worries and disgusts and irritates me—and I came
out here for rest. You talk about faith and takin’ no heed for the
morrow, and such things; but you act as though you were riskin’ a
man’s soul when you gave him a chance to be of some little use in the
world.”
The Friar was purty well overcome at this; but figure on it the best
we were able, we couldn’t see just how to get a man’s wife away from
him without provin’ that he had abused her. It was a complication, any
way we looked at it; so we all went to bed in the hope that one of us
would have a lucky dream.
We didn’t have any more idees next mornin’ than we’d had the night
before; so after breakfast, the Friar took a walk and the rest of us
sat around in bunches talkin’ it over. About ten o’clock a feller
named Joyce who lived about fifteen miles east of Olaf came by on his
way for a doctor, his boy havin’ been kicked above the knee and his
leg broke. The Friar could patch up a human as good as any doctor; so
we went after him, knowin’ that this would be the best way to take his
mind off his own troubles, and the’ was a look o’ relief in the
Friar’s face when he rode away with Joyce.
I never knew any feller yet who didn’t spend a lot o’ time wishin’ he
had a chance to loaf all the laziness out of his system; but the fact
of the matter is, that work gives us more satisfaction than anything
else. A wild animal’s life is one long stretch after enough to eat;
but he’s full o’ health an’ joy an’ beauty. On the other hand, put one
in a cage and feed it regular and it turns sick immediate. What we
need is plenty o’ the kind o’ work we are fitted for—this is the
answer to all our discontented feelin’; and what the Friar was best
fitted for, was to help others.