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[Illustration: Tom pushed on ahead to reconnoiter the Upper Spring
[_Page 262_]]
"Bring Me His Ears"
By CLARENCE E. MULFORD
AUTHOR OF
"Bar 20," "Bar 20 Days," "Bar 20-Three," "Buck Peters, Ranchman," "The
Coming of Cassidy," "Hopalong Cassidy," "Johnny Nelson," "The Man from
Bar 20," "Tex," etc.
A.L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangement with A.C. McClurg & Co.
Printed in U.S.A.
Copyright A.C. McClurg & Co. 1922
Published October, 1922
_Copyrighted in Great Britain_
_Printed in the United States of America_
"Bring Me His Ears"
CHAPTER I
HAWKENS' GUN STORE
The tall, lanky Missourian leaning against the corner of a ramshackle
saloon on Locust Street, St. Louis, Missouri--the St. Louis of the early
forties--turned his whiskey-marked face toward his companion, a short
and slender Mexican trader, sullenly listening to the latter's torrent
of words, which was accompanied by many and excitable gesticulations.
The Missourian shook his head in reply to the accusations of his
companion.
"But he was on thee boat weeth us!" exclaimed the other. "An' you lose
heem--lak theese!" the sharp snap of his fingers denoted magic.
"Thar ain't no use o' gittin' riled," replied Schoolcraft. "How in
tarnation kin a man keep th' trail o' a slippery critter like him in
these yere crowds? I'll git sight o' him, right yere."
"That ees w'at you say," rejoined the Mexican, shrugging his shoulders.
"But w'at weel _I_ say to _le Gobernador_? Theese _hombre_ Tomaz
Boyd--he know vera many t'eengs--too vera many t'eengs--an' he ensult
_le Gobernador_. _Madre de Dios_--sooch ensult!" He shivered at the
thought. "W'en I get thee message, I tr-remble! It say 'Br-ring heem to
me--or breeng me his ears!' I am tol' to go to Senor Schoolcr-raft at
Eendependence--he ees thee man. I go; an' then you lose heem! Bah! You
do not know theese Manuel Armijo, _le Gobernador de Santa Fe_, my
fren'--I tr-remble!"
"You need a good swig, that's what _you_ need," growled Schoolcraft.
"An' if ye warn't a chuckle-head," he said with a flash of anger, "we
wouldn't 'a' come yere at all; I told ye he's got th' prairie fever an'
shore would come back to Independence, whar I got friends; but no--we
had ter foller him!" He spat emphatically. "Thar warn't no sense to it,
nohow!"
The other waved his arms. "But w'y we stan' here, lak theese? W'y you do
no'teeng?"
"Now you look a-here, Pedro," growled the Missourian, his sullen gaze
passing up and down the slender Mexican. "Ye don't want ter use no spurs
on _this_ critter. I ain't no greaser! If ye'll hold them arms still fer
a minute I'll tell ye somethin'. Thar's three ways o' gittin' a deer:
one is trailin'--which we've found ain't no good; another is layin' low
near a runway--which is _yer_ job; th' third is watchin' th' salt
lick--which is _my_ job. You go down ter th' levee, git cached among
them piles o' freight an' keep a lookout on th' landin' stage o' th'
_Belle_. I'll stick right yere on this corner an' watch th' lick, which
is Hawkens' gun store. He lost his pistol overboard, comin' down th'
river, didn't he? An' th' _Belle_ ain't sailin' till arter ten o'clock,
is she? One o' us is bound ter git sight o' him, fer he'll shore go back
by th' river; an' if thar's any place in this town whar a plainsman'll
go, it's that gun store, down th' street. You do what I say, or you an'
Armijo kin go plumb ter hell! An' don't ye wave yer fists under my nose
no more, Pedro; I might misunderstand ye."
The Mexican's face brightened. "Eet ees good, vera good, Senor
Schoolcraft. Hah! You have thee br-rains, my fren'. Armijo, he say:
'Pedro, get heem to Santa Fe, if you can. If you can't, then keel heem,
an' breeng me hees ears.' _Bueno!_ I go, senor. I go _pronto_. _Buena
dia!_"
"Then git," growled Schoolcraft. "Thar's that long-faced clerk o'
Hawkens' openin' th' shop. Now remember: this side o' th' junction o'
th' Oregon trail I'm only ter watch him. If he goes southwest from th'
junction, yer job begins; if he heads up fer th' Platte, my job starts.
I ain't got no love fer him, but I'm hopin' he heads fer Oregon an' gets
killed quick! I hate ter think o' a white man in Armijo's paws. An' if
he hangs 'round th' settlements, we toss up fer th' job. If that's
right, _vamoose_."
"Eet ees r-right to thee vera letter," whispered the Mexican, rubbing
his hands. "Eef only I can get heem to Santa Fe--ah, my fren'!"
"Yer wuss nor a weasel," grunted the Missourian, slight prickles playing
up and down his spine. "Better git down to them freight piles!"
Schoolcraft watched his scurrying friend until he slipped around a
corner and was lost to sight; then he turned and looked up the street at
the gun shop of Jake and Samuel Hawken, whose weapons were renowned all
over that far-stretching western wilderness. Shrugging his shoulders, he
glanced in disgust at the heavy, patented repeating rifle in his hand
and, letting his personal affairs take precedence over those of the
distant Mexican tyrant, he swung down the street, crossed it, and
entered the famous gun shop. He risked nothing by the move, for the
store was the Mecca of frontiersmen, and a trip to St. Louis was hardly
complete without a visit to the shop.
The Hawkens were established, so much so that they were to be singled
out by one of the famous Colt family with a partnership proposition. The
fame of their rifles had rolled westward to the Rockies and beyond. They
were to be found across the Canadian and Mexican boundaries and wherever
hunters and trappers congregated, who scorned the Northwest fusil as fit
only for trading purposes, laughed in their sleeves at the preposterous
length and general inefficiency of the Hudson Bay muskets, and
contentedly patted the stocks of their Hawkens'. There is a tradition
that the length of the Hudson Bay muskets, which often rose over the
head of a tall man while the butt rested on the ground, was due to the
fact that the ignorant Indians could obtain a white man's gun only by
stacking up beaver skins until the pile was as high as the musket. Even
worse than the flintlock trade guns were the _escopetas_ of the south,
matchlocks of prodigious bore and no accuracy or power, which were used
by many of the Mexicans. That swarthy-skinned race which suffered under
the tyranny of Armijo seemed to believe that anything which used powder
was a weapon. The rank and file of the Mexicans were courageous and
usually fought bravely until deserted by their officers, or until they
were fully convinced that the miscellaneous junk with which they were
armed was worse than useless. It can hardly be expected that men
shooting pebbles, nails, and what-not out of nearly useless
blunderbusses; or using bows, arrows, and lances will stand up very long
against straight-shooting troops armed with the best rifles; add to this
the great difference in morale, and the ever-present distrust of the
officers, and a fair and honest understanding may be arrived at.
Hawkens' clerk took down one of the great rifles to go over it with an
oiled rag, which was another example of painting the lily. The weapon
was stocked to the muzzle and shot a bullet weighing thirty-two to the
pound, each thus being an honest half-ounce of lead. It was brass
mounted and had a poorly done engraving of a buffalo on the trap in its
stock. He turned to replace it and take down another when the sound of
the opening door made him pause and face the incoming customer.
The newcomer was neither hunter nor trapper, gambler nor merchant, to
judge from his nondescript and mixed attire. His left hand had an ugly
welt running across the base of the palm and it had not been healed long
enough to have lost its distinctive color. In his right hand he carried
a rifle which was new to that part of the country, and he slid it onto
the counter.
"Swap ye," he gruffly said, stepping back and leering at the clerk. "Too
ak'ard fer me. Can't git used ter it, nohow. I like a stock with a big
drop--this un makes me hump my head down like a bull buffaler. That's
th' wuss o' havin' a long neck."
The clerk glanced at the repeating Colt and then at the injured hand.
The faintest possible suggestion of a knowing smile flitted across his
face, and he shook his head.
"Those are too dangerous," he replied. "We don't handle them."
"W'y, that's a fine rifle!" growled the customer, a heavy frown
settling on his coarse face. "Six shots, with them newfangled caps,
without re-loadin'. She's a plumb fine weapon!"
"Looks good," laughed the clerk; "but we don't care to handle them."
"They've sorta put yer nose outer j'int, ain't they?" sneered the
customer. "Wall, ye kin bet yer peltries I wouldn't be givin' ye th'
chanct to handle _this_ un," he angrily declared, "if it had a bigger
drop an' warn't so ak'ard fer a man like me. Ye can't find a rifle in
yer danged store as kin hold a candle ter it. I bet ye ain't never seen
one afore!"
"It's our business to keep informed," responded the clerk, still
smiling. "We heard all about that rifle as soon as it was patented."
"But ye allus could sell a gun like this un," persisted the scowling
owner. "Ye must have a hull passel o' tenderfeet a-comin' in yere."
The clerk frowned and his voice became slightly edged. "The reputation
of Hawkens' is a valuable asset. It was acquired in two ways: honest
goods and fair dealing. Most tenderfeet ask us for a gun that we can
recommend; we cannot recommend that rifle. Do you care to look at one
that will not shoot through the palm of your extended hand after it gets
hot from rapid shooting?"
"I got ye thar, pardner!" retorted the customer. "I done that with a
poker. Ye don't seem anxious ter do no business."
"Our stock and my time are at your disposal," replied the clerk; "but we
cannot take that Colt in part payment."
"Wall, ye don't have ter: I know a man as will; an' he ain't all
swelled up, neither. You an' yer rifles kin go ter h--l together!" He
jerked the Colt from the counter and stamped out, cursing at every step,
and slammed the door behind him so hard that it shook the shop.
Thoroughly angered, he strode down the street and had gone a block
before he remembered that he was to keep watch on the shop. Cursing
anew, he wheeled and went back on the other side of the street and
stopped at the corner of a ramshackle saloon.
The clerk was taking down another rifle when the door opened again and
he wheeled aggressively, but his frown was swiftly wiped out by a smile.
The newcomer was somewhere in the twenties, stood six feet two in his
moccasins, and had the broad, sloping shoulders that tell of great
strength. He was narrow waisted and sinewy and walked with a step light
and springy. Dressed in buckskin from the soles of his feet to the top
of his head, he had around his waist a broad belt, from which hung
powder horn, bullet pouch, a container for caps, a buckskin bag for
spare patches, a bullet mold, and a heavy, honest skinning knife. Slung
from a strap over one shoulder hung his "possible" bag, containing
various small articles necessary to his calling. In his hand was a
double-barreled rifle which he seemed to be excited about.
"Mr. Jarvis!" he exclaimed, offering the weapon for inspection. "Tell me
what you think of this?"
The clerk chuckled and his eyes lighted with pleasure. "I've seen it, or
its twin, before. English, fine sights, shooting about thirty-six balls
to the pound. They're pointed, aren't they? Ah-ha! I thought so." He
took the gun and examined it carefully. "Just what I've been trying to
tell Mr. Jacob Hawken. Look at those nipples: large diameter across the
threaded end, making it much easier to worry out wet powder by removing
them and working with a bent wire from that end. We have to work at the
ball with a screw, and that is no easy task after the patch paper
becomes swollen. With this rifle you can replace the wet powder with dry
and fire the ball out in much less time. Where did you get it, Mr.
Boyd?"
The plainsman laughed exultingly. "Won it on the boat coming down, from
an English sportsman who was returning home. He said it was a fine
weapon, and I thought so; but I wanted your opinion."
"Take it out on the Grand Prairie and try it out. From what I can see
here it is a remarkably fine rifle; but handsome is, you know."
"I've tried it out already," laughed the other. "It's the best rifle in
this country, always excepting, of course, the Hawken!"
"As long as you put it that way I shall have to agree with you. Did you
see the man who left a few moments before you came in?"
Boyd nodded shortly. "Yes; but I don't care to discuss him beyond
warning you to look out for him. He deals in draft animals in
Independence, has the name of being slippery, and is known as Ephriam
Schoolcraft. However, I'm not an unprejudiced critic, for there is not
the best of feelings between us, due to an unprincipled trick he tried
to play on my partner." His face clouded for a moment. His partner had
joined the ill-fated Texan Santa Fe Expedition and had lost his life at
the hands of one of Armijo's brutal officers, for whom Tom Boyd had an
abiding hatred. On his last visit to Santa Fe he had shown it so
actively that only his wits and forthright courage had let him get out
of the city with his life. "Well, to change the subject, I lost my
pistol in the river, and I've heard a great deal about a revolving Colt
pistol from some Texans I met. It shoots six times without re-loading
and is fitted for caps. Got one?"
"Two," chuckled Jarvis. "A large bore and a smaller. They are fine
weapons, but never rest the barrel on your other hand when you shoot."
"I'll remember that. Which size would you recommend for me?"
"The larger, by all means. We are expecting a shipment by express down
the Ohio and it should reach us almost any day now. It took the Texans
to prove their worth and give them their reputation."
"Fit it with caps, mold and whatever it needs. I need caps and powder
for the rifle, too. First quality Kentucky, or Dupont, of course."
The purchase completed Jarvis watched his friend and customer distribute
them over his person and then asked a question.
"Where to now, Mr. Boyd?"
"Independence and westward," answered the other. "Spring is upon us, the
prairie grass is getting longer all the time, and Independence is as
busy and crowded as an ant hill. All kinds of people are coming in by
train and river, bound for the trade to Santa Fe and Chihuahua, and for
far away Oregon." His eyes shone with enthusiasm. "The homesteaders
interest me the most, for it is to them that we will owe our western
empire. The trappers, hunters, and traders have prepared the way, but
they are only a passing phase. The first two will vanish and in their
places the homesteaders will take root and multiply. Think of it, Mr.
Jarvis, now our frontiers are only halfway across the continent; what an
empire that will some day become!"
Jarvis nodded thoughtfully and looked up. "What does your father say to
all this, especially after the news last fall about your narrow escape
in Santa Fe?"
Boyd shrugged his shoulders. "Father set his heart on me becoming his
junior partner, and to passing his work over to me when he was ready to
retire. Two generations of surgeons, is his boast; and in me he hoped to
make it three. Against that, the West needs men! Those Oregon-bound
wagons bring tears to my eyes. They have cast my die for me. I am on my
way to Fort Bridger and Fort Hall and the valley of the Columbia, to
lend my strength and little knowledge of the open to those who need it
most."
Jarvis nodded his head in sympathy, for he had heard many speak nearly
the same thoughts; indeed, at times, the yearning to leave behind him
the dim old shop and the noisy, bustling city beset him strongly,
despite his years of a life unfitting him for the hardships of the
prairies and mountains. Being able to read Greek and Latin was no asset
on the open trail; although schoolmasters would be needed in that new
country.
"I know how you feel, Mr. Boyd. Have you seen your father since you
landed?"
Tom reluctantly shook his head. "It would only reopen the old bitterness
and lead to further estrangement. No man shall ever speak to me again as
he did--not even him. If you should see him, Jarvis, tell him I asked
you to assure him of my affection."
"I shall be glad to do that," replied the clerk. "You missed him by only
two days. He asked for you and wished you success, and said your home
was open to you when you returned to resume your studies. I think, in
his heart, he is proud of you, but too stubborn to admit it." As he
spoke he chanced to glance through the window of the store. "Don't look
around," he warned. "I want to tell you that Schoolcraft and a Mexican
just passed the shop, peered in at you with more than passing interest
and went on. I suppose it's nothing, though."
"It's enough to make me keep my eyes open," replied Tom, sighting his
new rifle at the great clock on the wall, which seemed to move a little
faster under the threat. "I thought they were watching me on the boat.
Armijo's vindictive enough to go to almost any length. He isn't
accustomed to having his beast face slapped."
Jarvis' jaw dropped in sheer amazement. "You mean--do I understand--eh,
you mean--you slapped _his_ face?"
"So hard that it hurt my hand; I'll wager his teeth are loose," replied
Tom, his interest on his new weapon.
"Er--slapped _Governor_ Armijo's face?" persisted Jarvis from the
momentum of his amazement.
"The Governor of the Department of New Mexico," replied the hunter.
Jarvis drew a sleeve across his forehead and carefully felt for the high
stool behind him. Automatically climbing upon it he seated himself with
great care and then, remembering that his customer was standing, slid
off it apologetically. He was gazing at his companion as though he were
some strange, curious animal.
"Eh--would you mind telling me _why_?" he asked.
"He offended me; and if I'd known then what I found out later I would
have broken every bone in his pompous carcass and thrown him to the
dogs!" His face had reddened a little and the veins on his forehead were
beginning to stand out.
Jarvis examined the clock with almost hypnotic interest. "And how did he
offend you, Mr. Boyd, if I may inquire?"
"Oh, the beast came swaggering along the street, followed at a
respectful distance by a crowd of his boot-lickers, and pushed me out of
his way. I asked him who in hell he thought he was, in choice Spanish,
and the conceited turkey-gobbler reached for his saber. The more I see
of this gun, Jarvis, the more I like it."
"Yes, indeed; and then what, Mr. Boyd?"
"Huh?"
"He reached for his saber--and then?"
"Oh," laughed Tom. "I helped him draw it, and broke it across his own
knee. He called me a choice name and I slapped his face. You should have
seen the boot-lickers! Before they could get their senses back and make
up their minds about rushing my pistol I had slipped through a store,
out of the back and into a place I know well, where I waited till dark.
I understand there was quite a lot of excitement for a day or so."
"I dare say--I dare say there might have been," admitted Jarvis. "In
fact, I am sure there would be. _Damn it_, Tom, would you mind shaking
hands with me?"