Buckskin gradually readjusted itself to the conditions which had existed
before its sudden leap into the limelight as a town which did things.
The soiree at the Houston House had drifted into the past, and was
now substantially established as an epoch in the history of the
town. Exuberant joy gave way to dignity and deprecation, and to solid
satisfaction; and the conversations across the bar brought forth
parallels of the affair to be judged impartially--and the impartial
judgment was, unanimously, that while there had undoubtedly been good
fights before Perry's Bend had disturbed the local quiet, they were not
quite up to the new standard of strenuous hospitality. Finally the heat
blistered everything back into the old state, and the shadows continued
to be in demand.
One afternoon, a month after the reception of the honorable delegation
from Perry's Bend, the town of Buckskin seemed desolated, and the earth
and the buildings thereon were as huge furnaces radiating a visible
heat, but when the blazing sun had begun to settle in the west it awoke
with a clamor which might have been laid to the efforts of a zealous
Satan. At this time it became the Mecca of two score or more joyous
cowboys from the neighboring ranches, who livened things as those
knights of the saddle could.
In the scant but heavy shadow of Cowan's saloon sat a picturesque figure
from whom came guttural, resonant rumblings which mingled in a spirit of
loneliness with the fretful sighs of a flea-tormented dog. Both dog and
master were vagrants, and they were tolerated because it was a matter of
supreme indifference as to who came or how long they stayed as long as
the ethics and the unwritten law of the cow country were inviolate. And
the breaking of these caused no unnecessary anxiety, for justice was
both speedy and sure.
When the outcast Sioux and his yellow dog had drifted into town some few
months before they had caused neither expostulation nor inquiry, as the
cardinal virtue of that whole broad land was to ask a man no questions
which might prove embarrassing to all concerned; judgment was of
observation, not of history, and a man's past would reveal itself
through actions. It mattered little whether he was an embezzler or the
wild chip from some prosperous eastern block, as men came to the range
to forget and to lose touch with the pampered East; and the range
absorbed them as its own.
A man was only a man as his skin contained the qualities necessary; and
the illiterate who could ride and shoot and live to himself was far more
esteemed than the educated who could not do those things. The more a man
depends upon himself and the closer is his contact to a quick judgment
the more laconic and even-poised he becomes. And the knowledge that he
is himself a judge tends to create caution and judgment. He has no court
to uphold his honor and to offer him protection, so he must be quick to
protect himself and to maintain his own standing. His nature saved him,
or it executed; and the range absolved him of all unpaid penalties of a
careless past.
He became a man born again and he took up his burden, the exactions of
a new environment, and he lived as long as those exactions gave him the
right to live. He must tolerate no restrictions of his natural rights,
and he must not restrict; for the one would proclaim him a coward,
the other a bully; and both received short shrifts in that land of the
self-protected. The basic law of nature is the survival of the fittest.
So, when the wanderers found their level in Buckskin they were not even
asked by what name men knew them. Not caring to hear a name which might
not harmonize with their idea of the fitness of things, the cowboys of
the Bar-20 had, with a freedom born of excellent livers and fearless
temperaments, bestowed names befitting their sense of humor and
adaptability. The official title of the Sioux was By-and-by; the dog was
known as Fleas. Never had names more clearly described the objects to be
represented, for they were excellent examples of cowboy discernment and
aptitude.
In their eyes By-and-by was a man. He could feel and he could resent
insults. They did not class him as one of themselves, because he did not
have energy enough to demand and justify such classification. With them
he had a right to enjoy his life as he saw fit so long as he did not
trespass on or restrict the rights of others. They were not analytic
in temperament, neither were they moralists. He was not a menace to
society, because society had superb defenses. So they vaguely recognized
his many poor qualities and clearly saw his few good ones. He could
shoot, when permitted, with the best; no horse, however refractory, had
ever been known to throw him; he was an adept at following the trails
left by rustlers, and that was an asset; he became of value to the
community; he was an economic factor.
His ability to consume liquor with indifferent effects raised him
another notch in their estimation. He was not always talking when some
one else wished to--another count. There remained about him that stoical
indifference to the petty; that observant nonchalance of the Indian;
and there was a suggestion, faint, it was true, of a dignity common to
chieftains. He was a log of grave deference which tossed on their sea of
mischievous hilarity.
He wore a pair of corduroy trousers, known to the care-free as “pants,”
which were held together by numerous patches of what had once been
brilliantly colored calico. A pair of suspenders, torn into two separate
straps, made a belt for himself and a collar for his dog. The trousers
had probably been secured during a fit of absent-mindedness on his part
when their former owner had not been looking. Tucked at intervals in
the top of the corduroys (the exceptions making convenient shelves for
alkali dust) was what at one time had been a stiff-bosomed shirt. This
was open down the front and back, the weight of the trousers on the belt
holding it firmly on the square shoulders of the wearer, thus precluding
the necessity of collar buttons. A pair of moccasins, beautifully worked
with wampum, protected his feet from the onslaughts of cacti and the
inquisitive and pugnacious sand flies; and lying across his lap was
a repeating Winchester rifle, not dangerous because it was empty, a
condition due to the wisdom of the citizens in forbidding any one to
sell, trade or give to him those tubes of concentrated trouble, because
he could get drunk.
The two were contented and happy. They had no cares nor duties, and
their pleasures were simple and easily secured, as they consisted of
sleep and a proneness to avoid moving. Like the untrammeled coyote,
their bed was where sleep overtook them; their food, what the night
wrapped in a sense of security, or the generosity of the cowboys of the
Bar-20. No tub-ridden Diogenes ever knew so little of responsibility or
as much unadulterated content. There is a penalty even to civilization
and ambition.
When the sun had cast its shadows beyond By-and-by's feet the air became
charged with noise; shouts, shots and the rolling thunder of madly
pounding hoofs echoed flatly throughout the town. By-and-by yawned,
stretched and leaned back, reveling in the semi-conscious ecstasy of the
knowledge that he did not have to immediately get up. Fleas opened one
eye and cocked an ear in inquiry, and then rolled over on his back,
squirmed and sighed contentedly and long. The outfit of the Bar-20 had
come to town.
The noise came rapidly nearer and increased in volume as the riders
turned the corner and drew rein suddenly, causing their mounts to slide
on their haunches in ankle-deep dust.
“Hullo, old Buck-with-th'-pants, how's yore liver?”
“Come up an irrigate, old tank!”
“Chase th' flea ranch an' trail along!”
These were a few of the salutations discernible among the medley of
playful yells, the safety valves of supercharged good-nature.
“Skr-e-e!” yelled Hopalong Cassidy, letting off a fusillade of shots in
the vicinity of Fleas, who rapidly retreated around the corner, where he
wagged his tail in eager expectation. He was not disappointed, for a cow
pony tore around in pursuit and Hopalong leaned over and scratched the
yellow back, thumping it heartily, and, tossing a chunk of beef into the
open jaws of the delighted dog, departed as he had come. The advent of
the outfit meant a square meal, and the dog knew it.
In Cowan's, lined up against the bar, the others were earnestly and
assiduously endeavoring, with a promise of success, to get By-and-by
drunk, which endeavors coincided perfectly with By-and-by's idea of the
fitness of things. The fellowship and the liquor combined to thaw
out his reserve and to loosen his tongue. After gazing with an air of
injured surprise at the genial loosening of his knees he gravely handed
his rifle with an exaggerated sweep of his arm, to the cowboy nearest
him, and wrapped his arms around the recipient to insure his balance.
The rifle was passed from hand to hand until it came to Buck Peters, who
gravely presented it to its owner as a new gun.
By-and-by threw out his stomach in an endeavor to keep his head in line
with his heels, and grasping the weapon with both hands turned to Cowan,
to whom he gave it.
“Yu hab this un. Me got two. Me keep new un, mebby so.” Then he loosened
his belt and drank long and deep.
A shadow darkened the doorway and Hopalong limped in. Spying By-and-by
pushing the bottle into his mouth, while Red Connors propped him,
he grinned and took out five silver dollars, which he jingled under
By-and-by's eyes, causing that worthy to lay aside the liquor and
erratically grab for the tantalizing fortune.
“Not yet, sabe?” said Hopalong, changing the position of the money. “If
yu wants to corral this here herd of simoleons yu has to ride a cayuse
what Red bet me yu can't ride. Yu has got to grow on that there saddle
and stayed growed for five whole minutes by Buck's ticker. I ain't
a-goin' to tell yu he's any saw-horse, for yu'd know better, as yu
reckons Red wouldn't bet on no losin' proposition if he knowed better,
which same he don't. Yu straddles that four-laigged cloudburst an' yu
gets these, sabe? I ain't seen th' cayuse yet that yu couldn't freeze
to, an' I'm backin' my opinions with my moral support an' one month's
pay.”
By-and-by's eyes began to glitter as the meaning of the words
sifted through his befuddled mind. Ride a horse--five dollars--ride a
five-dollars horse--horses ride dollars--then he straightened up and
began to speak in an incoherent jumble of Sioux and bad English. He,
the mighty rider of the Sioux; he, the bravest warrior and the greatest
hunter; could he ride a horse for five dollars? Well, he rather thought
he could. Grasping Red by the shoulder, he tacked for the door and
narrowly missed hitting the bottom step first, landing, as it happened,
in the soft dust with Red's leg around his neck. Somewhat sobered by the
jar, he stood up and apologized to the crowd for Red getting in the way,
declaring that Red was a “Heap good un,” and that he didn't mean to do
it.
The outfit of the Bar-20 was, perhaps, the most famous of all from
Canada to the Rio Grande. The foreman, Buck Peters, controlled a crowd
of men (who had all the instincts of boys) that had shown no quarter
to many rustlers, and who, while always carefree and easy-going (even
fighting with great good humor and carelessness), had established the
reputation of being the most reckless gang of daredevil gun-fighters
that ever pounded leather. Crooked gaming houses, from El Paso
to Cheyenne and from Phoenix to Leavenworth, unanimously and
enthusiastically damned them from their boots to their sombreros, and
the sheriffs and marshals of many localities had received from their
hands most timely assistance--and some trouble. Wiry, indomitable,
boyish and generous, they were splendid examples of virile manhood; and,
surrounded as they were with great dangers and a unique civilization,
they should not, in justice, be judged by opinions born of the
commonplace.
They were real cowboys, which means, public opinion to the contrary
notwithstanding, that they were not lawless, nor drunken, shooting
bullies who held life cheaply, as their kin has been unjustly pictured;
but while these men were naturally peaceable they had to continually
rub elbows with men who were not. Gamblers, criminals, bullies and the
riffraff that fled from the protected East had drifted among them in
great numbers, and it was this class that caused the trouble.
The hardworking “cow-punchers” lived according to the law of the land,
and they obeyed that greatest of all laws, that of self-preservation.
Their fun was boisterous, but they paid for all the damage they
inflicted; their work was one continual hardship, and the reaction of
one extreme swings far toward the limit of its antithesis. Go back to
the Apple if you would trace the beginning of self-preservation and the
need.
Buck Peters was a man of mild appearance, somewhat slow of speech and
correspondingly quick of action, who never became flurried. His was the
master hand that controlled, and his Colts enjoyed the reputation of
never missing when a hit could have been expected with reason. Many
floods, stampedes and blizzards had assailed his nerves, but he yet
could pour a glass of liquor, held at arm's length, through a knothole
in the floor without wetting the wood.
Next in age came Lanky Smith, a small, undersized man of retiring
disposition. Then came Skinny Thompson, six feet four on his bared
soles, and true to his name; Hopalong described him as “th' shadow of a
chalk mark.” Pete Wilson, the slow-witted and very taciturn, and
Billy Williams, the wavering pessimist, were of ordinary height and
appearance. Red Connors, with hair that shamed the name, was the
possessor of a temper which was as dry as tinder; his greatest weakness
was his regard for the rifle as a means of preserving peace. Johnny
Nelson was the protege, and he could do no wrong.
The last, Hopalong Cassidy, was a combination of irresponsibility,
humor, good nature, love of fighting, and nonchalance when face to face
with danger. His most prominent attribute was that of always getting
into trouble without any intention of so doing; in fact, he was much
aggrieved and surprised when it came. It seemed as though when any “bad
man” desired to add to his reputation he invariably selected Hopalong as
the means (a fact due, perhaps, to the perversity of things in general).
Bad men became scarce soon after Hopalong became a fixture in any
locality. He had been crippled some years before in a successful
attempt to prevent the assassination of a friend, Sheriff Harris, of
Albuquerque, and he still possessed a limp.
When Red had relieved his feelings and had dug the alkali out of his
ears and eyes, he led the Sioux to the rear of the saloon, where a
“pinto” was busily engaged in endeavoring to pitch a saddle from his
back, employing the intervals in trying to see how much of the picket
rope he could wrap around his legs.
When By-and-by saw what he was expected to ride he felt somewhat
relieved, for the pony did not appear to have more than the ordinary
amount of cussedness. He waved his hand, and Johnny and Red bandaged the
animal's eyes, which quieted him at once, and then they untangled
the rope from around his legs and saw that the cinches were secure.
Motioning to By-and-by that all was ready, they jerked the bandage off
as the Indian settled himself in the saddle.
Had By-and-by been really sober he would have taken the conceit out of
that pony in chunks, and as it was he experienced no great difficulty in
holding his seat; but in his addled state of mind he grasped the end of
the cinch strap in such a way that when the pony jumped forward in
its last desperate effort the buckle slipped and the cinch became
unfastened; and By-and-by, still seated in the saddle, flew head
foremost into the horse trough, where he spilled much water.
As this happened Cowan turned the corner, and when he saw the wasted
water (which he had to carry, bucketful at a time, from the wells a good
quarter of a mile away) his anger blazed forth, and yelling, he ran
for the drenched Sioux, who was just crawling out of his bath. When the
unfortunate saw the irate man bearing down on him he sputtered in rage
and fear, and, turning, he ran down the street, with Cowan thundering
flatfootedly behind on a fat man's gallop, to the hysterical cheers of
the delighted outfit, who saw in it nothing but a good joke.
When Cowan returned from his hopeless task, blowing and wheezing, he
heard sundry remarks, sotto voce, which were not calculated to increase
his opinion of his physical condition.
“Seems to me,” remarked the irrepressible Hopalong, “that one of those
cayuses has got th' heaves.”
“It shore sounds like it,” acquiesced Johnny, red in the face from
holding in his laughter, “an' say, somebody interferes.”
“All knock-kneed animals do, yu heathen,” supplied Red.
“Hey, yu, let up on that and have a drink on th' house,” invited
Cowan. “If I gits that durn war whoop I'll make yu think there's been
a cyclone. I'll see how long that bum hangs around this here burg, I
will.”
Red's eyes narrowed and his temper got the upper hand. “He ain't no bum
when yu gives him rotgut at a quarter of a dollar a glass, is he? Any
time that 'bum' gits razzled out for nothin' more'n this, why, I goes
too; an' I ain't sayin' nothin' about goin' peaceable--like, neither.”
“I knowed somethin' like this 'ud happen,” dolefully sang out Billy
Williams, strong on the side of his pessimism.
“For th' Lord's sake, have you broke out?” asked Red, disgustedly. “I'm
goin' to hit the trail--but just keep this afore yore mind: if By-and-by
gits in any accidents or ain't in sight when I comes to town again, this
here climate'll be a heep sight hotter'n it is now. No hard feelings,
sabe? It's just a casual bit of advice. Come on, fellows, let's
amble--I'm hungry.”
As they raced across the plain toward the ranch a pair of beady eyes,
snapping with a drunken rage, watched them from an arroyo; and when
Cowan entered the saloon the next morning he could not find By-and-by's
rifle, which he had placed behind the bar. He also missed a handful of
cartridges from the box near the cash drawer; and had he looked closely
at his bottled whisky he would have noticed a loss there. A horse was
missing from a Mexican's corral and there were rumors that several
Indians had been seen far out on the plain.