How the Dumb Man Rode.
"Now, I don't reckon none," remarked the Old Cattleman with a
confidential air, "this yere dumb man' incident ever arises to my
mind ag'in, if it ain't for a gent whose trail I cuts while I'm
projectin' 'round the post-office for letters.
"It's this mornin', an' I'm gettin' letters, as I states, when I
catches this old party sort o' beamin' on me frank an' free, like
he's shore a friendly Injun. At last he sa'nters over an' remarks,
'Whatever is your callin', pard?' or some sech bluff as that. "I
sees he's good people fast enough; still I allows a small, brief
jolt mebby does hire good.
"'Well,' I says, intendin' to let him know I'm alive an' wakeful
that a-way; 'well, whatever my callin' is, at least it ain't been no
part of my bringin' up to let mere strangers stroll into the corral
an' cinch a saddle onto me for a conversational canter, jest because
they're disp'sitioned that a-way. "'No offence meant,' says the old
party, an' I observes he grows red an' ashamed plumb up to his white
ha'r. "Excuse me, amigo," I says, handin' out my paw, which he
seizes all radiant an' soon, "I ain't intendin' nothin' blunt, nor
to slam no door on better acquaintance, but when you--all ropes at
me about what you refers to as my "callin"' that time, I ain't jest
lookin' for a stranger to take sech interest in me, an' I'm startled
into bein' onp'lite. I tharfore tenders regrets, an', startin' all
over, states without reserve that I'm a cow man. "An' now,' I
retorts, further, "merely to play my hand out, an' not that I looks
to take a trick at all, let me ask what pursoots do you p'int out on
as a pretext for livin'?"
"'Me?' says the old party, stabbin' at his shirt bosom with his
thumb; 'me? I'm a scientist.' "'Which the news is exhilaratin' an'
interestin',' I says; 'shake ag'in! If thar's one thin-I regyards
high, it's a scientist. Whatever partic'lar wagon-track do you-all
follow off, may I ask?' "It's then this old gent an' I la'nches into
a gen'ral discussion onder the head of mes'lancous business, I
reckons, an' lie puts it up his long suit, as he calls it, is `moral
epidemics.' He says he's wrote one book onto 'em, an' sw'ar:; he'll
write another if nobody heads him off; the same bein' on-likely. As
he sees how I'm interested, the old sport sets down an' lays it out
to me how sentiments goes in herds an' droves, same as weather an'
things like that. "'Oneday you rolls out in the mornin',' this old
gent declar's, `an' thar you reads how everybody commits sooicide.
Then some other day it's murder, then robbery, an' ag'in, the whole
round-up goes to holdin' them church meetin's an' gettin' religion.
Them's waves; moral epidemics,' he says.
"Which this don't look so egreegious none as a statement, neither,
an' so after pow-wowin' a lot, all complacent an' genial, I tells
the old gent he's got a good game, an' I thinks myse'f his system
has p'ints. At this, he admits he's flattered; an' then, as we're
gettin' to the ends of our lariats, we tips our sombreros to each
other an' lets it go at that. To-morry he's goin' to confer on me
his book; which I means to read it, an' then I'll savey more about
his little play.
"But," continued my friend, warm with his new philosophy, "this yere
is all preelim'nary, an' brings me back to what I remarks at the
jump; that what that old gent urges recalls this dumb an' deef man
incident; which it sort o' backs his play. It's a time when a passel
of us gets overcome by waves of sentiment that a-way, an' not only
turns a hoss-thief loose entire, after the felon's done been run
down, but Boggs waxes that sloppy he lavishes a hoss an' saddle onto
him; likewise sympathy, an' wishes him luck.
"The whole racket's that onnacheral I never does quit wonderin'
about it; but now this old science sharp expounds his theory of
'moral epidemics,' it gets cl'ared up in my mind, an' I reckons, as
he says, it's shorely one of them waves.
"Tell the story? Thar's nothin' much to said yarn, only the
onpreecedented leeniency wherewith we winds it up. In the first
place, I don't know what this hoss-thief's name is, for he's plum
deef an' dumb, an' ain't sayin' a word. I sees him hoverin' 'round,
but I don't say nothin' to him. I observes him once or twice write
things to folks he has to talk with on a piece of paper, but it's
too slow a racket for me, too much like conversin' by freight that
a-way, an' I declines to stand in on it. I don't like to write well
enough to go openin' a correspondence with strangers who's deef an'
dumb.
"When he first dawns on the camp, he has money, moderate at least,
an' he gets in on poker, an' stud, an' other devices which is open
an' common; an' gents who's with him at the time says he has a level
notion of hands, an' in the long run, mebby, amasses a little
wealth.
"While I ain't payin' much heed to him, I do hear towards the last
of his stay as how he goes broke ag'inst faro-bank. But as gents
often goes broke ag'inst faro-bank, an' as, in trooth, I tastes sech
reverses once or twice myse'f, the information don't excite me none
at the time, nor later on.
"It's mighty likely some little space since this dumb person hits
camp, an' thar's an outfit of us ramblin' 'round in the Red Light,
which, so to speak, is the Wolfville Club, an' killin' time by
talkin'. Dave Tutt an' Texas Thompson is holdin' forth at each other
on the efficacy of pray'r, an' the balance of us is bein' edified.
"It looks like Texas has been tellin' of a Mexican he sees lynched
at Laredo one time, an' how a tender gent rings in some orisons
before ever they swings him off. Texas objects to them pray'rs an'
brands 'em as hypocrisies. As happens frequent--for both is powerful
debaters that a-way--Dave Tutt locks horns with Texas, an' they both
prances 'round oratorical at each other mighty entertainin'.
"'Now you gents onderstand,' says Texas Thompson, 'I ain't sayin' a
word about them pray'rs as mere supplications. I'm yere to state I
regyards 'em as excellent, an' thar's gents at that time present
who's experts in sech appeals an' who knows what prayin' is, who
allows that for fervency, bottom an' speed, they shorely makes the
record for what you might call off-hand pray'rs in Southern Texas.
Thar ain't a preacher short of Waco or Dallas could have turned a
smoother trick. But what I complains of is, it's onconsistent.'
"'However is prayin' that a-way onconsistent, I'd shorely like to
know?' says Tutt, stackin' in ag'in Texas plenty scornful.
"'Why, this a-way,' says Texas. 'Yere's a gent who assembles with
his peers to hang a Mexican. As a first flash outen the box, he puts
up a strong pray'r talk to get this crim'nal by the heavenly gate.
Now, whatever do you reckon a saint who knows his business is goin'
to say to that? Yere stands this conceited Laredo party recommendin'
for admission on high a Mexican he's he'pin' to lynch as not good
enough for Texas. If them powers above ain't allowin' that prayin'
party's got his nerve with him, they ain't givin' the case the study
which is shore its doo.'
"'Which I don't know!' says Tutt. 'I don't accept them views nohow.
Prayin' is like goin' blind in poker. All you do is hope a whole
lot. If the angels takes stock in your applications, well an' good.
If they don't, you can gamble your spurs they're plenty able to
protect themse'fs. All you can do is file them supplications. The
angels lets 'em go or turns 'em down accordin'. Now, I holds that
this Laredo sport who prays that time does right. Thar's nothin'
like a showdown; an' his play, since he volunteers to ride herd on
the Greaser's soul, is to do all he knows, an' win out if he can.'
"'That's whatever!' says Dan Boggs, who's listenin' full of
interest, an' who allows he'll butt in on the talk. 'I j'ines with
Tutt in this. My notion is, when it comes a gent's turn to pray, let
him pray, an' not go pesterin' himse'f with vain surmises as to how
it's goin' to strike them hosts on high. You can wager you ain't
goin' to ride 'round Omnipotence none. You can draw up to the layout
of life, an' from the cradle to the grave, you'll not pick up no
sleepers on Providence that a-way. Now, once, when I'm over across
the Mogallon Plateau, I--'
"But we never does hear what happens to Boggs that time over across
the Mogallon Plateau; for when he's that far along, one of the
niggers from the corral comes scurryin' up an' asks Texas Thompson
does he lend his pinto pony an hour back to the party who's deef an'
dumb.
"'Which I shorely don't,' says Texas. 'You don't aim to tell me none
he's done got away with my pinto hoss?'
"The nigger says he does. He announces that mebby an hour before,
this party comes over to the corral, makes a motion or two with his
hands, cinches the hull onto the pinto, an' lines out for the
northeast on the Silver City trail. He's been plumb outen sight for
more'n half an hour.
"'Which I likes that!' says Texas Thompson. 'For broad, open-air,
noon-day hoss-stealin', I offers even money this dumb gent's
enterprise is entitled to the red ticket.'
"Which we ain't standin' thar talkin' long. If thar's one reform to
which the entire West devotes itse'f, it's breakin' people of this
habit of hoss-stealin'. It ain't no time when four of us is off on
the dumb party's trail, an' half of that is consoomed in takin' a
drink.
"Whyever be gents in the West so sot ag'in hoss-thieves? Son, you
abides in a region at once pop'lous an' fertile. But if you was to
put in three months on a cactus desert, with water holes fifty miles
apart, it would begin to glimmer on you as to what it means to find
yourse'f afoot. It would come over you like a landslide that the
party who steals your hoss would have improved your condition in
life a heap if he'd played his hand out by shootin' a hole through
your heart.
"No, I ain't in no sech hurry to hang people for standin' in on some
killin'. Thar's two sides to a killin'; an' if deceased is framed up
with a gun all reg'lar at the time, it goes a long way toward
exculpatin' of the sport who outlives him. But thar ain't only one
side to hoss-stealin', an' the sooner the party's strung up or
plugged, the sooner thar's a vict'ry for the right.
"As I remarks, it ain't two minutes when thar's four of us gone
swarmin' off after the dumb man who's got Texas Thompson's pinto
pony. From the tracks, he ain't makin' no play to throw us off, for
he maintains a straight-away run down the Silver City trail, an'
never leaves it or doubles once.
"Runnin' of the dumb man down don't turn out no arduous task. It's
doo mainly, however, because the pinto sticks a cactus thorn in its
hoof an' goes lame in less time tharafter than it takes to turn a
jack.
"'Hands up,' says Texas, gettin' the drop as we swings up on the
deef an' dumb foogitive.
"But thar's no need of sech preecautions, as the dumb party ain't
packin' no weepons--not so much as a knife.
"Thar's nothin' to say, no talk to make, when we takes him. Texas
hefts him outen the saddle an' ropes his elbows behind with a
lariat.
"'What do you-all su'gest, gents?' says Texas. 'I s'pose now the
deecorous way is to go on with this yere aggressive an' energetic
person to them pinon trees ahead, an' hang him some?'
"'Which thar's no doubts floatin' in anybody's mind on that
subject,' says Dan Boggs, 'but I'd shore admire to know who this
party is, an' where he's headin' to. I dislikes to stretch the neck
of strangers that a-way; an' if thar's any gent, now, who can ask
this yere person who he is, an' what he's got to say, I'd take it as
a favor, personal, if he'd begin makin' of the needed motions.' "But
thar ain't none of us can institoote them gestures; an' when the
dumb man, on his side, puts up a few bluffs with his fingers, it's a
heap too complicated for us as a means of makin' statements. "'I
shore couldn't tell,' says Dave Tutt, as he sets watchin' the dumb
man's play, 'whether he's callin' us names or askin' for whiskey.'
"'Which if we'd thought to bring some stationery,' says Texas, after
we-all goes through our war-bags in vain, 'we might open some
successful negotiations with this person. As it is, however, we're
plumb up ag'inst it, an' I reckon, Boggs, he'll have to hang without
you an' him bein' formally introdooced.' "'Jest the same, I wishes,'
says Dave Tutt, 'that Doc Peets or Enright was along. They'd shore
dig somethin' outen this citizen.' "'Mebby he's got papers in his
wamus,' says Boggs, 'which onfolds concernin' him. Go through him,
Texas, anyhow: "All Texas can find on the dumb man is one letter;
the postmark: when we comes to decipher the same, shows he only gets
it that mornin'. Besides this yere single missif that a-way, thar
ain't a scrap of nothin' else to him; nor yet no wealth.
"'Tell us what's in the letter,' says Texas, turnin' the document
over to Boggs. 'Read her out, Dan; I'd play the hand, but I has to
ride herd on the culprit.'
"'I can't read it,' says Boggs, handin' the note to Tutt; 'I can't
read readin', let alone writin'. But I'm free to say, even without
hearin' that document none, that I shorely hesitates to string this
party up. Bein' tongueless, an' not hearin' a lick more'n adders,
somehow he keeps appealin' to me like he's locoed.'
"'Which if you ever has the pleasure to play some poker with him,'
says Tutt, as he onfolds the paper, 'like I do three nights ago, you
wouldn't be annoyin' yourse'f about his bein' locoed. I finds him
plenty deep an' wary, not to say plumb crafty. Another thing, it's
plain he not only gets letters, but we-all sees him write about his
drinks to Black Jack, the Red Light barkeep, an' sim'lar plays.'
"By this time, Tutt's got the letter open, an' is gettin' ready to
read. The dumb man's been standin' thar all the time, with his arms
roped behind him, an' lookin' like hope has died; an' also like he
ain't carin' much about it neither. When Tutt turns open the letter,
I notices the tears kind o' start in his eyes, same as if he's some
affected sentimental.
"'Which this yere commoonication is plenty brief,' says Tutt, as he
rums his eye over it. 'She's dated "Casa Grande," an' reads as
follows, to wit:
"'Dear Ben: Myra is dyin'; come at once. A." "'Now, whoever do you
reckon this yere Myra is?' asks Tutt, lookin' 'round. 'she's cashin'
in, that's obvious; an' I'm puttin' it up she's mighty likely a wife
or somethin' of this yere dumb party.' "'That's it,' says Boggs. 'He
gets this word that Myra's goin' over the big divide, an' bein' he's
gone broke entire on faro-bank, he plunges over to the corral an'
rustles Thompson's hoss. Onder sech circumstances, I ain't none
shore he's respons'ble. I take-it thar ain't much doubt but Myra's
his wife that a-way, in which event my idee is he only borrys
Thompson's pinto. Which nacherally, as I freely concedes, this last
depends on Myra's bein' his wife.' "'Oh, not necessarily,' says
Texas Thompson; 'thar's a heap of wives who don't jestify
hosstealiil' a little bit. Now I plays it open, Myra's this dumb
gent's mother, an' on sech a theery an' that alone, I removes the
lariat from his arms an' throws him loose. But don't try to run no
wife bluff on me; I've been through the wife question with a blazin'
pine-knot in my hand, an' thar's nothin' worth while concealed
tharin.' "'Which I adopts the ainendiricnt,' says Boggs, 'an' on
second thought, I strings my chips with Texas, that this yere Myra's
his mother. I've got the money that says so.' "'At any rate,' says
Tutt, 'from all I sees, I reckons it's the general notion that we
calls this thing a draw. We can't afford to go makin' a preecedent
of hangin' a gent for hoss-stealin' who's only doin' his best to be
present at this Myra's fooneral, whoever she may be. It's a heap
disgustin', however, that we can't open up a talk with this party.
Which I now notes by the address his name is McIntyre.' "An' so it
turns out that in no time, from four gents who's dead set to hang
this dumb man as a boss-thief, we turns into a sympathetic outfit
which is diggin' holes for his escape. It all dovetails in with what
my scientist says this mornin' about them moral epidemics,' an'
things goin' that a-way in waves. For, after all, Myra or no Myra,
this yere dumb man steals that pinto hoss. "However, whether it's
right or wrong, we turns the dumb man free. Not only that, but Boggs
gets out of the saddle an' gives him his pony to pursoo them rambles
with. "'I gives it to him because it's the best pony in the outfit,'
says Boggs, lookin' savage at us, as he puts the bridle in the dumb
gent's hands. 'It can run like a antelope, that pony can; an' that's
why I donates it to this dumb party. Once he's started, even if we-
all changes our moods, he's shore an' safe away for good. Moreover,
a gent whose mother's dyin', can't have too good a hoss. If he don't
step on no more cactus, an' half rides, he's doo to go chargin' into
Casa Grande before they loses Myra, easy.'"