AIN'T it funny what little bits of things can sorta change a feller's
life all 'round ev'ry which _di_rection--shuffle it up, you might
say, and throw him out a brand new deal? Now, take my case: If a sassy
greaser from the Lazy X ranch hadn't 'a' plugged Bud Hickok, Briggs
City 'd never 'a' got the parson; if the parson hadn't 'a' came,
I'd never 'a' gone to church; and mebbe if I hadn't never 'a' gone
to church, it wouldn't 'a' made two cents diff'rence whether ole man
Sewell was down on me 'r not--fer the reason that, likely, I'd never
'a' met up with Her.
Now, I ain't a-sayin' I'm a' almanac, ner one of them crazies that
can study the trails in the middle of you' hand and tell you that
you're a-goin' to have ham and aigs fer breakfast. No, ma'am, I
ain't neither one. But, just the same, the very first time I clapped
my lookers on the new parson, I knowed they was shore goin' to be
sev'ral things a-happenin' 'fore long in that par_tic_ular section of
Oklahomaw.
As I said, Bud was _re_sponsible fer the parson comin'. Bud tied
down his holster just oncet too many. The greaser called his bluff, and
pumped lead into his system some. That called fer a funeral. Now,
Mrs. Bud, she's Kansas City when it comes to bein' high-toned. And
nothin' would do but she must have a preacher. So the railroad agent
got Williams, Arizonaw, on his click-machine, and we got the parson.
He was a new breed, that parson, a genuwine no-two-alike,
come-one-in-a-box kind. He was big and young, with no hair on his face,
and brownish eyes that 'peared to look plumb through y' and out on the
other side. Good-natured, y' know, but actin' as if he meant ev'ry
word he said; foolin' a little with y', too, and friendly as the
devil. And he didn't wear parson duds--just a grey suit; not like us,
y' savvy--more like what the hotel clerk down to Albuquerque wears, 'r
one of them city fellers that comes here to run a game.
Wal, the way he talked over pore Bud was a caution. Say! they was no
"Yas, my brother," 'r "No, my brother," and no "Heaven's will be
done" outen _him_--nothin' like it! And you'd never 'a' smelt
gun-play. Mrs. Bud ner the greaser that done the shootin'-up (he was at
the buryin') didn't hear no word _they_ could kick at, _no,_ ma'am.
The parson read somethin' about the day you die bein' a darned sight
better 'n the day you was born. And his hull razoo was so plumb sensible
that, 'fore he got done, the passel of us was all a-feelin', somehow
'r other, that Bud Hickok had the drinks on us!
We planted Bud in city style. But the parson didn't shassay back to
Williams afterwards. We'd no more'n got our shaps on again, when
Hairoil blowed in from the post-office up the street and let it out
at the "Life Savin' Station," as Dutchy calls his thirst-parlour, that
the parson was goin' to squat in Briggs City fer a spell.
"Wal, of all the dog-goned propositions!" says Bill Rawson,
mule-skinner over to the Little Rattlesnake Mine. "What's he goin'
to do that fer, Hairoil?"
"Heerd we was goin' to have a polo team," answers Hairoil. "Reckon
he's kinda loco on polo. Anyhow, he's took my shack."
"Boys," I tole the crowd that was wettin' they whistles, "this
preachin' gent ain't none of you' ev'ry day, tenderfoot,
hell-tooters. Polo, hey? He's got _savvy_. Look a leedle oudt, as
Dutchy, here, 'd put it. Strikes me this feller'll hang on longer
'n any other parson that was ever in these parts ropin' souls."
Ole Dutch lay back his ears. "Better he do'n make no trubbles mit me,"
he says.
Say! that was like tellin' you' fortune. The next day but one, right
in front of the "Station," trouble popped. This is how:
The parson 'd had all his truck sent over from Williams. In the pile
they was one of them big, spotted dawgs--keerige dawgs, I think they
call 'em. This par_tic_ular dawg was so spotted you could 'a' come
blamed nigh playin' checkers on him. Wal, Dutchy had a dawg, too. It
wasn't much of anythin' fer fambly, I reckon,--just plain purp--but it
shore had a fine set of nippers, and could jerk off the stearin' gear of
a cow quicker 'n greazed lightnin'. Wal, the parson come down to the
post-office, drivin' a two-wheel thing-um-a-jig, all yalla and black.
'Twixt the wheels was trottin' his spotted dawg. A-course, the parson
'd no more'n stopped, when out comes that ornery purp of Dutchy's.
And such a set-to you never seen!
But it was all on one side, like a jug handle, and the keerige dawg got
the heavy end. He yelped bloody murder and tried to skedaddle. The other
just hung on, and bit sev'ral of them stylish spots clean offen him.
"Sir," says the parson to Dutchy, when he seen the damage, "call off
you' beast."
Dutchy, he just grinned. "Ock," he says, "it mocks nix oudt if dey
do sometinks. Here de street iss not brivate broperty."
At that, the parson clumb down and drug his dawg loose. Then he looked up
at the thirst-parlour. "What a name fer a _saloon,_" he says, "in a
civilised country!"
A-course, us fellers enjoyed the fun, all right. And we fixed it up
t'gether to kinda sic the Dutchman on. We seen that "Life Savin'
Station" stuck in the parson's craw, and we made out to Dutch that
like as not he 'd have to change his sign.
Dutch done a jig he was so mad. "Fer _dat?_" he ast, meanin' the
parson. "Nein! He iss not cross mit my sign. He vut like it, maype,
if I gif him some viskey on tick. I bet you he trinks, I bet. Maype he
trinks ret ink gocktails, like de Injuns; maype he trinks Florita Vater,
oder golone. Ya! Ya! Vunce I seen a feller--I hat some snakes here in
algohol--unt dat feller he trunk de algohol. _Ya_. Unt de minister iss
just so bat as dat."
Then, to show how he liked _us_, Dutchy set up the red-eye. And the
_next_ time the parson come along in his cart, they was a dawg fight in
front of that saloon that was worth two-bits fer admission.
Don't think the rest of us was agin the parson, though. We wasn't.
Fact it, we kinda liked him from the jump. We liked his riggin', we
liked the way he grabbed you' paw, and he was no quitter when it come
to a hoss. _Say!_ but he could ride! One day when he racked into the
post-office, his spur-chains a-rattlin' like a puncher's, and a quirt
in his fist, one of the Bar Y boys rounded him up agin the _meanest,
low_-down buckin' proposition that ever wore the hide of a bronc. But
the parson was game from his hay to his hoofs. He clumb into the saddle
and stayed there, and went a-hikin' off acrosst the prairie, independent
as a pig on ice, just like he was a-straddlin' some ole crow-bait!
So, when Sunday night come, and he preached in the school-house, he had
quite a bunch of punchers corralled there to hear him. And I was one
of 'em. (But, a-course, that first time, I didn't have no idear it
was a-goin' to mean a turrible lot to me, that goin' to church.) Wal,
I'm blamed if the parson wasn't wearin' the same outfit as he did
week days. We liked that. And he didn't open up by tellin' us that
we was all branded and ear-marked a' ready by the Ole Long-horn Gent.
No, ma'am. He didn't _mention_ everlastin' fire. And he didn't ramp
and pitch and claw his hair. Fact is, he didn't hell-toot!
A-course, that spoiled the fun fer us. But he talked so straight, and
kinda easy and honest, that he got us a-listenin' to what he _said_.
Cain't say we was stuck on his text, though. It run like this, that a
smart man sees when a row's a-comin' and makes fer the tall cat-tails
till the wind dies down. And he went on to say that a man oughta be
humble, and that if a feller gives you a lick on the jaw, why, you oughta
let him give you another to grow on. Think o' that! It may be O. K.
fer preachers, and fer women that ain't strong enough t' lam back.
But fer me, _nixey_.
But that hand-out didn't give the parson no black eye with _us_. _We_
knowed it was his duty t' talk that-a-way. And two 'r three of the
boys got t' proposin' him fer the polo team real serious--pervided,
a-course, that he'd stand fer a little cussin' when the 'casion
_re_quired. It was a cinch that he'd draw like wet rawhide.
Wal, the long and short of it is, he did. And Sunday nights, the Dutchman
lost money. He begun t' josh the boys about gittin' churchy. It
didn't do no good,--the boys didn't give a whoop fer his gass, and
they liked the parson. All Dutchy could do was to sic his purp on to
chawin' spots offen that keerige dawg.
But pretty soon he got plumb tired of just dawg-fightin'. He _pre_pared
to turn hisself loose. And he advertised a free supper fer the very next
Sunday night. When Sunday night come, they say he had a reg'lar Harvey
layout. You buy a drink, and you git a stuffed pickle, 'r a patty de
grass, 'r a wedge of pie druv into you' face.
No go. The boys was on to Dutchy. They knowed he was the stingiest gezaba
in these parts, and wouldn't give away a nickel if he didn't reckon on
gittin' six-bits back. So, more fer devilment 'n anythin' else, the
most of 'em fooled him some--just loped to the school-house.
The parson was plumb tickled.
But it didn't last. The next Sunday, the "Life Savin' Station" had
Pete Gans up from Apache to deal a little faro. And as it rained hard
enough t' keep the women folks away, why, the parson preached to ole
man Baker (he's deef), the globe and the chart and the map of South
Amuricaw. And almost ev'ry day of the next week, seems like, that
purp of Dutchy's everlastin'ly chawed the parson's. The spotted
dawg couldn't go past the thirst-parlour, 'r anywheres else. The
parson took to fastenin' him up. Then Dutchy'd mosey over towards
Hairoil's shack. Out'd come Mister Spots. And one, two, three, the
saloon dawg 'd sail into him.
Then a piece of news got 'round that must 'a' made the parson madder
'n a wet hen. Dutchy cleaned the barrels outen his hind room and put up
a notice that the next Sunday night he'd give a dance. To finish things,
the dawgs had a worse fight'n ever Friday mornin', and the parson's
lost two spots and a' ear.
I seen a change in the parson that evenin'. When he come down to the
post-office, them brown eyes of his'n was plumb black, and his face
was redder'n Sam Barnes's. "Things is goin' to happen," I says to
myself, "'r _I_ ain't no judge of beef."
Sunday night, you know, a-course, where the _boys_ went. But I drawed
lots with myself and moseyed over to the school-house to keep a bench
warm. And here is when that new deal was laid out on the table fer you'
little friend Cupid!
I slid in and sit down clost to the door. Church wasn't begun yet, and
the dozen 'r so of women was a-waitin' quieter'n mice, some of 'em
readin' a little, some of 'em leanin' they haids on the desks, and
some of 'em kinda peekin' through they fingers t' git the lay of the
land. Wal, _I_ stretched my neck,--and made out t' count more'n fifty
spit-balls on a life-size chalk drawin' of the school-ma'am.
Next thing, the parson was in and a-pumpin' away--all fours--at the
organ, and the bunch of us was on our feet a-singin'----
"Yield not to tempta-a-ation,
'Cause yieldin' is sin.
Each vic'try----"
We'd got about that far when I shut off, all of a suddent, and cocked
my haid t' listen. Whose voice was that?--as clear, by thunder! as the
bugle up at the Reservation. Wal, sir, I just stood there, mouth wide
open.
"Some other to win.
Strive manfully onwards----"
Then, I begun t' look 'round. _Couldn't_ be the Kelly kid's maw (I'd
heerd her call the hawgs), ner the teacher, ner that tall lady next her,
ner----
Spotted the right one! Up clost to the organ was a gal I'd never saw
afore. So many was in the way that I wasn't able t' git more'n a
squint at her back hair. But, say! it was _mighty_ pretty hair--brown,
and all sorta curly over the ears.
When the song was over, ole lady Baker sit down just in front of me; and
as she's some chunky, she cut off nearly the hull of my view. "But,
Cupid," I says to myself, "I'll bet that wavy hair goes with a sweet
face."
Minute after, the parson begun t' speak. Wal, soon as ever he got his
first words out, I seen that the air was kinda blue and liftin', like
it is 'fore a thunder-shower. And his text? It was, "Lo, I am full of
fury, I am weary with holdin' it in."
Say! _that's_ the kind of preachin' a _puncher_ likes!
After he was done, and we was all ready t' go, I tried to get a better
look at that gal. But the women folks was movin' my _di_rection,
shakin' hands and gabblin' fast to make up fer lost time. Half a dozen
of 'em got 'round me. And when I got shet of the bunch, she was just
a-passin' out at the far door. My! such a slim, little figger and
such a pert, little haid!
I made fer the parson. "_Ex_cuse me," I says to him, "but wasn't
you talkin' to a young lady just now? and if it ain't too gally, can I
_in_-quire who she is?"
"Why, yas," answers the parson, smilin' and puttin' one hand on
my shoulder. (You know that cuss never oncet ast me if I was a
Christian? Aw! I tell y', he was a _gent_.) "That young lady is
Billy Trowbridge's sister-in-law."
"Sister-in-law!" I repeats. (She was married, then. Gee! I hated t'
hear that! 'Cause, just havin' helped Billy t' git his wife, y'
savvy, why----) "But, parson, I didn't know the Doc _had_ a brother."
(I felt kinda down on Billy all to oncet.)
"He ain't," says the parson. "(_Good_-night, Mrs. Baker.) This young
lady is Mrs. Trowbridge's sister."
"Mrs. _Trowbridge's_ sister?"
"Yas,--ole man Sewell's youngest gal. She's been up to St. Louis
goin' t' school." He turned out the bracket lamp.
Ole man Sewell's youngest gal! Shore enough, they _was_ another gal
in that fambly. But she was just a kid when she was in Briggs the last
time,--not more'n fourteen 'r fifteen, anyhow,--and I'd clean fergot
about her.
"Her name's Macie," goes on the parson.
"Macie--Macie Sewell--Macie." I said it over to myself two 'r three
times. I'd never liked the name Sewell afore. But now, somehow, along
with _Her_ name, it sounded awful fine. "Macie--Macie Sewell."
"Cupid, I wisht you'd walk home with me," says the parson. "I want
t' ast you about somethin'."
"Tickled t' death."
Whilst he locked up, I waited outside. "M' son," I says to myself,
"nothin' could be foolisher than fer you to git you' eye fixed on a
belongin' of ole man Sewell's. Just paste _that_ in you' sunbonnet."
Wal, I rid Shank's mare over t' Hairoil's. Whilst we was goin', the
parson opened up on the subject of Dutchy and that nasty, mean purp of
hisn. And I ketched on, pretty soon, to just what he was a-drivin' at.
I fell right in with him. I'd never liked Dutchy such a turrible lot
anyhow,--and I did want t' be a friend to the parson. So fer a hour
after we hit the shack, you might 'a' heerd me a-talkin' (if you'd
been outside) and him a-laughin' ev'ry minute 'r so like he'd split
his sides.
Monday was quiet. I spent the day at Silverstein's Gen'ral Merchandise
Store, which is next the post-office. (Y' see, She might come in
fer the Bar Y mail.) The parson got off a long letter to a feller at
Williams. And Dutchy was awful busy--fixin' up a fine shootin'-gallery
at the back of his "Life Savin' Station."
Tuesday, somethin' happened at the parson's. Right off after the
five-eight train come in from the south, Hairoil druv down to the deepot
and got a big, square box and rushed home with it. When he come into
the thirst-parlour about sun-set, the boys ast him what the parson
was gittin'. He just wunk.
"I bet _I_ knows," says Dutchy. "De preacher mans buys some viskey,
alretty."
Hairoil snickered. "Wal," he says, "what I carried over was nailed
up good and tight, all right, all right."
Wal, say! that made the boys suspicious, and made 'em wonder if they
wasn't a darned good _reason_ fer the parson not wearin' duds like
other religious gents, and fer his knowin' how to ride so good. And
they was _sore_--bein' that they'd stood up so strong fer him, y'
savvy.
"A cow-punch," says Monkey Mike, "'ll swaller almost _any_ ole
thing, long 's it's right out on the table. But he shore cain't go a
_hippy-crit._"
"You blamed idjits!" chips in Buckshot Millikin, him that owns such
a turrible big bunch of white-faces, and was run outen Arizonaw fer
rustlin' sheep, "what can y' expect of a preacher, that comes from
_Williams?_"
Dutchy seen how they all felt, and he was plumb happy. "Vot I tole
y'?" he ast. But pretty soon he begun to laugh on the other side of
his face. "If dat preacher goes to run a bar agin me," he says, "py
golly, I makes no more moneys!"
Fer a minute, he looked plumb scairt.
But the boys was plumb _disgusted_. "The parson's been playin' us
fer suckers," they says to each other; "he's been a-soft-soapin'
us, a-flimflammin' us. He thinks we's as blind as day-ole kittens."
And the way that Tom-fool of a Hairoil hung 'round, lookin' wise, got
under they collar. After they'd booted him outen the shebang, they all
sit down on the edge of the stoop, just sayin' nothin'--but sawin'
wood.