THE TRUST AT WORK
Wild Bill's hut presented an unusually animated appearance. The
customary oil-lamp was receiving the support of two vilely smelling
yellow candles. The additional light thus obtained was hardly in
proportion to the offensiveness of the added aroma. Still, the remoter
corners of the place were further lit up, and the rough faces of the
four occupants of the room were thrown into stronger relief.
But the animation of the scene was rather a matter of visual illusion
than actuality. For Wild Bill, in his right of proprietorship, was
lounging on his blanketed bunk, while Toby's inanimate form robbed him
of the extreme foot of it. Sunny Oak was hugging to himself what
comfort there was to be obtained from the broken chair, which usually
supported Bill's wash bucket, set well within elbow-reach of the table
on which the illuminations had been placed. Sandy Joyce with unusual
humility--possibly the result of his encounter with Birdie--was
crouching on an upturned cracker box.
There was a wonderful intentness, expectancy in every eye except
Bill's. In Toby's there was triumphal anticipation, in Sandy's a
conscious assurance. Bill had just come in from preparing his horses
for their night journey, and, with an hour and more to spare, and the
prospect of a long night before him, was anxious to take things as
easy as possible.
Reaching his arms above his head he pushed his hands behind it for
support, and opened the proceedings.
"You fellers been busy?" he inquired.
And promptly every mouth opened to give proud assurance. But the
gambler checked the impulse with grating sarcasm.
"I ain't got but one pair ears," he said, "so you'll each wait till
you're ast questions. Bein' president o' this yer Trust I'll do most
of the yappin'," he added grimly. "I'm goin' away to-night fer a
couple o' days. That's why this meetin's called. An' the object of it
is to fix things right for Zip, an' to 'range so he gits a chance to
put 'em through. Now, I seen enough of him--an' others," with a swift,
withering glance in Sunny's direction, "to know he's right up again a
proposition that ain't no one man affair. Combination is the only
bluff to fix them kids of his right. We've most of us got ideas, but
like as not they ain't all we guess 'em to be. In some cases ther'
ain't a doubt of it. Without sayin' nothin' of anybody, I sure
wouldn't trust Toby here to raise a crop of well-grown weeds--without
help. An' Sandy, fer all he's a married man, don't seem to have
prospered in his knowledge of kids. As for Sunny, well, the sight of
him around a kid ain't wholesome. An' as fer me, guess I may know a
deal about cookin' a jack-pot, but I'd hate to raise the bet about any
other kind o' pot. Seein' things is that way with us we'll git to work
systematic. Ther' ain't a gamble in life that ain't worked the better
fer a system. So, before we get busy, I'll ast you, Sunny, to grab the
grip under my bunk, an' you'll find in it, som'eres under the card
decks, paper an' ink. You'll jest fix them right, an' take things
down, so we don't make no sort o' mistake."
He waited until Sunny had procured the necessary writing materials and
set them out on the table. Then he went on in his strong, autocratic
fashion.
"Now," he said, fixing his eyes on Toby. "You'se fellers has had time
to make inquiries, an' knowing you fer bright boys I don't guess you
lost any time. The subject is the raisin' of kids. Mebbe Toby, you
bein' the youngest member of this doggone Trust, an' a real smart lad,
mebbe you'll open your face an' give us pointers."
By the time he finished speaking every eye was turned on the
triumphantly grinning Toby.
"I sure will," he said, with a confidence surprising in a man who had
been so bashful in his interview with Birdie. Just for a moment one of
his great hands went up to his cheek, and he gently smoothed it, as
though the recollection of the slap he had received in the process of
gathering information was being used to inspire his memory. "Y'see,"
he began, "I got friends around Suffering Creek what knows all about
kids. So--so I jest asted 'em, Mr. President."
He cleared his throat and stared up at the roof. He was evidently
struggling hard with memory.
Bill lolled over and drew a closely written document from his pocket
and began to peruse it. Sandy tapped the floor impatiently with one
foot. He was annoyed that his evidence was not demanded first. Sunny
sat with pen poised, waiting for the word to write.
Toby's eyes grew troubled.
"What they chiefly need," he murmured, his face becoming more and more
intent, "what they--chiefly--need--is--" He was laboring hard. Then
suddenly his face brightened into a foolish smile. "I got it," he
cried triumphantly, "I got it. What kids need is beef bones an'
soap!"
In the deathly silence that followed his statement Toby looked for
approving glances. But he looked in vain. Sunny had dropped his pen
and made a blot on his paper. Sandy's annoyance had changed into
malicious triumph. But the president of the Trust made no move. He
merely let his small eyes emit a steely glance over the top of his
paper, directed with stern disapproval on the hopeful "remittance"
man.
"An' what 'bug-house,'" he inquired, with biting sarcasm, "is your
bright friends spendin' their vacation at?"
Toby flushed to the roots of his unkempt hair. The sudden death of his
triumph was almost tragic. His face fell, and his heavy jaw dropped in
pathetic astonishment. But it was not Bill's sarcasm alone that so bit
into his bones, it was the jeering light he witnessed in Sandy's eyes,
combined with the undisguised ridicule of Sunny's open grin. His blood
began to rise; he felt it tingling in the great extremities of his
long arms. The obvious retort of the witless was surging through his
veins and driving him.
But the Trust president was talking, and the calm of coming storm was
held for a moment. But it is doubtful if the object of his harangue
grasped anything of his meaning, so great was his anger against his
grinning comrades.
"Beef bones an' soap!" cried Bill harshly, at the unheeding man. "If
they was asses bones we'd sure only need to open up your family
mausoleum to git enough bones to raise a farm o' babbies on. I'd like
to say right here, the feller wot don't know the natural use o' soap
is a danger to the health an' sanitary fixin's o' this yer camp. Beef
bones an' soap!" he went on, as though the very combination of the
words was an offense to his gastronomical senses. "You pumpkin-faced
idjut, you mush-headed tank o' wisdom, you masterpiece of under-done
mule brain, how in sizzlin' torment you're figgerin' to ladle soap
into the vitals of inoffendin' babbies, an' push beef bones through
their innercent stummicks, 'ud par'lize the brains of every science
society in this yer country to know, an' drive the whole world o'
physic dealers barkin' like a pack o' mangy coyotes wi' their bellies
flappin' in a nor'-east blizzard. Gosh-dang it, you misfortunate
offspring of Jonah parents, we're settin' out to raise kids. We ain't
startin' a patent manure fact'ry, nor runnin' a Chinese hand
laundry--"
But the president's picturesque flow was lost in a sudden commotion.
The calm was broken, and the storm burst. The weight of ridicule in
his comrades' faces was too much for Toby, and he leapt from the foot
of the bunk on which he was sitting. He projected himself with more
force than cunning in the direction of the grinning loafer, bent on
bodily hurt to his victim. But his leap fell short by reason of
Sunny's agility. The latter snatched up the oil-lamp and dodged behind
the table, with the result that Toby's great body sent the candles
flying, and itself fell amidst the legs of the upset table. He was on
his feet in an instant, however, ready to continue with all his might
his vengeful pursuit. But the heavy hand of Bill fell upon his coat
collar with irresistible force, and, with a jerk, he was hurled across
the room out of harm's way.
"Ther's more hell to the back o' that if you come ag'in, Toby," the
gambler cried, with cold threat. "An' as for you, Sunny," he went on,
turning on the Trust secretary, "I'll set the boys to wash you clean
in Minky's trough if you so much as smile ag'in till we're through.
Fix them candles, an' sit right down--the lot of you."
He stood for a moment eyeing the lurid face of Toby. Nor did he move
until the burly remittance man had pulled himself together. He watched
him settle himself again on the foot of the bunk, passive but inwardly
raging. Then, as the candles were once more replaced in the bottles
and lit, he calmly picked up his document and returned to his couch.
The whole episode passed in a few moments, and outward equanimity was
quickly restored. Such was the hot, impulsive nature of these men.
The president lost no time in proceeding with the business in hand. He
addressed his friends generally.
"I ain't goin' to say a word 'bout the elegant information gathered by
our bright junior member," he said slowly. "You've all heard it, an' I
guess that's sure all that's needed. Wher' he got it, is his
funeral--or should be. Leastways, if it ain't satisfact'ry it shows
laudable enterprise on his part--which is good for this yer Trust."
He paused and referred to his document. And in that moment, burning to
further crush Toby, and add to his own glorification by reason of the
superiority of his information, Sandy cleared his throat to speak.
This was to be the moment of his triumph. He meant to wipe out the
memory of past failures in one sweep.
"I consulted a lady friend of mine--" he began. But Bill waved him to
silence.
"You needn't worry nothin'," he said coldly. "I got it all wrote down
here."
"How you got it?" cried Sandy. "I ain't said it."
Bill's eyes met the other's angry glance with that cold irony that was
so much a part of his nature.
"Guess your leddy friend wrote it," he said. And, as he heard the
words, the last of Toby's ill-humor vanished. His stupid face
wreathed itself into a broad grin as he watched the blank look of
disappointment spread itself over Sandy's face.
"Listen here, all of you," the president went on, quite undisturbed by
the feelings he had stirred in the widower. "This is wot the leddy
says. She's writ it all so ther' can't be no mistake."
Then he began to read from his document with careful distinctness.
"'Don't take no notice of what I told Toby Jenks an' Sandy Joyce. I
jest fooled 'em proper. Toby's a nice boy, but he ain't got brains
enough to kep himself warm on a summer day, so I didn't waste nothin'
on him, 'cep' time. As fer Sandy, he's sech a con-se-quenshul--' Have
I got that word right, Sunny?" Bill inquired blandly of the
secretary.
"You sure have," grinned Sunny, enjoying himself.
"'Sech a consequenshul fool of an idjut man,'" Bill read on, with a
glance into Sandy's scarlet face, "'that I hadn't no time but to push
him out of this dinin'-room.'"
"The miser'ble hash-slinger," exploded the exasperated Sandy,
springing to his feet, his eyes blazing with impotent fury.
"Sit down," commanded the president. "This yere is a proper meetin' of
the Zip Trust, an' don't call fer no langwidge ag'in a defenseless
woman."
"Then she ain't no right to say things," cried the outraged man.
"She ain't. She's wrote 'em," retorted Bill, in a manner that left
nothing more to be said. "'Consequenshul,' was the word," he went on,
rolling it off his tongue as though he enjoyed its flavor, "an' I
allow it must have took her thinking some to be so elegant. You'll
set," he added, glancing up severely at the still standing man.
Sandy dropped back on his box, but he was anything but appeased. His
dignity was hurt sorely. He, who understood women so well, to be
treated like this. Then he tried to console himself with the opinion
that after all Birdie was not exactly a woman, only a "pot-rustler."
But Bill was pushing the business forward. He wanted to get the matter
in hand settled.
"Here," he went on, "this is how she says of them kids: 'You can't
jest lay down reg'lations fer feedin'. Jest feed 'em natural, an' if
they git a pain dose 'em with physic. Ther's some things you must kep
'em from gittin' into their stummicks. Kindlin' wood is ridiculous fer
them to chew, ther' ain't no goodness in it, an' it's li'ble to run
slivvers into their vitals. Sulphur matches ain't good fer 'em to
suck. I ain't got nothing to say 'bout the sulphur, but the phospherus
is sure injurious, an', anyway, it's easy settin' 'emselves afire.
Kids is ter'ble fond of sand, an' gravel, an' mud, inside an' out.
Outside ain't no harm, 'cep' it keps you washin' 'em, but inside's
likely to give 'em colic. Don't let 'em climb on tables an' things.
Ther' never was a kid who could climb on to a table but what could
fall off. Don't let 'em lick stove-black off a hot cookstove. This
don't need explainin' to folk of ord'nary intelligence. Coal is for
makin' a fire, an' ain't good eatin'. Boilin' water has its uses, but
it ain't good play fer kids. Guns an' knives ain't needed fer kids
playin' Injun. These things is jest general notions to kep in your
head fer ord'nary guidance. Kids' clothes needs washin' every
Monday--with soap. Mebbe you'll need to wash every day if kids is
frolicsome. Bow-ties is for Sunday wear. Girl's hair needs braidin'
every night, an' don't leave chewin' t'baccer around. Kids is sure to
eat it. Best give 'em physic every Saturday night, an' bath 'em Sunday
mornin'. Don't use no hand scrubber. If you can't git through the dirt
by ord'nary washin', best leave it. Kids is tender-skinned anyway.
After their bath set 'em out in the sun, an' give 'em an elegant Bible
talk. Ther' ain't nothin' like a Bible talk fer kids. It sets 'em wise
to religion early, an' gives 'em a good impression o' the folks
raisin' 'em. Ef they ast too many questions you need to answer 'em
with discretion--'"
"Wot's she mean by that?" asked Toby, all interest in the mass of
detail.
"Mean? Why--" Bill paused considering.
Sunny looked up from his writing.
"Why, don't say fool things fer the sake of gassin'!" he explained
readily. "Everything you tell 'em needs a moral."
"Moral?" murmured Toby vaguely.
"Yes, moral."
But Sandy saw a chance of restoring his fallen prestige, and promptly
seized upon it.
"Moral," he said, beaming with self-satisfaction, "is handin' a lesson
all wrop up in fancy words so's to set folks cussin' like mad they
can't understand it, an' hatin' themselves when they're told its
meanin'. Now, if I was goin' to show you what a blamed idjut you was
without jest sayin' so--"
"Shut up!" cried Bill. And without waiting for a reply he read on,
"'--with discretion. If you treat kids proper they mostly raise
themselves, which is jest Natur'. Don't worry yourself, 'less they
fall into a swill-barrel, or do some ridiculous stunt o' that
natur'--an' don't worry _them_. Ther' ain't no sense to anybody goin'
around with notions they ken flap their wings, an' cluck like a broody
hen; an' scratchin' worms is positive ridiculous. Help 'em when they
need help, otherwise let 'em fall around till they knock sense into
theirselves. Jest let 'em be kids as long as Natur' fancies, so's when
they git growed up, which they're goin' to do anyways, they'll likely
make elegant men an' women. Ef you set 'em under glass cases they'll
sure get fixed into things what glass cases is made to hold--that's
images. I don't guess I kin tell you nothin' more 'bout kids, seein' I
ain't a mother, but jest a pot-wolloper.'"
Bill folded the paper as he finished reading, and silently handed it
across to the secretary. Somehow he seemed impressed with the
information the paper contained. The whole meeting seemed impressed.
Even Sandy had no comment to offer, while Toby resorted to biting his
forefinger and gazing stupidly at the opposite wall. It was Sunny who
finally broke the silence.
"Guess I'll jest writ' out the chief points fer Zip's guidance?" he
asked.
Bill nodded.
"That's it, sure," he agreed. "Jest the chief points. Then you'll hand
it to Zip to-morrer mornin', an', ef he needs it, you can explain wot
he ain't wise to. I'd like to say right here that this hash-slinger
has got savvee. Great big savvee, an' a heap of it. I ain't a hell of
a lot on the kid racket, they mostly make me sick to death. In a
manner o' speakin', I don't care a cuss for Zip nor his kids. Ef they
drown theirselves in a swill-bar'l it's his funeral, an' their luck,
an' it don't cut no ice with me. But, cuss me, ef I ken stand to see a
low-down skunk like this yer James come it over a feller-citizen o'
Suffering Creek, an' it's our duty to see Zip gits thro'. I'm sore on
James. Sore as hell. I ain't no Bible-thumpin', mush-hearted,
push-me-amongst-the-angels feller anyways. An' you boys has got to git
right on to that, quick." He glared round at his friends defiantly, as
though daring them to do otherwise. But as nobody gave a sign of doubt
on the subject, he had no alternative but to continue. "I'm jest sore
on James an'--" He hesitated for the fraction of a second, but went on
almost immediately. "--ther' may come a time when the play gits busy.
Get me? Wal," as Sandy and Sunny nodded assent, and Toby sat all eyes
for the speaker, "this yere Trust is a goin' concern, an', I take it,
we mean business. So, though we ain't runnin' a noospaper, maybe we'll
need a fightin' editor after all. If we need a fightin' editor we'll
sure need a fightin' staff. That's jest logic. I'll ast you right
here, is you boys that fightin' staff? If so, guess I'm fightin'
editor. How?"
His eyes were on Sunny Oak. And that individual's unwashed face
broadened into a cheerful grin.
"Fightin' don't come under the headin' of work--proper," he said.
"Guess I'm in."
Bill turned on Sandy.
"You ain't got the modest beauty o' the vi'let," he said, with
saturnine levity. "How you feelin'?"
"Sure good," exclaimed the widower. "But I'd feel better lettin' air
into the carkis of James."
"Good," muttered Bill. "An' you, Toby?" he went on, turning on the
"remittance" man. "You're a heap fat, an' need somethin' to get it
down. How you fancy things?"
"I'd as lief scrap 'side these scalliwags as ag'in 'em," he replied,
indicating his companions with an amiable grin.
Bill nodded.
"This yere Trust is a proper an' well-found enterprise," he said
gravely. "As fer Minky, I guess we can count him in most anything that
ain't dishonest. So--wal, this is jest precautions. Ther's nuthin'
doin' yet. But you see," he added, with a shadowy grin, "life's mostly
chock-full of fancy things we don't figger on, an' anyway I can't set
around easy when folks gets gay. I'll be back to hum day after
to-morrer, or the next day, an', meanwhiles, you'll see things are
right with Zip. An' don't kep far away from Minky's store when
strangers is around. Minky's a good friend o' mine, an' a good friend
to most o' you, so--well, guns is good med'cine ef folks git gay, an'
are yearnin' to handle dust what ain't theirs."
"Them strangers?" suggested Sandy. "Is--?"
Bill shrugged.
"Strangers is strangers, an' gold-dust is gold-dust," he said
shrewdly. "An' when the two git together ther's gener'ly a disease
sets in that guns is the best med'cine for. That's 'bout all."