“Yallerstone, if the right girl came along would you consider
matrimony?”
“Why speak of tender emotions, Taos?” I inquires. “Kick off your boots
and go to sleep. You need a shot of calomel, if you asks me.”
“Love is a great thing, Yallerstone. I’m slipping into the sere and
yaller leaf, old-timer, but you ain’t so ancient. You ought to settle
down before it’s too late. I might ’a’ stood a chance once, Yallerstone.
She sure was a dingbuster. I gave her back her watch and locket.”
I sets up in my blanket and gawps at Taos. The idea of a old desert-rat
like him receiving presents from a lady seemed wicked thoughts.
“Taos,” says I, “what was you doing with her jewelry?”
“Two year ago it happens;” says he, reflective-like. “I’m a knight of
the road, as the poeting fellers call it, and I’ve halted the
Cinnibar stage. I’ve got ’em all chinning themselves on a cloud, with
the driver assaying their pockets for _dinero_, when I gazes upon her
face. She was a passenger, Yallerstone--a passenger.” Taos sighs deep
into his whiskers. “A passenger.”
“And you gave her back her ante?” I asks.
“Uh-huh,” he sighs. “And down deep in the valves of my heart lies a
spark of love that only needs to be blowed upon a little to break into
conflagration. Yallerstone Brown, after I gazed into her eyes I hears
a different song coming from the birds, and even the buzzards has took
upon themselves a sort of beauty. I ain’t seen her since, so I’ve sort
of vegetated since she left me.”
“Did you quit knighting on the highways then?” I asks, and he nods.
“What did you pe-ruse that seems to bring back memories of yore?” I
asks.
* * * * *
“This here paper, Yallerstone. It appears to be full of matrimonial
chances. There’s a lot of females which seems to have trouble in getting
mated up, and they ask for what they want. In one certain location there
appears a item that sounds attractive. Here she is:
Lady about twenty-seven years of age, blonde, affectionate,
educated and refined, would like to meet a real Western man.
Must be sober and industrious, and of good appearance.
Object matrimony. Address Box 1234, Hillsdale, Ill.
“Now,” continues Taos, “you qualify, Yallerstone.”
“Westerner,” says I. “Sober right now, and if following a burro is
industry I’m there like a he-buzzard.”
Taos nods, solemn-like.
“I reckon we’re both tired of living alone. Maybe a woman could make
something out of both of us if they had a chance.”
“Maybe,” says I, “but I doubt it. Was this a blonde lady what you held
up?”
“Uh-huh. Yaller as a canary.”
“Go to bed, Taos,” I advises, but he sets there perusing the paper and
nodding to himself. All to once he casts the paper aside and says:
“Yallerstone, will you go to Hillsdale with me? Will you?”
“Too far. Amarilly is getting sore-footed, and I’ve got a corn.”
“Only to Rawhide, Yallerstone,” he pleads. “I’ve got some money in
the bank there, and I’ll split a thousand with you, and we’ll pasture
Amarilly. Will you, Yallerstone?”
“No!” says I, flat-footed. “Nix, not and no time, Taos. Me and you
have been partners since the Springtime sprung, and I like you--dang
your frowsy old face--and I’d help you rob a train or a bank, but
when you asks me to be an accessory to matrimonial plans I rears on
to my hind legs and balks exceedingly.
“In the first place, Taos, the town is too far away. Maybe said female
is already married. If me and you got out of sight of the Funeral
Hills we’d get lost. No, Taos, we’re better off here. Far be it from
me to chide you if love has penetrated your internal organs, but to a
pilgrimage into the East as part and parcel to your connubial scheme,
Taos--never! I will not, and that is finality in all its phases.
_Sabe?_”
* * * * *
Well, we kissed Amarilly good-by at the pasture gate. Before the
ticket-agent would sell us a ticket he finds out from the sheriff if
we’re leaving of our own free will, and his, and then he hands us
forty feet of green paper and wishes us _adios_.
We mounts that train at midnight, and I hope to die if I ever seen
such a bunk-house. I paid for a bed, and that porter feller made me
climb a ladder and get into a bird’s nest. I reckon I got some of my
clothes off, but I didn’t have room enough to find out what it was. I
hooked one arm over a baby’s hammock, and prayed all night for a pair
of spurs. The next morning is awful. I’m so kinked up that I can’t
get my pants on. The sheet is so slippery that I can’t even inch into
them, and when I peeks out the place is full of folks.
“Taos, are you still there?” I yelps.
“I am!” he yells back. “Are you dressed?”
“I don’t think so,” says I. “I ain’t got room to see higher than my
knees, but I think I’m still outside of my pants. Are you dressed?”
“No!” he yelps, and I hears him bump his head. “Gol blast the gol
blasted--” and then he whoops, “Ex-cuse me, folks, but the ladies
better retire, ’cause Taos Thompson is coming out into the open to
dress!”
Man, I’d say that they retired. I fell out on my hands and knees, and we
both dressed in the privacy of the middle of the car. That trip was one
succession of kinky nights. I tried to sleep on the back porch, but the
conductor got peeved, and I went back to my perch. Taos finds something
to read, which makes him unfit as a companion, and I sure longs for
Amarilly and the desert.
One morning I’m setting there in a seat, looking at the scenery, when a
lady gets on the train. She stops beside my seat and looks down at me.
“I beg your pardon,” says she, “is this your seat?”
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” says I. “I don’t think so. I reckon I just sort
of squatted here, being as it ain’t got no location notice nor nothing
to show ownership.”
“Thanks,” says she, and sets right down beside me.
I looks out the window for a spell, and when I turns my head she’s
looking right at me.
“Pardon me,” says she, “but you’re from the West?”
“Yes’m,” I admits. “I wish I wasn’t.”
“Why?” she asks, elevating her eyebrows.
“Well,” says I, “if I wasn’t, ma’am, I’d be there now. See how it is?”