partic'lar aborigine-nothin' most likely; but it ain't a day when
one of them Injuns settles it with himse'f he wants to wed her. The
towerists is in ign'rance of the views of this savage, who goes
about dealin' his game Injun fashion.
"It's this a-way: Dave an' me trails in one evenin' some weary an'
played; it's been a hard ride that day. Which the first thing we
lays eyes on at the camp shorely livens us up a lot. Thar, tied to
the wagon-wheels, is nine ponies, which the same belongs to the
Injuns.
"'Whatever be these y ere broncos doin' yere?' says Dave, for we
allows, the first dash outen the box, mebby the Britons makes a
purchase.
"One of the towerists tells a long an' delighted story about the
gen'rosity of the Injuns.
"'Actooally,' says this towerist,"them gen'rous savages leads up
these yere nine ponies an' donates 'em.'
"Dave an' me asks questions; and all thar is to the deal--which it's
shore enough to bust Dave's fam'ly before it's over--them Injuns
brings up the nine ponies all respectful, an' leaves 'em hobbled
out, mebby it's a hundred yards from the Britons, an' rides away.
The Britons, deemin' this bluff as in the line of gifts, capers over
an' possesses themse'fs of the ponies an' leads 'em in. That's the
outside of the store.
"'Well, stranger,' says Dave in reply, takin' of the towerist one
side, 'I ain't aimin' to discourage you none, but you-alls has gone
an' got all tangled up in your lariat.'
"'What for an ontanglement is it?' asks the towerist.
"'Nothin',' says Dave, sorter breakin' it to him easy, 'nothin',
only you've done married your daughter to one of them Injuns.'
"When Dave announces this yere trooth it shore looks like the
Briton's goin' to need whiskey to uphold himse'f. But he
reorganizes, an' Dave explains that the Injuns, when they trails in
with the ponies, is simply shufflin' for a weddin'; they's offerin'
what they-alls calls a 'price' for the woman.
"'An' when you-alls leads in the ponies,' says Dave,'that settles
it. You agrees to deal right thar. To-morrow, now, this yere buck,
whoever he is, will come surgin' in with his relations plumb down to
third cousins; an' he expects you'll be dead ready to feed 'em, an'
wind up the orgy by passin' over the bride.'
"You can bet them reecitals of Dave's is plenty horrible to the
towerist. He allows we must keep it from his daughter; an' then he
puts hip whole outfit in Dave's hands, to get 'em safe onto high
grounds.
"'Can't we pull our freight in the night?'says the towerist, an'
he's shorely anxious.
"'Too much moon,' says Dave; 'an' then, ag'in, the whole Injun
outfit's below us in the draw, an' we never gets by once in a
thousand times. No,' goes on Dave, 'one shore thing we can't back
out nor crawl off. We-alls has to play the hand plumb through:
"Then Dave tells the towerist him an' me talks over this yere
weddin' which he done goes into so inadvertent; an' if thar's a
chance to save him from becomin' a father-in-law abrupt, we'll play
it to win.
"'This yere is the only wagon-track out; says Dave to me, after we
pow-wows an hour. 'You go down to them Injuns, an' find the right
buck that a-way, an' tell him the squaw's got a buck now. Tell him
he's barred. Which at this p'int in your revelations he's due to
offer a fight, an' of course you takes him. Tell him at first-drink
time to-morrow mornin' he finds me ready to fight for the squaw.'
"'This whole business makes metired, though,' says Dave, a heap
disgustad. ' If these eediots had let them Injuns alone-, or even if
they disdains the ponies when they was brought up, this yere could
be fixed easy. But now it's fight or give up the woman, so you go
down, as I says, an' arrange for the dance.'
"Of course thar's no explainin' nothin' to Injuns. You might as well
waste time expoundin' to coyotes an' jack-rabbits. All that's left
for me to do is trail out after my savage, as Dave says, an' notify
him that this weddin' he pro. poses is postponed an' all bets is
off.
"I finds him easy enough, an' saws it off on him in Spanish how the
game stacks up. But he ain't cheerful about it, an' displays a
mighty baleful sperit. Jest as Tutt allows he's out to shoot for the
squaw in a minute, an' as thar's no gettin' away from it, I tells
him to paint himse'f for war an' come a-runnin'.
"I has to carry a hard face; for we're shorely in for it. Yere we be
four days from Wolfville, an' the Injuns--an' I reckons thar's
twenty bucks in the outfit-is camped in between us an' he'p.
"This Injun who's after the woman is named Black Dog. The next
mornin' Tutt saddles up an' rides off to one side of our camp, mebby
it's a quarter of a mile, an' then gets offen his pony an' stands
thar. We-alls don't onfold to the towerists the details of the deal,
not even to the Injun's father-in-law. The towerist female is that
ign'rant of what's going' on, she's pesterin' 'round all
onconscious, makin' bakin'-powder biscuit at the time. I looks at
her close, an' I wonders even yet what that Black Dog's thinkin' of.
But I don't get much time to be disgusted over this Black Dog's
taste before he comes p'intin' out from among his people.
"The sun's jest gettin' over the hills to the east, an', as it
strikes him, he's shore a fash'nable lookin' Injun. He ain't got
nothin' on but a war-bunnit an' a coat of paint. The rest of his
trousseau he confines to his Winchester an' belt. He's on his war-
pony, an' the bronco's stripped as bare as this Black Dog is; not a
strap from muzzle to tail. This bridegroom Injun's tied its mane
full of ribbons, an' throws a red blanket across his pony's withers
for general effects. Take it all over, he's a nifty-lookin' savage.
"So far as the dooel goes, Dave ain't runnin' no resk. He stands
thar on the ground an' keeps his hoss between him an' this yere
Black Dog. It's a play which forces the bridegroom's hand, too. He's
due, bein' Injun, to go cirelin' Dave an' do his shootin' on the
canter.
"An' that's what this weak-minded savage does. He breaks into a lope
an' goes sailin' 'round Dave like a hawk. Durin' them exercises he
lays over on the shoulder of his hoss an' bangs away from onder its
neck with one hand, permiscus.
"This is mere frivolity. Thar ain't no white gent who could shoot
none onder sech conditions; an' Injuns can't shoot nohow. They don't
savey a hind sight. An', as I remarks, if Dave's hit any, it's goin'
to shorely be an accident, an' accidents don't happen none in
Arizona; leastwise not with guns.
'Mebby this Black Dog's banged away three times, when Dave, who's
been followin' of him, through the sights for thirty seconds,
onhooks his rifle, an' the deal comes to a full stop. Dave's
shootin' a Sharp's, with a hundred an' twenty grains of powder, an'
the way he sends a bullet plumb through that war-pony an' this yere
Black Dog, who's hangin' on its off side, don't bother him a bit.
The pony an' the Black Dog goes over on their heads.
"Dave rides in, an' brings the blanket an' war-bunnit. Even then,
the female towerist, which is the object of the meetin', don't seem
informed none of the course of events. The fact is, she never does
acquire the rights of it till we-alls is two days back on the return
trail.
"Thar's no more bother. Injuns is partic'lar people, that a-way,
about etiquette as they saveys it, an' followin' Dave's downin' this
Black Dog they ain't makin' a moan or a move. They takes it plenty
solemn an' mute, an' goes to layin' out the Black Dog's obsequies
without no more notice of us. It's a squar deal; they sees that; an'
they ain't filin' no objections. As for our end of the game, we
moves out for Wolfville, makin' no idle delays whatever.
"Goin' in, Dave, after thinkin' some, su'gests to me that it's
likely to be a heap good story not to tell Tucson Jennie.
"'Females is illogical, that a-way,' says Dave, 'an' I ain't goin'
to have time to eddicate Jennie to a proper view of this yere. So I
reckons it's goin' to be a crafty play not to tell her.'
"The Britons has been gone two weeks when Tucson Jennie learns the
story. Them towerists is plumb weary of Arizona when we trails into
Wolfville, an' don't seem to tarry a second before they lines out
for Tucson.
"'They jest hits a high place or two,' says Jack Moore, after he
hears of them designs of the Black Dog, 'an' they'll be 'way yonder
out of the country. I don't reckon none of 'em'll ever come back
soon, neither.'
"But it's the towerist woman makes the trouble from start to finish.
It's a letter from her which she writes back to Dave, allowin'
she'll thank him some more as her preserver, that brings the news to
Jennie. Tucson Jennie gets this missive, an' ups an' rifles an'
reads it to herse'f a whole lot. It's then Tucson Jennie gives it
out cold, Dave is breakin' her heart, an' tharupon prances 'round
for her shaker an' goes over to Missis Rucker's.
"The whole camp knows the story in an hour, an' while we-ails
sympathizes with Dave of course, no one's blamin' Tucson Jennie.
She's a female, an' onresponsible, for one thing; an' then, ag'in
Dave's a heap onlikely to stand any condemnations of his wife.
"'She's as good a woman as ever wears a moccasin,' says Dave, while
he's recoverin' of his sperits at the Red Light bar.
"An' we-alls allows she shorely is; an' then everybody looks pensive
an' sincere that a-way, so's not to harrow Dave none an' make his
burdens more.
"'But whatever can I do to fetch her back to camp?' asks Dave,
appealin' to Enright mighty wretched. 'I goes plumb locoed if this
yere keeps on.'
"'My notion is, we-alls better put Missis Rucker in to play the
hand,' says Enright. 'Missis Rucker's a female, an' is shorely due
to know what kyards to draw. But this oughter be a lesson to you,
Dave, not to go romancin' 'round with strange women no more.'
"'It's a forced play, I tells you,' says Dave. 'Them Injuns has us
treed. It's a case of fight or give up that she-towerist, so what
was I to do?'
"`Well,' says Enright, some severe,' you might at least have
consulted with this yere towerist woman some. But you don't. You
simply gets a gun an' goes trackin' 'round in her destinies, an'
shootin' up her prospects like you has a personal interest. You
don't know but she deplores the deal complete. Peets, an' me, an'
Boggs, an' all the rest of us is your friends, an' nacherally
partial on your side. We-alls figgers you means well. But what I
says is this: It ain't no s'prisin' thing when Tucson Jennie, a-
hearin' of them pronounced attentions which you pays this towerist
lady, is filled with grief. This shootin' up an Injun, cause he's
plannin' to wed this female some, is what I shorely calls pronounced
attentions. What do you think yourse'f, Peets?'
"'Why! I readily concedes what Dave says,' remarks Peets.
'Ondoubtedly he acts for the best as he sees it. But jest as you
puts it: s'pose Dave ain't hungerin' none for this towerist woman
himse'f, the headlong way he goes after this yere Black Dog, settin'
of the war-jig the next sun-up, an' all without even sayin' "Let me
look at your hand," to this female, jestifies them inferences of
yours. Of course I don't say--an' I don't reckon none--Dave thinks
of this old-maid maverick once; but, he sees himse'f, ht shore goes
to war a heap precipitate an' onconsiderate, an' Tucson Jennie has
ondoubted grounds to buck.
"'Which, when you-alls puts it so cl'ar, I thinks so too,' says
Dave, who's listenin' to Enright an' Peets a mighty sight dejected.
I But I ain't been wedded long--ain't more'n what you might call an
amature husband. What you-alls oughter do now is he'p me to round
her up. If Tucson Jennie's a bunch of cattle, or a band of ponies as
has stampeded, you'd be in the saddle too quick.'
"Missis Rucker shore does all she knows to soften Tucson Jennie. She
reminds her how in the old times, when Dave gets his chile con carne
at the O. K. House, and the party from the States takes to reprovin'
of Missis Rucker about thar bein' nothin' but coffee an' beans to
eat, Dave onlimbers his six-shooter an' goes to the front.
"'The grub's dealt down,' says Dave, explainin' to this obnoxious
tenderfoot, 'till thar's nothin' left in the box but beans, coffee,
an' beans. It's a cat-hop, but it can't be he'ped none.'
"'Cat-hop or no cat-hop,' says this tenderfoot, 'I'm dead ag'in
beans; an' you can gamble I ain't out to devour no sech low
veg'tables; none whatever.'
"'You jest thinks you don't like beans,' says Dave, an' with that he
sorter dictates at the tenderfoot with his gun, an' the tenderfoot
thar-upon lays for his frijoles like he's actooally honin' tharfor.
"'Which it all shows Dave's got a good heart,' says Missis Rucker to
Tucson Jennie.
"'That's nothin' to do with his makin' love to the British woman,'
says Tucson Jennie, grittin' her teeth like she could eat the sights
offen a six-shooter.
"'He never makes no love to this yere woman,' says Missis Rucker.
"'When he ketches her flirtin' with that Injun,' demands Tucson
Jennie, 'don't Dave shoot him up a lot? What do you-all call makin'
love? He never downs no Injuns for me, an' I'm his lawful wife.' An'
yere Missis Rucker allows, when she reports to Enright an' Dave an'
the rest of the outfit in the Red Light, Tucson Jennie weeps like
her heart is shorely broke.
"'Which the pore girl's to be pitied,' says Enright. 'Dave,' he goes
on, turnin' to Tutt some fierce, 'you don't deserve no sech devotion
as this.'
"'That's whatever,' says Dan Boggs, lookin' red an' truculent, 'this
yere Tucson Jennie's a angel.'
"But thar we be, up ag'inst it, an' not a man knows a thing to do to
squar' the deal with Dave's wife. We-alls, calls for drinks all
'round, an' sets about an' delib'rates. At last Dave speaks up in a
low-sperited way.
"'I reckons she done jumps the game for good,' he says. 'But if
she's goin', I wants her to have a layout. If you-alls cares to go
over to the New York Store, I allows I'll play in a blue stack or
two an' win her out some duds. I wants her to quit the deal ahead.'
"So Dave sets out for the New York Store, an' the rest of us sorter
straggles along. Thar's nothin' gay about us. Dave gets a shawl an'
a dress; nothin' gaudy; it's a plain red an' yaller. Missis Rucker
packs 'em over to Tucson Jennie an' gets that wrapped up in the deal
she forgets utter to rustle us our grub.
"Which, it's the onexpeeted as happens in Wolfville same as
everywhere else. The minute Tucson Jennie sees the raiment, an'
realizes how Dave loves her, that settles it. Her heart melts right
thar. She ain't sayin' nothin'; jest ropes onto the dry-goods an'
starts sobbin' out for the 'doby where she an' Dave lives at.
"Dave, when he observes this yere from 'cross the street, shakes
hands all 'round, but don't trust himse'f with no remarks. He gives
our paws a squeeze like he knows he can rely on our friendship an'
hunts his way across to Tucson Jennie without a word.
"'It's all right about bein' yoothful an' light, that a-way,' says
Enright, after Dave pulls his freight, 'but Tutt oughter remember
yereafter, before he goes mixin' himse'f up with sech vain things as
towerists an' Injuns an' British, that he's a married man.'"
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MAN FROM RED DOG.
"Let me try one of them thar seegyars."
It was the pleasant after-dinner hour, and I was on the veranda for
a quiet smoke. The Old Cattleman had just thrown down his paper; the
half-light of the waning sun was a bit too dim for his eyes of
seventy years.
"Whenever I beholds a seegyar," said the old fellow, as he puffed
voluminously at the principe I passed over, "I thinks of what that
witness says in the murder trial at Socorro.
"'What was you-all doin' in camp yourse'f,' asks the jedge of this
yere witness, 'the day of the killin'?'
"'Which,' says the witness, oncrossin' his laigs an' lettin' on he
ain't made bashful an' oneasy by so much attentions bein' shown
hire, 'which I was a-eatin' of a few sardines, a-drinkin' of a few
drinks of whiskey, a-smokin' of a few seegyars, an' a-romancin'
'round.'"
After this abrupt, not to say ambiguous reminiscence, the Old
Cattleman puffed contentedly a moment.
"What murder trial was this you speak of?" I asked. "Who had been
killed?"
"Now I don't reckon I ever does know who it is gets downed," he
replied. "This yere murder trial itse'f is news to me complete. They
was waggin' along with it when I trails into Socorro that time, an'
I merely sa'nters over to the co't that a-way to hear what's goin'
on. The jedge is sorter gettin' in on the play while I'm listenin'.
"'What was the last words of this yere gent who's killed?' asks the
jedge of this witness.
"'As nearly as I keeps tabs, jedge,' says the witness, `the dyin'
statement of this person is: "Four aces to beat."'
"'Which if deceased had knowed Socorro like I does,' says the jedge,
like he's commentin' to himse'f, 'he'd shorely realized that sech
remarks is simply sooicidal.'"
Again the Old Cattleman relapsed into silence and the smoke of the
principe.
"How did the trial come out?" I queried. "Was the accused found
guilty?"
"Which the trial itse'f," he replied, "don't come out. Thar's a
passel of the boys who's come into town to see that jestice is done,
an' bein' the round-up is goin' for'ard at the time, they nacherally
feels hurried an' pressed for leesure. Theyalls oughter be back on
the range with their cattle. So the fifth day, when things is
loiterin' along at the trial till it looks like the law has hobbles
on, an' the word goes round it's goin' to be a week yet before the
jury gets action on this miscreant who's bein' tried, the boys
becomes plumb aggravated an' wearied out that a-way; an', kickin' in
the door of the calaboose, they searches out the felon, swings him
to a cottonwood not otherwise engaged, an' the right prevails.
Nacherally the trial bogs down right thar."
After another season of silence and smoke, the Old Cattleman struck
in again.
"Speakn' of killin's, while I'm the last gent to go fosterin' idees
of bloodshed, I'm some discouraged jest now by what I've been
readin' in that paper about a dooel between some Eytalians, an' it
shorely tries me the way them aliens plays hoss. It's obvious as
stars on a cl'ar night, they never means fight a little bit. I
abhors dooels, an' cowers from the mere idee. But, after all,
business is business, an' when folks fights 'em the objects of the
meetin' oughter be blood. But the way these yere European shorthorns
fixes it, a gent shorely runs a heap more resk of becomin' a angel
abrupt, attendin' of a Texas cake-walk in a purely social way.
"Do they ever fight dooels in the West? Why, yes--some. My mem'ry
comes a-canterin' up right now with the details of an encounter I
once beholds in Wolfville. Thar ain't no time much throwed away with
a dooel in the Southwest. The people's mighty extemporaneous, an'
don't go browsin' 'round none sendin' challenges in writin', an'
that sort of flapdoodle. When a gent notices the signs a-gettin'
about right for him to go on the war-path, he picks out his meat,
surges up, an' declar's himse'f. The victim, who is most likely a
mighty serious an' experienced person, don't copper the play by
makin' vain remarks, but brings his gatlin' into play surprisin'.
Next it's bang! bang! bang! mixed up with flashes an' white smoke,
an' the dooel is over complete. The gent who still adorns our midst
takes a drink on the house, while St. Peter onbars things a lot an'
arranges gate an' seat checks with the other in the realms of light.
That's all thar is to it. The tide of life ag'in flows onward to the
eternal sea, an' nary ripple.
"Oh, this yere Wolfville dooel! `Well, it's this a-way. The day is
blazin' hot, an' business layin' prone an' dead--jest blistered to
death. A passel of us is sorter pervadin' 'round the dance-hall, it
bein' the biggest an' coolest store in camp. A monte game is
strugglin' for breath in a feeble, fitful way in the corner, an'
some of us is a-watchin'; an' some a-settin' 'round loose a-
thinkin'; but all keepin' mum an' still, 'cause it's so hot.
"Jest then some gent on a hoss goes whoopin' up the street a-yellin'
an' a-whirlin' the loop of his rope, an' allowin' generally he's
havin' a mighty good time.
"'Who's this yere toomultuous man on the hoss?' says Enright, a-
regardin' of him in a displeased way from the door.
"'I meets him up the street a minute back,' says Dan Boggs, 'an' he
allows he's called "The Man from Red Dog." He says he's took a day
off to visit us, an' aims to lay waste the camp some before he goes
back.'
"About then the Red Dog man notes old Santa Rosa, who keeps the
Mexican baile hall, an' his old woman, Marie, a-fussin' with each
other in front of the New York Store. They's locked horns over a
drink or somethin', an' is pow-wowin' mighty onamiable.
"'Whatever does this yere Mexican fam'ly mean,' says the Red Dog
man, a-surveyin' of 'em plenty scornful, 'a-draggin' of their
domestic brawls out yere to offend a sufferin' public for? Whyever
don't they stay in their wickeyup an' fight, an' not take to puttin'
it all over the American race which ain't in the play none an' don't
thirst tharfor? However, I unites an' reeconciles this divided
household easy.'
"With this the Red Dog man drops the loop of his lariat 'round the
two contestants an' jumps his bronco up the street like it's come
outen a gun. Of course Santa Rosa an' Marie goes along on their
heads permiscus.
"They goes coastin' along ontil they gets pulled into a mesquite-
bush, an' the rope slips offen the saddle, an' thar they be. We-alls
goes over from the dance-hall, extricatin' of 'em, an' final they
rounds up mighty hapless an' weak, an' can only walk. They shorely
lose enough hide to make a pair of leggin's.
"'Which I brings 'em together like twins,' says the Red Dog man,
ridin' back for his rope. 'I offers two to one, no limit, they don't
fight none whatever for a month.'
"Which, as it shorely looks like he's right, no one takes him. So
the Red Dog man leaves his bluff a-hangin' an' goes into the dance-
hall, a-givin' of it out cold an' clammy he meditates libatin'.
"'All promenade to the bar,' yells the Red Dog man as he goes in.
'I'm a wolf, an' it's my night to howl. Don't 'rouse me, barkeep,
with the sight of merely one bottle; set 'em all up. I'm some
fastidious about my fire-water an' likes a chance to select.'
"Well, we-alls takes our inspiration, an' the Red Dog man tucks his
onder his belt an' then turns round to Enright.
"'I takes it you're the old he-coon of this yere outfit?' says the
Red Dog man, soopercillious-like.
"'Which, if I ain't,' says Enright, 'it's plenty safe as a play to
let your wisdom flow this a-way till the he-coon gets yere.'
"'If thar's anythin',' says the Red Dog man, 'I turns from sick,
it's voylence an' deevastation. But I hears sech complaints constant
of this yere camp of Wolfville, I takes my first idle day to ride
over an' line things up. Now yere I be, an' while I regrets it, I
finds you-alls is a lawless, onregenerate set, a heap sight worse
than roomer. I now takes the notion--for I sees no other trail--that
by next drink time I climbs into the saddle, throws my rope 'round
this den of sin, an' removes it from the map.'
"'Nacherally,' says Enright, some sarcastic, 'in makin' them schemes
you ain't lookin' for no trouble whatever with a band of tarrapins
like us.'
"'None whatever,' says the Red Dog man, mighty confident. 'In thirty
minutes I distributes this yere hamlet 'round in the landscape same
as them Greasers; which feat becomin' hist'ry, I then canters back
to Red Dog.'
"'Well,' says Enright, 'it's plenty p'lite to let us know what's
comin' this a-way.'
"'Oh! I ain't tellin' you none,' says the Red Dog man, 'I simply
lets fly this hint, so any of you-alls as has got bric-a-brac he
values speshul, he takes warnin' some an' packs it off all safe.'
"It's about then when Cherokee Hall, who's lookin' on, shoulders in
between Enright an' the Red Dog man, mighty positive. Cherokee is a
heap sot in his idees, an' I sees right off he's took a notion ag'in
the Red Dog man.
"'As you've got a lot of work cut out,' says Cherokee, eyein' the
Red Dog man malignant, 's'pose we tips the canteen ag'in.'
"'I shorely goes you,' says the Red Dog man. 'I drinks with friend,
an' I drinks with foe; with the pard of my bosom an' the shudderin'
victim of my wrath all sim'lar.'
"Cherokee turns out a big drink an' stands a-holdin' of it in his
hand. I wants to say right yere, this Cherokee's plenty guileful.
"'You was namin',' says Cherokee, 'some public improvements you aims
to make; sech as movin' this yere camp 'round some, I believes?'
"'That's whatever,' says the Red Dog man, 'an' the holycaust I
'nitiates is due to start in fifteen minutes.'
"'I've been figgerin' on you,' says Cherokee, 'an' I gives you the
result in strict confidence without holdin' out a kyard. When you-
all talks of tearin' up Wolfville, you're a liar an' a hoss-thief,
an' you ain't goin' to tear up nothin'.'
"'What's this I hears!' yells the frenzied Red Dog man, reachin' for
his gun.
"But he never gets it, for the same second Cherokee spills the glass
of whiskey straight in his eyes, an' the next he's anguished an'
blind as a mole.
"'I'll fool this yere human simoon up a lot,' says Cherokee, a-
hurlin' of the Red Dog man to the floor, face down, while his nine-
inch bowie shines in his hand like the sting of a wasp. 'I shore
fixes him so he can't get a job clerkin' in a store,' an' grabbin'
the Red Dog man's ha'r, which is long as the mane of a pony, he
slashes it off close in one motion.
"'Thar's a fringe for your leggin's, Nell,' remarks Cherokee, a-
turnin' of the crop over to Faro Nell. 'Now, Doc,' Cherokee goes on
to Doc Peets, 'take this yere Red Dog stranger over to the Red
Light, fix his eyes all right, an' then tell him, if he thinks he
needs blood in this, to take his Winchester an' go north in the
middle of the street. In twenty minutes by the watch I steps outen
the dance-hall door a-lookin' for him. P'int him to the door all
fair an' squar'. I don't aim to play nothin' low on this yere gent.
He gets a chance for his ante.'
"Doc Peets sorter accoomilates the Red Dog man, who is cussin' an'
carryin' on scand'lous, an' leads him over to the Red Light. In a
minute word comes to Cherokee as his eyes is roundin' up all proper,
an' that he's makin' war-medicine an' is growin' more hostile
constant, an' to heel himse'f. At that Cherokee, mighty ca'm, sends
out for Jack Moore's Winchester, which is an 'eight-squar',' latest
model.
"'Oh, Cherokee!' says Faro Nell, beginnin' to cry, an' curlin' her
arms 'round his neck. 'I'm 'fraid he's goin' to down you. Ain't thar
no way to fix it? Can't Dan yere settle with this Red Dog man?'
"'Cert,' says Dan Boggs, 'an' I makes the trip too gleeful. Jest to
spar' Nell's feelin's, Cherokee, an' not to interfere with no gent's
little game, I takes your hand an' plays it.'
"'Not none,' says Cherokee; 'this is my deal. Don't cry, Nellie,' he
adds, smoothin' down her yaller ha'r. 'Folks in my business has to
hold themse'fs ready to face any game on the word, an' they never
weakens or lays down. An' another thing, little girl; I gets this
Red Dog sharp, shore. I'm in the middle of a run of luck; I holds
fours twice last night, with a flush an' a full hand out ag'in 'em.'
"Nell at last lets go of Cherokee's neck, an', bein' a female an'
timid that a-way, allows she'll go, an' won't stop to see the
shootin' none. We applauds the idee, thinkin' she might shake
Cherokee some if she stays; an' of course a gent out shootin' for
his life needs his nerve.
"Well, the twenty minutes is up; the Red Dog man gets his rifle
offen his saddle an' goes down the middle of the street. Turnin' up
his big sombrero, he squar's 'round, cocks his gun, an' waits. Then
Enright goes out with Cherokee an' stands him in the street about a
hundred yards from the Red Dog man. After Cherokee's placed he holds
up his hand for attention an' says:
"'When all is ready I stands to one side an' drops my hat. You-alls
fires at will.'
"Enright goes over to the side of the street, counts 'one,' 'two,'
'three,' an' drops his hat. Bangety! Bang! Bang! goes the rifles
like the roll of a drum. Cherokee can work a Winchester like one of
these yere Yankee 'larm-clocks, an' that Red Dog hold-up don't seem
none behind.
"About the fifth fire the Red Dog man sorter steps for'ard an' drops
his gun; an' after standin' onsteady for a second, he starts to
cripplin' down at his knees. At last he comes ahead on his face like
a landslide. Thar's two bullets plumb through his lungs, an' when we
gets to him the red froth is comin' outen his mouth some plenteous.
"We packs him back into the Red Light an' lays him onto a monte-
table. Bimeby he comes to a little an' Peets asks him whatever he
thinks he wants.
"'I wants you-alls to take off my moccasins an' pack me into the
street,' says the Red Dog man. 'I ain't allowin' for my old mother
in Missoury to be told as how I dies in no gin-mill, which she
shorely 'bominates of 'em. An' I don't die with no boots on,
neither.'
"We-alls packs him back into the street ag'in, an' pulls away at his
boots. About the time we gets 'em off he sags back convulsive, an'
thar he is as dead as Santa Anna.
"'What sort of a game is this, anyhow?' says Dan Boggs, who, while
we stands thar, has been pawin' over the Red Dog man's rifle. 'Looks
like this vivacious party's plumb locoed. Yere's his hind-sights
wedged up for a thousand yards, an' he's been a-shootin' of
cartridges with a hundred an' twenty grains of powder into 'em.
Between the sights an' the jump of the powder, he's shootin' plumb
over Cherokee an' aimin' straight at him.'
"'Nellie,' says Enright, lookin' remorseful at the girl, who colors
up an' begins to cry ag'in, 'did you cold-deck this yere Red Dog
sport this a-way?'
"'I'm 'fraid,' sobs Nell, 'he gets Cherokee; so I slides over when
you-alls is waitin' an' fixes his gun some.'
"'Which I should shorely concede you did,' says Enright. 'The way
that Red Dog gent manip'lates his weepon shows he knows his game;
an' except for you a-settin' things up on him, I'm powerful afraid
he'd spoiled Cherokee a whole lot.'
"'Well, gents,' goes on Enright, after thinkin' a while, 'I reckons
we-alls might as well drink on it. Hist'ry never shows a game yet,
an' a woman in it, which is on the squar', an' we meekly b'ars our
burdens with the rest.'"
CHAPTER IX.
CHEROKEE HALL.
"An' you can't schedoole too much good about him," remarked the Old
Cattleman. Here he threw away the remnant of the principe, and,
securing his pipe, beat the ashes there-out and carefully reloaded
with cut plug. Inevitably the old gentleman must smoke. His tone and
air as he made the remark quoted were those of a man whose
convictions touching the one discussed were not to be shaken. "No,
sir," he continued; "when I looks back'ard down the trail of life,
if thar's one gent who aforetime holds forth in Wolfville on whom I
reflects with satisfaction, it's this yere Cherokee Hall."
"To judge from his conduct," I said, "in the hard case of the
Wilkins girl, as well as his remark as she left on the stage, I
should hold him to be a person of sensibilities as well as
benevolent impulse."
It was my purpose to coax the old gentleman to further reminiscence.
"Benev'lent!" retorted the old man. "Which I should shore admit it!
What he does for this yere young Wilkins female ain't a marker.
Thar's the Red Dog man he lets out. Thar's the Stingin' Lizard's
nephy; he stakes said yooth from infancy. 'Benev'lent!' says you.
This party Cherokee is that benev'lent he'd give away a poker hand.
I've done set an' see him give away his hand in a jack-pot for two
hundred dollars to some gent 'cross the table who's organizin' to go
ag'in him an' can't afford to lose. An' you can onderscore it; a
winnin' poker hand, an' him holdin' it, is the last thing a
thoroughbred kyard-sharp'll give away. But as I says, I sees this
Cherokee do it when the opp'sition is settin' in hard luck an'
couldn't stand to lose.
"How would he give his hand away? Throw it in the diskyard an' not
play it none; jest nacherally let the gent who's needy that a-way
rake in the chips on the low hand. Cherokee mebby does it this
fashion so's he don't wound the feelin's of this yere victim of his
gen'rosity. Thar's folks who turns sens'tive an' ain't out to take
alms none, who's feelin's he spar's that a-way by losin' to 'em at
poker what they declines with scorn direct. "'Benev'lent,' is the
way you puts it! Son, 'benev'lent' ain't the word. This sport
Cherokee Hall ain't nothin' short of char'table.
"Speakin' wide flung an' onrestrained, Cherokee, as I mentions to
you before, is the modestest, decentest longhorn as ever shakes his
antlers in Arizona. He is slim an' light, an' a ondoubted kyard-
sharp from his moccasins up. An' I never knows him to have a peso he
don't gamble for. Nothin' common, though; I sees him one night when
he sets ca'mly into some four-handed poker, five thousand dollars
table stake, an' he's sanguine an' hopeful about landin' on his feet
as a Cimmaron sheep. Of course times is plenty flush in them days,
an' five thousand don't seem no sech mammoth sum. Trade is eager an'
values high; aces-up frequent callin' for five hundred dollars
before the draw. Still we ain't none of us makin' cigarettes of no
sech roll as five thousand. The days ain't quite so halcyon as all
that neither.
"But what I likes speshul in Cherokee Hall is his jedgement. He's
every time right. He ain't talkin' much, an' he ain't needin' advice
neither, more'n a steer needs a saddle-blanket. But when he
concloodes to do things, you can gamble he's got it plenty right.
"One time this Cherokee an' Texas Thompson is comin' in from Tucson
on the stage. Besides Cherokee an' Texas, along comes a female,
close-herdin' of two young-ones; which them infants might have been
t'rant'lers an' every one a heap happier. Sorter as range-boss of
the whole out. fit is a lean gent in a black coat. Well, they hops
in, an' Cherokee gives 'em the two back seats on account of the
female an' the yearlin's.
"'My name is Jones,' says the gent in the black coat, when he gets
settled back an' the stage is goin', I an' I'm an exhortin'
evangelist. I plucks brands from the burnin'.'
"'I'm powerful glad to know it,' says Texas, who likes talk. 'Them
games of chance which has vogue in this yere clime is some various,
an' I did think I shorely tests 'em all; but if ever the device you
names is open in Wolfville I overlooks the same complete.'
"'Pore, sinkin' soul!' says the black-coat gent to the female; 'he's
a-flounderin' in the mire of sin. Don't you know,' he goes on to
Texas, 'my perishin' friend, you are bein' swept downward in the
river of your own sinful life till your soul will be drowned in the
abyss?"
"'Well, no,' says Texas, 'I don't. I allows I'm makin' a mighty dry
ford of it.'
"'Lost! lost! lost!' says the black-coat gent, a-leanin' back like
he's plumb dejected that a-way an' hopeless. 'It is a stiff-necked
gen'ration an' sorely perverse a lot.'
"The stage jolts along two or three miles, an' nothin' more bein'
said. The black-coat gent he groans occasionally, which worries
Texas; an' the two infants, gettin' restless, comes tumblin' over
onto Cherokee an' is searchin' of his pockets for mementoes. Which
this is about as refreshin' to Cherokee as bein' burned at the
stake. But the mother she leans back an' smiles, an' of course he's
plumb he'pless. Finally the black. coat gent p'ints in for another
talk.
"'What is your name, my pore worm?' says the black-coat gent,
addressin' of Texas; 'an' whatever avocation has you an' your lost
companion?'
"I Why,' says Texas, 'this yere's Hall--Cherokee Hall. He turns faro
in the Red Light; an',' continues Texas, a-lowerin' of his voice,
'he's as squar' a gent as ever counted a deck. Actooally, pard, you
might not think it, but all that gent knows about settin' up kyards,
or dealin' double, or anv sech sinful scheme, is mere tradition.'
"'Brother,' says the female, bristlin' up an' tacklin' the black-
coat gent, 'don't talk to them persons no more. Them's gamblers, an'
mighty awful men;' an' with that she snatches away the yearlin's
like they's contam'nated.
'This is relief to Cherokee, but the young-ones howls like coyotes,
an' wants to come back an' finish pillagin' him. But the mother she
spanks 'em, an' when Texas is goin' to give 'em some cartridges
outen his belt to amoose 'em, she sasses him scand'lous, an' allows
she ain't needin' no attentions from him. Then she snorts at Texas
an' Cherokee contemptuous. The young-ones keeps on yellin' in a
mighty onmelodious way, an' while Cherokee is ca'm an' don't seem
like he minds it much, Texas gets some nervous. At last Texas lugs
out a bottle, aimin' to compose his feelins', which they's some
harrowed by now.
"`Well, I never!' shouts the woman; 'I shorely sees inebriates ere
now, but at least they has the decency not to pull a bottle that a-
way
before a lady.' "This stampedes Texas complete, an' he throws the
whiskey
outen the stage an' don't get no drink. "It's along late in the
mornin' when the stage strikes the upper end of Apache Canyon. This
yere canyon
is lately reckoned some bad. Nothin' ever happens on the line, but
them is the days when Cochise is cavortin' 'round plenty loose, an'
it's mighty possible to stir up Apaches any time a-layin' in the
hills
along the trail to Tucson. If they ever gets a notion to stand up
the stage, they's shore due to be in this canyon; wherefore Cherokee
an' Texas an' Old Monte who's drivin' regards it s'picious. "'Send
'em through on the jump, Monte,' says Cherokee, stickin' out his
head. "The six hosses lines out at a ten-mile gait, which rattles
things, an' makes the black-coat gent sigh, while the young-ones
pours forth some appallin' shrieks. The female gets speshul mad at
this, allowin'
they's playin' it low down on her fam'ly. But she takes it out in
cuffin' the yearlin's now an' then, jest to keep 'em yellin', an'
don't say nothin'. "Which the stage is about half through the
canyon, when up on both sides a select assortment of Winchesters
begins to bang an' jump permiscus; the same goin' hand-in-hand with
whoops of onusual merit. With the first shot Old Monte pours the
leather into the team, an' them hosses surges into the collars like
cyclones. "It's lucky aborigines ain't no shots. They never yet gets
the phelosophy of a
hind sight none, an' generally you can't reach their bullets with a
ten-foot pole, they's that high above your head. The only thing as
gets hit this time is Texas. About the beginnin', a little cloud of
dust flies outen the shoulder of his coat, his face turns pale, an'
Cherokee knows he's creased. "'Did they get you, Old Man?' says
Cherokee, some anxious. "'No,' says Texas, tryin' to brace himse'f.
'I'll be
on velvet ag'in in a second. I now longs, however, for that whiskey
I hurls overboard so graceful.' "The Apaches comes tumblin' down
onto the trail an' gives chase, a-shootin' an' a-yellin' a heap
zealous. As they's on foot, an' as Old Monte is makin' fifteen miles
an hour by now, they merely manages to hold their own in the race,
about forty yards to the r'ar.
"This don't go on long when Cherokee, after thinkin', says to Texas,
'This yere is the way I figgers it, If we-alls keeps on, them Injuns
is that fervent they runs in on us at the ford. With half luck
they's due to down either a hoss or Monte--mebby both; in which
event the stage shorely stops, an' it's a fight. This bein' troo,
an' as I'm 'lected for war anyhow, I'm goin' to caper out right
yere, an' pull on the baile myse'f. This'll stop the chase, an'
between us, pard, it's about the last chance in the box this pore
female an' her offsprings has. An' I plays it for 'em, win or lose.'
"'Them's my motives; says Texas, tryin' to pull himse'f together.
'Shall we take this he-shorthorn along?' An' he p'ints where them
four tenderfoots is mixed up together in the back of the stage.
"'He wouldn't be worth a white chip,' says Cherokee, 'an' you-all is
too hard hit to go, Texas, yourse'f. So take my regards to Enright
an' the boys, an' smooth this all you know for Faro Nell. I makes
the trip alone.'
"'Not much,' says Texas. 'My stack goes to the center, too.'
"But it don't, though, 'cause Texas has bled more'n he thinks. The
first move he makes he tips over in a faint.
"Cherokee picks up his Winchester, an', openin' the door of the
stage, jumps plumb free, an' they leaves him thar on the trail.
"'It's mebby an hour later when the stage comes into Wolfville on
the lope. Texas is still in a fog, speakin' mental, an' about bled
to death; while them exhortin' people is outen their minds entire.
"In no time thar's a dozen of us lined out for Cherokee. Do we
locate him? Which I should say we shorely discovers him. Thar's a
bullet through his laig, an' thar he is with his back ag'in a rock
wall, his Winchester to the front, his eyes glitterin', a-holdin'
the canyon. Thar never is no Injun gets by him. Of course they
stampedes prompt when they hears us a-comin', so we don't get no
fight.
"'I hopes you nails one, Cherokee,' says Enright; 'playin' even on
this yere laig they shoots.'
"'I win once, I reckons', says Cherokee, 'over behind that big rock
to the left.'
"'Shore enough he's got one Injun spread out; an', comin' along a
little, Jack Moore turns up a second.
"'Yere's another,' says Jack, 'which breaks even on the bullet in
Texas.'
"'That's right,' says Cherokee, 'I remembers now than is two. The
kyards is comin' some Tast, an' I overlooks a bet.'
"We-alls gets Cherokee in all right, an' next day 'round comes the
female tenderfoot to see him.
"'I wants to thank my defender,' she says.
"'You ain't onder no obligations, whatever, ma'am', says Cherokee,
risin' up a little, while Faro Nell puts another goose-h'ar piller
onder him. 'I simply prefers to do my fightin' in the canyon to
doin' it at the ford; that's all. It's only a matter of straight
business; nothin' more'n a preference I has. Another thing, ma'am;
you-all forgives it, seein' I'm a gent onused to childish ways: but
when I makes the play you names, I simply seizes on them savages
that a-way as an excuse to get loose from them blessed children of
your'n a whole lot.'"
CHAPTER X.
TEXAS THOMPSON'S "ELECTION."
"An' between us," remarked the Old Cattle man, the observation being
relevant to the subject of our conversation on the occasion of one
of our many confabs, "between you an' me, I ain't none shore about
the merits of what you-all calls law an' order. Now a pains-takin'
an' discreet vig'lance committee is my notion of a bulwark. Let any
outfit take a bale of rope an' a week off, an' if their camp ain't
weeded down to right principles an' a quiet life at the end tharof,
then I've passed my days as vain as any coyote which ever yelps.
"Of course thar dawns a time when Wolfville has to come to it, same
as others. They takes to diggin' for copper; an' they builds the
Bird Cage Op'ry House, an' puts in improvements general. We even
culminates in a paper, which Doc Peets assures us is the flower of
our progress. Nacherally on the heels of all them outbursts we gives
up our simple schemes, organizes, an' pulls off an 'lection. But as
Old Man Enright is made alcalde tharby, with Jack Moore marshal, the
jolt is not severe nor the change so full of notice.
"It's not long prior to these yere stampedes into a higher
moonicipal life, however, when quite a b'ilin' of us is in the Red
Light discussin' some sech future. Our rival, Red Dog, is allowin'
it's goin' to have a mayor or somethin', an' we sorter feels like
our hands is forced.
"'For myse'f,' says Old Man Enright, when the topic is circ'latin',
with the whiskey followin' suit, an' each gent is airin' his idees
an' paintin' his nose accordin' to his taste, 'for myse'f, I can see
it comin'. Thar's to be law yere an' 'lections; an' while at first
it's mighty likely both is goin' to turn out disturbin' elements,
still I looks on their approach without fear. Wolfville is too
strong, an' Wolfville intelligence is too well founded, to let any
law loco it or set it to millin'.'
"'Still,' says Dan Boggs, 'I must remark I prefers a dooly
authorized band of Stranglers. A vig'lance committee gets my game
right along. They's more honest than any of these yere lawsharps
who's 'lected to be a jedge; an' they's a heap more zealous, which
last is important.'
"'Boggs is right,' replies Enright. 'It may not become me, who is
head of the local body of that sort, to make boasts of the
excellence of a vig'lance committee; but I ain't bluffin' on a four-
flush when I challenges any gent to put his tongue to an event where
a vig'lance committee stretches a party who ain't in need tharof; or
which goes wastin' its lariats on the desert air. I puts it to you-
alls without heat or pride, gents; Jedge Lynch is right every time.'
"'Put me down,' says Doc Peets, at the same time makin' signs for
the barkeep to remember his mission on earth, 'put me down as
coincidin' in them sentiments. An' I says further, that any party
who's lookin' for the place where the bad man is scarce, an' a law-
abidin' gent has the fullest liberty, pegged out to the shorest
safetytood, let him locate where he finds the most lynchin's, an'
where a vig'lance committee is steadily engaged discriminatin'
'round through the community.
Which a camp thus provided is a model of heavenly peace.'
"'You can
gamble, if anybody's plumb aware of these yore trooths, it's me,'
says Texas Thompson.
'When I'm down in the South Paloduro country, workin' a passel of
Bar-K-7 cattle, I aids in an effort to 'lect a jedge an' institoot
reg'lar shore-'nough law; an' the same comes mighty near leavin' the
entire hamlet a howlin' waste. It deciminates a heap of our best
citizens.
"'This yere misguided bluff comes to pass peculiar; an' I allers
allows if it ain't for the onforeseen way wherein things stacks up,
an' the muddle we-alls gets into tryin' to find a trail, the Plaza
Paloduro would have been a scene of bleatin' peace that day, instead
of a stric'ly corpse-an'-cartridge occasion. The death rate rises to
that degree in fact that the next roundup is shy on men; an' thar
ain't enough cartridges in camp, when the smoke blows away, to be
seed for a second crop. On the squar', gents, that 'lection day on
the South Paloduro was what you-alls might term a massacre, an' get
it right every time.'
"'Well, what of this yere toomultuous 'lection?' demands Dave Tutt,
who gets impatient while Texas refreshes himse'f in his glass. 'You-
all reminds me a mighty sight, Texas, of the Tucson preacher who
pulls his freight the other day. They puts it to him, the Tucson
folks do, that he talks an' he talks, but he don't p'int out; an' he
argufies an' he argufies, but he never shows wherein. A party who's
goin' to make a pulpit-play, or shine in Arizona as a racontoor, has
done got to cult'vate a direct, incisive style.'
"'That's all c'rect,' remarks Texas, some savage, as he recovers his
nose outen his glass; 'never you fret me none about my style not
bein' incisive. Thar be other plays where any gent who comes puttin'
it all over me with roode an' intemp'rate remarks will find me
plenty incisive; not to say some soon:
"'Yere!' interrupts Enright, quick an' sharp. 'This is plumb outside
the line. Texas ain't got no call to wake up so malignant over
what's most likely nothin' worse than humor on Tutt's part; an',
Tutt, it ain't up to you none neither, to go spurrin' Texas in the
shoulder in the midst of what I'm yere to maintain is a mighty
thrillin' narration.'
"'Texas is good people,' says Dave, 'an' the last gent with which I
thirsts to dig up the war-axe. Which I'm proud to be his friend; an'
I means no offense when I su'gests that he whirl a smaller loop when
he onbosoms himse'f of a tale. I yere tenders Texas my hand,
assurin' of him that I means my language an' ain't holdin' out
nothin'. Shake!' An' at this Dave reaches his pistol-hand to Texas
Thompson, an' the same is seized prompt an' friendly.
"`This yere is my fault,' says Texas. 'I reckons now my wife
recoverin' that Laredo divorce I'm mentionin' to you-alls, sorter
leaves me a heap petulant, that a-way. But to go back to this war-
jig I was relatin' about down at Plaza Paloduro.
"'It's this a-way: No, Nellie; thar's no female in it. This yere
grows from a business transaction; an' the effort tharfrom to
improve on present conditions, institoot a reign of law, an' lect a
jedge.
"'Which the comin' of a miscreant named Cimmaron Pete, from some'ers
over near the 'Doby Walls, is the beginnin' of the deal. This
Cimmaron Pete comes trailin' in one day; an' a shorthorn called
Glidden, who runs a store at the ford, comes ropin' at Cimmaron Pete
to race ponies. "'"What for stakes do you-all aim to race for?"
demands this Cimmaron Pete.
"'"I'll run you for hoss an' saddle," says Glidden.
"'"Say hoss ag'in hoss," says Cimmaron Pete, "an' I'm liable to go
you. Saddles is hard to get, an' I won't resk mine. Ponies, however,
is easy. I can get 'em every moonlight night."
"'When them sports is racin',--which the run is to be a quarter of a
mile, only they never finishes,--jest as Cimmaron begins to pull
ahead, his pony bein' a shade suddener than Glidden's, whatever does
the latter do but rope this Cimmaron Pete's pony by the feet an'
down him.
"'It's shore fine work with a lariat, but it comes high for Glidden.
For, as he stampedes by, this Cimmaron turns loose his six-shooter
from where he's tangled up with his bronco on the ground; an' as the
first bullet gets Glidden in the back of his head, his light goes
out like a candle.
"'When the committee looks into the play they jestifies this
Cimmaron. "While on the surface," they says, "the deal seems a
little florid; still, when a gent armed with nothin' but a cold
sense of jestice comes to pirootin' plumb through the affair with a
lantern, he's due to emerge a lot with the conviction that Glidden's
wrong." So Cimmaron is free in a minute.
"'But thar's Glidden's store! Thar's nobody to claim it; thar bein'
no fam'ly to Glidden nohow; not even a hired man.
"'"Which, as it seems to be a case open to doubt," observes this
yere Cimmaron, "I nacherally takes this Glidden party's store an'
deals his game myse'f."
"'It ain't much of a store; an' bein' as the rest of us is havin'
all we-alls can ride herd on for ourse'fs, no gent makes objections,
an' Cimmaron turns himse'f loose in Glidden's store, an' begins to
sell things a whole lot. He's shorely doin' well, I reckons, when
mebby it's a week later he comes chargin' over to a passel of us an'
allows he wants the committee to settle some trouble which has cut
his trail.
"'"It's about the debts of this yere Glidden, deceased," says
Cimmaron. "I succeeds to the business of course; which it's little
enough for departed ropin' my pony that time. But you-alls can
gamble I ain't goin' 'way back on this yere dead person's trail, an'
settle all his gray an' hoary indebtnesses. Would it be right,
gents? I puts it to you-alls on the squar'; do I immerse myse'f, I'd
like for to be told, in deceased's liabilities merely for resentin'
of his wrongs ag'in me with my gun? If a gent can go blindly
shootin' himse'f into bankruptcy that a-way, the American gov'ment
is a rank loser, an' the State of Texas is plumb played out."
When we-alls proceeds to ferret into this yere myst'ry, we finds
thar's a sharp come up from Dallas who claims that Cimmaron's got to
pay him what Glidden owes. This yere Dallas party puts said
indebtednesses at five stacks of blues.
"'An' this yere longhorn's got 'em to make good, "says the Dallas
sharp, p'intin' at Cimmaron, "'cause he inherits the store."
"'Now, whatever do you-alls think of that?" says Cimmaron, appealin'
to us. "Yere I've told this perverse sport that Glidden's done
cashed in an' quit; an' now he lays for me with them indebtednesses.
It shorely wearies me."
"'It don't take the vig'lance committee no time to agree it ain't
got nothin' to say in the case.
"'" It's only on killin's, an' hoss-rustlin's, an' sim'lar breaks."
explains Old Monroe, who's chief of the Paloduro Stranglers, "where
we-alls gets kyards. We ain't in on what's a mere open-an'-shet case
of debt."
"'But this Dallas sharp stays right with Cimmaron. He gives it out
cold he's goin' to c'lect. He puts it up he'll shore sue Cimmaron a
lot.
"'You-alls don't mean to say thar ain't no jedge yere?" remarks the
Dallas sharp, when Old Monroe explains we ain't organized none for
sech games as law cases. "Well, this yere Plaza Paloduro is for
certain the locodest camp of which I ever cuts the trail! You-alls
better get a hustle on right now an' 'lect a jedge. If I goes back
to Dallas an' tells this story of how you-alls ain't got no jedge
nor no law yere, they won't let this Plaza Paloduro get close enough
to 'em in business to hand 'em a ripe peach. If thar's enough sense
in this camp to make bakin'-powder biscuit, you-alls will have a
jedge 'lected ready for me to have law cases with by second-drink
time to-morrow mornin'."
"'After hangin' up this bluff the Dallas sharp, puttin' on a heap of
hawtoor an' dog, walks over to the tavern ag'in, an' leaves us to
size up the play at our lcesure.
"'What this obdurate party from Dallas says," finally remarks Old
Monroe, "is not with. out what the Comanches calls tum-tum. Thar's
savey an' jestice in them observations. It's my idee, that thar
bein' no jedge yere, that a-way, to make a money round-up for a gent
when his debtor don't make good, is mighty likely a palin' offen our
fence. I shorely thinks we better rectify them omissions an' 'lect a
jedge at once."
"'Which I'm opposed to these proceedin's," interrupts Cimmaron. "I'm
plumb adverse to co'ts. Them law-wolves gets into 'em, an' when they
can't find no gate to come at you, they ups an' pushes down a panel
of fence, an' lays for you, cross-lots. I'm dead ag'in these
proceedin's."
"'See yere," says Old Monroe, turnin' on this Cimmaron," you-all is
becomin' too apparent in this camp; what I might describe as a heap
too obvious. Now if you gets your stack in ag'in when it ain't your
turn; or picks up anybody's hand but your own, I'll find a short way
of knockin' your horns off. You don't seem gifted enough to realize
that you're lucky to be alive right now."
"'Bar Cimmaron, who lapses into silence after Old Monroe gives him
notice, the entire camp lines up fav'rable on the idee to 'lect a
jedge. They sends over to the corral an' gets a nose-bag for to
deposit the votes; an' it's decided that Old Monroe an' a Cross-Z
party named Randall has got to do the runnin'. Randall is plenty
p'lite, an' allows he don't want to be jedge none nohow, an' says,
give it to Old Monroe; but the latter gent, who is organizin' the
play, insists that it wouldn't be legal.
"'"Thar's got to be two gents to do the runnin'," so Old Monroe
says, "or it don't go. The 'lection ain't legal that a-way onless
thar's two candidates."
"'They puts Bronco Charlie an' a sport named Ormsby in to be
'lection supervisors. They was to hold the nose-bag; an' as votes is
dropped in, they's to count 'em out accordin' to Hoyle, so we-alls
can tell where the play's headin'. Bronco Charlie is jedge for
Randall, an' Ormsby fronts up all sim'lar for Old Monroe. The
'lection we-alls decides to hold in the Lone Star Saloon, so's to be
conducted with comfort.
"'"Make your game, now, gents," says Old Monroe, when everythin' is
shorely ready. "Get in your votes. These yere polls is open for one
hour."
"'"One for Randall," says Bronco Charlie as Old Monroe votes.
"'"An' one for Old Monroe," remarks Ormsby when Randall votes next.
"'This gives the deal tone to have Randall an' Old Monroe p'int out
by votin' for each other that a-way, and thar ain't one of us who
don't feel more respectable by it.
"'It's the opinion of level-headed gents even yet, that the Plaza
Paloduro could have pulled off this 'lection an' got plumb away, an'
never had no friction, if it ain't for a Greaser from San Antonio
who tries to ring in on us. Thar's twenty-one of us has voted, an'
it stands nine for Randall an' twelve for Old Monroe; when up lopes
this yere Mexican an' allows he's locoed to vote. "'Who do you-all
think you're goin' to vote for?" asks Ormsby.
"'"Senior Monroe," says the Mexican, p'intin' at Old Monroe.
"'Stop this deal," yells Bronco Charlie, "'I challenges that vote.
Mexicans is barred."
"'Which Mexicans is not barred," replies Ormsby. "An' the vote of
this yere enlightened maverick from south of the Rio Grande goes.
Thirteen for Old Monroe."
"'Twelve for Old Monroe," remonstrates Bronco Charlie, feelin' for
his gun.
"'Thirteen for Old Monroe," retorts Ormsby, as his Colt's comes into
action an' he busts Bronco's arm at the elbow.
"'As his obstinacy has destroyed the further efficiency of my
colleague," goes on Ormsby, as he shakes down the ballots in the
nose-bag, "I'll now conduct these yere polls alone. Gents who
haven't voted will please come a-runnin'. As I states a moment ago,
she stands thirteen for Old Monroe."
"'An' I says she's twelve for Old Monroe," shouts Red River Tom,
crowdin' for'ard. "'You-all can't ring in Mexicans an' snake no play
on us. This yere 'lection's goin' to be on the squar', or it's goin'
to come off in the smoke."
"'With this, Red River, who's been sorter domineerin' at Ormsby with
his six-shooter while he's freein' his mind, slams her loose. Red
River over-shoots, an' Ormsby downs him with a bullet in his laig.
"'Thirteen for Old Monroe," says Ormsby.
"'But that's where the 'lection ends. Followin' the subsidence of
Red River Tom, the air is as full of lead as a bag of bullets.
Through the smoke, an' the flashes, an' the noise, you can hear
Ormsby whoopin'
"'Thirteen for Old Monroe."
"'You can gamble Ormsby's as squar' a 'lection jedge as any gent
could ask. You gets a play for your money with Ormsby; but he dies
the next day, so he never is 'lection jedge no more. Five gents gets
downed, an' a whole corralfull is hurt. I, myse'f, reaps some lead
in the shoulder; an' even at that I never goes nearer than the
suburbs of the fight.
"'No; Cimmaron Pete claws off all sound, an' no new holes in him.
But as the Dallas party, who comes caperin' over with the first
shot, is layin' at the windup outside the Lone Star door, plumb
defunct, thar's an end to the root of the disorder.
"'The 'lection itse'f is looked on as a draw. Old Monroe allows
that, all things considered, he don't regard himse'f as 'lected
none; and Randall, who a doctor is feelin' 'round in for a bullet at
the time, sends over word that he indorses Old Monroe's p'sition;
an' that as long as the Dallas sharp hits the trail after Glidden,
an' is tharby able to look after his debts himse'f, he, Randall,
holds it's no use disturbin' of a returned sereenity, an' to let
everythin' go as it lays.
"'An' that,' concloods Texas Thompson, as he reaches for his licker,
'is what comes of an effort at law an' order in Plaza Paloduro. I
ain't over-statin' it, gents, when I says, that that 'lection leaves
me plumb gun-shy for over a year.'"
CHAPTER XL.
A WOLFVILLE FOUNDLING.
"Does Jack Moore have sand? Son, is this yere query meant for humor
by you? Which for mere sand the Mohave desert is a fool to Jack."
The Old Cattleman's face was full of an earnest, fine sincerity. It
was plain, too, that my question nettled the old fellow a bit; as
might a doubt cast at an idol. But the sharpness had passed from his
tone when he resumed
"Not only is Jack long on sand that a-way, but he's plumb loaded
with what you-alls calls 'nitiative. Leastwise that's what one of
these yere fernologists allows, who straggles into camp an' goes to
thumbin' our bumps one day.
"'Which this young person,' says the bumpsharp, while his fingers is
caperin' about on Jack's head, I is remarkable for his 'nitiative.
He's the sort of gent who builds his fire before he gets his wood;
an' issues more invites to drink than he receives. Which his
weakness, speakin' general, is he overplays.'
"Which this yere bump party might have gone wrong in his wagers a
heap of times; but he shorely calls the turn on Jack when he says
he's some strong on 'nitiative.
"An' it's this yere proneness for the prematoor, an' nacheral
willin'ness to open any pot that a-way, that makes Jack sech a slam-
up offishul. Bein' full of 'nitiative, like this fernologist states,
Jack don't idle along ontil somethin's happened. Not much; he abates
it in the bud.
"Once when most of the outfit's over in Tucson, an' Jack is sorter
holdin' down the camp alone, a band of rustlers comes trackin' in,
allowin' they'll run Wolfville some. Which, that's where Jack's
'nitiative shows up big. He goes after 'em readily, like they's
antelope. Them hold-ups is a long majority over Jack, an' heeled;
but that Jack stands thar--right up ag'in the iron--an' he tells 'em
what he thinks an' why he thinks it for; makes his minority report
onto 'em all free, like he outnumbers 'em two to one; an' winds up
by backin' the game with his gun in a way that commands confidence.
"'You-alls hears my remarks,' he says at the close, briefly flashin'
his six-shooters on the outfit; 'thar ain't no band of bad men in
Arizona can tree this town an' me informed. Now go slow, or I'll
jest stretch a few of you for luck. It's sech consoomin' toil, a-
diggin' of sepulchers in this yere rock-ribbed landscape, or I'd do
it anyhow.'
"An' tharupon them rustlers, notin' Jack's got the drop on 'em,
kicks up a dense cloud of dust an is seen no more.
"But bein' replete with sand an' 'nitiative, that a-way, don't state
all thar is good of Jack. Let any pore, he'pless party cut Jack's
trail, an' he's plumb tender. On sech times Jack's a dove; leastwise
he's a dove a whole lot.
"One hot afternoon, Enright an' Doc Peets is away about some cattle
I reckons. Which the rest of us is noomerous enough; an' we're
sorter revolvin' 'round the post-office, a-waitin' for Old Monte an'
the stage. Yere she comes, final, a-rattlin' an' a-creakin'; that
old drunkard Monte a-poppin' of his whip, the six hosses on the
canter, an' the whole sheebang puttin' on more dog than a Mexican
officer of revenoo. When the stage draws up, Old Monte throws off
the mailbags an' the Wells-Fargo box, an' gets down an' opens the
door. But nobody emerges out.
"'Well, I'm a coyote! ' says Monte, a heap disgusted, `wherever is
the female?'
"Then we-alls peers into the stage an' thar's only a baby, with
mebby a ten-months' start down this vale of tears, inside; an' no
mother nor nothin' along. Jack Moore, jest as I says when I begins,
reaches in an' gets him. The baby ain't sayin' nothin', an' sorter
takes it out in smilin' on Jack; which last pleases him excessive.
"'He knows me for a hundred dollars!' says Jack. 'I'm an Apache if
he ain't allowin' he knows me! Wherever did you get him, Monte?'
"'Give me a drink,' says Monte, p'intin' along into the Red Light.
'This yere makes me sick.'
"After Old Monte gets about four fingers of carnation onder his
belt, he turns in an' explains as how the mother starts along in the
stage all right enough from Tucson. The last time he sees her, so he
puts it up, is at the last station back some twenty miles in the
hills; an' he s'poses all the time later, she's inside ridin' herd
on her progeny, ontil now.
"'I don't reckon,' says Old Monte, lookin' gloomy-like at the
infant, 'that lady is aimin' to saw this yore young-one onto the
stage company none?'
"'Don't upset your whiskey frettin' about the company,' says Jack,
a-plantin' of the infant on the bar, while we-alls crowds in for a
look at him. `The camp'll play this hand; an' the company ain't
goin' to be in it a little bit.'
"'I wish Enright an' Peets was yere,' says Cherokee Hall, 'to be
heard hereon; which I shore deems this a grave occasion. Yere we-
alls finds ourse'fs possessed of an onexpected child of tender
years; an' the question nacheral enough is, whatever'll we do with
it?'
"'Let's maverick it,' says Dan Boggs, who's a mighty good man, but
onthinkful that a-way.
"'No,' says Cherokee; 'its mother'll come hoppin' along to-morrow,
a-yellin'. This yere sot Monte has jest done drove off an' left her
some'ers up the trail; she'll come romancin' along in time.'
"'Meanwhile,' says Jack, 'the infant's got to be took care of, to
which dooty I volunteers. Thar's a tenderfoot a-sleepin' in the room
back of the dance-hall, an' he's that 'feminate an' effeet, he's got
a shore-'nough bed an' some goose-ha'r pillers; which the same I do
yereby confiscate to public use to take care of this yearlin'. Is
the sentiment pleasin'?'
"'Jack's scheme is right,' says Boggs; 'an' I'm present to announce
he's allers right. Let the shorthorn go sleep onder a mesquite-bush;
it'll do him good a whole lot.'
"'I'm some doobersome of this play,' says Cherokee. 'Small infants
is mighty myster'ous people, an' no livin' gent is ever onto their
game an' able to foresee their needs. Do you-all reckon now you can
take care of this yere young-one, Jack? Be you equal to it?'
"'Take care of a small baby like this' says Jack, plenty scornful;
'which the same ain't weighin' twenty pounds? Well, it'll be some
funny if I can't. I could break even with him if he's four times as
big. All I asks is for you-alls to stand by in crisises an' back the
play; an', that settled, you can go make side bets we-alls comes out
winners on the deal.'
'I ain't absolootly shore,' says Dave Tutt, 'bein' some shy of
practice with infants myse'f, but jedgin' by his lookin' smooth an'
silky, I offers fifty dollars even he ain't weaned none yet.'
"'I won't bet none on his bein' weaned complete; says Jack, 'but
I'll hang up fifty he drinks outen a bottle as easy as Old Monte!
"'I'll go you once,' says Tutt; 'it's fifty dollars even he grows
contemptuous at a bottle, an' disdains it.'
"Which we-alls talks it over an' decides that Jack's to nurse said
infant; after which a passel of us proceed's to make a procession
for the tenderfoot's bed, which he shorely resigns without a
struggle. We packs it back to Jack; an' Cherokee Hall an' Boggs then
goes over to the corral an' lays for a goat to milk her. This yere
goat is mighty reluctant, an' refuses to enter into the sperit of
the thing; but they swings an' rastles with her, makes their p'int
right along, an' after a frightful time comes back with'most a
dipper-full.
"'That's all right,' says Jack, who's done camped in a room back of
the Red Light, 'now hop out an' tell the barkeep to give you a pint
bottle. We-alls has this yere game payin' div'dends in two minutes.'
"Jack gets his bottle an' fills her up with goat's milk; an' makes a
stopper outen cotton cloth an' molasses for the infant to draw it
through. Which it's about this time the infant puts up a yell, an'
refuses peace ag'in till Jack gives him his six-shooter to play
with.
"'Which shows my confidence in him,' says Jack. 'Thar's only a few
folks left I'll pass my gun to.'
"Jack gets along with him first-rate, a-feedin' of him the goat's
milk, which he goes for with avidity; tharby nettin' Jack that fifty
from Dave Tutt. Boggs builds a fire so Jack keeps the milk warm.
Jack turns loose that earnest he don't even go for no grub; jest
nacherally has 'em pack it to him.
"'We-alls'll have to stand night gyards on this yere foundlin' to-
night, I reckons?" asks Boggs of Jack, when he's bringin' Jack
things.
"'I s'pose most likely we'll have to make a play that a-way,' says
Jack.
"'All right,' says Boggs, tappin' his shirt with his pistol-finger;
'you-all knows me an' Cherokee. We're in on this yere any time you
says.'
"So a band of us sorter camps along with Jack an' the infant ontil
mebby it's second-drink time at night. The infant don't raise the
war-yell once; jest takes it out in goat's milk; an' in laughin',
an' playin' with Jack's gun.
"'Excuse me, gents,' finally says Jack, mighty dignified, 'but I've
been figgerin' this thing, an' I allows it's time to bed this yere
young-one down for the night. If you-alls will withdraw some, I'll
see how near I comes to makin' runnin' of it. Stay within whoopin'
distance, though; so if he tries to stampede or takes to millin' I
can get he'p.'
"We-alls lines out an' leaves Jack an' the infant, an' turns in on
faro an' poker an' sim'lar devices which is bein' waged in the Red
Light. Mebby it's an hour when Jack comes in.
"'Boggs,' he says; 's'pose you-all sets in an' plays my hand a
minute with that infant child, while I goes over an' adjourns them
frivolities in the dance-hall. It looks like this yere camp is
speshul toomultuous to-night.'
"Boggs goes in with the infant, an' Jack proceeds to the baile house
an' states the case.
"'I don't want to onsettle the reg'lar programme,' says Jack, 'but
this yere young-one I'm responsible for, gets that engaged in the
sounds of these yere revels, it don't look like he's goin' to sleep
none. So if you-alls will call the last waltz, an' wind her up for
to-night, it'll shorely be a he'p. The kid's mother'll be yere by
sun-up; which her advent that a-way alters the play all 'round, an'
matters then goes back to old lines.'
"'Enough said,' says Jim Hamilton, who runs the dance-hall. 'You can
gamble this temple of mirth ain't layin' down on what's right, an'
tonight's shindig closes right yere. All promenade to the bar. We
takes a drink on the house, quits, an' calls it a day.'
"Then Jack comes back, a heap grave with his cares, an' relieves
Boggs; who's on watch, straddled of a chair, a-eyein' of the infant,
who, a-settin' up ag'in a goose-ha'r piller, is likewise a-eyein' of
Boggs.
"'He's a 'way up good infant, Jack,' says Boggs, givin' up his seat.
"'You can bet your life he's a good infant,' says Jack; 'but it
shore looks like he don't aim to turn in an' slumber none. Mebby the
goat's milk is too invigeratin' for 'him, an' keeps him awake that
a-way.'
"About another hour goes by, an' out comes Jack into the Red Light
ag'in.
"'I ain't aimin' to disturb you-alls none,' he says, 'but, gents, if
you-alls could close these games yere, an' shet up the store, I'll
take it as a personal favor. He can hear the click of the chips, an'
it's too many for him. Don't go away; jest close up an' sorter camp
'round quiet.'
"Which we-alls does as Jack says; closes the games, an' then sets
'round in our chairs an' keeps quiet, a-waitin' for the infant to
turn in. A half-hour later Jack appears ag'in.
"'It ain't no use, gents,' he says, goin' back of the bar an'
gettin' a big drink; 'that child is onto us. He won't have it. You
can gamble, he's fixed it up with himse'f that he ain't goin' to
sleep none to-night. I allows it's 'cause he's among rank strangers,
an' he figgers it's a good safe play to lookout his game for
himse'f.'
"'I wonder couldn't we sing him to sleep,' says Cherokee Hall.
"'Nothin' ag'in a try,' says Jack, some desp'rate, wipin' his lips
after the drink.
"'S'pose we-alls gives him "The Dyin' Ranger" an' "Sandy Land" for
an hour or so, an' see,' says Boggs.
"In we trails. Cherokee lines up on one side of the infant, an' Jack
on t'other; an' the rest of us takes chairs an' camps 'round, We
starts in an' shore sings him all we knows; an' we keeps it up for
hours. All the time, that child is a-settin' thar, a-battin' his
eyes an' a-starin', sleepless as owls. The last I remembers is
Boggs's voice on 'Sandy Land'
"'Great big taters on sandy land,
Get thar, Eli, if you can.'
"The next thing I'm aware of, thar's a whoop an' a yell outside. We-
alls wakes up--all except the infant, who's wide awake all along--
an' yere it is; four o'clock in the mornin', an' the mother has
come. Comes over on a speshul buckboard from the station where that
old inebriate, Monte, drove off an' left her. Well, son, everybody's
plumb willin' an' glad to see her. An' for that matter, splittin'
even, so's the infant."
CHAPTER XII.
THE MAN FROM YELLOWHOUSE.
"That's straight, son; you shorely should have seen Jack Moore,"
continued the Old Cattleman, after a brief pause, as he hitched his
chair into a comfortable position; "not seein' Jack is what any gent
might call deeprivation.
"Back in the old days," he went on, "Jack Moore, as I relates, is
kettle-tender an' does the rope work of the Stranglers. Whatever is
the Stranglers? Which you asks Borne late. I mentions this assembly
a heap frequent yeretofore. Well, some folks calls 'ern the
'vig'lance committee'; but that's long for a name, so in Wolfville
we allers allooded to 'em as `Stranglers.' This yere is brief, an'
likewise sheds some light.
"This Jack Moore--which I'm proud to say he's my friend--I reckons
is the most pro bono publico gent in the Southwest. He's out to do
anythin' from fight to fiddle at a dance, so's it's a public play.
"An' then his idees about his dooties is wide. He jest scouts far
an' near, an' don't pay no more heed to distance an' fatigue than a
steer does to cobwebs.
"'A offishul," says Jack, 'who don't diffuse himse'f 'round none,
an' confines his endeavors to his own bailiwick, is reestricted an'
oneffectooal, an' couldn't keep down crime in a village of prairie-
dogs.' An' then he'd cinch on his saddle, an' mebby go curvin' off
as far north as the Flint Hills, or east to the Turkey-track.
"That's right; when it comes to bein' active, Jack is what you might
call an all-round seelection. An' clean strain? Game as hornets.
Never knowed him to quit anythin' in his life--not even whiskey. I
says to him myse'f one time: 'Jack; whyever don't you renig on
whiskey? Looks like it's sorter gettin' behind you some, ain't it?
Some day mebby it outholds you when you can't stand to lose.'
"'Sometimes I thinks I'll pass it up, myse'f,' says Jack, 'but don't
you know, I can't do it. I'm too sperited, that a-way, an'
chivalrous. That's whatever! I'm too chivalrous.' An' I shore
reckons he was.
"But as for doin' his dooty! Which the same is simply relaxation to
Jack Moore. I recalls one instance speshul. One day thar comes
trailin' along into Wolfville a party from down 'round Yallerhouse
some'ers. This yere Yallerhouse gent looks disperited an' off color
as to health. But of course we-alls don't refer none to it; for
whether this stranger's sick or well is his business, not ours;
leastwise in its first stages. This yere's before Doc Peets inhabits
Wolfville or he'd informed us touchin' this party's that a-way.
"Which the Yallerhouse gent tracks along into the Red Light, an'
tells the barkeep to set out the nose-paint. He drinks alone, not
invitin' of the pop'lace, whereby we knows for shore he's offen his
feed.
"Well, after he corrals his forty drops, this invalid camps down in
one corner of the stage station, an' next mornin' he wakes up outen
his head an' plumb locoed.
"'This yere Yallerhouse man,' says Dan Boggs, comin' along into the
Red Light about first-drink time the same mornin', an' speakin'
general, 'is what conserv'tive opinion might call "some sick." I
stops a minute ago an' asks him how he's stackin' up like, but it
ain't no use. He's plumb off his mental reservation, an' crazy as a
woman's watch.'
"'Whatever do you allow is the matter of him, Boggs?' asks Old Man
Enright.
"'Smallpox,' says Boggs, mighty confident.
"'Smallpox!' repeats Enright; 'be you shore?'
"'That's what I says,' answers Boggs; 'an' you can gamble my long
suit is pickin' out smallpox every time. I knows the signal smoke
like my own campfire.'
"'Well, see yere,' says Dave Tutt, who's come in, 'I jest now rounds
up them symptoms of this Yallerhouse gent; an' talkin' of smallpox,
I offers a hundred dollars even he ain't got no smallpox. Bein' out
solely for legit'mate sport,' continues Tutt, 'an' not aimin' to
offend Boggs none, I willin'ly calls it fifty to one hundred he
ain't got nothin'.'
"'Which I takes both bets,' says Boggs, 'an' deems 'em easy. Which
both is like robbin' a bird's-nest. Yere's the circ'latin' medium.
Thar; cover it an' file it away with the barkeep to wait results.'
So Tutt an' Boggs makes their bets mighty eager, an' the barkeep
holds the stakes.
"As soon as it gets blown through Wolfville this Yallerhouse party
has smallpox, everybody comes canterin' over to the Red Light, gets
a drink, an' wants to hold a mass meetin' over it. By partic'lar
request Enright takes the chair an' calls 'em to order.
"'This yere meetin',' says Enright, meanwhile beatin' with the butt
of his six-shooter on the poker-table, 'is some sudden an'
permiscus; but the objects is easy an' plain. We-alls convenes
ourse'fs to consider the physical condition of this party from
Yallerhouse, which report says is locoed an' can't talk none for
himself. To make this inquiry a success, we-alls oughter see this
Yallerhouse gent; an' as thar is fewer of him than of us, I app'ints
Jack Moore, Dan Boggs, an' Short Creek Dave, a committee, of three,
to bring him before us in a body. Pendin' the return of the
committee the meetin' will take a drink with the chair.'
"In about no time back comes the outfit, packin' the Yallerhouse man
all easy enough in a blanket, an' spreads him out on the floor. He
looks sorter red 'round in spots, like somethin's been stingin' of
him, but it's evident, as Boggs says, he's locoed. He lays thar,
rollin' his eyes an' carryin' on to himse'f, but he don't address
the chair or offer to take no part in the meetin'. Enright quaffs
his drink all slow an' dignified, an' gazes at the Yallerhouse man
on the floor.
"'Well, gents,' says Enright at last, settin' down his glass, an'
givin' the poker-table a little tap with his gun, 'yere's the party,
an' the question is now: "What's he got?" Do I hear any remarks?'
"'Bein' in the lines, Mister Pres'dent,' says Boggs, 'of previous
assertion, an' for the purpose of bringin' the question squar'
before this house, I now moves you this yere Yallerhouse party has
the smallpox. I ain't aimin' herein at playin' it low on Tutt, an'
su'gests that the chair, in puttin' the question, also informs the
meetin' as to them wagers; which the money tharof is now in the war-
bags of the barkeep. I believes in givin' every gent all necessary
light wherein to make up his mind; an', as I says, to open the game
all logical, I ag'in moves this Yallerhouse man has the smallpox.'
"'Yo tambien,' yells a Mexican over near the door.
"'Put that Greaser out!' shouts Enright, at the same time bangin'
the table. 'This ain't no international incident at all, an' nothin'
but the clean-strain American wolf is eligible to howl.'
"The Greaser goes out on his saddle-colored head, an' Enright puts
Boggs's motion.
"'Every gent,' says Enright, 'in favor of this Yallerhouse man
havin' the smallpox, say "Aye"; contrary "No."'
"Everybody shouts 'Aye!'
"'Which the "Ayes" has it unanimous,' says Enright. 'The Yallerhouse
party has the smallpox, an' the next chicken on the parliamentary
roost is the question: "Whatever is to be done to make this yere
malady a success?" Is thar any su'gestions?'
"'Mister Pres'dent,' says Texas Thompson, risin' in his place, 'I've
done took no hand in these proceedin's so far, through ignorance of
the purposes of this yere convocation. Said purposes bein' now for
the first time lined out all right in my mind, an' the question
bein', "What's to be done with our captive?" I asks your indulgence.
My first idee is that our dooty an' our path is plain; the same
bein' simply to take a lariat an' hang this Yallerhouse person to
the dance-hall windmill; but this course, on second thought, seems
prematoor an' the offsprings of nacheral impulse. Still, somethin'
must be done; an' while my mind is by no means cl'ar, I su'gests we
turn the gent over to Jack Moore, which is the marshal hereof, to
ride herd on him till further orders; an' I makes a motion to that
effect.'
"'Seconds the motion!' says Short Creek Dave.
"'You don't have to put that motion, Mister Pres'dent,' says Jack;
'I've been cirelin' the idee some myse'f, an' I reckons it's my
dooty to take charge of this Yallerhouse gent. You can bet anythin'
which gets sawed onto me as my dooty goes, an' don't make no doubt
about it. Yere's how I trails out on this: If it ain't my dooty to
take care of this person, whose dooty is it? 'Tain't nobody's.
Tharfore I plays the hand.'
"'Which the same bein' eminent satisfactory,' says Dave Tutt,
risin', as if he thinks of somethin' speshul, 'I now inquires
whether this yere is held decisive of them bets I makes with Boggs.
I holdin', meanwhile, contrary views emphatic.'
"'This bein' a question of priv'lege,' says Enright, 'the chair will
answer it. These proceedin's decides your bets with Boggs, an' the
barkeep pays Boggs the dinero. This is a gov'ment of the people, for
the people, by the people, an' founded on a vox populi bluff. The
voice of the majority goes. You tharfore lose your bets to Boggs;
drinks on Boggs, of course. Thar is another matter,' continues
Enright, 'a bet we overlooks. Takin' care of this Yallerhouse gent
will cost a stack or two, an' means must be provided. I tharfore
makes as an order that yereafter thar's to be a rake on tens-up or
better, showed, to make a fund to back this play; said rake to go
ontil Mister Moore reports said Yallerhouse gent as safe or ceased
to be.'
"Jack takes this Yallerhouse party over to the calaboose an' lays
him away on some blankets. The calaboose is dry, an' what you-alls
might call, commodious. It's a slam-up camp; yes indeed! Never has
but Steve Stevenson in it. Puts Steve in one night when he's dead-
drunk. The calaboose is new then, an' we-alls is that proud an'
anxious to try it an' put it to some use, we couldn't resist, so in
Steve goes.
"About four hours later Steve comes back up to the Red Light,
hotter'n a burnt boot. Seems like he comes to, an' is that outraged
an' indignant about bein' corralled that a-way, he busts the corner
outen the calaboose an' issues forth a whole lot to find who does
it.
"When he comes into the Red Light he revives himse'f with a drink,
an' then inquires whether it's humorous, or do we mean it? Seein'
how speshul low Steve takes it, we-alls allows it's a joke; an'
Steve, while he evident feels some fretted, concloods to let it go
at that.
"But on account of the hole through which Steve emerges, an' which
he makes liberal an' big, the calaboose is a mighty commodious
place. So Jack beds down the Yallerhouse man all right an' starts in
to bringin' him through. The rest of us don't crowd 'round none to
watch the play, don't hover over it that a-way, 'cause we ain't
aimin' to acquire nothin' ourse'fs.
"Jack has a heap of trouble an' worry. Never sees no smallpox do
you? Folks locoed most usual,--clean off up in the air an' pitchin'
on their ropes. Of course the Yallerhouse gent has all he needs.
That rake on tens-up them days would have took care of a fam'ly. But
he keeps Jack herdin' him all the time. Otherwise, not bein'
watched, an' crazy that a-way, he's liable to come stampedin' over
to the Red Light, or some'ers else, any time, an' skeer us up some.
"'He's a world-beater,' says Jack one day, when he comes over for a
drink. 'He's shorely four kings an' an ace. You can't ride him with
buckin'-straps an' a Spanish bit. It's got so now--his disease bein'
at a crisis like--that I simply has to be with this Yallerhouse
party day an' night. He'd shorely lay waste this camp if I didn't.'
"At last the Yallerhouse party an' Jack somehow beats the smallpox,
but Yallerhouse comes out shy an eye. The smallpox gouges it out one
of them times when Jack ain't lookin' out his game sharp. It's his
pistol eye, too; which makes him feel the loss more keen, an'
creates general sympathy. The Yallerhouse man gets some morose over
it, which ain't, after all, onnacheral. A gent ain't got so many
eyes he can afford to go short one on every little game he plays. So
he finds fault with Jack a lot, an' allows if he has him back in the
States he'd sue him for neglect of dooty.
"'Which, I shorely likes that!' says Jack to the Yallerhouse party,
gettin' peevish over his fault-findin'. 'Don't you know it's merely
owin' to the mercy of hell an' my watchful care, you-all ain't
bustin' your harp-strings an' raisin' all round discord among the
heavenly hosts on high right now, instead of bein' safe an' well
yere in Wolfville? You don't act like a gent who saveys when he
makes a winnin'. S'pose you be an eye out; you're still lookin' at
things terrestrial with the other. You talks of gross neglect of
dooty! Now let me inform you of somethin': You come pesterin' 'round
me some more an' I'll bend a gun over your head.'
"'Which if it ain't my six-shooter eye which's out,' says the
Yallerhouse party, mighty ugly, 'do you know what I'd do? Well, this
yere would be the basis of a first-class gun-play. You can gamble
thar wouldn't be no jim-crow marshal go pirootin' 'round, losin' no
eye of mine an' gettin' away with it, an' then talk of bendin' guns
on me; none whatever.'
"But it all preys on Jack. An' a-seein' of this Yallerhouse gent
'round camp a-lookin' at him in a fault-findin' way outen his one
eye sorter aggravates Jack like it's a nightmare.
"'I wouldn't mind it so much,' says Jack to me, confidential, 'if
this Yallerhouse gent quits a laig or an arm behind, 'cause in which
event we pieces him out with wood, easy. But about eyes, it's
different. An eye out is an eye out; an' that settles it.'
"One day Jack can't b'ar it no longer, an', resolvin' to end it, he
walks up to the Yallerhouse party in the Red Light, all brisk an'
brief.
"'It's a rough deal on a one-eyed gent,' says Jack, 'an' I shore
asks pardon an' states regrets in advance. But things has got to a
show-down. I'm slowly becomin' onfit for public dooty. Now yere's an
offer, an' you can have either end. You-all can get a hoss an' a
hundred dollars of me, an' pull your freight; or you can fix
yourse'f with a gun an' have a mighty stirrin' an' eventful time
with me right yere. As an outcome of the last, the public will have
one of us to plant, an' mebby a vacancy to fill in the post of
kettle-tender. Which is it, an' what do you say?'
"'What for a hoss is she?' asked the Yallerhouse party.
"'Which she's a pinto,' says Jack; 'as excellent a paint pony as
ever is roped.'
"'Does this yere threat you-all makes incloode a saddle an' spurs?'
asks the Yallerhouse party.
"'It shorely does,' replies Jack. 'Is it a go?'
"'Well,' says the Yallerhouse man, after ponderin' it up one way an'
down the other, 'this idee of settlin' for eyes for a hoss an' a
hundred dollars is far from bein' usual with me. If I has my eye
ag'in, I'd shorely stay an' shoot it out, an' admire to be present.
But now sech thoughts is vanity. So round up your money an' your
pony at the Red Light in fifteen minutes by the watch, an' as soon
as I gets a bottle filled I'm ready to go. I shorely should not
regret leavin' an' outfit which puts folks in jail for bein' sick,
an' connives by reckless an' criminal neglect of dooty at their
bein' blinded for life.'"
CHAPTER XIII.
JACKS UP ON EIGHTS.
"No; you can hazard your wealth a lot, thar's no sooperstition
lurkin' 'round in me or my environs; none whatever. I attaches no
importance to what you-all calls omens."
Somebody had undertaken a disquisition on dreams, and attempted to
cite instances where the future had been indicated in these hazy
visions of our sleep. This had served to turn the Old Cattleman's
train of thought upon the weird.
"Thar's signs, of course, to which I'd shorely bow, not to say pay
absorbin' heed. If some gent with whom I chooses to differ touchin'
some matter that's a heap relevant at the time, ups an' reaches for
his gun abrupt, it fills me full of preemonitions that the near
future is mighty liable to become loaded with lead an' interest for
me. Now thar's an omen I don't discount. But after all I ain't
consentin' to call them apprehensions of mine the froot of no
sooperstition, neither. I'm merely chary; that's all.
"It's Cherokee Hall who is what I onhesitatin'ly describes as
sooperstitious. Cherokee is afflicted by more signs an' omens in
carryin' on his business than an almanac. It's a way kyardsharps
gets into, I reckons; sorter grows outen their trade. Leastwise I
never creeps up on one yet who ain't bein' guided by all sorts of
miracles an' warnin's that a-way. An' sometimes it does look like
they acquires a p'inter that comes to 'em on straight lines. As
'llustratin' this yere last, it returns to me some vivid how
Cherokee an' Boggs gets to prophesyin' one day, an' how they calls
off the play between 'em so plumb c'rrect that a-way, it's more than
amazin'; it's sinister.
"It's a hot August day, this occasion I has in mind, an' while not
possessin' one of them heat-gauges to say ackerate, I'm allowin'
it's ridin' hard on sech weather as this. A band of us is at the
post-office a-wrastlin' our letters, when in trails Cherokee Hall
lookin' some moody, an' sets himse'f down on a box.
"'Which you-all no doubt allows you'll take some missives yourse'f
this mornin',' says Doc Peets, a-noticin' of his gloom, an' aimin'
to p'int his idees up some other trail. Doc, himse'f, is feelin'
some gala. 'Pass over them documents for Cherokee Hall, an' don't
hold out nothin' onto us. We-alls is 'way too peevish to stand any
offishul gaieties to-day.'
"'Thar's no one weak-minded 'nough to write to me none,' says
Cherokee. `Which I remarks this yere phenomenon with pleasure. Mail-
bags packs more grief than joy, an' I ain't honin' for no hand in
the game whatever. It's fifteen years since I buys a stamp or gets a
letter, an' all thirst tharfor is assuaged complete.'
"'Fifteen years is shore a long time,' says Enright, sorter to
himse'f, an' then we-alls hops into our letters ag'in. Finally
Cherokee breaks in once more.
"` I ain't aimin' to invest Wolfville in no sooperstitious fears,'
says Cherokee, 'an' I merely chronicles as a current event how I was
settin' into a little poker last night, an' three times straight I
picks up "the hand the dead man held," jacks up on eights, an' it
wins every time.'
"`Who lose to it?' asks Dan Boggs.
"'Why,' says Cherokee, 'it's every time that old longhorn as comes
in from Tucson back some two weeks ago.'
"'That settles it,' says Boggs, mighty decided. 'You can bet your
saddle an' throw the pony in, Death is fixin' his sights for him
right now. It's shorely a warnin', an' I'm plumb glad it ain't none
of the boys; that's all.'
"You see this yere stranger who Cherokee alloods at comes over from
Tucson a little while before. He has long white ha'r an' beard, an',
jedgin' from the rings on his horns, he's mebby a-comin' sixty. He
seems like he's plenty of money, an' we takes it he's all right. His
leavin' Tucson shows he has sense, so we cashes him in at his
figger. Of course we-alls never asks his name none, as askin' names
an' lookin' at the brands on a pony is speshul roode in the West,
an' shows your bringin' up; but he allows he's called 'Old Bill
Gentry ' to the boys, an' he an' Faro Nell's partic'lar friendly.
"'Talkin' to him,' says Nell, ' is like layin' in the shade. He
knows everythin', too; all about books an' things all over the
world. He was a-tellin' me, too, as how he had a daughter like me
that died 'way back some'ers about when I was a yearlin'. He feels a
heap bad about it yet, an' I gets so sorry for him; so old an'
white-ha'red.'
"'An' you can gamble,' says Dave Tutt, 'if Nell likes him, he's all
right.'
"'If Nell likes him, that makes him all right,' says Cherokee.
"We-alls is still talkin' an' readin over our mail in the post-
office, when all at once we hears Jack Moore outside.
"'What's this yere literatoor as affronts my eyes, pasted onto the
outside of Uncle Sam's wickeyup?' says Jack, mighty truculent. We.
alls goes out, an' thar, shore-'nough, is a notice offerin' fifteen
hundred dollars reward for some sharp who's been a-standin' up the
stage over towards Prescott.
"'Whoever tacks this up? I wonder,' says Enright. `It never is yere
ten minutes ago.'
"'Well, jest you-all hover 'round an' watch the glory of its comin'
down,' says Jack, a-cuttin' of it loose with his bowie, an' tearin'
it up. 'I yerewith furnishes the information cold, this camp of
Wolfville knows its business an' don't have to be notified of
nothin'. This yere outfit has a vig'lance committee all reg'lar,
which I'm kettle-tender tharfor, an' when it comes nacheral to
announce some notice to the public, you-alls will perceive me a-
pervadin' of the scenery on a hoss an' promulgatin' of said notice
viver voce. Am I right, Enright?'
"'Right as preachin', Jack,' says Enright. 'You speaks trooth like a
runnin' brook.'
"'But whoever sticks that notice?--that's the information I pants
for,' says Boggs, pickin' up an' readin' of the piece. "'I reckons I
posts that notice some myse'f,' says a big, squar'-built gent we-
alls don't know, an' who comes in the other mornin' with Old Monte
on the stage. As he says this he's sa'nterin' about the suburbs of
the crowd, listenin' to the talk.
"'Well, don't do it no more, partner,' says Jack, mighty grave. 'As
a commoonity Wolfville's no doubt 'way wrong, but we-alls has our
prides an' our own pecooliar little notions, that a-way, about what
looks good; so, after now, don't alter the landscape none 'round
yere till you c'lects our views.'
"'I'm offerin' even money, postin' notices don't hurt this yere camp
a little bit,' says the stranger.
"'Comin' right to cases,' says Enright, 'it don't hurt none, but it
grates a whole lot. The idee of a mere stranger a-strollin' in an'
a-pastin' up of notices, like he's standin' a pat hand on what he
knows an' we not in it, is a heap onpleasant. So don't do it no
more.'
"'Which I don't aim to do it no more,' says the squar'-built gent,
'but I still clings to my idee that notices ain't no set-back to
this camp.'
"'The same bein' a mere theery,' says Doc Peets, 'personal to
yourse'f, I holds it would be onp'lite to discuss it; so let's all
wheel onder cover for a drink.'
"At this we-alls lines up on the Red Light bar an' nacherally drinks
ends the talk, as they allers ought.
"Along towards sundown we-alls gets some cooler, an' by second-drink
time in the evenin' every one is movin' about, an', as it happens,
quite a band is in the Red Light; some drinkin' an' exchangin' of
views, an' some buckin' the various games which is goin' wide open
all 'round. Cherokee's settin' behind his box, an' Faro Nell is up
at his shoulder on the lookout stool. The game's goin' plenty lively
when along comes Old Gentry. Cherokee takes a glance at him an'
seems worried a little, reflectin', no doubt, of them 'hands the
dead man held,' but he goes on dealin' without a word.
"'Where's you-all done been all day?' says Nell to the old man. 'I
ain't seen you none whatever since yesterday.'
"'Why, I gets tired an' done up a lot, settin ag'inst Cherokee last
night,' says the old man, 'an' so I prowls down in my blankets an'
sleeps some till about an hour ago.'
"The old man buys a stack of blues an' sets 'em on the ten. It's
jest then in comes the squar'-built gent, who's been postin' of the
notice former, an' p'ints a six-shooter at Gentry an' says
"'Put your hands up! put 'em up quick or I'll drill you! Old as you
be, I don't take no chances.'
"'At the first word Nell comes off her stool like a small landslide,
while Cherokee brings a gun into play on the instant. The old man's
up even with the proceedin's, too; an' stands thar, his gun in his
hand, his eyes a-glitterin' an' his white beard a-curlin' like a
cat's. He's clean strain.
"'Let me get a word in, gents,' says Cherokee, plenty ca'm, 'an'
don't no one set in his stack on. less he's got a hand. I does
business yere my way, an' I'm due to down the first hold-up who
shoots across any layout of mine. Don't make no mistake, or the next
census'll be shy, shore.'
"'What be you-alls aimin' to cel'brate anyhow?' says Jack Moore,
gettin' the squar'-built gent's gun while Boggs corrals Gentry's. '
Who's Wolfville entertainin' yere, I'd like for to know?'
"'I'm a Wells-Fargo detective,' says the squar'-built gent, 'an'
this yere,' p'intin' to Old Gentry, 'is Jim Yates, the biggest hold-
up an' stage-robber between hell an' 'Frisco. That old tarrapin'll
stop a stage like a young-one would a clock, merely to see what's
into it. He's the party I'm pastin' up the notice for this mornin."
"'He's a liar!' says the old man, a-gettin' uglier every minute.
`Give us our six-shooters an throw us loose, an' if I don't lance
the roof of his lyin' mouth with the front sight of my gun, I'll
cash in for a hold-up or whatever else you-alls says.'
"'What do you say, Enright?' says Jack. 'Let's give 'em their
jewelry an' let 'em lope. I've got money as says the Wells-Fargo
bill-paster can't take this old' Cimmaron a little bit.'
"'Which I trails in,' says Boggs, 'with a few chips on the same
kyard.'
"'No,' says Enright, 'if this yere party's rustlin' the mails, we-
alls can't call his hand too quick. Wolfville's a straight camp an'
don't back no crim'nal plays; none whatever.'
"Enright tharupon calls a meetin' of the Stranglers, an' we-alls
lines out for the New York Store to talk it over. Before we done
pow-wows two minutes up comes Old Monte, with the stage, all dust
an' cuss-words, an' allows he's been stood up out by the cow springs
six hours before, an' is behind the mail-bag an' the Adams Company's
box on the deal. We-alls looks at Old Man Gentry, an' he shorely
seems to cripple down. "'Gentry,' says Peets, after Old Monte tells
his adventures, 'I hears you tell Nell you was sleepin' all day.
S'pose you takes this yere committee to your budwer an' exhibits to
us how it looks some.'
"'The turn's ag'in me,' says the old man, 'an' I lose. I'll cut it
short for you-alls. I holds up that stage this afternoon myse'f.'
"'This yere's straight goods, I takes it,' says Enright, 'an' our
dooty is plain. Go over to the corral an' get a lariat, Jack.'
"'Don't let Enright hang the old man, Cherokee,' says Nell,
beginnin' to weep a whole lot. 'Please don't let 'em hang him.'
"'This holdin' a gun on your friends ain't no picnic,' whispers
Cherokee to Nell, an' flushin' up an' then turnin' pale, 'but your
word goes with me, Nell.' Then Cherokee thinks a minute. 'Now, this
yere is the way we does,' he says at last. 'I'll make 'em a long
talk. You-all run over to the corral an' bring the best hoss you
sees saddled. I'll be talkin' when you comes back, an' you creep up
an' whisper to the old man to make a jump for the pony while I
covers the deal with my six-shooter. It's playin' it low on Enright
an' Doc Peets an' the rest, but I'll do it for you, Nell. It all
comes from them jacks up on eights.'
"With this, Cherokee tells Nell 'good-by,' an' squar's himse'f. He
begins to talk, an' Nell makes a quiet little break for the corral.
"But no hoss is ever needed. Cherokee don't talk a minute when Old
Gentry comes buckin' offen his chair in a 'pleptic fit. A 'pleptic
fit is permiscus an' tryin', an' when Old Gentry gets through an'
comes to himse'f, he's camped jest this side of the dead line. He
can only whisper.
"'Come yere,' says he, motionin' to Cherokee. 'Thar's a stack of
blues where I sets 'em on the ten open, which you ain't turned for
none yet: Take all I has besides an' put with it. If it lose, it's
yours; if it win, give it to the little girl.'
"This is all Old Gentry says, an' he cashes in the very next second
on the list.
"Enright goes through'em, an' thar's over two thousand dollars in
his war-bags; an', obeyin' them last behests, we-alls goes over to
the Red Light an' puts it on the ten along of the stack of blues.
It's over the limit, but Cherokee proceeds with the deal, an' when
it comes I'm blessed if the ten ain't loser an' Cherokee gets it
all.
"'But I won't win none ag'in a dead man; says Cherokee. An' he gives
it to Nell, who ain't sooperstitious.
"'Do you-alls b'ar in mind,' says Boggs, as we takes a drink later,
'how I foresees this yere racket the minute I hears Cherokee a-
tellin' about his "Jacks up on eights"--the "hand the dead man
holds?"'"
CHAPTER XIV.
THE RIVAL DANCE-HALLS.
It was sweet and cool after the rain, and the Old Cattleman and I,
moved by an admiration for the open air which was mutual, found
ourselves together on the porch.
As in part recompense for his reminiscences of the several days
before, I regaled my old friend with the history of a bank-failure,
the details as well as the causes of which were just then forcing
themselves upon me in the guise of business.
"The fact is," I said, as I came to the end of my story, "the fact
is, the true cause of this bank's downfall was a rivalry--what one
might call a business feud--which grew into being between it and a
similar institution which had opened as its neighbor. In the
competition which fell out they fairly cut each other's throat. They
both failed."
"An' I takes it," remarked the Old Cattleman in comment, "one of
these yere trade dooels that a-way goes on vindictive an'
remorseless, same as if it's a personal fight between cow-folks over
cattle."
"Quite right," I said. "Money is often more cruel than men; and a
business vendetta is frequently mere murder without the incident of
blood. I don't suppose the life of your Arizona town would show
these trade wars. It would take Eastern--that is, older--conditions,
to provoke and carry one on."
"No," replied the old gentleman, with an air of retrospection, "I
don't recall nothin' of the sort in Wolfville. We're too much in a
huddle, anyway; thar ain't room for no sech fracas, no how. Now the
nearest we-alls comes to anythin' of the kind is when the new dance-
hall starts that time.
"Which I reckons," continued the Old Cattle. man, as he began
arranging a smoke, "which I now reckons this yere is the only
catyclism in trade Wolfville suffers; the only time it comes to what
you-all Eastern sports would call a showdown in commerce. Of course
thar's the laundry war, but that's between females an' don't count.
Females--while it's no sorter doubt they's the noblest an' most
exhilaratin' work of their Redeemer--is nervous that a-way, an' due
any time to let their ha'r down their backs, emit a screech, an'
claw an' lay for each other for luck. An', as I says, if you
confines the festivities to them females engaged, an' prevents the
men standin' in on the play, it's shore to wind up in sobs an'
forgiveness, an' tharfore it don't go.
"As I says, what I now relates is the only industrial trouble I
recalls in Wolfville. I allers remembers it, 'cause, bein' as how I
knows the party who's the aggravatin' cause tharof, it mortifies me
the way he jumps into camp an' carries on.