to tell some light story of Billy,--him not bein' present none,--
'Doby goes all over this yere racontoor like a landslide, an'
retires him from s'ciety for a week. An' 'Doby don't explain his
game neither; jest reprimands this offensive Tucson gent, an' lets
it go as it lays. Of course, we-alls onderstands it's 'cause 'Doby
ain't puttin' up with no carpin' criticism of his old pard; which
the same is nacheral enough.
"Don't you-all ever notice, son, how once you takes to fightin' for
a party an' indorsin' of his plays, it gets to be a habit,--same,
mebby, as fire-water? Which you lays for his detractors an' pulls on
war for him that a-way long after you ceases to have the slightest
use for him yourse'f. It's that a-way with 'Doby about Billy.
"An' this yere Billy's feelin's about 'Doby is heated an' sedulous
all sim'lar. 'Doby gets laid out for a week by rheumatics, which he
acquires years before--he shore don't rope onto them rheumatics none
'round Wolfville, you can gamble! said camp bein' salooberous that
a-way--over on the Nevada plateaus, an' while he's treed an' can't
come down to his claim, a passel of sharps ups an' mavericks it;
what miners calls 'jumps it.' Whatever does Billy do? Paints for war
prompt an' enthoosiastic, takes his gun, an' the way he stampedes
an' scatters them marauders don't bother him a bit.
"But while, as I states, this yere trick of makin' war-med'cine
which 'Doby an' Billy has, an' schedoolin' trouble for folks who
comes projectin' 'round invadin' of the other's rights, mebby is a
heap habit, I gleans from it the idee likewise that onder the
surface they holds each other in esteem to a p'int which is
romantic.
"Doby an' Billy lives on for a year after 'Doby plugs Billy in the
laig, keepin' wide apart an' not speakin'. Willyum is got so he puts
in most of his nights an' all of his days with Billy; which the
spectacle of Billy packin' Willyum about camp nights is frequent.
'Doby never 'pears to file no protest; I reckons he looks on it as a
fore-ordained an' hopeless play. However, Billy's a heap careful of
Willyum's morals, an' is shorely linin' him up right.
"Once a new barkeep in the dance-hall allows he'll promote Willyum's
feelin's some with a spoonful of nose-paint.
"'No, you don't,' says Billy, plenty savage; 'an' since the matter
comes up I announces cold that, now or yereafter, the first gent who
saws off nose-paint on Willyum, or lays for the morals of this
innocent infant to corrupt 'em, I'll kill an' skelp him so shore as
I packs gun or knife.'
"'Which shows,' said Dan Boggs later, when he hears of Billy's
blazer, 'that this yere Billy Rudd is a mighty high-minded gent, an'
you-alls can play it to win he has my regards. He can count me in on
this deal to keep Willyum from strong drinks.'
"'I thinks myse'f he's right,' says Cherokee Hall. 'Willyum is now
but three years old, which is shore not aged. My idee would be to
raise Willyum, an' not let him drink a drop of nose-paint ever,
merely to show the camp what comes of sech experiments.'
"But Billy's that pos'tive an' self-reliant he don't need no
encouragement about how he conducts Willyum's habits; an', followin'
his remarks, Willyum allers gets ignored complete on invitations to
licker. Packin' the kid 'round that a-way shortens up Billy's booze
a lot, too. He don't feel so free to get tanked expansive with
Willyum on his mind an' hands that a-way.
"It's shorely a picture, the tenderness Billy lavishes on Willyum.
Many a night when Billy's stayin' late, tryin' to win himse'f outen
the hole, I beholds him playin' poker, or mebby it's farebank, with
Willyum curled up on his lap an' shirt-front, snorin' away all sound
an' genial, an' Billy makin' his raises an' callin' his draw to the
dealer in whispers, for fear he wakes Willyum.
"But thar comes a time when the feud is over, an' 'Doby an' Billy
turns in better friends than before. For a month mebby thar's a
Mexican girl--which she's a cousin that a-way or some kin to 'Doby's
wife--who's been stayin' at 'Doby's house, sorter backin' their
play.
"It falls out frequent this Mexican girl, Marie, trails over to
Billy's, roundin' up an' collectin' of Willyum to put another shirt
onto him, or some sech benefit. Billy never acts like he's impressed
by this yere girl, an', while he relinquishes Willyum every time, he
growls an' puts it up he's malev'lent over it.
"But the seniorita is game, an' don't put no store by Billy's
growls. She ropes up Willyum an' drags him away mighty decisive.
Willyum howls an' calls on Billy for aid, which most likely is pain
to Billy's heart; but he don't get it none. The senorita harnesses
Willyum into a clean shirt, an' then she throws Willyum loose on the
range ag'in, an' he drifts back to Billy.
"It's the general view that Billy never once thinks of wedlock with
the senorita if he's let alone. But one day Doc Peets waxes
facetious.
"'In a month,' says Peets to Billy, while we-alls is renooin' our
spcrits in the Red Light, 'this yere Marie'll quit comin' over for
Willyum.'
"'Why?' says Billy, glarin' at Peets s'picious.
"'Cause,' replies Peets, all careless, ''cause you ups an' weds her
by then. I sees it in your eye. Then, when she's thar for good, I
reckons she nacherally quits comin' over.'
"'Oh, I don't know,' says Texas Thompson, who's takin' in Doc Peets'
remark; ' I don't allow Billy's got the nerve to marry this yere
Marie. Not but what she's as pretty as an antelope. But think of
'Doby. He jest never would quit chewin' Billy's mane if he goes
pullin' off any nuptial ceremonies with his wife's relative that a-
way.'
"Billy looks hard as granite at this. He ain't sayin' nothin', but
he gets outside of another drink in a way which shows his mind's
made up, an' then he goes p'intin' off towards his camp, same as a
gent who entertains designs.
"'I offers three to one,' says Cherokee Hall, lookin' after Billy
sorter thoughtful that a-way, 'that Billy weds this yere Mexican
girl in a week; an' I'll go five hundred dollars even money he gets
her before night.'
"'An' no takers,' says Doc Peets, 'for I about thinks you calls the
turn.'
"An' that's what happens. In two hours after this impulsive Billy
prances out of the Red Light on the heels of Texas Thompson's
remarks about how hostile 'Doby would be if he ever gets Marie, he's
done lured her before the padre over in Chihuahua, an' the padre
marries 'em as quick as you could take a runnin'-iron an' burn a
brand on a calf.
"'Which this is not all. Like they was out to add to the excitement
a whole lot, I'm a Mohave if 'Doby an' his wife don't turn loose an'
have another infant that same day.
"'I never sees a gent get so excited over another gent's game as
Billy does over 'Doby's number two. He sends his new wife up to
'Doby's on the run, while he takes Willyum an' comes pirootin' back
to the Red Light to brace up. Billy's shore nervous an' needs it.
"'My pore child,' says Billy to Willyum about the third drink--
Willyum is settin' on a monte-table an' payin' heed to Billy a heap
decorous an' respectful for a three-year-old--'my pore child,' says
Billy that a-way, 'you-all is ag'in a hard game up at your paw's.
This yere is playin' it plumb low on you, Willyum. It looks like
they fills a hand ag'in you, son, an' you ain't in it no more at
'Doby's; who, whatever is your fool claims on that p'int a year ago,
is still your dad ondoubted. But you-all knows me, Willyum. You
knows that talk in Holy Writ. If your father an' mother shakes you,
your Uncle Billy takes you up. I'm powerful 'fraid, Willyum, you'll
have to have action on them promises."
"Willyum listens to Billy plenty grave an' owly, but he don't make
no observations on his luck or communicate no views to Billy except
that he's hungry. This yere ain't relevant none, but Billy at once
pastures him out on a can of sardines an' some crackers, while he
keeps on bein' liberal to himse'f about whiskey.
"'I don't feel like denyin' myse'f nothin',' he says. 'Yere I gets
married, an' in less'n an hour my wife is ravaged away at the whoop
of dooty to ride herd on another gent's fam'ly,; leavin' me, her
husband, with that other gent's abandoned progeny on my hands. This
yere's gettin' to be a boggy ford for Billy Rudd, you bet.'
"But while Billy takes on a heap, he don't impress me like he's hurt
none after all. When Doc Peets trails in from 'Doby's, where he's
been in the interests of science that a-way, Billy at once drug him
aside for a pow-wow. They talks over in one corner of the Red Light
awhile, then Billy looks up like one load's offen his mind, an'
yells:
" 'Barkeep, it's another boy. Use my name freely in urgin' drinks on
the camp.'
"Then Billy goes on whisperin' to Doc Peets an' layin' down
somethin', like his heart's sot on it. At last Doc says:
"'The best way, Billy, is for me to bring 'Doby over.' With this Doc
Peets gets onto his pony at the door an' goes curvin' back to
'Doby's.
"'It's a boy,' says Billy to the rest of us after Doc Peets lines
out, `an' child an' mother both on velvet an' winnin' right along.'
"These yere events crowdin' each other that a-way--first a weddin'
an' then an infant boy--has a brightenin' effect on public sperit.
It makes us feel like the camp's shorely gettin' a start. While we-
alls is givin' way to Billy's desire to buy whiskey, Peets comes
back, bringin' 'Doby.
"Thar's nothin' what you-alls calls dramatic about 'Doby an' Billy
comin' together. They meets an' shakes, that's all. They takes a
drink together, which shows they's out to be friends for good, an'
then Billy says:
"'But what I wants partic'lar, 'Doby, is that you makes over to me
your son Willyum. He's shore the finest young-one in Arizona, an'
Marie an' me needs him to sorter organize on.'
"'Billy,' says 'Doby, 'you-all an' me is partners for years, an'
we're partners yet. We has our storm cloud, an' we has also our eras
of peace. Standin' as we do on the brink of one of said eras, an' as
showin' sincerity, I yereby commits to you my son Willyum.
Yereafter, when he calls you "Pop," it goes, an' the same will not
be took invidious.'
"''Doby,' replies Billy, takin' him by the hand, 'this yere day
'lustrates the prophet when he says: "In the midst of life we're in
luck." If you-all notes tears in my eyes I'm responsible for 'em.
Willyum's mine. As I r'ars him it will be with you as a model. Now
you go back where dooty calls you. When you ceases to need my wife,
Marie, send her back to camp, an' notify me tharof. Pendin' of which
said notice, however,' concloods Billy, turnin' to us after 'Doby
starts back, 'Willyum an' me entertains.'"
CHAPTER XIX.
MACE BOWMAN, SHERIFF.
"And so you think the trouble lies with the man and not with the
whiskey?" I said.
The Old Cattleman and I were discussing "temperance."
"Right you be. This yere whiskey-drinkin'," continued the old
gentleman as he toyed with his empty glass, "is a mighty cur'ous
play. I knows gents as can tamper with their little old forty drops
frequent an' reg'lar. As far as hurtin' of 'em is concerned, it
don't come to throwin' water on a drowned rat. Then, ag'in, I've cut
gents's trails as drinkin' whiskey is like playin' a harp with a
hammer. Which we-alls ain't all upholstered alike; that's whatever.
We don't all show the same brands an' y'earmarks nohow: What's
med'cine for one is p'isen for t'other; an' thar you be.
"Bein' a reg'lar, reliable drunkard that a-way comes mighty near
bein' a disease. It ain't no question of nerve, neither. Some dead-
game gents I knows--an' who's that obstinate they wouldn't move camp
for a prairie-fire--couldn't pester a little bit with whiskey.
"Thar's my friend, Mace Bowman. Mace is clean strain cl'ar through,
an' yet I don't reckon he ever gets to a show-down with whiskey once
which he ain't outheld. But for grim nerve as'll never shiver, this
yere Bowman is at par every time.
"Bowman dies a prey to his ambition. He starts in once to drink all
the whiskey in Wolfville. By his partic'lar request most of the
white male people of the camp stands in on the deal, a-backin' his
play for to make Wolfville a dry camp. At the close of them two
lurid weeks Mace lasts, good jedges, like Enright an' Doc Peets,
allows he's shorely made it scarce some.
"But Wolfville's too big for him. Any other gent but Mace would have
roped at a smaller outfit, but that wouldn't be Mace nohow. If
thar's a bigger camp than Wolfville anywhere about, that's where
he'd been. He's mighty high-hearted an' ambitious that a-way, an'
it's kill a bull or nothin' when he lines out for buffalo.
"But the thirteenth day, he strikes in on the big trail, where you
never meets no outfits comin' back, an' that settles it. The boys,
not havin' no leader, with Mace petered, gives up the game, an' the
big raid on nose-paint in Wolfville is only hist'ry now.
"When I knows Bowman first he's sheriff over in northeast New
Mexico. A good sheriff Mace is, too. Thar ain't nothin' gets run off
while he's sheriff, you bet. When he allows anythin's his dooty, he
lays for it permiscus. He's a plumb sincere offishul that a-way.
"One time I recalls as how a wagon-train with households of folks
into it camps two or three days where Mace is sheriff. These yere
people's headin' for some'ers down on the Rio Grande, aimin' to
settle a whole lot. Mebby it's the third mornin' along of sun-up
when they strings out on the trail, an' we-alls thinks no more of
'em. It's gettin' about third-drink time when back rides a gent,
sorter fretful like, an' allows he's done shy a boy.
"'When do you-all see this yere infant last?' says Mace.
"'Why,' says the gent, 'I shorely has him yesterday, 'cause my old
woman done rounds 'em up an' counts.'
"'What time is that yesterday?'
"'Bout first-drink time,' says the bereaved party.
"'How many of these yere offsprings, corral count, do you-all lay
claim to anyway?' asks Mace.
"'Which I've got my brand onto 'leven of 'em,' says the pore parent,
beginnin' to sob a whole lot. 'Of course this yere young-one gettin'
strayed this a-way leaves me short one. It makes it a mighty rough
crossin', stranger, after bringin' that boy so far. The old woman,
she bogs right down when she knows, an' I don't reckon she'll be the
same he'pmeet to me onless I finds him ag'in.'
"'Oh, well,' says Mace, tryin' to cheer this bereft person up, 'we
lose kyards in the shuffle which the same turns up all right in the
deal; an' I reckons we-alls walks down this yearlin' of yours ag'in,
too. What for brands or y'earmarks, does he show, so I'll know him.'
"'As to brands an' y'earmarks,' says the party, a-wipin' of his eye,
'he's shy a couple of teeth, bein' milk-teeth as he's shed; an'
thar's a mark on his for'ard where his mother swipes him with a
dipper, that a-way, bringin' him up proper. That's all I remembers
quick.'
"Mace tells the party to take a cinch on his feelin's, an' stampedes
over to the Mexican part of camp, which is called Chilili, on a
scout for the boy. Whatever do you-all reckon's become of him, son?
I'm a wolf if a Mexican ain't somehow cut him out of the herd an'
stole him. Takes him in, same as you mavericks a calf. Why in the
name of hoss-stealin' he ever yearns for that young-one is allers
too many for me.
"When the abductor hears how Mace is on his trail, which he does
from other Mexicans, he swings onto his bronco an' begins p'intin'
out, takin' boy an' all. But Mace has got too far up on him, an'
stops him mighty handy with a rifle. Mace could work a Winchester
like you'd whirl a rope, an' the way he gets a bullet onder that
black-an'-tan's left wing don't worry him a little bit. The bullet
tears a hole through his lungs, an' the same bein' no further use
for him to breathe with, he comes tumblin' like a shot pigeon,
bringin' the party's offspring with him.
"Which this yere is almighty flatterin' to Mace as a shot, an' it
plumb tickles the boy's sire. He allows he's lived in Arkansaw, an'
shorely knows good shootin', an' this yere's speshul good. An' then
he corrals the Greaser's skelp to take back with him.
"'It'll come handy to humor up the old woman with, when I gets back
to camp,' he says; so he tucks the skelp into his war-bags an'
thanks Mace for the interest he takes in his household.
"'That's all right,' says Mace; 'no trouble to curry a little short
hoss like that.'
"He shakes hands with the Arkansaw gent, an' we-alls rounds up to
Bob Step's an' gets a drink.
"But the cat has quite a tail jest the same. A Mexican that a-way is
plenty oncertain. For instance: You're settin' in on a little game
of monte all free an' sociable, an' one of 'em comes crowdin' 'round
for trouble, an' you downs him. All good enough, says you. No other
Mexican seems like he wants to assoome no pressure personal; no one
goes browsin' 'round to no sheriff; an' thar you be deluded into
theeries that said killin's quit bein' a question. That's where you-
all is the victim of error.
"Which in this case the Mexican Mace stretches has uncles or
somethin' down off Chaperita. Them relatives is rich. In a week--no
one never saveys how--everybody knows that thar's five thousand
dollars up for the first party who kills Mace. I speaks to him about
it myse'f, allowin' he'd oughter be careful how he goes spraddlin'
about permiscus. Mebby, when he's lookin' north some time, somebody
gets him from the south.
"'I ain't worryin' none,' says Mace; 'I ain't got no friends as
would down me, nohow; an' my enemies ain't likely none to think it's
enough dinero. Killin' me is liable to come mighty high.'
"After which announcements he goes romancin' along in his cheerful,
light-hearted way, drinkin' his whiskey an' bein' sheriff, mingled,
an' in a week or so we-alls begins to forget about them rewards. One
day a little Mexican girl who Mace calls Bonita--she'd shorely give
a hoss for a smile from him any time--scouts over an' whispers to
Mace as how three Greasers from down around Anton Chico is in camp
on a hunt for his ha'r. Them murderers is out for the five thousand;
they's over in Chilili right then.
"'Whereabouts in Chilili be them Mexicans?' asks Mace, kinder
interested.
"'Over camped in old Santa Anna's dance. hall, a-drinkin' of mescal
an' waitin' for dark,' says the girl.
"'All right,' says Mace; 'I'll prance over poco tiempo, an' it's
mighty likely them aliens from Anton Chico is goin' to have a fitful
time.'
"Mace kisses the little Bonita girl, an' tells her not to chirp
nothin' to no Mexican; an' with the caress that a-way her black eyes
gets blacker an' brighter, an' the red comes in her cheek, an' bats
could see she'd swap the whole Mexican outfit for a word from Mace,
an' throw herse'f in for laniyap.
"Mace p'ints out to get another gun; which is proper enough, for
he's only one in his belt, an' in a case like this yere he's mighty
likely to need two a lot.
"'Some of us oughter go over with Mace, I reckons,' says a party
named Benson, sorter general to the crowd. 'What do you-alls think
yourse'fs?'
"'Go nothin'!' retorts a gent who's called Driscoll, an' who's up to
the hocks into a game of poker, an' don't like to see it break up
an' him behind. 'The hand Mace holds don't need no he'p. If Mace is
out after two or three of the boys now, it would be plenty
different; but whoever hears of a white man's wantin' he'p that a-
way to down three Greasers, an' him to open the game? Mace could
bring back all the skelps in Chilili if he's that f'rocious an'
wants to, an' not half try.'
"This seems to be the general idee, an', aside of some bets which is
made, no one takes no interest. Bob Short puts it up he'd bet a
hundred dollars even Mace gets one of 'em; a hundred to two hundred
he gets two, an' a hundred to five hundred he gets 'em all; an' some
short-kyard sharp who's up from Socorro, after figgerin' it all
silent to himse'f, takes 'em all.
"'Now I don't reckon, stranger,' says Benson, sorter reproachful, to
the short-kyard party, 'you knows Mace Bowman mighty well? If you-
all did you wouldn't go up ag'in a shore thing like that.'
"We never gets anythin' but Mace's story for it. He tells later how
he sa'nters into Santa Anna's an' finds his three Anton Chico felons
all settin' alone at a table. They knows him, he says, an' he camps
down over opp'site an' calls for a drink. They's watchin' Mace, an'
him doin' sim'lar by them. Final, he says, one of 'em makes a play
for his gun, an', seein' thar's nothin' to be made waitin', Mace
jumps up with a six-shooter in each hand, an' thar's some noise an'
a heap of smoke, an' them three Mexicans is eliminated in a bunch.
"When he plays his hand out Mace comes back over to us--no other
Mexicans allowin' for to call him--an' relates how it is, an'
nacheral we says it's all right, which it shorely is. I asks old
Santa Anna for the details of the shake-up later, but he spreads his
hands, an' shrugs his shoulders, an' whines
"'No quien sabe.'
"An', of course, as I can't tell, an' as Santa Anna don't, I gives'
up askin'."
CHAPTER XX.
A WOLFVILLE THANKSGIVING.
It was in the earlier days of autumn. Summer had gone, and there was
already a crisp sentiment of coming cold in the air. The Old
Cattleman and I had given way to a taste for pedestrianism that had
lain dormant through the hot months. It was at the close of our
walk, and we were slowly making our way homeward.
"An' now the year's got into what hoss-folks calls the last
quarter," remarked the old gentleman musingly. "You can feel the
frost in the atmosphere; you can see where it's bit the leaves a
lot, an' some of 'em's pale with the pain, an' others is blood-red
from the wound. "Which I don't regard winter much, say twenty years
ago. Thar's many a night when I spreads my blankets in the Colorado
hills, flakes of snow a-fallin' as soft an' big an' white as a
woman's hand, an' never heeds 'em a little bit. But them days is
gone. Thar's no roof needed in my destinies then. An' as for bed, a
slicker an' a pair of hobbles is sumptuous.
"When a gent rounds up seventy years he's mighty likely to get a
heap interested in weather. It's the heel of the hunt with him then,
an' he's worn an' tired, and turns nacherally to rest an' fire."
We plodded forward as he talked. To his sage comments on the
seasons, and as well the old age of men, I offered nothing. My
silence, however, seemed always to meet with his tacit approval; nor
did he allow it to impede his conversational flow.
"Well," observed the old fellow, after a pause, "I reckons I'll see
the winter through all right; likewise the fall. I'm a mighty sight
like that old longhorn who allows he's allers noticed if he lives
through the month of March he lives through the rest of the year; so
I figgers I'll hold together that a-way ontil shorely March comin'.
Anyhow I regards it as an even break I does.
"Thar's one thing about fall an' winter which removes the dreariness
some. I alloods to them festivals sech as Thanksgivin' an' Christmas
an' New Year. Do we-alls cel'brate these yere events in Wolfville?
Which we shorely does. Take Christmas: You-all couldn't find a sober
gent in Wolfville on that holy occasion with a search-warrant; the
feelin' to cel'brate is that wide-spread an' fervid.
"Thanksgivin' ain't so much lotted on; which for one thing we
frequent forgets it arrives that a-way. Thar's once, though, when we
takes note of its approach, an' nacherally, bein' organized, we
ketches it squar' in the door. Them Thanksgivin' doin's is shorely
great festivities that time. It's certainly a whirl.
"Old Man Enright makes the first break; he sorter arranges the game.
But before all is over, the food we eats, the whiskey we drinks, an'
the lies we tells an' listens to, is a shock an' a shame to Arizona.
"Thar's a passel of us prowlin' 'round in the Red Light one day,
when along comes Enright. He's got a paper in his hand, an' from the
air he assooms it's shore plain he's on the brink of somethin'.
"'What I'm thinkin' of, gents, is this,' says Enright, final. 'I
observes to-morrow to be Thanksgivin' by this yere paper Old Monte
packs in from Tucson. The Great Father sets to-morrow for a national
blow-out, a-puttin' of it in his message on the broad ground that
everybody's lucky who escapes death. Now, the question is, be we in
this? an' if so, what form the saturnalia takes?'
What's the matter of us hoppin' over an' shootin' up Red Dog?" says
Dan Boggs. 'That bunch of tarrapins ain't been shook up none for
three months.'
"'Technical speakin',' says Doc Peets--which Peets, he shorely is
the longest-headed sharp I ever sees, an' the galiest--'shootin' up
Red Dog, while it's all right as a prop'sition an' highly creditable
to Boggs, is not a Thanksgivin' play. The game, turned strict,
confines itse'f to eatin', drinkin', an' lyin'.'
"'Thar's plenty of whiskey in camp,' says Jack Moore, meditative-
like, 'whereby that drinkin' part comes easy.'
"'I assooms it's the will of all to pull off a proper Thanksgivin'
caper,' says Enright, 'an' tharfore I su'gests that Doc Peets and
Boggs waits on Missis Rucker at the O. K. restauraw an' learns what
for a banquet she can rustle an' go the limit. Pendin' the return of
Peets an' Boggs I allows the balance of this devoted band better
imbibe some. Barkeep, sort out some bottles.'
"The committee comes back after a little, an' allows Missis Rucker
reports herse'f shy on viands on account of the freighters bein'
back'ard comin' in.
"'But,' says Peets, 'she's upholstered to make a strong play on salt
hoss an' baked beans, with coffee an' biscuits for games on the
side.'
"'That's good enough for a dog,' says Jack Moore, 'to say nothin' of
mere people. Any gent who thinks he wants more is the effect victim
of whims.'
"While we-alls is discussin' the ground plans for this yere feast,
thar's a clatter of pony-hoofs an' a wild yell outside, an' next
thar's a big, shaggy-lookin' vagrant, a-settin' on his hoss in front
of the Red Light's door.
"'Get an axe, somebody,' he shouts, 'an' widen this yere portal
some. I aims to come in on my hoss.'
"`Hands up, thar!' says Jack Moore, reachin' for his six-shooter.
'Hands up! I'll jest fool you up about comin' in on your hoss. You
work in one wink too many now, an' I puts a hole in your face right
over the eye.'
"'Go slow, Jack,' says Enright. 'Who may you-all be?' he goes on to
the locoed man on the hoss.
"'Me?' says the locoed man. 'I'm Red Dog Bill. Tell that sot,' he
continues, p'intin' at Jack, ' to put down his gun an' not offer it
at me no more. He's a heap too vivid with that weepon. Only I'm a
white-winged harbinger of peace, I shore ups an' makes him eat the
muzzle offen it.'
"'Well, whatever be you thirstin' for, anyhow?' says Enright. 'You
comes ridin' in yere like you ain't got no regards for nothin'. Is
this a friendly call, or be you present on a theery that you runs
the town?'
"'I'm the Red Dog committee on invitations,' he says. 'Red Dog sends
its comps, an' asks Wolfville to bury the hatchet for one day in
honor of to-morrow bein' Thanksgivin', an' come feed with us.'
"'Let's go him,' says Dan Boggs.
"'Now stand your hand a second,' says Enright, 'don't let's overlook
no bets. Whatever has you Red Dog hold-ups got to eat, anyhow?'
"'Ain't got nothin' to eat much--maybe some can stuff--what you-alls
calls air-tights,' says the Red Dog man. 'But we has liquid, no
limit.'
"'Got any can tomatters?' says Boggs.
"'Can tomatters we-alls is 'speshul strong on,' says the Red Dog
man. 'It's where we-alls lives at; can tomatters is.'
"'I tells you what you-all do,' says Enright, 'an' when I speaks, I
represents for this yere camp.'
"'Which he shore does,' says Jack. 'He's the Big Gray Wolf yere, you
can gamble. If he don't say "go slow" when you comes a-yellin' up,
your remains would a-been coverin' half an acre right now. It would
look like it's beef-day at this yere agency, shore.'
"'You-all go back to Red Dog,' says Enright, payin' no notice to
Jack's interruptions, 'an' tell 'em we plants the war-axe for one
day, an' to come over an' smoke ponies with us, instead of we-alls
come thar. We're goin' to have baked beans an' salt hoss, an' we
looks for Red Dog in a body. Next Thanksgivin' we eats in Red Dog.
Does this yere go?'
"`It goes,' says the Red Dog gent; 'but be you-alls shore thar's
s'fficient whiskey in your camp? Red Dog folks is a dry an' burnin'
outfit an' is due to need a heap.'
"'The liquid's all right,' says Boggs. 'If you alls wants to do
yourse'f proud, freight in a hundred-weight of them can tomatters.
Which we runs out entire.'
The next day Missis Rucker sets tables all over her dinin'-room an'
brings on her beans. Eighteen Red Dog gents is thar, each totin' of
a can of tomatters. An' let me impart right yere, son, we never has
a more free an' peacefuller day than said Thanksgivin'.
"'Them beans is a little hard, ain't they?' says Doc Peets, while
we-alls is eatin', bein' p'lite an' elegant like. 'Mebby they don't
get b'iled s'fficient?'
"'Them beans is all right,' says the War Chief of the Red Dogs.
'They be some hard, but you can't he'p it none. It's the altitood;
the higher up you gets, the lower heat it takes to b'ile water. So
it don't mush up beans like it should.'
"'That's c'rrect every time,' says Enright; 'I mind bein' over back
of Prescott once, an' up near timber-line, an' I can't b'ile no
beans at all. I'm up that high the water is so cold when it b'iles
that ice forms on it some. I b'iles an' b'iles on some beans four
days, an' it don't have no more effect than throwin' water on a
drowned rat. After persistent b'ilin', I skims out a hand. ful an'
drops 'em onto a tin plate to test 'em, an' it sounds like buckshot.
As you says, it's the altitood.'
"'Gents,' says the boss of Red Dog, all of a sudden, an' standin' up
by Enright, 'I offers the toast: "Wolfville an' Red Dog, now an'
yereafter."'
"Of course we-alls drinks, an' Doc Peets makes a talk. He speaks
mighty high of every gent present; which compliments gets big action
in sech a game. The Red Dog chief--an' he's a mighty civilized-
lookin' gent--he talks back, an' calls Wolfville an' Red Dog great
commercial centers, which they sore be. He says, 'We-alls is
friendly to-day, an' fights the rest of the year,' which we-alls
agrees to cordial. He says fightin'. or, as he calls it, 'a generous
rivalry,' does camps good, an' I reckons he's right, too, 'cause it
shore results in the cashin' in of some mighty bad an' disturbin'
elements. When he sets down, thar's thunders of applause.
"It's by this time that the drinkin' becomes frequent an' common.
The talk gets general, an' the lies them people evolves an' saws off
on each other would stampede stock.
"Any day but Thanksgivin' sech tales would shore lead to
reecriminations an' blood; but as it is, every gent seems relaxed
an' onbuckled that a-way in honor of the hour, an' it looks like
lyin' is expected.
"How mendacious be them people? If I recalls them scenes c'rrectly,
it's Texas Thompson begins the campaign ag'in trooth.
"This yere Texas Thompson tells, all careless-like, how 'way back in
the forties, when he's a boy, he puts in a Thanksgivin' in the Great
Salt Lake valley with Old Jim Bridger. This is before the Mormons
opens their little game thar.
"'An' the snow falls to that extent, mebby it's six foot deep,' says
Texas. 'Bridger an' me makes snow-shoes an' goes slidin' an'
pesterin' 'round all fine enough. But the pore animals in the valley
gets a rough time.
"'It's a fact; Bridger an' me finds a drove of buffalos bogged down
in the snow,--I reckons now thar's twenty thousand of 'em,--and
never a buffalo can move a wheel or turn a kyard. Thar they be
planted in the snow, an' only can jest wag their y'ears an' bat
their eyes.
"'Well, to cut it brief, Bridger an' me goes projectin' 'round an'
cuts the throats of them twenty-thousand buffalo; which we-alls is
out for them robes a whole lot. Of course we don't skin 'em none
while they's stuck in the snow; but when the snow melts in the
spring, we capers forth an' peels off the hides like shuckin' peas.
They's froze stiff at the time, for the sun ain't got 'round to thaw
the beef none yet; an' so the meat's as good as the day we downs
'em.
"'An' that brings us to the cur'ous part. As fast as we-alls peels a
buffalo, we rolls his carcass down hill into Salt Lake, an' what do
you-alls reckons takes place? The water's that briny, it pickles
said buffalo-meat plumb through, an' every year after, when Bridger
an' me is back thar--we're trappin' an' huntin' them times,--all we
has to do is haul one of them twenty thousand pickled buffalos
ashore an' eat him.
"'When the Mormons comes wanderin' along, bein' short on grub that
a-way, they nacherally jumps in an' consooms up the whole outfit in
one season, which is why you-alls don't find pickled buffalo in Salt
Lake no more.
"'Bridger an' me starts in, when we learns about it, to fuss with
them polygamists that a-way for gettin' away with our salt buffalos.
But they's too noomerous for us, an' we done quits 'em at last an'
lets it go.'
"Nobody says much when Texas Thompson is through. We merely sets
'round an' drinks. But I sees the Red Dog folks feels mortified.
After a minute they calls on their leadin' prevaricator for a yarn.
His name's Lyin' Jim Riley, which the people who baptizes him
shorely tumbles to his talents.
"This yere Lyin' Jim fills a tin cup with nose-paint, an' leans back
listless-like an' looks at Enright.
"'I never tells you-alls,' he says, 'about how the Ratons gets afire
mighty pecooliar, an' comes near a-roastin' of me up some, do I?
It's this a-way: I'm pervadin' 'round one afternoon tryin' to
compass a wild turkey, which thar's bands of 'em that Fall in the
Ratons a-eatin' of the pinyon-nuts. I've got a Sharp's with me,
which the same, as you-alls knows, is a single-shot, but I don't see
no turks, none whatever. Now an' then I hears some little old
gobbler, 'cross a canyon, a-makin' of sland'rous remarks about other
gobblers to some hen he's deloodin', but I never manages a shot. As
I'm comin' back to camp--I'm strollin' down a draw at the time where
thar's no trees nor nothin'--thar emanates a black-tail buck from
over among the bushes on the hill, an' starts to headin' my way a
whole lot. His horns is jest gettin' over bein' velvet, an' he's
feelin' plenty good an' sassy. I sees that buck--his horns eetches
is what makes him--jump eighteen feet into the air an' comb them
antlers of his'n through the hangin' pine limbs. Does it to stop the
eetchin' an' rub the velvet off. Of course I cuts down on him with
the Sharp's. It's a new gun that a-way, an' the sights is too
coarse--you drags a dog through the hind sights easy--an' I holds
high. The bullet goes plumb through the base of his horn, close into
the ha'r, an' all nacheral fetches him sprawlin'. I ain't waitin' to
load my gun none, which not waitin' to load, I'm yere to mention, is
erroneous. I'm yere to say thar oughter be an act of Congress ag'in
not loadin' your gun. They oughter teach it to the yearlin's in the
schools, an' likewise in the class on the Sabbath. Allers load your
gun. Who is that sharp, Mister Peets, who says, "Be shore you're
right, then go ahead"? He once ranches some'ers down on the
Glorieta. But what he oughter say is: "Be shore your gun's loaded,
then go ahead."'
"'That's whatever!' says Dan Boggs, he'pin' himse'f an' startin' the
bottle; 'an' if he has a lick of sense, that's what he would say.'
"'Which I lays down my empty gun,' goes on this Lyin' Jim, ' an'
starts for my buck to bootcher his neck a lot. When I gets within
ten feet he springs to his hoofs an' stands glarin'. You can gamble,
I ain't tamperin' 'round no wounded buck. I'd sooner go pesterin'
'round a widow woman.'
"'I gets mingled up with a wounded buck once,' says Dave Tutt,
takin' a dab of paint, 'an' I nacherally wrastles him down an' lops
one of his front laigs over his antlers, an' thar I has him; no more
harm left in him than a chamber-maid. Mine's a white-tailed deer
over on the Careese.'
"'This yere's a black-tail, which is different; says Lyin' Jim;
'it's exactly them front laigs you talks of so lightly I'm 'fraid
of.
"`The buck he stands thar sorter dazed an' battin' of his eyes. I
ain't no time to go back for my Sharp's, an' my six-shooter is left
in camp. Right near is a high rock with a steep face about fifteen
feet straight up an' down. I scrambles on to this an' breathes
ag'in, 'cause I knows no deer is ever compiled yet who makes the
trip. The buck's come to complete by now, an' when he observes me on
the rock, his rage is as boundless as the glory of Texas.'
"'Gents, we-alls takes another cow-swaller, right yere,' shouts
Texas Thompson. 'It's a rool with me to drink every time I hears the
sacred name of Texas.'
"When we-alls conceals our forty drops in the usual place, Lyin' Jim
proceeds:
"'When this buck notes me, he's that frenzied he backs off an' jumps
ag'in the face of the rock stiff-laiged, an' strikes it with them
hoofs of him. Which he does this noomerous times, an' every hoof
cuts like a cold-chisel. It makes the sparks go spittin' an' flyin'
like it's a blacksmith-shop.
"'I'm takin' it ca'm enough, only I'm wonderin' how I'm goin' to
fetch loose, when I notices them sparks from his hoofs sets the pine
twigs an' needles a-blazin' down by the base of the rock.
"'That's what comes to my relief. In two minutes this yere spreads
to a general conflagration, and the last I sees of my deer he's
flyin' over the Divide into the next canyon with his tail a-blazin'
an' him utterin' shrieks. I has only time to make camp, saddle up,
an' line out of thar, to keep from bein' burned before my time.
"'This yere fire rages for two months, an' burns up a billion
dollars worth of mountains, I'm a coyote if some folks don't talk of
lawin' me about it.'
"'That's a yarn which has the year-marks of trooth, but all the same
it's deer as saves my life once,' says Doc Peets, sorter trailin' in
innocent-like when this Lyin' Jim gets through; 'leastwise their
meat saves it. I'm out huntin' same as you is, this time to which I
alloods.
"'I'm camped on upper Red River; up where the river is only about
twelve feet wide. It ain't deep none, only a few inches, but it's
dug its banks down about four feet. The river runs along the center
of a mile-wide valley, which they ain't no trees in it, but all
cl'ar an' open. It's snowin' powerful hard one, evenin' about 3
o'clock when I comes back along the ridge towards my camp onder the
pines. While I'm ridin' along I crosses the trail of nineteen deer.
I takes it too quick, 'cause I needs deer in my business, an' I
knows these is close or their tracks would be covered, the way it
snows.
"'I runs the trail out into the open, headin' for the other ridge.
The snow is plenty deep out from onder the pines, but I keeps on.
Final, jest in the mouth of a canyon, over the other side where the
pines begins ag'in, up jumps a black. tail from behind a yaller-pine
log, and I drops him.
"'My pony's plumb broke down by now, so I makes up my mind to camp.
It's a 'way good site. Thar's water comin' down the canyon; thar's a
big, flat floor of rocks--big as the dance-hall floor--an' all
protected by a high rock-faced bluff, so no snow don't get thar
none; an' out in front, some twelve feet, is a big pitch-pine log.
Which I couldn't a-fixed things better if I works a year.
"'I sets fire to the log, cuts up my deer, an' sorter camps over
between the log an' bluff, an' takes things as ba'my as summer. I
has my saddle-blanket an' a slicker, an' that's all I needs.
"'Thar ain't no grass none for the little hoss, but I peels him
about a bushel of quakin'-ash bark, an' he's doin' well 'nough.
Lord! how it snows outside! When I peers out in the mornin' it
scares me. I saddles up, 'cause my proper camp is in the pines
t'other side of this yere open stretch, an' I've got to make it.
"'My pony is weak, an' can only push through the snow, which is five
feet deep. I'm walkin' along all comfortable, a-holdin' of his tail,
when "swish" he goes plumb outen sight. I peers into the orifice
which ketches him, an' finds he's done slumped off that four-foot
bank into Red River, kerslop! Which he's at once swept from view;
the river runnin' in ondcr the snow like a tunnel.
"That settles it; I goes pirootin' back. I lives in that canyon two
months. It snows a heap after I gets back, an' makes things deeper'n
ever. I has my deer to eat, not loadin' my pony with it when I
starts, an' I peels some sugar-pines, like I sees Injuns, an'
scrapes off the white skin next the trees, an' makes a pasty kind of
bread of it, an' I'm all right.
"'One mornin', jest before I gets out of meat, I sees trouble out in
the snow. Them eighteen deer--thar's nineteen, but I c'llects one,
as I says--comes sa'nterin' down my canyon while I'm asleep, an'
goes out an' gets stuck in the snow. I allows mebby they dresses
about sixty pounds each, an' wallers after 'em with my knife an'
kills six.
"'This yere gives me meat for seventy-two days--five pounds a day,
which with the pine bark is shore enough, The other twelve I turns
'round an' he'ps out into the canyon ag'in, an' do you know, them
deer's that grateful they won't leave none? It's a fact, they simply
hangs 'round all the time I'm snowed in.
"'In two months the snow melts down, an' I says adios to my twelve
deer an' starts for camp. Which you-alls mebby imagines my s'prise
when I beholds my pony a-grazin' out in the open, saddle on an'
right. Yere's how it is: He's been paradin' up an' down the bed of
Red River onder that snow tunnel for two months. Oh! he feeds easy
enough. Jest bites the yerbage along the banks. This snow tunnel is
four feet high, an' he's got plenty of room.
"'I'm some glad to meet up with my pony that a-way, you bet! an'
ketches him up an' rides over to my camp. An' I'm followed by my
twelve deer, which comes cavortin' along all genial an' cordial an'
never leaves me. No, my hoss is sound, only his feet is a little
water-soaked an' tender; an' his eyes, bein' so long in that half.
dark place onder the snow, is some weak an' sore.'
"As no one seems desirous to lie no more after Doc Peets gets
through, we-alls eats an' drinks all we can, an' then goes over to
the dance-hall an' whoops her up in honor of Red Dog. Nothin' could
go smoother.
"When it comes time to quit, we has a little trouble gettin'
sep'rate from 'em, but not much. We-alls starts out to 'scort 'em to
Red Dog as a guard of honor, an' then they, bustin' with p'liteness,
'scorts us back to Wolfville. Then we-alls, not to be raised out,
sees 'em to Red Dog ag'in, an' not to have the odd hoss onto 'em in
the matter, back they comes with us.
"I don't know how often we makes this yere round trip from one camp
to t'other, cause my mem'ry is some dark on the later events of that
Thanksgivin'. My pony gets tired of it about the third time back,
an' humps himse'f an' bucks me off a whole lot, whereupon I don't go
with them Red Dog folks no further, but nacherally camps down back
of the mesquite I lights into, an, sleeps till mornin'. You bet!
it's a great Thanksgivin'.'
CHAPTER XXL.
BILL HOSKINS'S COON.
"Now I thoroughly saveys," remarked the Old Cattleman reflectively,
at a crisis in our conversation when the talk turned on men of small
and cowardly measure, "I thoroughly saveys that taste for battle
that lurks in the deefiles of folk's nacher like a wolf in the hills
Which I reckons now that I, myse'f, is one of the peacefullest
people as ever belts on a weepon; but in my instincts--while I never
jestifies or follows his example--I cl'arly apprehends the emotions
of a gent who convenes with another gent all sim'lar, an' expresses
his views with his gun. Sech is human nacher onrestrained, an' the
same, while deplorable, is not s'prisin'.
"But this yere Olson I has in my mem'ry don't have no sech manly
feelin's as goes with a gun play. Olson is that cowardly he's even
furtive; an' for a low-flung measly game let me tell you-all what
Olson does. It's shorely ornery.
"It all arises years ago, back in Tennessee, an' gets its first
start out of a hawg which is owned by Olson an' is downed by a gent
named Hoskins--Bill Hoskins. It's this a-way.
"Back in Tennessee in my dream-wreathed yooth, when livestock goes
projectin' about permiscus, a party has to build his fences 'bull
strong, hawg tight, an' hoss high,' or he takes results. Which
Hoskins don't make his fences to conform to this yere rool none;
leastwise they ain't hawg tight as is shown by one of Olson's hawgs.
"The hawg comes pirootin' about Hoskins's fence, an' he goes through
easy; an' the way that invadin' animal turns Bill's potatoes bottom
up don't hinder him a bit. He shorely loots Bill's lot; that's
whatever.
"But Bill, perceivin' of Olson's hawg layin' waste his crop, reaches
down a 8-squar' rifle, 30 to the pound, an' stretches the hawg.
Which this is where Bill falls into error. Layin' aside them
deeficiencies in Bill's fence, it's cl'ar at a glance a hawg can't
be held responsible. Hawgs is ignorant an' tharfore innocent; an'
while hawgs can be what Doc Peets calls a' CASUS BELLI,' they can't
be regarded as a foe legitimate.
"Now what Bill oughter done, if he feels like this yore hawg's done
put it all over him, is to go an' lay for Olson. Sech action by Bill
would have been some excessive,--some high so to speak; but it would
have been a line shot. Whereas killin' the hawg is 'way to one side
of the mark; an' onder.
"However, as I states, Bill bein' hasty that a-way, an' oncapable of
perhaps refined reasonin', downs the pig, an' stands pat, waitin'
for Olson to fill his hand, if he feels so moved.
"It's at this pinch where the cowardly nacher of this yere Olson
begins to shine. He's ugly as a wolf about Bill copperin' his hawg
that a-way, but he don't pack the nerve to go after Bill an' make a
round-up of them grievances. An' he ain't allowin' to pass it up
none onrevenged neither. Now yere's what Olson does; he 'sassinates
Bill's pet raccoon.
"That's right, son, jest massacres a pore, confidin' raccoon, who
don't no more stand in on that hawg-killin' of Bill's, than me an'
you,--don't even advise it.
"Which I shorely allows you saveys all thar is to know about a
raccoon. No? Well, a raccoon's like this: In the first place he's
plumb easy, an' ain't lookin' for no gent to hold out kyards or ring
a cold deck on him. That's straight; a raccoon is simple-minded that
a-way; an' his impressive trait is, he's meditative. Besides bein'
nacherally thoughtful, a raccoon is a heap melancholy,--he jest sets
thar an' absorbs melancholy from merely bein' alive.
"But if a raccoon is melancholy or gets wropped in thought that a-
way, it's after all his own play. It's to his credit that once when
he's tamed, he's got mountainous confidence in men, an' will curl up
to sleep where you be an' shet both eyes. He's plumb trustful; an'
moreover, no matter how mournful a raccoon feels, or how plumb
melancholy he gets, he don't pester you with no yarns.
"I reckons I converses with this yere identical raccoon of Bill's
plenty frequent; when he feels blue, an' ag'in when he's at his
gailiest, an' he never remarks nothin' to me except p'lite
general'ties.
"If this yere Olson was a dead game party who regards himse'f
wronged, he'd searched out a gun, or a knife, or mebby a club, an'
pranced over an' rectified Bill a whole lot. But he's too timid an'
too cowardly, an' afraid of Bill. So to play even, he lines out to
bushwhack this he'pless, oninstructed raccoon. Olson figgers to take
advantage of what's cl'arly a loop-hole in a raccoon's
constitootion.
"Mebby you never notices it about a raccoon, but once he gets
interested in a pursoot, he's rigged so he can't quit none ontil the
project's a success. Thar's herds an' bands of folks an' animals
who's fixed sim'lar. They can start, an' they can't let up. Thar's
bull-dogs: They begins a war too easy; but the c'pacity to quit is
left out of bull-dogs entire. Same about nose-paint with gents I
knows. They capers up to whiskey at the beginnin' like a kitten to
warm milk; an' they never does cease no more. An' that's how the
kyards falls to raccoons.
"Knowin these yere deefects in raccoons, this Olson plots to take
advantage tharof; an' by playin' it low on Bill's raccoon, get even
with Bill about that dead hawg. Which Bill wouldn't have took a
drove of hawgs; no indeed! not the whole Fall round-up of hawgs in
all of West Tennessee, an' lose that raccoon.
"It's when Bill's over to Pine Knot layin' in tobacker, an' nose-
paint an' corn meal, an' sech necessaries, when Olson stands in to
down Bill's pet. He goes injunnin' over to Bill's an' finds the camp
all deserted, except the raccoon's thar, settin', battin' his eyes
mournful an' lonesome on the doorstep. This Olson camps down by the
door an' fondles the raccoon, an' strokes his coat, an' lets him
search his pockets with his black hands ontil he gets that friendly
an' confident about Olson he'd told him anythin'. It's then this
yere miscreant, Olson, springs his game. "H's got a couple of
crawfish which he's fresh caught at the Branch. Now raccoons regards
crawfish as onusual good eatin'. For myse'f, I can't say I deems
none high of crawfish as viands, but raccoons is different; an' the
way they looks at it, crawfish is pie.
"This Olson brings out his two crawfish an' fetchin' ajar of water
from the spring, he drops in a crawfish an' incites an' aggravates
Zekiel--that's the name of Bill's raccoon--to feel in an' get him a
whole lot.
"Zekiel ain't none shy on the play. He knows crawfish like a gambler
does a red chip; so turnin' his eyes up to the sky, like a raccoon
does who's wropped in pleasant anticipations that a-way, he plunges
in his paw an' gets it.
"Once Zekiel acquires him, the pore crawfish don't last as long as
two-bits at faro-bank. When Zekiel has him plumb devoured he turns
his eyes on Olson, sorter thankful, an' 'waits developments.
"Olson puts in the second crawfish, an' Zekiel takes him into camp
same as t'other. It's now that Olson onfurls his plot on Zekiel.
Olson drops a dozen buckshot into the jar of water. Nacherally,
Zekiel, who's got his mind all framed up touchin' crawfish, goes
after the buckshot with his fore foot. But it's different with buck-
shot; Zekiel can't pick 'em up. He tries an' tries with his honest,
simple face turned up to heaven, but he can't make it. All Zekiel
can do is feel 'em with his foot, an' roll 'em about on the bottom
of the jar.
"Now as I remarks prior, when a raccoon gets embarked that a-way, he
can't quit. He ain't arranged so he can cease. Olson, who's plumb
aware tharof, no sooner gets Zekiel started on them buckshot, than
knowin' that nacher can be relied on to play her hand out, he
sa'nters off to his wickeyup, leavin' Zekiel to his fate. Bill won't
be home till Monday, an' Olson knows that before then, onless Zekiel
is interrupted, he'll be even for that hawg Bill drops. As Olson
cones to a place in the trail where he's goin' to lose sight of
Bill's camp, he turns an' looks back. The picture is all his revenge
can ask. Thar sets Zekiel on the doorstep, with his happy
countenance turned up to the dome above, an' his right paw elbow
deep in the jar, still rollin' an' feelin' them buckshot 'round, an'
allowin' he's due to ketch a crawfish every moment.
"Which it works out exactly as the wretched Olson figgers. The sun
goes down, an' the Sunday sun comes up an' sets again; an' still
pore Zekiel is planted by the jar, with his hopeful eyes on high,
still feelin' of them buckshot. He can't quit no more'n if he's
loser in a poker game; Zekiel can't. When Bill rides up to his door
about second-drink time Monday afternoon, Olson is shorely even on
that hawg. Thar lays Zekiel, dead. He's jest set thar with them
buck-shot an' felt himse'f to death.
"But speakin' of the sapiency of Bill Hoskins's Zekiel," continued
the old gentleman as we lighted pipes and lapsed into desultory
puffing, "while Zekiel for a raccoon is some deep, after all you-all
is jest amazed at Zekiel 'cause I calls your attention to him a
whole lot. If you was to go into camp with 'em, an' set down an'
watch 'em, you'd shorely be s'prised to note how level-headed all
animals be.
"Now if thar's anythin' in Arizona for whose jedgement I don't have
respect nacheral, it's birds. Arizona for sech folks as you an' me,
an' coyotes an' jack-rabbits, is a good range. Sech as we-alls
sorter fits into the general play an' gets action for our stacks.
But whatever a bird can find entrancin' in some of them Southwestern
deserts is allers too many for me.
"As I su'gests, I former holds fowls, who of free choice continues a
residence in Arizona, as imbeciles. Yet now an' then I observes
things that makes me oncertain if I'm onto a bird's system; an' if
after all Arizona is sech a dead kyard for birds. It's possible a
gent might be way off on birds an' the views they holds of life. He
might watch the play an' esteem 'em loser, when from a bird's p'int
of view they's makin' a killin', an' even callin' the turn every
deal.
"What he'ps to open my eyes a lot on birds is two Road Runners Doc
Peets an' me meets up with one afternoon comin' down from Lordsburg.
These yere Road Runners is a lanky kind of prop'sition, jest a shade
off from spring chickens for size. Which their arrangements as to
neck an' laigs is onrestricted an' liberal, an' their long suit is
runnin' up an' down the sun-baked trails of Arizona with no object.
Where he's partic'lar strong, this yere Road Runner, is in waitin'
ontil some gent comes along, same as Doc Peets an' me that time, an'
then attachin' of himse'f said cavalcade an' racin' along ahead. A
Road Runner keeps up this exercise for miles, an' be about the
length of a lariat ahead of your pony's nose all the time. When you-
all lets out a link or two an' stiffens your pony with the spur, the
Road Runner onbuckles sim'lar an' exults tharat. You ain't goin' to
run up on him while he can wave a laig, you can gamble your last
chip, an' you confers favors on him by sendin' your pony at him.
Thar he stays, rackin' along ahead of you ontil satiated. Usual
thar's two Road Run. ners, an' they clips it along side by side as
if thar's somethin' in it for 'em; an' I reckons, rightly saveyed,
thar is. However, the profits to Road Runners of them excursions
ain't obvious, none whatever; so I won't try to set 'em forth. Them
journeys they makes up an' down the trail shorely seems aimless to
me.
"But about Doc Peets an' me pullin' out from Lordsburg for Wolfville
that evenin': Our ponies is puttin' the landscape behind 'em at a
good road-gait when we notes a brace of them Road Runners with wings
half lifted, pacin' to match our speed along the trail in front. As
Road Runners is frequent with us, our minds don't bother with 'em
none. Now an' then Doc an' me can see they converses as they goes
speedin' along a level or down a slope. It's as if one says to
t'other, somethin' like this yere
"'How's your wind, Bill? Is it comin' easy?'
"'Shore,' it would seem like Bill answers. 'Valves never is in sech
shape. I'm on velvet; how's your laigs standin' the pace, Jim?'
"'Laigs is workin' like they's new oiled,' Jim replies back; 'it's a
plumb easy game. I reckons, Bill, me an' you could keep ahead of
them mavericks a year if we-alls feels like it.'
"'Bet a blue stack on it,' Bill answers. ' I deems these yere gents
soft. Before I'd ride sech ponies as them, I'd go projectin' 'round
some night an' steal one.'
"'Them ponies is shorely a heap slothful,' Jim answers.
"'At this mebby them Road Runners ruffles their feathers an' runs on
swifter, jest to show what a slow racket keepin' ahead of me an'
Peets is. An' these yere locoed birds keeps up sech conversations
for hours.
"Mind I ain't sayin' that what I tells you is what them Road Runners
really remarks; but I turns it over to you-all the way it strikes me
an' Doc at the time. What I aims to relate, how-ever, is an incident
as sheds light on how wise an' foxy Road Runners be.
"Doc Peets an' me, as I states, ain't lavishin' no onreasonable
notice on these yere birds, an' they've been scatterin' along the
trail for mebby it's an hour, when one of 'em comes to a plumb halt,
sharp. The other stops likewise an' rounds up ag'inst his mate; an'
bein' cur'ous to note what's pesterin 'em, Peets an' me curbs to a
stand-still. The Road Runner who stops first--the same bein' Bill--
is lookin' sharp an' interested-like over across the plains.
"'Rattlesnake,' he imparts to his side partner.
"'Where's he at?' says the side partner, which is Jim, 'where's this
yere snake at, Bill? I don't note no rattlesnake.'
"'Come round yere by me,' Bill says. 'Now on a line with the top of
yonder mesa an' a leetle to the left of that soap-weed; don't you-
all see him quiled up thar asleep?'
"'Which I shorely does,' says Jim, locatin' the rattlesnake with his
beady eye, 'an' he's some sunk in slumber. Bill, that serpent is our
meat.'
"'Move your moccasins easy,' says Bill, 'so's not to turn him out.
Let's rustle up some flat cactuses an' corral him.'
"Tharupon these yere Road Runners turns in mighty diligent; an' not
makin' no more noise than shadows, they goes pokin' out on the
plains ontil they finds a flat cactus which is dead; so they can
tear off the leaves with their bills. Doc Peets an' me sets in our
saddles surveyin' their play; an' the way them Road Runners goes
about the labors of their snake killin' impresses us it ain't the
first bootchery of the kind they appears in. They shorely don't need
no soopervisin'.
"One after the other, Jim an' Bill teeters up, all silent, with a
flat cactus leaf in their beaks, an' starts to fence in the
rattlesnake with 'em. They builds a corral of cactus all about him,
which the same is mebby six-foot across. Them engineerin' feats
takes Jim an' Bill twenty minutes. But they completes 'em; an'
thar's the rattlesnake, plumb surrounded.
"These yere cactuses, as you most likely saveys, is thorny no limit;
an' the spikes is that sharp, needles is futile to 'em. Jim an' Bill
knows the rattlesnake can't cross this thorny corral.
"He don't look it none, but from the way he plays his hand, I takes
it a rattlesnake is sensitive an' easy hurt onder the chin.
"An' it's plain to me an' Peets them Road Runners is aware of said
weaknesses of rattlesnakes, an' is bankin' their play tharon. We-
alls figgers, lookin' on, that Jim an' Bill aims to put the
rattlesnake in prison; leave him captive that a-way in a cactus
calaboose. But we don't size up Jim an' Bill accurate at all. Them
two fowls is shorely profound.
"No sooner is the corral made, than Jim an' Bill, without a word of
warnin', opens up a warjig 'round the outside; flappin' their
pinions an' screechin' like squaws. Nacherally the rattlesnake wakes
up. The sight of them two Road Runners, Jim an' Bill, cussin' an'
swearin' at him, an' carryin' on that a-way scares him.
"It's trooth to say Bill an' Jim certainly conducts themse'fs
scand'lous. The epithets they heaps on that pore ignorant
rattlesnake, the taunts they flings at him, would have done Apaches
proud.
The rattlesnake buzzes an' quils up, an' onsheaths his fangs, an'
makes bluffs to strike Bill an' Jim, but they only hops an' dances
about, thinkin' up more ornery things to say. Every time the
rattlesnake goes to crawl away--which he does frequent--he strikes
the cactus thorns an' pulls back. By an' by he sees he's elected,
an' he gets that enraged he swells up till he's big as two snakes;
Bill an' Jim maintainin' their sass. Them Road Runners is abreast of
the play every minute, you can see that.
"At last comes the finish, an' matters gets dealt down to the turn.
The rattlesnake suddenly crooks his neck, he's so plumb locoed with
rage an' fear, an' socks his fangs into himse'f. That's the fact;
bites himse'f, an' never lets up till he's dead.
"It don't seem to astound Jim an' Bill none when the rattlesnake
'sassinates himse'f that a-way, an' I reckons they has this yere
sooicide in view. They keeps pesterin' an' projectin' about ontil
the rattlesnake is plumb defunct, an' then they emits a whirlwind of
new whoops, an' goes over to one side an' pulls off a skelp dance.
Jim an' Bill is shorely cel'bratin' a vic'try.
"After the skelp dance is over, Bill an' Jim tiptoes over mighty
quiet an' sedate, an' Jim takes their prey by the tail an' yanks it.
After the rattlesnake's drug out straight, him an' Bill runs their
eyes along him like they's sizin' him up. With this yere last,
however, it's cl'ar the Road Runners regards the deal as closed.
They sa'nters off down the trail, arm in arm like, conversin' in low
tones so Peets an' me never does hear what they says. When they's in
what they takes to be the c'rrect p'sition, they stops an' looks
back at me an' Peets. Bill turns to Jim like he's sayin':
"'Thar's them two short-horns ag'in. I wonders if they ever aims to
pull their freight, or do they reckon they'll pitch camp right
yere?"'
CHAPTER XXII.
OLD SAM ENRIGHT'S "ROMANCE."
"It mebby is, that romances comes to pass on the range when I'm
thar," remarked the Old Cattleman, meditatively, "but if so be, I
never notes 'em. They shorely gets plumb by me in the night."
The old gentleman had just thrown down a daily paper, and even as he
spoke I read on the upturned page the glaring headline: "Romance in
Real Life." His recent literature was the evident cause of his
reflections.
"Of course," continued the Old Cattleman, turning for comfort to his
inevitable tobacco pipe, "of course, at sech epocks as some degraded
sharp takes to dealin' double in a poker game, or the kyards begins
to come two at a clatter at faro-bank, the proceedin's frequent
takes on what you-all might call a hue of romance; an' I admits they
was likely to get some hectic, myse'f. But as I states, for what
you-all would brand as clean. strain romance, I ain't recallin'
none."
"How about those love affairs of your youth?" I ventured.
"Which I don't deny," replied the old gentleman, between puffs,
"that back in Tennessee, as I onfolds before, I has my flower-
scented days. But I don't wed nothin', as you-all knows, an' even
while I'm ridin' an' ropin' at them young female persons, thar's
never no romance to it, onless it's in the fact that they all
escapes.
"But speakin' of love-tangles, Old Man Enright once recounts a
story; which the same shows how female fancy is rootless an'
onstable that a-way.
"'Allers copper a female.' says Cherokee Hall, one day, when Texas
Thompson is relatin' how his wife maltreats him, an' rounds up a
divorce from him down at Laredo. 'Allers play 'em to lose. Nell,
yere,' goes on Cherokee, as he runs his hand over the curls of Faro
Nell, who's lookout for Cherokee, 'Nelly, yere, is the only one I
ever meets who can be depended on to come winner every trip.'
"'Which females,' says Old Man Enright, who's settin' thar at the
time, ' an' partic'lar, young females, is a heap frivolous,
nacheral. A rainbow will stampede most of 'em. For myse'f, I'd
shorely prefer to try an' hold a bunch of five hundred ponies on a
bad night, than ride herd on the heart of one lady. Between gent an'
gent that a-way, I more'n half figger the 'ffections of a female is
migratory, same as buffaloes was before they was killed, an' sorter
goes north like in the spring, an' south ag'in in the winter.'
"'As for me; says Texas Thompson, who's moody touchin' them divorce
plays his wife is makin', 'you-alls can gamble I passes all females
up. No matter how strong I holds, it looks like on the showdowns
they outlucks me every time. Wherefore I quits 'em cold, an' any
gent who wants my chance with females can shorely have the same.'
"'Oh, I don't know!' remarks Doc Peets, gettin' in on what's a
general play, 'I've been all through the herd, an' I must say I
deems women good people every time; a heap finer folks than men, an'
faithfuller.'
"'Which I don't deny females is fine folks,' says Texas, 'but what
I'm allowin' is, they's fitful. They don't stay none. You-alls can
hobble an'sideline'em both at night; an' when you rolls out in the
mornin', they's gone.'
"'What do you-all think, Nell?' says Doc Peets to Faro Nell, who's
perched up on her stool by Cherokee's shoulder. 'What do you-all
reckon now of Texas yere, a-malignin' of your sex? Why don't you
p'int him to Dave Tutt an' Tucson Jennie? Which they gets married,
an' thar they be, gettin' along as peaceful as two six-shooters on
the same belt.'
"'I don't mind what Texas says, none,' replies Faro Nell. 'Texas is
all right, an' on the square". I shouldn't wonder none if this yere
Missis Thompson does saw it off on him some shabby, gettin' that
sep'ration, an' I don't marvel at his remarks. But as long as
Cherokee yere thinks I'm right, I don't let nobody's views pester me
a little bit, so thar.'
"'It's what I says awhile back,' interrupts Enright. 'Texas
Thompson's wife's motives mighty likely ain't invidious none. It's a
heap probable if the trooth is known, that she ain't aimin' nothin'
speshul at Texas; she only changes her mind. About the earliest
event I remembers,' goes on Enright, 'is concernin' a woman who
changes her mind. It's years ago when I'm a yearlin'. Our company is
makin' a round-up at a camp called Warwhoop Crossin', in Tennessee,
organizin' to embark in the Mexican war a whole lot, an' thin out
the Greasers. No one ever does know why I, personal, declar's myse'f
in on this yere imbroglio. I ain't bigger 'n a charge of powder, an'
that limited as to laigs I has to clamber onto a log to mount my
pony.
"'But as I'm tellin', we-alls comes together at Warwhoop to make the
start. I reckons now thar's five hundred people thar. `'Which the
occasion, an' the interest the public takes in the business, jest
combs the region of folks for miles about.
"'Thar's a heap of hand-shakin' an' well-wishin' goin' on; mothers
an' sisters, an' sweethearts is kissin' us good-bye; an' while
thar's some hilarity thar's more sobs. It's not, as I looks
back'ard, what you-alls would call a gay affair.
"'While all this yere love an' tears is flowin', thar's a gent--he's
our Captain--who's settin' off alone in his saddle, an' ain't takin'
no hand. Thar's no sweetheart, no mother, no sister for him.
"'No one about Warwhoop knows this yere party much; more'n his name
is Bent. He's captain with the Gov'nor's commission, an' comes from
'way-off yonder some'ers. An' so he sets thar, grim an' solid in his
saddle, lookin' vague-like off at where the trees meets the sky,
while the rest of us is goin' about permiscus, finishin' up our
kissin'.
"'"Ain't he got no sweetheart to wish goodbye to him?" asks a girl
of me. "Ain't thar no one to kiss him for good luck as he rides
away?"
"'This yere maiden's name is Sanders, an' it's a shore fact she's
the prettiest young female to ever make a moccasin track in West
Tennessee. I'd a-killed my pony an' gone afoot to bring sech a look
into her eyes, as shines thar when she gazes at the Captain where
he's silent an' sol'tary on his hoss.
"'No," I replies, "he's a orphan, I reckons. He's plumb abandoned
that a-way, an' so thar's nobody yere to kiss him, or shake his
hand."
"'This yere pretty Sanders girl--an' I'm pausin' ag'in to state
she's a human sunflower, that a-way--this Sanders beauty, I'm
sayin', looks at this party by himse'f for a moment, an' then the
big tears begins to well in her blue eyes. She blushes like a
sunset, an' walks over to this yere lone gent.
"'Mister Captain," she says, raisin' her face to him like a rose,
"I'm shore sorry you ain't got no sweetheart to say 'good-bye;' an'
bein' you're lonesome, that a-way, I'll kiss you an' say adios
myse'f."
"'Will you, my little lady?" says the lonesome Captain, as he swings
from his saddle to the ground by her side; an' thar's sunshine in
his eyes.
"'I'll think of you every day for that,"he says, when he kisses her,
"an' if I gets back when the war's done, I'll shorely look for you
yere."
"'The little Sanders girl--she is shorely as handsome as a ace full
on kings--blushes a heap vivid at what she's done, an' looks warm
an' tender. Which, while the play is some onusual an' out of line,
everybody agrees it's all right; bein' that we-alls is goin' to a
war, that a-way.
"'Now yere,' goes on Enright, at the same time callin' for red-eye
all 'round, ' is what youalls agrees is a mighty romantic deal.
Yere's a love affair gets launched.'
"'Does this yere lone-hand gent who gets kissed by the Sanders lady
outlive the war?' asks Texas Thompson, who has braced up an' gets
mighty vivacious listenin' to the story.
"'Which he shorely outlives that conflict,' replies Enright. 'An'
you can gamble he's in the thick of the stampede, too, every time. I
will say for this yere Captain, that while I ain't with him plumb
through, he's as game a sport as ever fought up hill. He's the sort
which fights an goes for'ard to his man at the same time. Thar's no
white feathers on that kind; they's game as badgers. An' bad.'
"'Which if he don't get downed none,' says Texas Thompson, 'an' hits
Tennessee alive, I offers ten to one he leads this yere Sanders
female to the altar.'
"'Which you'd lose, a whole lot,' says Enright, at the same time
raisin' his whiskey glass.
"'That's what I states when I trails out on this yere romance.
Females is frivolous an' plumb light of fancy. This Captain party
comes back to Warwhoop, say, it's two years an' a half later, an'
what do you-alls reckon? That Sanders girl's been married mighty
nigh two yzars, an' has an infant child as big as a b'ar cub, which
is beginnin' to make a bluff at walkin.'
"'Now, on the squar', an' I'm as s'prised about it as you be--I'm
more'n s'prised, I'm pained--I don't allow, lookin' over results an'
recallin' the fact of that b'ar-cub infant child, that for all her
blushin', an' all her tears, an' kissin' that Captain party good-by
that a-way, that the Sanders girl cares a hoss-h'ar rope for him in
a week. An' it all proves what I remarks, that while females ain't
malev'lent malicious, an' don't do these yere things to pierce a
gent with grief, their 'ffections is always honin' for the trail,
an' is shorely prone to move camp. But, bless 'em! they can't he'p
it none if their hearts be quicksands, an' I libates to 'em ag'in.'
"Whereat we-alls drinks with Enright; feelin' a heap sim'lar.
"'Whatever becomes of this yerc pore Captain party?' asks Faro Nell.
"'Well, the fact about that Captain,' replies Enright, settin' down
his glass, 'while the same is mere incident, an' don't have no
direct bearin' on what I relates; the fact in his case is he's
wedded already. Nacherally after sayin' "howdy!" to the little
Sanders girl, an' applaudin' of her progeny--which it looks like he
fully endorses that a-way--this yere Captain gent hits the trail for
Nashville, where his wife's been keepin' camp an' waitin' for him
all the time."'
CHAPTER XXIII.
PINON BILL'S BLUFF.
"This narrative is what you-all might call some widespread," said
the Old Cattleman, as he beamed upon me, evidently in the best of
humors. "It tells how Pinon Bill gets a hoss on Jack Moore; leaves
the camp bogged up to the saddle-girths in doubt about who downs
Burke; an' stakes the Deef Woman so she pulls her freight for the
States.
"Pinon Bill is reckoned a hard game. He's only in Wolfville now an'
then, an' ain't cuttin' no figger in public calc'lations more'n it's
regarded as sagacious to pack your gun while Pinon Bill's about.
"No; he don't down no white men no one ever hears of, but thar's
stories about how he smuggles freight an' plunder various from
Mexico, an' drives off Mexican cattle, an' once in awhile stretches
a Mexican himse'f who objects to them enterprises of Pinon Bill's;
but thar's nothin' in sech tales to interest Americans, more'n to
hear 'em an' comment on 'em as plays.
"But while Pinon Bill never turns his talents to American, them
liberties he takes with Greasers gives him a heap of bad repoote, as
a mighty ornery an' oneasy person; an' most of us sorter keeps tab
on him whenever he favors Wolfville with his presence.
"'This time he collides with Jack Moore, an' so to speak, leaves the
drinks on Jack, he's been trackin' 'round camp mebby it's six weeks.
"'Likewise thar's an old longhorn they calls the 'Major'; he's been
hangin' about for even longer yet. Don't go to figgerin' on no
hostilities between this Pinon Bill an' the Major, for their trails
never does cross once. Another thing' Pinon Bill ain't nacheraliy
hostile neither; ain't what you-all calls trailin' trouble; whereas
the Major's also a heap too drunk to give way to war, bein' tanked
that a-way continuous.
"Which I don't reckon thar's the slightest doubt but the Major's a
bigger sot than Old Monte, though the same is in dispoote; Cherokee
Hall an' Boggs a-holdin' he is; an' Doc Peets an' Tutt playin' the
other end; Enright an' Jack Moore, ondecided.
"Peets confides in me of an' concernin' the Major that thar's a
time--an' no further up the trail than five years--when the Major is
shore-'nough a Major; bein' quartermaster or some sech bluff in the
army.
"But one day Uncle Sam comes along an' wants to cash in; an' thar
this yere crazy-hoss Major is with ten times as many chips out as
he's got bank-roll to meet, an' it all fatigues the gov'ment to that
extent the Major's cashiered, an' told to vamos the army for good.
"I allers allows it's whiskey an' kyards gets the Major's roll that
time. Peets says he sees him 'way back once over some'ers near the
Mohave Desert--Wingate, mebby--an' whiskey an' poker has the Major
roped; one by the horns, the other by the hoofs; an' they jest
throws him an' drug him, an' drug him an' throws him, alternate. The
Major never shakes loose from the loops of them vices; none
whatever.
"An' that's mighty likely, jest as I says, how the Major finds
himse'f cashiered an' afoot; an' nothin' but disgrace to get rid of
an' whiskey to get, to fill the future with.
"So it comes when I trails up on the Major he's a drunkard complete,
hangin' 'round with a tin-horn an' a handful of dice, tryin' to get
Mexicans or Chinamen to go ag'in 'em for any small thing they names.
"It's on account of this yere drunkard the Major that the Deef Woman
comes stagin' it in with Old Monte one day. Got a papoose with her,
the Deef Woman has, a boy comin' three, an' it's my firm belief,
which this view is common an' frequent with all Wolfville, as how
the Deef Woman's the Major's wife.
"It ain't no cinch play that this female's deef, neither; which it's
allers plain she hears the most feeblesome yelp of that infant, all
the way from the dance-hall to the O. K. House, an' that means
across the camp complete.
"Boggs puts it up she merely gives it out she's deef that a-way to
cut off debate with the camp, an' decline all confidences goin' an'
comin'.
"Thar's no reason to say the Deef Woman's the Major's wife, more'n
she tumbles into camp as onlooked for as Old Monte sober, an' it's
easy to note she s'prises an' dismays the Major a lot, even drunk
an' soaked with nose paint as he shorely is.
"The Deef Woman has a brief pow-wow with him alone over at the O. K.
House, followin' of which the Major appears the whitiest an' the
shakiest I ever beholds him--the last bein' some strong as a
statement--an' after beggin' a drink at the Red Light, p'ints out
afoot for Red Dog, an' is seen no more.
"What the Deef Woman says to the Major, or him to her; or what makes
him hit the trail for Red Dog that a-way no one learns. The Deef
Woman ain't seemin' to regard the Major's jumpin' the outfit as no
loss, however. Wherein she's plenty accurate, for that Major shorely
ain't worth ropin' to brand.
"After he's gone--an' the Major's moccasin track ain't never seen in
Wolfville no more, he's gone that good--the next we-alls hears of
the deal, this yere Deef Woman's playin' the piano at the dance-
hall.
"Doc Peets an' Enright, likewise the rest, don't like this none
whatever, for she don't show dance-hall y'ear marks, an' ain't the
dance-hall brand; but it looks like they's powerless to interfere.
"Peets tries to talk to her, but she blushes an' can't hear him;
while Enright an' Missis Rucker--which the last bein' a female
herse'f is rung in on the play--don't win out nothin' more. Looks
like all the Deef Woman wants is to be let alone, while she makes a
play the best she can for a home-stake.
"I pauses to mention, however, that durin' the week the Deef Woman
turns her game at the piano--for she don't stay only a week as the
play runs out--she comes mighty near killin' the dance-hall
business. The fact is this were Deef Woman plays that remarkable
sweet no one dances at all; jest nacherally sets'round hungerin' for
them melodies, an' cadences to that extent they actooally overlooks
drinks.
"That's right; an' you can gamble your deepest chip when folks
begins to overlook drinks, an' a glass of whiskey lasts energetic
people half an hour, they's shorely some rapt.
"Even the coyotes cashes in an' quits their howls whenever the Deef
Woman drug her chair up to that piano an' throws loose. An' them
coyotes afterward, when she turns up her box an' stops dealin', gets
that bashful an' taciturn they ain't sayin' a word; but jest
withholds all yells entire the rest of the night.
"But thar's no use talkin' hours about the Deef Woman's music. It
only lasts a week; even if Wolfville does brag of it yet.
"It's this a-way: It's while Pinon Bill is romancin' round the time
I mentions, that we-alls rolls outen our blankets one mornin' an'
picks up a party whose name's Burke. This yere Burke is shot in the
back; plumb dead, an' is camped when we finds him all cold an' stiff
out back of the New York store.
"The day before, Burke, who's a miner, diggin' an' projectin' 'round
over in the Floridas, is in camp layin' in powder an' fuse a whole
lot, with which he means to keep on shootin' up the he'pless bosoms
of the hills like them locoed miner people does.
"At night he's drunk; an' while thar's gents as sees Burke as late,
mebby it's two hours after the last walse at the dance-hall, thar's
nobody who ups an' imparts how Burke gets plugged. All Wolfville
knows is that at first-drink time in the mornin', thar this Burke is
plumb petered that a-way.
"An' the worst feature shorely is that the bullet goes in his back,
which makes it murder plain. Thar ain't a moccasin track to he'p
tell who drops this yere Burke. Nacrerally, everybody's deeply taken
to know who does it; for if thar's a party in camp who's out to
shoot when your back's turned, findin' of him an' hangin' him can't
be too pop'lar an' needful as a play. But, as I remarks, we're
baffled, an' up ag'inst it absoloote. No one has the least notion
who gets this yere Burke. It's money as is the object of the murder,
for Burke's war-bags don't disclose not a single centouse when the
committee goes through 'em prior to the obsequies.
"It's two days the camp is talkin' over who does this crime, when
Texas Thompson begins to shed a beam of light. This last was
onlooked for, an' tharfore all the more interestin'.
"Texas Thompson is a jedge of whiskey sech as any gent might tie to.
He's a middlin' shot with a Colt's .44 an' can protect himse'f at
poker. But nobody ever reckons before that Texas can think. Which I
even yet deems this partic'lar time a inspiration, in which event
Texas Thompson don't have to think.
"It's over in the Red Light the second after. noon when Texas turns
loose a whole lot.
"'Enright,' he says, 'I shore has a preemonition this yere Burke
gets plugged by Pinon Bill.'
"'How does the kyards run so as to deal s'picions on Pinon Bill?'
says Enright.
"'This a-way,' says Texas, some confident an' cl'ar; 'somebody downs
Burke; that's dead certain. Burke don't put that hole in the middle
of his back himse'f; no matter how much he reckons it improves him.
Then, when it's someone else who is it? Now,' goes on Texas, as glib
as wolves, 'yere's how I argues: You-all don't do it; Peets don't do
it; Boggs don't do it; thar's not one of us who does it. An' thar
you be plumb down to Pinon Bill. In the very nacher of the deal,
when no one else does it an' it's done, Pinon Bill's got to do it. I
tells you as shore as my former wife at Laredo's writin' insultin'
letters to me right now, this yere Pinon Bill's the party who shoots
up that miner gent Burke.'
"What Texas Thompson says makes an impression; which it's about the
first thoughtful remark he ever makes, an' tharfore we're prone to
give it more'n usual attention.
"We imbibes on it an' talks it up an' down, mebby it's half an hour;
an' the more we drinks an' the harder we thinks, the cl'arer it
keeps gettin' that mighty likely this yere Texas has struck the
trail. At last Jack Moore, who's, as I often says, prompt an'
vig'lant that a-way, lines out to hunt this yere Pinon Bill.
"Whyever do they call him Pinon Bill? Nothin' much; only once he
comes into camp drunk an' locoed; an' bein' in the dark an' him
hawg-hungry, he b'iles a kettle of pinon-nuts, a-holdin' of 'em
erroneous to be beans, an' as sech aimin' to get some food outen 'em
a whole lot. He goes to sleep while he's pesterin' with 'em, an'
when the others tumbles to his game in the mornin', he's branded as
'Pinon Bill' ever more.
"When Jack hops out to round-up Pinon Bill, all he does is go into
the street. The first thing he notes is this yere Pinon Bill's pony
standin' saddled over by the O. K. House, like he plans to pull his
freight.
"'Which that bronco standin' thar,' says Jack to Enright, 'makes it
look like Texas calls the turn with them surmises.' An' it shorely
does.
"This pony makes Jack's play plenty simple; all he does now is to
sa'nter 'round the pony casooal like an' lay for Pinon Bill.
"Jack's too well brought up to go surgin' into rooms lookin' for
Pinon Bill, where Jack's eyes comin' in outen the sun that a-way,
can't see for a minute nohow, an' where Pinon Bill has advantages.
It's better to wait for him outside.
"You-all saveys how it's done in the West. When a gent's needed you
allers opens the game with a gun-play.
"'Hold up your hands!' says you, sorter indicatin' a whole lot at
your prey with a gun.
"Which, by the way, if he don't enter into the sperit of the thing
prompt an' p'int his paws heavenward an' no delay, you-all mustn't
fall into no abstractions an' forget to shoot some. When you
observes to a fellow-bein' that a-way
'Hold up your hands!' you must be partic'lar an' see he does it.
Which if you grows lax on this p'int he's mighty likely to put your
light out right thar.
"An' jest as Jack Moore tells me once when we're puttin' in some
leesure hours an' whiskey mingled, you don't want to go too close to
standup your gent. Over in the Gunnison country, Jack says, a
marshal he knows gets inadvertent that a-way, an' thoughtless, an'
goes up close.
"'Throw up your hands' says this yere marshal.
"His tone shows he's ennuied; he has so many of these yere blazers
to run; that's why he's careless, mebby. When the party throws up
his hands, he is careful an knocks the marshal's gun one side with
his left hand, bein' he's too close as I says, at the same time
pullin' his own wherewith he then sends that marshal to the happy
huntin' grounds in one motion. Before ever that Gunnison offishul
gets it outen his head that that sport's holdin' up his hands, he's
receivin' notice on high to hustle 'round an' find his harp an'
stand in on the eternal chorus for all he's worth.
"'Which the public,' says Jack Moore, the time he relates about this
yere Gunnison marshal bein over-played that time, 'takes an' hangs
the killer in a minute. An' he's shorely a bad man.
"'Does you-all want to pray?" says one of the gents who's stringin'
of him.
"'No, Ed," he says that a-way, "prayin's a blind trail to my eyes
an' I can't run it a inch."
"'"What for a racket," says this yere Ed, "would it be to pick out a
sport to pray for you a whole lot; sorter play your hand?"
"'"That's all right," says this culprit. "Nominate your sharp an'
tell him to wade in an' roll his game. I reckons it's a good hedge,
an' a little prayin' mebby does me good."
"'Tharupon the committee puts for'ard a gent who's a good talker;
but not takin' an interest much, he makes a mighty weak orison, that
a-way. Thar's nohody likes it, from the culprit, who's standin' thar
with the lariat 'round his neck, to the last gent who's come up.
This party blunders along, mebby it's a minute, when the culprit,
who's plumb disgusted, breaks in.
"'"That's a hell of a pra'r," he says, "an' I don't want no more of
it in mine. Gimme a drink of whiskey, gents, an' swing me off."
"'The committee, whose sympathies is all with this yere party who's
to hang, calls down the gent a heap who's prayin', gives the other
his forty drops, an' cinches him up some free of the ground; which
the same bein' ample for strang'lation.
"'But,' concloods Jack, 'while they hangs him all right an' proper,
that don't put off the funeral of the marshal none, who gets
careless an' goes too close.' An' you bet Jack's right.
"But goin' back: As I remarks, Jack stands round loose an'
indifferent with his eye on the pony of Pinon Bill's, which it looks
now like this yere Bill is aware of Jack's little game. He comes out
shore-'nough, but he's organized. He's got his gun in his hand; an'
also he's packin' the Deef Woman's yearlin' in front of his breast
an' face.
"Jack gives him the word, but Pinon Bill only laughs. Then Jack
makes a bluff with his gun like he's goin' to shoot Pinon Bill, the
infant, an' all involved tharin. This yere last move rattles Pinon
Bill, an' he ups an' slams loose at Jack. But the baby's in his way
as much mebby as it is in Jack's, an' he only grazes Jack's frame a
whole lot, which amounts to some blood an' no deep harm.
"'Down his pony, Jack!' shouts Dave Tutt, jumpin' outen the Red
Light like he aims to get in on the deal.
"But this yere Pinon Bill shifts the cut on 'em.
"'If one of you-alls so much as cracks a cap,' he says, 'I blows the
head offen this yere blessed child.'
"An' tharupon he shoves his gun up agin that baby's left y'ear that
a-way, so it shore curdles your blood. He does it as readily as if
it's grown-up folks. It shore sends a chill through me; an' Dan
Boggs is that 'fected he turns plumb sick. Boggs ain't eatin' a
thing, leastwise nothin' but whiskey, for two days after he sees
Pinon Bill do it.
"'That's on the level,' says this Pinon Bill ag'in.--The first
vestich of a gun-play I witnesses, or if any gent starts to follow
me ontil I'm a mile away, I'll send this yearlin' scoutin' after
Burke. An' you-alls hears me say it.'
"Thar it is; a squar' case of stand-off. Thar ain't a gent who's
game to make a move. Seein' we ain't got a kyard left to play, this
yere Pinon Bill grins wide an' satisfactory, an' swings into the
saddle.
"All this time--which, after all, it ain't so long--the baby ain't
sayin' nothin', and takes the deal in plumb silence. But jest as
Pinon Bill lands in the saddle it onfurls a yell like a wronged
panther. That's what brings the Deef Woman stampedin' to the scene.
She don't hear a morsel of all this riot Jack an' Tutt an' Pinon
Bill kicks up; never even gets a hint of Pinon Bill's six-shooter.
But with the earliest squeak of that infant that a-way, you bet! she
comes a-runnin'.
"The second she sees where her baby's at, up in the saddle along
with Pinon Bill, she makes a spring for the whole outfit. We-alls
stands lookin' on. Thar ain't one of us dares crook a finger, for
this Pinon Bill is cool an' ca'm plumb through. He's still got the
drop on the kid, while he's holdin' baby an' bridle both with the
other arm an' hand. His sharp eyes is on the Deef Woman, too.
"She springs, but she never makes it. Pinon Bill jumps his pony
sideways out of her reach, an' at that the Deef Woman c'lapses on
her face an' shoulder in a dead swoon.
"'Adios!' says Pinon Bill, to the rest of us, backin' an' sidlin'
his pony up the street so he don't lose sight of the play. 'Ten
minutes from now you-alls finds this yere infant a mile from camp as
safe an' solid as a sod house.'
"'Bill,' says Enright, all at once, 'I makes you a prop'sition.
Restore the baby to me, an' thar ain't a gent in camp who follows
you a foot. I gives you the word of Wolfville.'
"'Does that go?' demands Pinon Bill, turnin to Jack, who's shakin'
the blood offen his fingers where it runs down his arm.
"'It goes,' says Jack; 'goes wherever Enright sets it. I makes good
his bluffs at all times on foot or in the stirrups.'
"'An' I takes your promise,' says Pinon Bill with a laugh, 'an'
yere's the baby. Which now I'm goin', I don't mind confidin' in you-
alls,' goes on this Pinon Bill, 'that I never intends to hurt that
infant nohow.'
"Enright gets the child, an' in no time later that Pinon Bill is
fled from sight. You can believe it; it takes a load offen the
public mind about that infant when the kyards comes that a-way.
"Which the story's soon told now. It's three days later, an', seein'
it's refreshed in our thoughts, Enright an' the rest of us is
resoomed op'rations touchin' this Deef Woman, about gettin' her
outen camp, an' she's beginnin' to recover her obduracy about not
sayin' or hearin' nothin', when in comes a package by Old Monte an'
the stage. It's for Enright from that hoss. thief, Pinon Bill.
Thar's a letter an'
Soo for the baby.
"'Tell that Decf Woman,' says this yere Pinon Bill, 'that I has an
even thousand dollars in my war-bags, when I stacks in her offspring
ag'inst the camp to win; an' I deems it only squar' to divide the
pot with the baby. The kid an' me's partners in the play that a-way,
an' the enclosed is the kid's share. Saw this yere dinero off on her
somehow; an' make her pull her freight. Wolfville's no good place to
raise that baby.'
"'Which this Pinon Bill ain't so bad neither,' says Dan Boggs, when
he hears it. 'Gents, I proposes the health of this outlaw. Barkeep,
see what they takes in behalf of Pinon Bill.'
"The letter an' the money's dead straight, an' the Deef Woman can't
dodge or go 'round. All of which Missis Rucker takes a day off an'
beats it into her by makin' signs. It's like two Injuns talkin'. It
all winds up by the Deef Woman p'intin' out on her way some'ers
East, an' thar ain't one of us ever sees the Major, the Deef Woman,
the kid, nor yet this Pinon Bill, no more. Which this last, however,
is not regarded as food for deep regrets,"
CHAPTER XXIV.
CRAWFISH JIM.
"Don't I never tell you the story of the death of Crawfish Jim?"
The Old Cattleman bent upon me an eye of benevolent inquiry. I
assured him that the details of the taking off of Crawfish Jim were
as a sealed book to me. But I would blithely listen.
"What was the fate of Crawfish Jim?"I asked. The name seemed a
promise in itself.
"Nothin' much for a fate, Crawfish's ain't," rejoined the Old
Cattleman. "Nothin' whatever compared to some fates I keeps tabs
onto. It was this a-way: Crawfish Jim was a sheep-man, an' has a
camp out in the foothills of the Tres Hermanas, mebby it's thirty
miles back from Wolfville. This yere Crawfish Jim was a pecooliar
person; plumb locoed, like all sheep-men. They has to be crazy or
they wouldn't pester 'round in no sech disrepootable pursoots as
sheep.
You-all has seen these yere gents as makes pets of snakes. Mebby
it's once in a thousand times you cuts the trail of sech a party.
Snakes is kittens to him, an' he's likely to be packin' specimens
'round in his clothes any time.
"That's the way with this Crawfish Jim. I minds talkin' to him at
his camp one day when I'm huntin' a bunch of cattle. The first I
notes, snake sticks his head outen Crawfish's shirt, an' looks at me
malev'lent and distrustful. Another protroods its nose out up by
Crawfish's collar.
"'Which you shore seems ha'nted of snakes?' I says, steppin' back
an' p'intin' at the reptiles.
"'Them's my dumb companions,' says Crawfish Jim. 'They shares my
solitood.'
"'You-all do seem some pop'lar with 'em,' I observes, for I saveys
at once he's plumb off his mental reservation; an' when a party's
locoed that a-way it makes him hostile if you derides his little
game or bucks his notions.
"I takes grub with Crawfish that same day; good chuck, too; mainly
sheep-meat, salt-hoss, an' bakin'-powder biscuit. I watches him some
narrow about them snakes he's infested with; I loathin' of 'em, an'
not wantin' 'em to transfer no love to me, nor take to enlivenin' my
secloosion none.
"Well, son, this yere Crwafish Jim is as a den of serpents. I
reckons now he has a plumb dozen mowed away in his raiment. Thar's
no harm in 'em; bein' all bull-snakes, which is innocuous an'
without p'ison, fangs, or convictions.
"When Crawfish goes to cook, he dumps these folks oaten his clothes,
an' lets 'em hustle an'play'round while grub's gettin'.
"'These yere little animals,' he says, 'likes their reecreations
same as humans, so I allers gives 'em a play-spell while I'm busy
round camp.'
'"Don't they ever stampede off none?' I asks.
"'Shorely not,' says Crawfish. 'Bull-snakes is the most domestical
snake thar is. If I'd leave one of these yere tender creatures ere
over night he'd die of homesickness.'
"When Crawfish gets ready to bile the coffee, he tumbles the biggest
bullsnake I'd seen yet outen the coffee-pot onto the grass. Then he
fills the kettle with water, dumps in the coffee, an' sets her on
the coals to stew.
"'This yere partic'lar snake,' says Crawfish, 'which I calls him
Julius Caesar, is too big to tote 'round in my shirt, an' so he
lives in the coffee-pot while I'm away, an' keeps camp for me.'
"'Don't you yearn for no rattlesnakes to fondle?' I inquires, jest
to see what kyard he'd play.
"'No,' he says, 'rattlesnakes is all right--good, sociable, moral
snakes enough; but in a sperit of humor they may bite you or some
play like that, an' thar you'd be. No; bull-snakes is as 'fectionate
as rattles, an' don't run to p'ison. You don't have no
inadvertencies with 'em.'
"'Can't you bust the fangs outen rattlesnakes?' I asks.
"'They grows right in ag'in,' says Crawfish, same as your finger-
nails. I ain't got no time to go scoutin' a rattlesnake's mouth
every day, lookin' up teeth, so I don't worry with 'em, but plays
bull-snakes straight. This bein' dentist for rattlesnakes has resks,
which the same would be foolish to assoom.'
"While grub's cookin' an' Crawfish an' me's pow-wowin', a little old
dog Crawfish has--one of them no-account nce-dogs--comes up an'
makes a small uprisin' off to one side with Julius Caesar. The dog
yelps an' snaps, an' Julius Caesar blows an' strikes at him, same as
a rattle. snake. However, they ain't doin' no harm, an' Crawfish
don't pay no heed.
"'They's runnin' blazers on each other,' says Crawfish, 'an' don't
mean nothin'. Bimeby Caribou Pete--which the same is the dog--will
go lie down an' sleep; an' Julius Caesar will quile up ag'in him to
be warm. Caribou, bein' a dog that a-way, is a warm-blood animal,
while pore Julius has got cold blood like a fish. So he goes over
an' camps on Caribou, an' all the same puts his feet on him for to
be comfortable.'
"Of course, I'm a heap interested in this yere snake knowledge, an'
tells Crawfish so. But it sorter coppers my appetite, an' Crawfish
saves on sheep-meat an' sow-belly by his discourse powerful.
Thinkin' an' a-lookin' at them blessed snakes, speshul at Julius
Cmsar, I shore ain't hungry much. But as you says: how about
Crawfish Jim gettin' killed?
"One day Crawfish allows all alone by himse'f he'll hop into
Wolfville an' buy some stuff for his camp,--flour, whiskey,
tobacker, air-tights, an' sech.
"What's air-tights? Which you Eastern shorthorns is shore ignorant.
Air-tights is can peaches, can tomatters, an' sim'lar bluffs.
"As I was sayin', along comes pore old Crawfish over to Wolfville;
rides in on a burro. That's right, son; comes loafin' along on a
burro like a Mexican. These yere sheep-men is that abandoned an'
vulgar they ain't got pride to ride a hoss.
"Along comes Crawfish on a burro, an' it's his first visit to
Wolfville. Yeretofore the old Cimmaron goes over to Red Dog for his
plunder, the same bein' a busted low-down camp on the Lordsburg
trail, which once holds it's a rival to Wolfville. It ain't,
however; the same not bein' of the same importance, commercial, as a
prairie-dog town.
"This time, however, Crawfish pints up for Wolfville. An' to make
himse'f loved, I reckons, whatever does he do but bring along Julius
Caesar.
"I don't reckon now he ever plays Julius Caesar none on Red Dog.
Mighty likely this yere was the bull-snake's first engagement. I
clings to this notion that Red Dog never sees Julius Caesar; for if
she had, them drunkards which inhabits said camp wouldn't have quit
yellin' yet. Which Julius Caesar, with that Red Dog whiskey they was
soaked in, would have shore given 'em some mighty heenous visions.
Fact is, Crawfish told Jack Moore later he never takes Julius Caesar
nowhere before.
"But all the same Crawfish prances into camp on this yere occasion
with Julius bushwacked 'way 'round back in his shirt, an' sech
vacant spaces about his person as ain't otherwise occupied a-
nourishin' of minor bull-snakes plenty profuse.
"Of course them snakes is all holdin' back, bein', after all, timid
cattle; an' so none of us s'spects Crawfish is packin' any sech
s'prises. None of the boys about town knows of Crawfish havin' this
bull-snake habit but me, nohow. So the old man stampedes'round an'
buys what he's after, an' all goes well. Nobody ain't even dreamin'
of reptiles.
"At last Crawfish, havin' turned his little game for flour, air-
tights, an' jig-juice, as I says, gets into the Red Light, an'
braces up ag'in the bar an' calls for nose-paint all 'round. This
yere is proper an' p'lite, an' everybody within hearin' of the yell
lines up.
"It's at this crisis Crawfish Jim starts in to make himse'f a
general fav'ritc. Everybody's slopped out his perfoomcry, an' Dan
Boggs is jest sayin': 'Yere's lookin' at you, Crawfish,' when that
crazy-boss shepherd sorter swarms 'round inside his shirt with his
hand, an' lugs out Julius Cesar be the scruff of his neck, a-
squirmin' an' a-blowin', an' madder'n a drunken squaw. Once he gets
Julius out, he spreads him 'round profuse on the Red Light bar an'
sorter herds him with his hand to keep him from chargin' off among
the bottles.
"'Gents,' says this locoed Crawfish, 'I ain't no boaster, but I
offers a hundred to fifty, an' stands to make it up to a thousand
dollars in wool or sheep, Julius Caesar is the fattest an' finest
serpent in Arizona; also the best behaved.'
"Thar ain't no one takin' Crawfish's bet. The moment he slams Julius
on the bar, more'n ten of our leadin' citizens falls to the floor in
fits, an' emerges outen one par'xysm only to slump into another.
Which we shorely has a general round-up of all sorts of spells.
"'Whatever's the matter of you-all people?' says Crawfish, lookin'
mighty aghast. 'Thar's no more harm in Julius Caesar than if he's a
fullblown rose.'
"Jack Moore, bein' marshal, of course stands his hand. It's his
offishul dooty to play a pat hand on bull-snakes an' danger in all
an' any forms. An' Jack does it.
"While Crawfish is busy recountin' the attainments of Julius Caesar,
a-holdin' of his pet with one hand, Jack Moore takes a snap shot at
him along the bar with his six-shooter, an' away goes Julius
Caesar's head like a puff of smoke. Then Moore rounds up Crawfish,
an', perceivin' of the other bull-snakes, he searches 'em out one by
one an' massacres 'em.
"'Call over Doc Peets,' says Jack Moore final, 'an' bring Boggs an'
Tutt an' the rest of these yere invalids to.'
"Doc Peets an' Enright both trails in on the lope from the New York
Store. They hears Moore's gun-play an' is cur'ous, nacheral 'nough,
to know who calls it. Well, they turns in an' brings the other
inhabitants outen their fits; pendin' which Moore kills off the last
remainin' bull-snake in Crawfish's herd.
"Son, I've seen people mad, an' I've seen 'em gay, an' I've seen 'em
bit by grief. But I'm yere to remark I never runs up on a gent who
goes plumb mad with sadness ontil I sees Crawfish that day Jack
Moore immolates his bull-snake pets. He stands thar, white, an'
ain't sayin' a word. Looks for a minute like he can't move. Crawfish
don't pack no gun, or I allers allowed we'd had notice of him some,
while them bullsnakes is cashin' in.
"But at last he sorter comes to, an' walks out without sayin'
nothin'. They ain't none of us regardin' of him much at the time;
bein' busy drinkin' an' recoverin' from the shock.
"Now, what do you s'pose this old Navajo does? Lopes straight over
to the New York Store--is ca'm as a June day about it, too--an' gets
a six-shooter.
"The next information we gets of Crawfish, 'bang!' goes his new gun,
an' the bullet cuts along over Jack Moore's head too high for
results. New gun that a-way, an' Crawfish not up on his practice; of
course he overshoots.
"Well, the pore old murderer never does get a second crack. I
reckons eight people he has interested shoots all at once, an'
Crawfish Jim quits this earthly deal unanimous. He stops every
bullet; eight of 'em, like I says.
"'Thar ain't a man of us who don't feel regrets; but what's the use?
Thar we be, up ag'inst the deal, with Crawfish clean locoed. It's
the only wagon-track out.
"'I shore hopes he's on the hot trail of them bull-snakes of his'n,'
says Dan Boggs, as we lays Crawfish out on a monte-table. 'Seems
like he thought monstrous well of 'em, an' it would mighty likely
please him to run up on 'em where he's gone.'
"Whatever did we do? Why, we digs a grave out back of the dance-hall
an' plants Crawfish an' his pets tharin.
"'I reckons we better bury them reptiles, too,' says Doc Peets, as
we gets Crawfish stretched out all comfortable in the bottom. 'If
he's lookin' down on these yere ceremonies it'll make him feel
easier.'
"Doc Peets is mighty sentimental an' romantic that a-way, an' allers
thinks of the touchin' things to do, which I more'n once notices
likewise, that a gent bein' dead that a-way allers brings out the
soft side of Peets's nacher. You bet! he's plumb sympathetic.
"We counts in the snakes. Thar's 'leven of 'em besides Julius
Caesar; which we lays him on Crawfish's breast. You can find the
grave to-day.
"Shore! we sticks up a headboard. It says on it, the same bein'
furnished by Doc Peets--an' I wants to say Doc Peets is the best
eddicated gent in Arizona-as follows
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
CRAWFISH JIM, JULIUS CAESAR
AND
ELEVEN OTHER BULL SNAKES,
THEY MEANT WELL,
BUT THEY MISUNDERSTOOD EXISTENCE
AND DIED.
THIS BOARD WAS REARED BY AN
ADMIRING CIRELE OF FRIENDS
WHO WAS WITH DECEASED
TO THE LAST.
"An' don't you-all know, son, this yere onfortunate weedin' out of
pore Crawfish that a-way, sorter settles down on the camp an' preys
on us for mighty likely it's a week. It shorely is a source of
gloom. Moreover, it done gives Dan Boggs the fan-tods. As I relates
prior, Boggs is emotional a whole lot, an' once let him get what
you-all calls a shock--same, for instance, as them bull-snakes--its
shore due to set Boggs's intellects to millin'. An' that's what
happens now. We-alls don't get Boggs; bedded down none for ten days,
his visions is that acoote.
"'Which of course,' says Boggs, while we-all s settin' up
administerin' things to him, 'which of course I'm plumb aware these
yere is mere illoosions; but all the same, as cl'ar as ever I notes
an ace, no matter where I looks at, I discerns that Julius Caesar
serpent a-regardin' me reproachful outen the atmospher. An' gents,
sech spectacles lets me out a heap every time. You-alls can gamble,
I ain't slumberin' none with no snake-spook that a-way a-gyardin' of
my dreams.'
"That's all thar is to the death of Crawfish Jim. Thar ain't no harm
in him, nor yet, I reckons, in Julius Caesar an' the rest of
Crawfish's fam'ly. But the way they gets tangled up with Wolfville,
an' takes to runnin' counter to public sentiment an' them eight six-
shooters, Crawfish an' his live-stock has to go."