A SKIRMISH IN THE NIGHT
Saying good night to his two friends, Johnny rode north along the
trail, but he had not ridden more than half way to the mouth of his
valley when he swung Pepper into an arroyo which he knew led to the
south side of the butte behind his cabin. While heavily fringed with
brush and trees it was open enough along the dry bed of the stream to
permit him to push on at fair speed, and while there were rocks and
bowlders in plenty, Pepper easily avoided them in the soft moonlight
and went on with confidence. At last, reaching a fork, he chose the
right-hand lead and pushed on more slowly for a few minutes, and then,
picketing the horse, he slipped out of his chaps and boots and put on
the pair of moccasins which had been hidden under the saddle flaps.
Taking the rifle from the long scabbard, he slung it across his back
and slipped noiselessly up the ravine.
Half an hour later he stopped suddenly and sniffed, and then glanced
quickly around him. The smoke was very faint, but it was something
to think about because it meant either men close at hand or a forest
fire. Going on again, even more slowly, he began to take advantage of
cover, and as he proceeded the smoke became steadily stronger. A sudden
suspicion made him set his jaws, for he was going straight up wind and
toward his cabin. Stopping a moment to consider, he turned sharply to
his left and went on again, a Colt swinging loosely in his left hand.
Anything close enough to be seen plainly would be near enough for the
Colt, and in such poor light the six-shooter was more accurate in his
hands than a rifle.
The only things about him which he could hear were the holsters, which
rubbed very softly as he walked, but the sound would not carry for
any distance. Having gone around the little valley near his cabin,
he crawled along below the ragged skyline of the ridge and reached a
point close to the cabin, when he suddenly dropped to his stomach and
flattened himself to the earth.
Some restless, gambling soul could not do without a cigarette and
he had detected its faint odor in time. Turning his head slowly, he
sniffed deeply and swore under his breath, for he was going partly with
the wind, which meant that the smoker must be somewhere behind him.
Then a gentle breeze, creeping along the ridge in a back-draft, brought
to him the strong and pungent odor of the fire; and he nodded in quick
understanding.
The back-draft told him that the smoker was in front of him and
cleared up one danger; but it also had blotted out the odor of the
cigarette, and as he started forward again he put his faith in his
eyes and ears. Slowly he moved along, a few feet at a time, and then
he caught the brief and fragrant odor again. Worming around a great,
up-thrust slab of lava he stopped suddenly and held his breath. A speck
of fire, faint through the clinging ashes, moved in a swift, short arc,
became brighter and moved back again, a gleaming dot of red. He could
see the hand and part of the arm of the man who had just knocked the
ashes from a cigarette in a characteristic and thoughtless gesture. He
was sitting just around the corner of a huge bowlder not far away, his
back to it, and a dull gleam of reflected moonlight revealed the end of
his rifle.
From where he now lay Johnny could see the smoldering ruins of his
cabin, where the flames were low and the flying sparks but few. A
little current of air fanned the ashes for a few minutes and sent the
sparks swirling and dancing, and the flickering, ghostly flames licking
upward with renewed life. The increased light, fitful as it had been,
brought a smile to his face; for he had caught sight of a pair of
spurred boots projecting beyond a rock not far from the glowing embers.
"Ah, th' devil!" muttered the man near him. "I'm goin' home. He's
scared out."
The speaker arose and stretched, and grumblingly leaned over to pick
up his sombrero, the moon lighting his hair; and he suddenly crumpled
forward and sprawled out without a groan as Johnny's Colt struck his
head.
The owner of the spurred boots, down behind the rock near the cabin,
wriggled backward and looked up to see what had made the noise, caught
sight of a dim, ghostly figure moving past a bowlder and called up to
it.
"Come on, Ben; let's get goin'. Where's Fleming?
"Thanks to my fool idea of strategy," said a peeved voice high above
the cabin, "which I borrowed from our doughty friend, Mr. Ackerman, I'm
up here, smoked up like a ham. I ain't stuck on this. Shootin' a good
man from ambush never did set well on my stummick. Reckon Ben's asleep,
like a reg'lar sentry; he didn't have th' cussed smoke to make things
interestin' for him. Hey, Ben!" he called, wearily.
"No use yellin'," warned Spurred Boots earnestly. "He ain't asleep. I
just saw him move. Up to some of his fool jokes, I reckon; an' it's
a d--d poor time to play 'em. I'm a little nervous, an' might shoot
without askin' any questions. Comin' down?"
"Yo're just whistlin' I am," growled Fleming. "It's all fool nonsense,
us three watchin' an' waitin' to shoot that feller. When he finds
his shack burned an' his rustlin' business busted up, he'll move out
without us pluggin' him. D--n it! Didn't he say he was done? But you
just listen to th' mockin' bird: If there's any shootin' to be done,
he'll do his little, two-handed share. I've been eddicated today; done
had a superstition knocked sprawlin'. An' so did Jim get eddicated.
He made his play for that feller's right hand, when d--d if he ain't
left-handed. It made Jim near sick; for a minute I was scared he'd lose
his dinner. An' I allus believed left-handed men came in third by two
lengths; but lawsy me! What? I'm insulted! I said lawsy."
"You shore can talk!" admired Spurred Boots. "Sometimes a cussed lot
too much. What in blazes is Ben doin'?" he asked petulantly, stiffly
arising and working his arms and legs.
"Fixin' to jump out on us from behind a rock, an' yell 'Boo!'" grunted
Fleming. "Ben, he's an original feller; allus was, even as a kid. D--n
these thorns." A thin stream of profanity came from the crevice and
Fleming slid down the rest of the way and rolled out into the circle
of illumination. "Just like water down a chute, or a merry-hearted
bowlder down a hill. Roll, Jordan, roll. Was you askin' about Benjamin,
th' catcher of lightning? Benjamin Franklin Gates, his name is; an'
he's done gone home. He's a sensible feller, B. F. G. is; but only in
spots, little spots, widely spaced."
"You talk as much as Jim Howard's wife," grumbled Spurred Boots. "Jim
he said--"
"Of course he did! Wasn't it awful?" interposed Fleming. "It was just
like a man. But I think it was me that told you that story; so we'll
let it keep its secret. As I was sayin', getting in my words edgeways
like, but shore gettin' 'em in: Ben has pulled th' picket stake, an'
like th' Arabs, done went."
"You mean Arapahoes."
"Did I? I allus call 'em that for short. Have mercy, Jehovah!"
"I saw him move just before I spoke," replied Spurred Boots positively.
"But that was a long time ago, before th' deluge, of words," he jabbed
ironically.
"Cease; spare thy whacks. An' where th' h--l did you ever hear of th'
deluge? Some Old Timer tell you about it?" responded Fleming. "I been
seein' things, too. All kinds of things. Some had tails but no legs;
some had legs but no tails; an' to make a short tale shorter, that was
a ghost what you saw. A wild, woopin', woppin' ghost. Come on, Nat;
let's flit."
"Then my ghost lit a cigarette a long time back," retorted Nat
Harrison. "An' then it said 'flop.' Do they smoke cigarettes?" he
demanded with great sarcasm.
"Some does; an' some smokes hops; an' some smokes dried loco weed,"
grinned Fleming. "That was a spark what you saw, an' th' musical flop
was a trout fish turnin' cartwheels on th' water. One of them sparks
plumb lit on th' back of my neck, an' I cussed near jumped over th'
edge an' made a 'flop' of my own for myself. An' it's a blamed long
walk home," he sighed.
"There's th' lightnin's play-fellow now! See him, up there?" demanded
Harrison. "Must 'a' been off scoutin'. Hey, Ben! Wait for us--be right
up."
Fleming glanced up as another vagrant breeze fanned the embers, and he
forthwith did several things at once, and did them quite well. Sending
Harrison plunging down behind a rock by one great shove, he jumped for
another and fired as he moved. "Ben h--l!" he shouted, firing again.
"I've seen that hombre before today. Keep yore head down, an' get busy!"
Two alert and attentive young men gave keen scrutiny to the ridge and
wondered what would happen next. Thirty minutes went by, and then
Harrison rolled over and over, laughing uproariously.
"Cussed if it ain't funny!" he gurgled. "'Some smoke cigarettes, some
smokes hops, an' some smokes dried loco weed!' Ha-ha-ha! An' I reckon
yo're still seein' them woopin' woops."
"You'll see somethin' worse if you moves out into sight," retorted
Fleming. "That ghost that _I_ just saw was a human that ain't got to
th' ghost state yet. If you don't believe me, you ask Ackerman, if
you've got th' nerve."
Harrison rose nonchalantly and sauntered over toward the embers. "Come
on, Art; I'm cussed near asleep," he yawned.
"You acts like you was plumb asleep, an' walkin' in it," snapped
Fleming angrily. "But it's a good idea," he admitted ironically. "You
stay right there an' draw his fire, an' I'll pull at his flash. You
make a good decoy, naturally; it comes easy to you. A decoy is an
imitation. Stand still, now, so he can line up his sights on you. _I_'m
all ready."
Harrison grinned and waved his hand airily. "There ain't no human up
there," he placidly remarked. "An' I don't care if Benjamin F. is
there: she goes as she lays. What you saw was a bear or a lobo or a
cougar come up to see th' fire, an' hear you orate from th' mountain
top. They'll go long ways to see curious things. In th' book, on page
eighteen, it says that they has great streaks of humor, an' a fittin'
sense of th' ridiculous. Animals are awful curious about little things.
An' on page thirty-one it says they has a powerful sense of smell; an'
you know you was up purty high. An' I ain't lookin' forward with joy
unconfined to gropin' along no moonlit trail with th' boss of th' wolf
tribe, or other big varmits sneakin' around. I might step on a tail an'
loosen things up considerable. They're hell on wheels when you steps on
their tails, poor things."
"La! La!" said Fleming sympathetically. "Just because you have got yore
head out of th' window it don't say you ain't goin' to get no cinder in
yore eye. A lead cinder. Lemme tell you that animal wore pants an' a
big sombrero. I tell you I _saw_ him!"
"It was one of them sparks," grunted the other, enjoying himself. "One
of 'em that plumb lit on th' back of yore neck. A spark is a little
piece of burnin' wood which soars like th' eagle, an' when it comes
down makes sores like th' devil. Te-de-dum-dum! Howsomeever, if yo're
goin' with me, yo're goin' to start right now--I've done it already,"
and he walked slowly toward the creek.
Fleming arose and hesitated, scanning the ridge with searching eyes.
Then he stepped out and followed his friend, who already was across the
creek and climbing the steep bank.
After reaching the top of the steep part of the ridge he glanced
about over the great slope and then paused for breath and reflection,
peering curiously toward the tree-shaded hollow where he had seen the
much-debated movement. Obeying a sudden impulse he drew his gun and
went cautiously forward, bent low and taking full advantage of the
cover. A deep groan at his side made him jump and step back. Cautiously
peering over a large rock he started in sudden surprise, swearing under
his breath. Benjamin Franklin Gates, neatly trussed and gagged, lay
against the rock on its far side, and his baleful eyes spoke volumes.
There came a soft step behind Fleming and he wheeled like a flash, his
upraised gun cutting down swiftly, and came within an ace of pulling
the trigger at Harrison, who writhed sideways and snarled at him. Then
Harrison also saw the bound figure on the ground and swore with depth,
feeling, and vigor.
"Smokes dried loco weed!" he jeered sarcastically, his voice barely
audible. "I feels uncomfortable, entirely too present," he whispered,
sinking quietly to the ground.
"Which is unanimous," remarked Fleming, with simple emphasis. "Ben, he
ain't sayin' nothin'," he added cheerfully.
An angry gurgle came from the bound figure and it rolled over to face
them. Harrison grinned at it. "Under other circumstances I could enjoy
this unusual situation," he remarked softly.
"Face to face with Ben, an' him not sayin' a word," marveled Fleming,
his eyes busy with the rock-strewn slope. "But I can almost hear him
think. Twinkle, twinkle, little star--wonder where Mr. Two-gun Nelson
is located at this short, brief, an' interestin' second?"
Another gurgle slobbered from the bound man and his heels thumped the
ground.
"Hark!" said Harrison, tensely. "I hears me a noise!"
"I hears me it, too," said Fleming. "But not a word; not a soft, harsh,
lovin', long, short, or profane word. Not even a syllable. Not even
th' front end of a syllable. All is silent; all but that mysterious
drummin' noise. An' if it was farther away I'd be quite restless."
A coughing gurgle and a choked snort came from the base of the rock,
and then a louder, more persistent drumming.
"An' you said Benjamin had done snuk home," accused Harrison. "I'm
surprised at you. He's been here all th' time. How could he snuk when
he's hog-tied, which is appropriate? Gurgle, gurgle, little man--I'll
untie you if I can." He bent over, cut loose the gag, slashed the belt
from the trussed feet and severed the neckerchief from the crossed
wrists. "There! There! Not so loud!" he gently chided.
"Blankety dashed blank blank!" said Ben Gates. "Dashed blankety dashed
blank blank! What th' h--l you want to cut that belt for, you dashed
dashed blankety blank of a dash! Three dollars done gone to th' devil!
Just because you got a blankety-blank knife do you have to slash every
dashed-dashed thing you see!"
"Sh!" whispered Fleming. "We know yo're grateful; but what happened?"
he breathed, too busy to look around.
"Shut yore face!" ordered Harrison, trying in vain to stare through
a great, black lava bowlder which lay on the other side of a small
clearing.
"Dashed blank!" said Benjamin. "It's been shut enough, you d--d
pie-faced doodle-bug!"
"Yes; yes; we know," soothed Fleming; "but what happened?"
"Leaned over to get my blankety-blank hat and a dashed tree fell on
my blank head!" He felt of the afore-mentioned head with a light and
tender touch; and the generous bump made him swear again.
"It's that prospectin' rustler," enlightened Fleming, gratis, as he
peered into the shadows behind him.
"No!" said Gates. "I reckoned it was General Grant an' th' Army of th'
Potomac! Dead shore it wasn't Columbus?" he sneered.
"It was not Columbus, Benjamin," said Fleming. "Columbus discovered
America in 1492 or 1942--some time around there. Ain't you heard about
it yet? An' somehow I feels like a calf bein' drug to th' brandin'
fire. I feels that I'm goin' to get somethin' soon; an' I ain't shore
just what it's goin' to be."
"You'll get it, all right," cheered Harrison, anger in his voice
withal. "It'll be a snub-nosed .45, if you don't shut up yore trap. You
ain't openin' no Fourth of July celebration, or runnin' for Congress."
Ben felt for his gun and cursed peevishly. "My guns are gone: lend me
one of yourn!" he said.
"Th' gentleman has quite a collection," chuckled Harrison. "Three Colts
an' a Winchester. Good pickin', says he. Good enough, says I. True,
says he; but, he says, I have hopes of more. Ta-ta! jeers I."
"Shut _yore_ face!" growled Fleming, writhing.
"I want a gun, an' I wants it now!" blazed Gates, pugnaciously.
"Fair sir, how many guns do you think we pack?" demanded Harrison.
"You got a rifle an' a Colt!" snapped Gates. "I wants one of 'em!"
"He only wants one of 'em," said Fleming.
"I was scared you'd be a hog," said Harrison. "Here; take this
Winchester, an' _keep_ it. Bein' generous is all right; but it has its
limits."
Gates gripped the weapon affectionately and sat up. "No use of stayin'
here like we done took root," he said, rising to his feet. "We wants
to spread out. Mebby he's still hangin' around."
"Yes; an' shoot each other," growled Harrison. "I'm goin' to spread
out, all right; an' when I quits spreadin' I'll be in my little bunk.
He's a mile away by now; but if he ain't, don't you let him have that
gun; he's got enough now."
He stopped suddenly, and their hair arose on their heads as a
long-drawn, piercing scream rang out. It sounded like a woman in mortal
agony and it came from the ridge above them. From the upper end of
the rock-walled pasture below came a howl, deep, long-drawn, evil,
threatening. They turned searching eyes toward the nearer sound and saw
a crescent bulk silhouetted against the moon. It lay in the top of a
blasted pine, and as they looked, it raised its chunky head and neck
and screamed an answering challenge to the lobo wolf in the canyon.
Ben moved swiftly, and a spurt of flame split the night, crashing
echoes returning in waves. The crescent silhouette in the tree-top
leaped convulsively and crashed to the ground, breaking off the
dead limbs in its fall, and then there ensued a spitting, snarling,
thrashing turmoil as the great panther scored the earth in its agony.
Ben's friends forsook him as though he were a leper and melted into the
shadows, cursing him from A to Z. They wanted no ringing notice of
their presence broadcasted, and the flash and roar of the heavy rifle
had done just that.
As they faded into the darker shadows farther back a crashing sounded
in the brush and they peered forth to see the great panther plunging
and writhing through the bushes, smashing its way through the oak brush
in desperate plunges. Reaching the edge of a small clearing it gave
one convulsive leap, another harrowing scream and thudded against a
bowlder, where it suddenly relaxed and lay quiet.
"There's near a quart of corn juice up in my bunk, an' I'm goin' for
it," said Harrison, moving swiftly up the rough trail. "I need it, an'
I need it bad!"
"That cat's mate ain't fur away," remarked Fleming thoughtfully. "It's
due hereabouts right soon. I'm stickin' closer than a brother, Nat.
Lead me to th' fluid which consoleth, arouseth anger and dulleth pain;
blaster of homes, causer of--of--headaches, d--n it! Ben, he's a great
hunter, a wild, untamed, ferocious slayer of varmints; he can stay here
an' argue with th' inquirin' mate, if he wants, while we wafts yonder
an' hence. It won't be draped up in no tree, neither; somehow I can
just see it sniffin' at th' beloved dead an' then soft-footin' through
th' brush, over th' ridges an' around th' bowlders, its whiskers
bristlin', its wicked little ears pointed back, an' its long, generous
tail goin' jerk-jerk, tremble-tremble. Lovely picture. Fascinatin'
picture. It is lookin' real hard for th' misguided son-of-a-gun that
killed its tuneful mate. Nice kitty; pretty kitty; lovely kitty! I
votes, twice, for that whiskey. I votes three times for that whiskey.
Lead th' way, Nat; an' for my sake keep yore eyes peeled."
Quick, heavy steps behind them made them jump for cover, turning as
they jumped, and to peer anxiously back along the trail.
Ben walked into sight, the rifle held loosely in front of him as he
peered into the shadows. "You acts like you has springs in yore laigs,"
he derisively remarked.
"An' you acts like you had sour dough for brains," courteously retorted
Harrison. "An' it's so sour it's moldy. Go away from here!"
"Yo're a great little, two-laigged success," sneered Fleming. "Reg'lar
Dan'l Boone. I hopes if any gent ever trails me for my scalp it will be
you. You wants to buy yoreself a big tin whistle an' a bass drum when
you go out ambushin'!"
"I claims that was a good shot," complacently replied Ben. "What with
it bein' near dark, an' a strange gun, an' my head most splittin',
I holds it was. Must 'a' been to make you long-winded ijuts so d--d
jealous."
"Trouble is, yore head didn't split enough," grumbled Harrison
pleasantly. "It should 'a' been split from topknot to chin. Next time
_I_ goes man-huntin', _you_ stays home with yore pretty picture books."
"Suits me," grunted Ben placidly. "Yore company hurts my ears, offends
my nose, an' shocks my eyes. An' as for th' excitement, why I done got
enough of that to--_look out_!" he yelled, firing without raising the
gun to his shoulder.
An answering flash split the darkness between two bowlders further
up the slope and Ben pitched sideways. His companions fired as if by
magic; the instant return fire sent Harrison reeling backward. He
tripped on a root and fell sprawling, the gun flying from his hand.
Fleming leaped toward a huge rock, firing as he jumped, and slid behind
the cover, where he sighed, and groped for his gun with trembling
hands. Groans and muttered curses came from the trail, and Fleming,
raising himself to a sitting position, his back against a rock, saw
Harrison dragging himself toward his gun and a clump of brush.
"You stay where you are," said an ominous voice, "an' put up yore
hands!"
Lying in a patch of moonlight, Harrison could do nothing but obey; but
Fleming nerved himself and picked up his gun, still able to fight and
only waiting for his enemy to show himself. Several minutes passed and
then a hand darted over the rock and wrenched Fleming's gun out of the
weak hand that held it.
"You ain't goin' to get hurt no more if you acts sensible," said the
new owner of the gun. "Where you hit?"
"Thigh an' shoulder," muttered Fleming weakly.
The stranger fell to work swiftly and deftly and in a short time he
arose and moved toward the two men in the clearing. "You'll be all
right after yore friends get you home," he said over his shoulder.
Reaching the two figures on the trail he first took their guns and then
looked them over.
"This feller with th' lump on his head is my old friend, th' smoker,"
said Johnny. "He's got a crease in his scalp. Barrin' a little blood
an' a big headache, he'll be all right after a while. Where'd I get
you?" he demanded of Harrison.
"Arm," grunted Harrison. "Through th' flesh. I done tripped an'
fell--must 'a' near busted a rock with my fool head when I lit," he
said, as if to explain his subsequent inaction. "We reckoned you'd left
th' country till we found th' package you tied up an' left."
"I come back for th' rest of my stuff," replied Johnny. "I was scared
to come up th' valley."
"You acts like you'd scare easy," admitted Harrison. "I'm sorry you
ain't got more nerve," he grinned despite the pain in his arm.
"Here," said Johnny, squatting beside him, "lemme tie up that arm. I
wasn't aimin' to shoot nobody till I was cornered," he grinned. "I
heard what you fellers said, back in th' valley, an' that's why. I was
plumb peaceful, tryin' to slip away, when that gent up an' let drive at
me. Bein' in a pocket made by them fool bowlders I couldn't get out, so
I had to cut down on you with both hands. Th' dark shadows helped me a
lot; you couldn't see what you was shootin' at. An' anyhow, I owe him
somethin'. I was under that tree when he up an' dumped that pleasant
cougar down on top of me, right in my arms. Never was more surprised in
all my life. An' to make matters worse, this is my best pair of pants."
"Show 'em to me!" begged Harrison.
Johnny stepped back for inspection and waved his hands at the trousers;
and Harrison had to laugh at what he saw. What was left of them formed
a very short kilt, and the underwear was torn into bloody strips.
Harrison wept.
"I'm pullin' my stakes," continued Johnny pleasantly. "This layout is
too excitin' for a man of my bashful an' retirin' disposition. You can
tell Quigley he don't have to set no more ambushes in that valley, an'
also that th' first time I meet him I'm goin' to smoke him up with both
hands. I'm honin' for to get a look at him, just a quick glance. Give
my regards to yore friend Ackerman; his gun, an' that other feller's,
is with Pop Hayes; but mebby they ought to wait till I leave th'
country before they go in for 'em."
He turned on his heel and walked slowly away, with a pronounced limp,
a present from the cougar. When he reached the edge of the clearing he
paused and faced about.
"You two fellers will be all right in a little while, an' if you can't
get yore friend home, you can send them that can. I'll take yore
six-guns along with me so there won't be no accidents; but I'll leave
this rifle over here on this rock, empty. Th' cartridges are on th'
ground on th' other side of th' rock. That cougar's mate is some het up
about now, I reckons, an' you may need it. Better not come for it for a
couple of minutes. There's been enough shootin' already. _Adios_," and
he was gone as silently as a shadow.
Harrison sat cross-legged and waited considerable more than two minutes
and then walked slowly toward the rifle. As he picked it up there came
a haunting scream and a rolling fusillade of shots from the south. Then
a distant voice called faintly.
"I got th' mate, an' lost th' rest of my pants. _Adios!_"
"I'll be d--d!" grunted Harrison, going toward his friend at the rock.
"That feller is one cheerful hombre; an' a white man, too. If I was
Quigley, I'll bet four bits I wouldn't show my face in Hastings till
he was a long way off. No, ma'am; not a-tall. Here, Art; you take th'
gun till I go back an' see how Dan'l Boone is comin' along. He's a
rip-snortin', high-class success, _he_ is! I'll bet you he'll _brag_
about droppin' that cougar, you just wait an' see. _Hello_, you wild
jackass! How you feel!"
"You can go to h--l" snorted the man with the creased scalp, sitting
up. "An' I don't care a cuss when you starts, or how you goes. I'm fond
of excitement, thrive on it an' get fat; but I serves notice, here an'
now, that I'm quittin'. Any man that takes th' trail with you two fools
is a bigger fool. Great guns! I won't have no head left after a while!"
"You never did have one that amounted to anythin'," said Harrison
cheerfully. "I admit that it's a handy place to hang a hat, but when
that is said, th' story is ended. Amen. You set right where you are
till you are able to walk, an' then we'll get Art home."
"Takin' Art home is what we should 'a' done long ago; we're doin' this
thing backwards, th' d--n fool!" moaned Ben. "We'd 'a' been home long
ago if it wasn't for him."
"Huh?" muttered Harrison. "Well, I'll be d--d! Say! If it wasn't for
you pluggin' that cat we'd 'a' been home, whole an' happy, sleepin'
th' sleep of th' innercent. When you got that bright idea, you shore
touched off a-plenty. He was pullin' his stakes, aimin' to get out
peaceful, when you dumped that panther right down plumb around his
neck! Man! Man! But I wish I'd 'a' seen that! Benjamin, if you only
knowed what I'm thinkin' about you! Words ain't capable of revealin' my
thoughts; they fall far short; an' if I used enough words I'd strain
my vo--vocabulary, till it never would be any good any more. An' I can
only swear in English, Spanish, Navajo, an' Ute. An education must be a
grand thing."
"Th' breaks was ag'in us," explained Benjamin.
"Lord, please hold me back!" prayed Harrison.
Well to the south of them a limping cow-puncher, with no trousers at
all now, and blood-soaked strips of underwear pasted to his torn and
bleeding legs, pushed doggedly toward his horse, swearing at almost
every painful step and avoiding all kinds of brush as he painstakingly
held to the middle of the dried bed of the creek. His shirt tail, cut
into ragged strips, flapped in the cold breeze where not held down
by the weight of the sagging belts and holsters; and in his hands he
carried the captured Colts.
Reaching his horse he fastened the extra weapons to his saddle,
carefully drew on his chaps, coiled up the picket rope and climbed
gingerly astride.
"Come on, Pepper!" he growled "Pull out of this. I got a pair of pants
wrapped up in that tarpaulin at th' mouth of th' valley; an' I wants
'em bad. You shore missed somethin' this evenin', you lucky old cow!"
When day broke it revealed a shivering, grumbling cow-puncher washing
his cuts and gashes in the cold, pure water of Nelson's creek. Retiring
to the pebbly bank, he tore up a clean shirt and used it all for
bandages, after which he carefully drew on a pair of clean underdrawers
and covered them with a pair of well-worn trousers. The chaps came
next as a protection against whipping branches and clinging brush.
Rolling up the tarpaulin he fastened it behind his saddle and, mounting
stiffly, started for Hastings.
Some hours later he lolled at ease and related to the grinning
proprietor the strange and exciting occurrences of the night. Pop was
swung from one extreme to the other as the tale unfolded, while Andrew
Jackson chuckled, whistled, and laughed until the narrator's scratching
fingers lulled him into a deep and soul-stirring ecstasy.
"You shore started some fireworks," chuckled Pop when the tale was
finished. "An' yo're cussed lucky, too. When Ackerman showed his hand
yesterday I knowed trouble was fixin' to ride you to a frazzled finish.
Now what d--d fool thing are you goin' to do?" he demanded anxiously.
"I'm goin' to keep out of that valley," reluctantly answered Johnny.
"It ain't got no charms for me no more. They've burned my cabin, an' I
reckon I got all th' gold there was, anyhow. When my legs get well I'm
goin' to try it again somewhere else. Twin Buttes are too unlucky for
me."
"Now yo're shoutin'," beamed Pop. "You just set around here an' take
things easy for a few days, while me an' Charley fixes that tarp so
it'll be a pack cover an' a tent that is one. No prospector wants to
build a shack unless winter ketches him in th' hills or he finds a
rich strike. Me an' you an' Charley will go fishin' a few days from
now an' have a reg'lar rest. I'm all tired out, too. Business is shore
confinin'." He looked Johnny over and chuckled. "Cussed if I wouldn't
'a' give six pesos, U. S., to 'a' seen that cougar a-fannin' you!
He-he-he!"