THE STAMPEDE
_Jesse's Narrative_
Being married to a lady, and full of dumb yearnings for reform, I axed
Dale when he was down to Vancouver to dicker for a book on etiquette.
_Deportment for Gents_ being threw at a policeman and soiled, Dale only
paid six bits; but I tossed him double or quits, and come out all right.
As to the book, it's wrote mighty high and severe by Professor Aaron E.
Honeypott, but when I tried some on my wife she laughed so she rolled on
the floor. I know now that when I sweats at a dance I'm not to hang my
collar on the chandileer, or press bottled beer on my partner. If ever I
get to a town I'm to take the outside of the sidewalk, wipe my gums on
the mat, and wash before I use them roller towels. But it doesn't say
when I'm to wear my boots inside my pants, or how old Honeypott chews
without having to spit, or what to say when Jones kicks me in the
morning, or in deadfall timber, or when a bear dislikes me, or any
unusual accident in this vale of tears; and there ain't one word about
robbers.
Which these robbers we got in the cave is a disappointment. This old man
what leads them with a plume on his face, ought to have more deportment,
for screwing a gun in Kate's ear ain't no sort of manners. Even after
I'd shot his hand to chips, he grabbed Ransome's gun with his left and
tried to make me lie down. There's some folks jest don't know when you
give them a hint.
And Bull, with the sad eyes, ought to comport himself around like a
Honeypott, seeing the way he was raised, and how he claims on me his
ancient friendship. While we lashed his thumbs behind him, he told us
he'd been educated at Oxford and Cambridge.
"What!" Kate flashed out, "after leaving Eton and Harrow?"
"Yes, and I've enough education to guess this ain't no way to treat
American citizens. You'll hear of this," he shouted, "from Uncle Sam!"
"Thar," says Dale, "I knew there'd be rewards for you, dead or alive.
How much? Two thousand dollars a head?"
Then old Whiskers ordered this Bull to shut his head. He's a curious,
slow, mournful voice, like a cat with the toothache.
"I demand--"
"Shut up."
So Bull shut up while we lashed him, likewise young Ginger and the
greaser. Seeing the fellow I'd killed might want an inquest, we laid him
straight in the ruined shack, and then marched our prisoners off to
South Cave, where they'll wait until we get our constable to arrest
them.
II
Now on the second day after we captures these ladrones, along toward
supper, the depositions of the various parties is as follows, viz.:
Up to the ruined shack two mile north of my home, lies the remains of
one robber expecting an inquest. Two miles south, right where the upper
cliff cuts off the end of our pasture, there's our cave full of captured
bandits, to wit; Whiskers, Bull Durham, Ginger, and the dago. Down on
the bench in front of the cave is our guard-camp with Iron Dale in
command, and Kate with the boys having supper. Right home at the ranch
house is me finishing my chores, and the widow spoiling hash for my
supper, because she hates me worse nor snakes for being a Protestant.
Away off beyond the horizon is old man Brown cussing blue streaks 'cause
he can't find much constable.
Such being the combinations at supper-time, along comes the widow's
orphan, young Billy O'Flynn, who handles my pack contract with the
Sky-line. He's supposed to be on duty at the guard-camp, and his riding
back to the home ranch completely disarranges the landscape. I'm busy,
hungry, and expected to take charge of the night guard at the cave, but
somehow this Billy attracts my attention by acting a whole lot
suspicious. Instead of bringing me some message from Dale, he rides
straight to the lean-to kitchen, steps off his pony, and whispers for
his mother. I sneaks through the house to the kitchen in time to see
this widow with a slip of paper, brown paper what we used to wrap up the
prisoners' lunch. At sight of me she gets modest, shoving it into the
stove, but I becomes prominent, and grabs it "Shure," she explains, "an'
it's only a schlip av paper!"
Seems to be scratches on the smooth side of this paper, sort of
reminding me that Bull has a fountainpen sticking out of his vest
pocket. If he's been writing with milk, I'd warm the paper--but no, we
use canned milk, and haven't got any either. I've heard faintly
somewheres of things wrote in spittle, so I pours on a bottle of ink,
and rinses the paper in the water-butt. Yes, there's the message plain
as print.
"Gun to hand, but cartridges wrong size, no good. Get .45. Billy to
wait with ponies under nearest pine N. of cave, when plough above
N. Star. Send more gum for chief's wound.--Bull."
Billy was mounting at the door to put out for solitude, but since he
knows I can't miss under two hundred yards, he was persuaded to come
into the cabin. There I read him some of the etiquette about keeping his
temper, and not using coarse language. Also I told him politely what I
thought of him, and where he'll go when he dies. He waited, stroking the
little fur on his muzzle, till I got through, looking so damned patient
with me that I came near handing him one in the eye.
"You invited these robbers to my grass?"
He nodded.
"Thanks to you, my wife had a gun muzzle screwed round in her ear."
"Bet she squinted!" said Billy.
If I lose my temper, I can't shoot, and Billy knew that well. "She's up
agin it good and hard," said he.
"Agin what?"
"Making a silk purse out of a sow's ear."
"You lop-eared, mangy, pig-faced, herring-gutted son of a ----"
"From the _Etiquette_?" asked Billy. "I don' think much of you, anyway.
Mother ain't got no use for you either, or any of the neighbors, you old
cow thief!"
Now if Billy talked so big as all that, it must be to astonish his
mother. So she must be at the key-hole, and sure enough I heard her
grind her stump with the backache from stooping down. Happens Mrs. Smith
has a garden squirt which it holds a gallon, so while I kep' young Billy
interested with patches of etiquette, I took off the rose, filled the
squirt, and let drive through the key-hole into the widow's ear. At that
she lifted up her voice and wept.
Feeling better, I resumed the conversation. "Billy," sez I, smooth as
cream, while I filled the squirt, "on the shelf there you'll find a
little small bottle." In my dim way I aimed to get him excited, and
talkative, divulging secrets with all his heart. Then afterward I'd like
him asleep, out of mischief.
"Get your bottle yourself," says he, sort of defiant, so I let drive at
him with the squirt.
"If you please," said I, and he got the bottle all right.
"If you don't mind," said I, "will you just draw the cork?"
"And if I won't?"
I took my squirt and watched him pull the cork.
"Thank you," sez I, seeing how beautiful is the uses of true politeness.
"Now may I trouble you to spill what's left in the bottle into that
there goblet? Now be so kind."
"I refuse!"
The squirt won't scare any more Billy, so I exhibits my gun.
"I regrets to remark, Mr. O'Flynn, that this gun acts sort of sudden."
"Shoot, and you go to jail!"
"But first, my dear young friend, I've time to lop off a few fingers,
one at a time--won't miss them all at once. May I request you to pour
out the medicine? No--not on the floor, please, but into the goblet,
while I observe that your right thumb seems tender after that cut, and
ought to be treated. So, a little more. That's right. Now honor me by
adding a little water from the pitcher. Thank you. Thumb feeling easier?
Well, that there laudanum soothes the fractious infant, and causes a
whole lot of repose. Quite sweet without sugar. Yes, please, you'll lift
the goblet to your mouth while I watch that nothing goes wrong with your
pug nose. You want to throw back your head, you treacherous swine.
Drink, or I'll splash your brains on the floor!"
"I daren't! It's poison!"
"It's bullets--you'd better! Drink, or I'll kill you! Drink!
One--two--much obliged, I'm sure. Hope you'll sleep well."
"Curse you!" he shrieked, and flung the glass at my head.
Then down came the widow like a landslide. She scratched my face,
confessed my sins, sobbed over her darling Billy _avick_, prescribed for
my future, wrung her wet frock, and made a soap emetic for her offspring
all at once. It's a sure fact that widow was plenty busy, and what with
slinging that emetic at the patient, and gently introducing the lady to
the kitchen cupboard, wall, I declare I didn't have a dull moment. Then
distant shots brought us up all standing.
"At last!" Billy shouted, "they're off!"
"Who's off?"
"Father and his men--escaped while I kep' you in talk. Fooled, Jesse!
Fooled! I fooled you to the eyes! My father's Larry O'Flynn, Captain
Larry O'Flynn, captain of the outlaws!" My, there was pride in the lad!
He sat on the table in the dusk, fighting to keep awake, rubbing his
eyes with his sleeve. "He's give me leave to join, and I'm hitting the
trail to-night--hitting the trail, d'ye hear?" His eyes closed, his
voice trailed off to a whisper, and then once more he roused. "I'm a
wolf!" he howled. "I come from Bitter Creek! The higher up, the worse
the waters, and I'm from the source! Robbery-under-arms, and don't you
forget it, Mister Jesse Smith!" He rocked from side to side, gripping
hard at the table, muttering threats.
Outside I could hear a rider coming swift, and Dale's voice hailing,
"Jesse! Jesse!"
"Jesse," the lad was muttering, "lift his stock, and his woman, burn his
ranch, and put his fires out--thatsh the way to--"
Dale had stepped from his horse, and stood in the doorway, making it
dark inside. "Where in blazes are you?"
"Look," said I, and Dale watched, for the boy, dead pale, was lurching
from side to side, his eyes closed, his lips still moving.
"Only drugged," said I. "Who let them robbers escape?"
"Ransome Pollock," said Dale.
"Who else?"
"Dave."
"How's his poor tooth?" says I, and Dale explained he'd been clubbed.
Young O'Flynn rolled over, and went down smash, so that I had to kneel,
and try if his heart was all right. It thumped along steady and give no
sign of quitting.
"I had to," said I, "old Whiskers yonder is the widow's husband, and
father to this boy. He's clear grit, Iron."
"Where's the widow?"
"Resting." I heard horses come thundering out of the dusk. "Robbers
broke south?"
"Yep."
"Hev they grow'd wings?"
"Nope."
"Can't swim the Fraser?"
"Bottled?" said he, cheering up.
"Some," says I. "Not corked yet. You want to make a line here quick,
from the foot of the upper cliff to the edge of the river, and each man
make three big fires. Then post half your men to tend fires, and the
best shots to hold that line with rifles. Them robbers has got to break
through when they knows they're cornered. Here's your boys, Iron. Git a
move on!"
"That's so," says Dale, and in two shakes of a duck's tail he was
throwing his men into line. Seems that some of the boys rode the
robbers' horses, and the rest were bareback on my pack-ponies, so Kate
had a fine gallop home with the mob. But when she saw what I'd
prescribed for Billy's symptoms, she wasn't pleased, and by the time
she'd made herself content, I had to be off on duty. Meanwhile the
widow, wild and lone, had flew; so that left Kate without help, her job
being coffee to keep the boys awake till we'd daylight to corner the
robbers.
Men watching on a strain like that get scary as cats, so by moonset some
of our warriors would loose off guns at stumps, trees, rocks, or just
because they felt lonesome. After the moon went down, dry fuel got
scant, so that the fires waned, and some of our young men must have seen
millions of outlaws. When at last something actually happened, it was
natural that Ransome should have adventures. He wasn't built for
solitude, and when he seen a flag wave from behind a bush, he called the
boys from left and right to bunch in and corroborate. The flag kep'
waving, and presently two more of our men had to join the bunch because
they couldn't shout their good advice, lest the robbers hear every word.
I was away to Apex Rock, Iron down in the canyon, and these blasted
idiots talked.
Of course old Whiskers knew that antelope will always creep up to
inspect any waving rag. Before the excitement was properly begun he and
his robbers slipped through our broken line.
If Ransome has time to aim he's dangerous to the neighbors, but since
the odds were a thousand to one the gun would kick him as far as next
Thursday, I'd have bet my debts he wouldn't hit the party with that
flag. Yet that's what happened. He got the widow O'Flynn.
With one heart-rending, devastating howl she went to grass, and she did
surely shriek as if there was no hereafter. Murthered in the limb she
was, and as I left to follow the sounds of them escaping robbers, I
didn't have time to send a carpenter.