over the crowd with a benignant smile.
“Pardon me, gentlemen, if I detain you a moment. Let us forget this
bum and your monkey business. I have been much pained to overhear the
comments of some of your number upon myself. You boys are so frank and
fearless and free”--another oily smile--“and are careless, perhaps, of
giving another pain.”
He lowered his voice confidentially. “Now this pained me more, as you
hit very close to fact. I _was_ once an abandoned and ungodly man--but
I have been shown the error of my ways, and now it is my firm intention
to become a missionary.” He put the glasses in his breast-pocket, slow,
thrust the handkerchief under his coat-tails, slow--and produced two
cannon too quick for eye-sight--nothing but a flash.
“Don’t be rash,” he said in kindly tones. “His Honor will tell you my
colleague is standing at the back door. Is it not so, Judge?”
“Yes-es!” stammered the judge.
There was a silence thick as custard.
“I will not insist on the formality of putting up your hands,
gentlemen; as the poet hath it:
[Illustration: He produced two cannon too quick for eye-sight. Page
154]
“‘If the red slayer think he slays
Or the slain think he is slain,
They little know my subtle ways.’...”
“Now, _I_ know _your_ subtle ways, being aware your guns are loaded
with blanks. I offer in evidence that no one should try to reload. My
colleague will proceed to testify. Doc,” he called across us, “try the
clock hanging over my head--hold its little hands as they lay!”
“Ker-bang--two shots.” A bullet-hole appeared neatly in the center of
the III and another just inside and over the IX. The time was 9:15.
“Fair--fair!” said the missionary, gently chiding. “My brother’s left
hand can’t do just what his right doeth. Still, I’m satisfied with my
pupil.”
His voice was rich and unctuous, and one eye rolled upward
sanctimoniously--the other kept strictly to business.
We listened, fascinated--some one snickered.
Our friend cleared his throat and continued:
“We realize we could rake a tidy sum out of this bunch if we were
grasping. But if we get exacting there’s three possible bad results.
First, it would entail considerable hardships on you, and on all those
to whom you are indebted. Secondly, it would arouse evil passions in
your hearts.
“Lastly, and most important to us, you would probably make us try high
jumping over the hills and far away.
“So we make you a proposition which will strike you as being eminently
reasonable. You are a playful crowd, fond of your little joke--Ah!
speaking of jokes, pardon me one moment. Prisoner, you are discharged.
Let this be a lesson to you, my dear brother, to be honest and upright
in all your dealings in the future. Do you know, if I were you, I
would not stay here? Going? _Good_-by! God bless you!--To resume: We
could take your money, your guns and all your saddled cattle, and quite
probably break away safely. But we would be sorry to cause you more
than a temporary inconvenience, and we freely admit that you would give
us the chase of the century. If we should be unfortunate enough to be
captured you might prove vindictive.
“In view of these considerations, we would like to have the matter go
off like a little pack of firecrackers among gentlemen; especially as
we do not think you will take strenuous measures to pursue us--our
capture would put the monumental kibosh on you for ever.
“You could hang us, but the way we stuck you up would be told for years
to come. If you see fit to keep the matter private, we will not mention
it.
“This is our moderate proposition: Let each of the foremen throw one
hundred plunks in the plate, and each of the range-riders fifty. The
owners shall contribute one dollar a head on each of their steers. That
is less than the biblical tithe, as they have sold for fourteen dollars
a head.
“We regret that two owners were unable to see the humor of your
festivities, and that three foremen and some twenty of the boys thought
your fun too one-sided. Still, over seven thousand head of cattle are
represented here, besides five foremen, and fifty of the boys at fifty
dollars each, making, say, ten thousand dollars altogether. Come up!
The center table looks lonesome.
“Voluntarily donate so much to the good cause, and pledge your words to
give us an hour’s start before Uncle Tomming us. Sixty minutes you hold
your dogs.” He stopped and set himself. Says he, through a thin and
tight mouth: “Otherwise we take all and risk all. Let her come quick.”
Dana Mossman spoke up: “Your proposition is all right with me, Parson.
I am much interested in mission work myself. But I want to call your
attention to Frank Dodds here. He wasn’t in on our little witticism the
other day, and only came along to keep us from going too far to-night.
He swore he’d tell the hobo we was only fooling before we got the rope
around his neck.”
“The point is well taken,” said the Parson pleasantly. “Your attitude
is sportsmanlike to a degree, and does you great credit. Mr. Dodds may
pass. Now, has any other gentleman any suggestion to make?”
“A nice point arises in my mind as to what would happen if we
resisted,” said Tinnin. “You couldn’t kill all of us, you know--and
when we did get hold of you you would find it a matter for subsequent
regret.”
“Very true--ve-ry true,” said the Parson musingly. “Yet not one of you
knows but _he_ might be the one to have bad luck. We count on that--and
you must count that, expecting no mercy, we should show none.”
“Yes--that’s so, too. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Leave out the
horse-wranglers--they’re just boys and don’t know no better than to
follow us--and I’m with you.”
“Well, I don’t know about the horse-wranglers. It might be a valuable
lesson in the future. They can not learn too early to avoid pleasure
which gives others pain. What do you say, Doc?” This to the silent one.
“Boys free,” said that vigilant person. “Cut it short! You talk too
damn much!” And that was his only remark that evening.
“All right. We had set our hearts on clearing up an even ten thousand,
though. I see some steer buyers of a facetious turn here. Perhaps they
will be good enough to make up the deficiency.”
The Colonel spoke up deprecatingly: “Now I do not for a moment desire
any bloodshed. But as to taking all our money, remember that ninety
per cent. of it is in checks. You couldn’t use them, you know. And I
certainly do not carry a thousand dollars with me in cash. I’m willing
to give you what money I have--but I can’t pay you one dollar a head.”
“Vent slips,” said the Parson. “Your quota is twelve hundred head,
Colonel. Don’t try to fudge. It would be difficult to realize on all
of it--as you justly observe. Still, much can be done by two resolute
men. We might take a few of you out in the brush and shoot you some if
the checks were not paid. I fancy you would see that they were. ‘Skin
for skin, yea, all that a man hath will he give for his life.’ Really,
you tempt me. One hundred thousand dollars is a big stake, worthy of a
bold throw. But let us not be covetous, my brothers.
“As to the other matter, I happen to know that Mr. Gale had ten
thousand dollars sent down to cash checks with. You owners either give
him your checks for your contribution, to cash, pledging your words as
gentlemen and cow-men to redeem them, or we will clean out the crowd,
safe and all, and take you check-men out to herd, till we have a friend
negotiate the paper.
“If Mr. Gale will cash the checks for you we will let him go free. I am
sure he will--for if he don’t I’ll draw a check for it all, and I know
he’ll cash that! Speak up. All or part! The time has passed pleasantly,
but I must go. You have indulged in Terpsichorean recreation and you
are now under obligation to remunerate the violinist.”
Neighbor gasped. “How was that again? I only speak English and Spanish.”
“Ante up!” quoth the Parson.
“Oh!”
“Copper your jaw and take what you want,” said Slaughter. “None of us
is looking for getting killed. And _I’m_ not going to push a foot after
you, for one. It serves us right. Come on, boys. Hurry up--I want to go
to bed.”
So said we all of us. Kim Ki and Neighbor passed the hat. The cow-men
drew checks. Gale cashed them. The Parson counted up. It was a little
over nine thousand six hundred dollars, and they made the buyers draw
checks then to make up the even ten thousand.
“Far be it from me to doubt your integrity,” says he with the
hand-on-the-chest act. “But, as a precaution against carelessness, the
Colonel, Mr. Tinnin, his Honor and Mr. Mossman will accompany us for
an hour or so. Good night, and pleasant dreams! Try and control your
humorous propensities. Charmed to have met you, I’m sure--and I hope to
meet you Hereafter (with a capital H)--boys--not before! Good night!”
And they went out the door with their hostages.
VIII
CAMP CUNNINGHAM
THE STORY OF A DAKOTA STORM
The population of Dakota in the early days was miscellaneous, to say
the least of it. Men from every part of the world, from every station
in life, and for many reasons, hobnobbed together in terms of free and
equal intercourse. All social rules were turned topsy-turvy--or rather,
ceased to exist. You could get a German baron to plow your garden for
you, if you wanted style, and were not particular about the aim and
scope of the furrows, and perhaps while the baron was plugging away,
desperately struggling to keep the plow from emulating the exasperated
worm of the old story, Jimmy O’Brien would come sailing by behind his
team of 2:30 trotters on his way to deposit the money obtained by
wise government contracts, and sing out a jovial greeting of “Stick
to ’um, Bar’n, old man rocks! Thot’s th’ road t’ wealth--but ye’ll be
a toird man when you land there!” And the baron would wave his hand
in acknowledgment of the greeting, and smile grimly to himself in
acknowledgment of the statement.
All manner of younger sons inhabited the country, making nonsense of
the occupations they took up under the disguise of earning an honest
living, and for which, as a rule, they showed a superb incapacity.
One of these scions of a noble house was James Cecil R. DeG.
Cunningham--often known as Slim Jim or Pelican Cunningham--sometimes
as just plain Cunny. He had a tent on a homestead on the banks of the
Chantay Seeche River. It was a very clean, white tent. All the empty
tin cans were piled up outside, like cannon-balls in a fort, and every
morning the estate was carefully “policed.” No scraps and odds and ends
littered the courtyard of Camp Cunningham.
“Like master, like man,” says the saw, and in this case truly, for the
man Cunningham was exactly like the master Cunningham-sur-le-Chantay
Seeche. No matter what his work was, he always managed to look
as if he had just come from the wash--not that he was beautiful,
but he was so chalky clean. His hair was clean, a peculiar
no-color-at-all-cleanliness; his teeth were clean, and almost the size
of piano-keys, when disclosed by his wide, good-natured smile; his eyes
were pure white and pale blue. They showed behind the powerful lenses
that corrected their myopia, like specimens of old china in a cabinet.
They also had something of the trustfulness and instant claim for
sympathy in their short-sighted stare that one often sees in children’s
eyes.
Cunningham was full six feet two in stature, bony and loosely put
together. His legs were of such length that Billy Wykam’s remark,
that, “if it wasn’t for his necktie, Cunny would be twins,” had more
foundation in fact than most hyperbole. But his walking gait was the
most remarkable thing about him physically. He took immense strides,
swinging his arms to their full extent, in unison, while his head had
a continuous pecking motion. Paul Falk, our intellectual giant, said
that Cunningham in action looked like a demonstration of a transverse
vibration, and at rest like Cunningham, and nothing else on this or any
other planet. He was one mortally homely man, if ever there lived one,
yet there was something high and striking in his long, big-nosed face,
and a genial quality in his perfect manner that would win you to liking
him at the first meeting and for ever after. His was the style of the
true nobleman, and gained for him the respect of the hilarious crew
among whom he lived, despite his oddities.
Many a quiet kindly turn, so carefully contrived that he never guessed
it was a kindness, he received from his neighbors; and for his part no
man could have been more willing or useless. With an ax in his hand
he was the most dangerous companion imaginable. He nearly brained two
of the boys before they could think of an excuse to part him and his
weapon without hurting his feelings, and when he started to help in an
undertaking, not the least of the troubles of the others was to render
him harmless. On one occasion Billy Wykam had a matter of twenty or
thirty calves he wished to brand. Cunningham was in the corral, armed
with a rope, intensely serious and businesslike. He tripped up almost
everybody with the ropes; he “shooed” the wrong “critters” out of the
corral, so that somebody had to take horses and chase them for miles
over the prairie until they could be secured again; he roped Antelope
Pete by mistake when the latter was flying down the corral towed by a
powerful yearling, and gave Pete a fall that it would take years to
blot out of the spectator’s memory; then in his zeal he hauled away
on the rope, dragging his victim quite a distance before he could be
stopped.
It was as much as the rest of us could do, so weak were we from
laughing, to prevent the angry plainsman from laying violent hands on
Cunningham, who, of course, was ignorant of having given offense. In
short, Cunningham was so persistently where he ought not to be, and so
entirely in everybody’s way, that some of the boys were like to die of
suppressed profanity. Billy asked Paul for mercy’s sake to set the man
at something where he wouldn’t be playing the old Harry with things all
the time. Paul elected him to the position of branding-iron tender,
whose duties are to heat the irons, and hand them out when needed. Even
here the Englishman distinguished himself, for, peering near-sightedly
around with a hot iron in his hand, he touched Billy’s buckskin bronco
on the flank with it. The ugly little beast promptly kicked Cunningham
into the fire, and then tore around the corral, spreading disaster and
confusion. Poor Cunny got several bad burns, for which the rest of us
were not as sorry as we should be, inasmuch as they forced him to knock
off for the day.
If anything could have added to the absurdity of Cunningham’s
performance, it would be that he was the “perfect gentleman” all
the while; explaining, apologizing, or hazarding an opinion, it was
always with the little graces of the drawing-room. How ludicrous this
manner is in a rushing, dusty, hot, swearing cattle-corral is a thing
that has to be seen to be appreciated. We always tried to secure
Cunningham’s services elsewhere when we had something on hand which
we really wished to put through. The man had a modest pride in his
tent that it would have been wicked to disturb, yet for his safety’s
sake it became a friendly duty to drop him a word of warning. He had
landed in the country in the spring, and hitherto the weather had been
delightful, without an omen of the furious storms that were sure to
come during the summer. It seemed to us that his tent wouldn’t amount
to much in the grass of Dakota, but we didn’t like to tell him so. At
last we appointed Neighbor Case our commissioner to acquaint Cunningham
with some facts we thought he had overlooked. After praising the tent
and its surroundings, Neighbor came to the heart of his message.
“It’s mighty nice--mighty nice, Lengthy, he said. “Yet, if you want
my advice, I’ll tell you what I’d do; I’d take a half hitch around
a boulder with them guy-ropes, if I was you. Even then, you wouldn’t
have no sure thing. Wait till you see one of our little breezes come
cantering over the prairies, son; you’ll wish you had a cast-iron tent,
fastened to the bowels of the earth with bridge-bolts.”
“I’m sure I thank you awfully, old man, for your interest, you know,”
replied Cunningham, “but,” inspecting his moorings carefully through
his glasses, “I think she’ll stand it. The pressure of the wind on a
normal surface is only two pounds to the square foot, for a velocity
of twenty miles an hour, and, of course, on oblique surfaces--like the
tent-walls--much less, much less. Why, even in the cases of exceptional
storms, the pressure does not rise above eighty or ninety pounds, and
as I was careful to get only the best of canvas and cordage, she should
stand that, don’t you think?”
Neighbor Case was impressed, if not converted. “That’s a great head
you have on you, Lengthy,” he said admiringly. “You seem to know old
Mr. Wind’s ways as well as if you and he had played in the back yard
together when you was boys; but I want to tell you something. He may
act like that in books, and only press you for so many pounds as you
tell me about when you’re normal and he’s hitting a certain gait, but
you can’t tell what he’ll do when he gets you out here all alone on the
prairies. He may forget the rules and press you just as hard as he darn
pleases; or he may shift the cut and knock you into a cocked hat before
you can get the books out to show what he ought to do. No, Lengthy,
book-learning is good, and you won’t catch me saying nothing agin it;
but if I was you, I’d let it slide on this occasion, and tie her up to
a boulder.”
Cunningham, however, had a trait in common with many gentle-natured
people--that of mild obstinacy--and he stuck to his tent just as it was.
We could not urge him further, so there the matter dropped--until the
day of the storm, then several other things came to earth.
We woke one morning to find the country wrapped in a fury of red
light--not the cheery glow of daybreak, but a baleful crimson, as
though it were raining blood on a world of fire. In the west a massive
heap of storm was rolling, against whose murky blackness the small
buttes stood out ruddily. It was a boiling storm; the vapors curled and
twisted in a way that meant wind and hail, and plenty of both.
“By the great Hohokus! We’re going to catch it this trip,” said Billy,
and the three who composed the household of his ranch began scrambling
about in nervous haste, gathering up the things that might be blown
away by wind.
In the middle of it he called out to me, “Say, Hank, don’t you think
we ought to give old Cunny a lift? Here’s where his shanty comes down,
sure!”
This was more than kind of Billy, for about the only thing in the world
he feared was thunder and lightning, and this filled him with a dread
that neither his strong will nor good sense could in the least abate or
control.
Of course, I could not refuse. We started on a run for Camp Cunningham,
a mile or so down the river. Yet, though the distance was so small, we
had reason to doubt that we could cover it. Half-way, a hailstone the
size of a child’s fist went whistling over our heads, ricocheted along
the sod in great bounds; then came another and another--the skirmish
fire of the storm.
The suggestive “thwuck” of these missiles as they took the ground made
me draw in my head as far as possible--like a turtle.
I was just wondering what effect one of them would have on the human
body, when a big fellow smashed fairly against the side of Billy’s
head--a sounding blow which knocked the sturdy little man staggering.
“We’ve got to get out of this,” he said, grinding his teeth in pain,
“or we’ll be slaughtered!”
A trickle of blood from a cut in his head bore witness that this was
not a figure of speech. Let any one who doubts the Lethal quality of
a Dakota hail-storm stand out in the open while a dozen or so expert
ball-pitchers open fire on him with pieces of ice, weighing up to half
a pound (the actual conditions of the storms are sometimes a worse
matter than this comes to), and I fancy he will soon be changed from a
skeptic to a fanatic.
If I had any doubts they were instantly removed by a rap on the arm
which numbed it to the finger-tips. For a moment we hesitated, but it
was too far back to the ranch, so we broke for the scant cover of some
bullberry bushes on the hitherside of Cunningham’s coulée.
As we flattened ourselves behind these the real storm was on us in a
breath. We were stunned by the uproar; the all-pervading heavy drumming
of rain and hail, and the hiss of their passage; the yelling and
booming of the wind, and the thunder that smote the earth, crash upon
crash, like the blows of a hammer. We did not think--we held on tight
and waited. One could not see ten feet into the gray of falling ice
and water, and the rush of it nearly took one’s senses away. It all
but turned the level prairie into a seething lake, and the slopes into
rapids. Suddenly the downpour ceased almost as abruptly as it began,
and nothing remained but the wind. I say “nothing,” because that is our
idiom. I do not use the word in a depreciatory sense, for we had full
realization of what force there is in mere air in motion that morning.
It swept across the prairie in one great tide of power. There was not
a flutter nor break in it. It jammed us down in the mud, and then held
us there. At first it seemed as if our heads would be whipped off our
shoulders if we dared lift them up into the full swing of it. But this
acme of energy passed at last, and we turned our eyes down the coulée
to see how our friend had fared.
Tent Cunningham had so far fulfilled its architect’s expectations.
A swollen yellow river from the coulée washed its edge and it was
plastered with mud by the hailstones, but otherwise uninjured.
“He’s--weathered--it!” roared Billy in my ear. “Yes,” I answered,
“coulée--bank--protected--him. He’s--all--right--if--”
I was going to say “if the wind doesn’t shift.” But before the words
were out the wind had shifted.
Rrrr-oooo-oof! It shrieked down the coulée and with a snapping and
a cracking, like a small Fourth of July celebration, away went Tent
Cunningham. The canvas rose in the air, flapping tragically; and
beneath it, galloping in frantic haste, were the longest and thinnest
legs in the world, as poor Cunningham, caught in the folds, was hustled
onward. We could see nothing of him but legs, and as the flying tent
bore a rude semblance to the human figure, the combination looked
like a gigantic ghost, with slender black legs, hurrying off to haunt
somebody.
Such leaps and bounds as Cunningham made were never equaled by the
winner of any Olympia, ancient or modern; and such another vision
never was beheld outside the course of a nightmare. There was a fever
of madness in its curvetings, its gesticulations, its wild plunges.
Down into the Chantay Seeche, all a-suds from the recent bombardment,
the specter swooped, and then came a mighty struggling and floundering.
Surely no more ignominious death could be furnished the offspring of a
noble house than to be held down by a tent and drowned in two feet of
water!
We sprang, nay, we flew to his assistance, for once on our feet the
wind scurried us ahead whether we would or no. We spaudered and slid
over the slippery mud, like novices on skates, and we should have
over-shot our quarry but that we grabbed at the tent in passing.
Now, it turned out to be in nowise so easy to get the man out as you
might think, for the moment we lifted a fold of the canvas it caught
the air like a kite, and down we went, under it, or over it, as the
case appeared. In the former instance, it was no small job for us to
get ourselves out again, let alone helping Cunningham. The very devil
was in the tent, and it began to look as if the man would be drowned
right under our hands, when it occurred to me to cut the knot of our
complications.
I passed my knife over a bulging place which I judged held some part of
the victim, and instantly the head of James Cecil R. DeG. Cunningham
popped through the opening--a head from whose mouse-colored whiskers
and long nose the water dripped pathetically, and which regarded us
with injured but vacant near-sighted eyes.
Poor Cunny! His mind must have been thoroughly addled by the events
of the morning, for the first words he spoke--in the tone of one
declining an ice--were: “I don’t like this kind of thing at all, y’
know!”