and there followed a motionless moment--a tableau of brief duration, for
both boys turned and would have fled, shrieking, but the body spoke:
"'At's a nice business!" it said reproachfully. "Nice business! Tryin'
blow a man's head off!"
Penrod was unable to speak, but Sam managed to summon the tremulous
semblance of a voice.
"Where--where did it hit you?" he gasped.
"Nemmine anything 'bout where it _hit_ me," the young colored man
returned, dusting his breast and knees as he rose. "I want to know what
kine o' white boys you think you is--man can't walk 'long street 'thout
you blowin' his head off!" He entered the stable and, with an
indignation surely justified, took the pistol from the limp, cold hand
of Penrod. "Whose gun you playin' with? Where you git 'at gun?"
"It's ours," quavered Sam. "It belongs to us."
"Then you' pa ought to be 'rested," said the young colored man. "Lettin'
boys play with gun!" He examined the revolver with an interest in which
there began to appear symptoms of a pleasurable appreciation. "My
goo'ness! Gun like 'iss blow a team o' steers thew a brick house! _Look_
at 'at gun!" With his right hand he twirled it in a manner most
dexterous and surprising; then suddenly he became severe. "You white
boy, listen me!" he said. "Ef I went an did what I _ought_ to did, I'd
march straight out 'iss stable, git a policeman, an' tell him 'rest you
an' take you off to jail. 'At's what you need--blowin' man's head off!
Listen me: I'm goin' take 'iss gun an' th'ow her away where you can't do
no mo' harm with her. I'm goin' take her way off in the woods an' th'ow
her away where can't nobody find her an' go blowin' man's head off with
her. 'At's what I'm goin' do!" And placing the revolver inside his coat
as inconspicuously as possible, he proceeded to the open door and into
the alley, where he turned for a final word. "I let you off 'iss one
time," he said, "but listen me--you listen, white boy: you bet' not tell
you' pa. _I_ ain' goin' tell him, an' _you_ ain' goin' tell him. He want
know where gun gone, you tell him you los' her."
He disappeared rapidly.
Sam Williams, swallowing continuously, presently walked to the alley
door, and remarked in a weak voice, "I'm sick at my stummick." He
paused, then added more decidedly: "I'm goin' home. I guess I've stood
about enough around here for one day!" And bestowing a last glance upon
his friend, who was now sitting dumbly upon the floor in the exact spot
where he had stood to fire the dreadful shot, Sam moved slowly away.
The early shades of autumn evening were falling when Penrod emerged from
the stable; and a better light might have disclosed to a shrewd eye some
indications that here was a boy who had been extremely, if temporarily,
ill. He went to the cistern, and, after a cautious glance round the
reassuring horizon, lifted the iron cover. Then he took from the inner
pocket of his jacket an object which he dropped listlessly into the
water: it was a bit of wood, whittled to the likeness of a pistol. And
though his lips moved not, nor any sound issued from his vocal organs,
yet were words formed. They were so deep in the person of Penrod they
came almost from the slowly convalescing profundities of his stomach.
These words concerned firearms, and they were:
"Wish I'd never seen one! Never want to see one again!"
FOOTNOTE:
[I] Reprinted by special permission from "Penrod and Sam." Copyright,
1916, by Doubleday, Page and Company.
[Illustration]
X.--Concho Curly at the Op'ra[J]
_By Edward Beecher Bronson_
EARLY in July, 1882, I made my first beef shipment of that season, from
Ogallala to Chicago. I sent Concho Curly ahead in charge of the first
train-load, and myself followed with the second. While to me uneventful,
for Curly the trip was big with interest.
Bred and reared in Menard County, on a little tributary of the Concho
River that long stood the outermost line of settlement in central west
Texas, Curly was about as raw a product as the wildest mustang ranging
his native hills. Seldom far off his home range before the preceding
year's trail drive, never in a larger city than the then small town of
Fort Worth, for Curly Chicago was nothing short of a wilderness of
wonders. His two days' stay there left him awed and puzzled.
It was the second morning of our return journey before I could get much
out of him. Before that he had sat silent, in a brown study, answering
only in monosyllables anything I said to him.
At length, however, another friendly inquiry developed what he was
worrying about.
"Come, come, Curly!" I said, "tell us what you saw. Had a good time,
didn't you?"
"Wall, I should _re_mark. Them short-horns is junin' round so thick back
thar a stray long-horn hain't no sorta show to git to know straight up
from sideways 'fore he gits plumb lost in them deep canons whar all th'
sign is tramped out an' thar's no trees to blaze for back-tracking
yourself.
"What they-all gits to live on is the mysteriousest mystery to me; don't
raise or grow nothin'; got no grass, or cows to graze on her ef they had
her. 'Course some of them's got spondulix their daddies left them, an'
can buy; th' rest--wall, mebbe so th' rest is jest nachally cannibiles,
an' eats up each other."
And how nearly Curly was right about the "cannibiles"--at least,
metaphorically--he doubtless never learned.
"But, Curly," I asked, "didn't you have any fun? Must have hit up the
theaters a few, didn't you, eh!"
"Wall, I should say I shore did," he replied. "I shore went to a
the-_a_-ter, but she didn't get my funny-bone busy none."
"Why, Curly," I asked, "how's that?"
"Wall, you see it's thisaway. When you turned me loose down to th'
stockyards, I axed th' commission man what was th' ring-tailedest
lally-cooler of a hotel in town, an' he tells me she's th' Palmer House.
"Then I ropes a kid an' hobbles him with four bits long enough to run me
through th' milling herd of short-horns as fer as th' Palmer.
"On th' way I stops to a store an' buys a new hat, an' a pair o'
high-heel boots, an' a new suit, shirt, an' red handkerchief, an' a
little ol' humany war sack with a handle on her, an' inter her I puts my
belt an' spurs.
"Then, when I gets fixed up jest like them city folks, I pikes along to
th' Palmer, an' in I goes.
"An' she was a shore lally-cooler all right! More prittys about th'
fixin' up o' that house that I'd allowed anything but a woman could
pack.
"Wall, when I got in I axed for Mr. Palmer, an' a little feller in sorta
soldier-brass-button-clothes runs me up to a little close pen with a
fence round her slicker than airy bar in Fort Worth--all glass an' shiny
wood an' dandy stones. In that thar pen was a quick-talkin', smart-aleck
feller, with a di'mond big as a engin' head-light staked out in th'
middle of his bald-faced shirt.
"That feller shore rubbed my hair th' wrong way th' minute he shot his
mouth off, with:
"'Wall, what kin I do for you, young feller?'
"'_You_ cain't do a ding thing for me, Mr. Man,' I ups an' tells him.
'Hain't got nairy business with pikers like you-all. I don't git to
Chicago often, but when I do I plays with nothin' but blue chips, an'
bets th' limit every whirl.'
"'Wall, what do you want, anyway?' he jerks out.
"'Want to see Mr. Palmer; got some p'rticular business with him,' says
I.
"'Sorry, sir,' says he, 'Mr. Palmer ain't around this time of day. Is
your business with him private?'
"'I reckon she _are_ private,' says I; 'want to see him an' find out ef
I kin git to stay all night in this yere _ho_tel of his'n.'
"An' I reckon about that time that thar smart aleck must o' thought of
somethin' powerful funny that'd happened lately, for right thar he broke
out laughin' fit to kill his fool self--jest nachally laughed till he
like to died.
"When finally he comes to, he up an' says:
"'Why, I _sometimes_ attend to business like that for Mr. Palmer; guess
I can fix you. Here, write your name down there.'
"An' he whirls round in front of me a whopper of a big book that 'peared
to have a lot other fellers' names in. She shore looked s'spicious to
me, an' I says:
"'Now see here, Mr. Man, my name don't draw no big lot of money, but she
shorely don't get fastened to any dociments I don't _sabe_.'
"Then that blasted idiot thought o' somethin' else so plumb funny he
lites in laughin' agin till he nigh busts.
"When he gits out o' his system all the laugh she cain't hold easy, he
tells me th' big book is jest nothin' but a tally they use to count you
in when you comes to stay to th' hotel an' to count you out when you
goes.
"That didn't look onreasonable none to me, so I says:
"'Son, she goes.'
"An' when he hands me a writin' tool, not noticin' she wa'n't a pencil,
I sticks her in my mouth to git her ready to write good, an' gits my
dod-burned mouth so full of ink I reckon 'tain't all out yet; an' while
I was writin' in th' book, 'Stonewall Jackson Kip, Deadman Ranch,
Nebraska,' Mr. Man he slips off behind a big safe and empties out a few
more laughs he couldn't git to hold longer.
"An' does you know, ol' man, this mornin' I been gittin' a sort of a
s'spicion that Palmer piker was laughin' at me inkin' my mouth, maybe;
blamed lucky I didn't see it then, or I'd shore leaded him a few.
"Wall, when Mr. Man had got done _ex_aminin' my turkey tracks in the
book, he gits a key an' comes back, hits a bell, an' hollers, 'Front!'
Then, when one o' them little soldier-button fellers comes runnin', an'
th' piker passes him th' key an' sings out, 'Gentleman to No. 1492!' th'
kid he makes a dive for my war sack. But you bet your _alce_ I grabs him
_pronto_, an' says:
"'See here, son, they ain't more'n about two million worth o' valuables
in that thar war sack, so I wouldn't be broke none ef you ducked with
her; but I reckon Stonewall's strong enough to pack his'n without th'
help of no sawed-off like you-all.'
"Then Mr. Kid he up an' chases me over to a railroad car that's built on
tracks runnin' straight up in th' air plumb to th' top of th' house, an'
into her we gits--all free, you _sabe_; didn't have to buy no ticket.
"Wall, sir, when th' feller ridin' her socked in th' spurs, that thar
car humped herself once or twice an' then hit a gait that would make a
U. P. _ex_press look like she was standin' still, an' in less time than
Nebo takes to draw a gun, thar we was at th' top floor, about a mile
higher, I reckon, than folks was ever meant to live.
"An' say! By cripes! when I come to look out o' th' winder in my room, I
thought I'd have to stake myself to th' bed to be safe. Lookin' out was
jest like lookin' down from th' top o' Laramie Peak on th' spread of th'
main range--little ol' peaks an' deep canons everywhere, with
signal-fires throwin' up smoke columns from every peak, like Injuns
signalin' news. She shore looked a rough country to try to make any
short cuts across.
"When I'd got washed up some, I sticks my gun in my waist-band an' goes
out an' down to th' ground on that little ol' upstandin' railroad, an'
axes one o' them soldier boys th' trail to the grub-pile. He grins some
an' takes me into a room so pow'ful big and crowded with folks I allowed
'bout everybody in town must be eatin' there.
"Soon as I got sot down, here comes a coon an' hands me a printed sheet
bigger'n th' _Llano Weekly Clarion_. An' when I told him I was much
obliged, but I'd come to eat an' not to read, blamed ef that thar coon
didn't think o' somethin' so funny he nigh split hisself. 'Pears like
mos' everybody has a most onusual lot of laugh in 'em back thar.
"Wall, bein' dod-burned hungry, an' allowin' I'd have a bang-up feed,
an' rememberin' you Yankees talkin' on th' round-up 'bout what slick
eatin' lobsters makes, I tells th' coon to bring me a dozen lobsters an'
a cup of coffee.
"'Wha-what's dat you say, boss? How many lobsters does you want?' says
th' coon.
"'A plumb dozen, you black hash-slinger!' says I, 'an' hump yourself
_pronto_, for my tape-worm's hollerin' for fodder.'
"Off slides Mr. Coon, lookin' at me sorta scared-like outen th' corner
o' his off eye, to the far end o' th' room.
"Wall, thar I set for about twenty minutes, hopin' lobsters was bigger'n
oysters an' wonderin' ef I'd ordered enough to fill up me an' th' worm,
when, lookin' up, here comes up th' room a p'rcession of twelve niggers,
each nigger carryin' a plate about half th' size of a saddle-blanket,
an' on each plate a whale of a big red critter, most all laigs an'
claws, that looked like a overgrowed Gila monster with war-paint on.
"An' when th' lead coon stops in front of me an' says, 'Here's your
dozen lobsters, sir,' I jest nachally nigh fell dead right thar, knowin'
Stonewall was up agin it harder'n ever before in his life.
"Say! I never wanted a cayuse so bad in my life; ef I had one I'd shore
have skipped--forked him an' split the scenery open gittin' away from
them war-painted animiles--but thar I was afoot!
"So I bunches up my nerve an' says:
"'Say, coon, I done expected a bunch of th' boys to feed with me, but
they hain't showed up. Me an' th' worm will tackle a pair of them red
jaspers, an' you fellers put the other ten where they cain't git away
till th' boys comes.'
"Then, not lettin' on to th' city chaps settin' an' grinnin' all round
me that I wa'n't raised in th' same lot with lobsters, I takes my knife
an' fork an' lites in to go to eatin', when I'll just be eternally
hanged if I didn't nigh go crazy to find them critturs was jest nachally
_all_ hoofs an' horns--nairy a place on 'em from end to end airy
human's jaws could ever git to feed on.
"An' I was about to jerk my gun an' shoot one apart to find out what his
insides was like, when a feller settin' next showed me how to knock th'
horns off an' git at th' meat proper.
"Then me an' th' worm got busy good an' plenty, for th' meat was sweeter
an' tenderer even than 'possum.
"Before we got done we shore chambered five of them animiles, an' when I
paid th' bill an' sashayed out, it was with _re_grets I didn't have my
war sack handy to pack off th' rest in.
"Come evenin', I moseyed up to Mr. Man's pen an' axed him what was th'
finest, highest-priced show in town, an' he told me she was to a
the-_a_-ter called th' Op'ra.
"So out I goes, an' ropes another kid an' gits him to steer me to her.
"Arrived to th' the-_a_-ter, I prances up to th' ticket-wagon an' says,
sorta reckless:
"'Pardner, jest hand me out a dociment for th' best place to set in you
got; price is no object. It's th' _best_ in your show for Stonewall,'
privately allowin' to myself he might stick me up for as much as a
dollar and a half.
"At that he whispers to me. 'Twenty-five dollars,' jest as easy an'
nat'rel, without turnin' a hair or appearin' any more excited than
Dunc. Blackburn sticking up a stage-coach.
"Twenty-fi-five plunks to git to set a hour or so to see a little ol'
fool play-actin'! I'll just be horn-swiggled if that wa'n't goin' some
for Stonewall! Nigh three weeks' wages to git to 'ante an' come in,' an'
no tellin' what raises he'd have to stand after drawin' cards!
"However, allowin' I'd take a chance, I skinned off five fives from my
little ol' bank-roll and passes 'em over to Mr. Holdup, an' then he
picks up an' shuffles a deck of little cards an' deals me off six of
them.
"Course I didn't know whatever his game was, makin' me a dead foul deal
deliberate thataway, but knowin' she spelled trouble, I shoves one of
th' cards back to him an' says:
"'Mr. Holdup, I don't know jest what liberties a gentleman is allowed to
take with a deck back here, but out West whar I come from a feller
caught in a pot with more'n five cards in his hand is generally buried
th' next day, an' bein' as all his business in this world ain't quite
settled yet, five cards will do your Uncle Stonewall.'
"Couldn't make out anyway what he give me all them dociments for, unless
one o' th' coons down to th' hotel had tipped him off my bunch of
lobster-eaters was liable to drop in an' want to set with me.
"Wall, then I dropped into th' stream o' folks flowin' in thro' th'
door, all jammin' an' crowdin' like a bunch of wild steers, an' drifted
inside.
"Was you ever to that Op'ra The-_a_-ter, ol' man? By cripes! but she was
shore a honey-cooler for big! Honest, th' main corral would hold a full
trail herd of three thousand head easy.
"Wall, when I gits in, a young feller in more soldier-buttons axes to
see my cards, an' then he steers me down thro' a narrow chute runnin'
along one side of th' big corral to a little close-pen, with a low fence
in front, right down to one end of where they was play-actin', an' right
atop of th' band.
"Dead opposite was a high stack of little pens like mine, all full of
folks--same, I reckon, above me--an' then back further three or four big
pens, one above the other, over where you come in.
"An' mebbe so them pens wa'n't packed none! Don't believe thar was a
empty corner anywhere except mine. Jest packed everywhere with men and
women.
"Th' men all looked alike, an' most of th' women Stonewall could a
liked.
"Th' men all had on black clothes, with bald-faced shirts to match their
bald heads.
"Th' women--wall, the feller that couldn't get suited in that bunch
needn't wear out no leather huntin' round outside. An' thar was a lot of
them honey-coolers settin' close round me that kept lookin' up my way
an' laughin' so sorta friendly like that it shore got to be real
sociable.
"Wall, sir, that band was playin' to beat any band _you_ ever
heard--horns an' fiddles an' drums; horns that worked like a accordeon,
pullin' in an' out; ol' mossback he-fiddles that must a been more'n a
hundred years old to git to grow so big; drums with bellies big an'
round as your mammy's soap kettle; an' th' boss music-maker on a perch
in th' middle of th' bunch, shakin' a little _carajo_ pole to beat the
brains out any of th' outfit that wa'n't workin' to suit him.
"Some of th' tunes was sweet an' slow enough so you could follow 'em
afoot, but most of 'em was so fast a feller'd need to be runnin' 'em on
his top-cutting horse to git close enough to tell if they was real music
or jest a hullabaloo big noise.
"But what s'rprised me most, ol' man, was to find that that thar
the-a-ter was built up round one of the roughest, rockiest, wildest
pieces of country I ever saw outside th' Black Hills, it layin' in th'
end whar they was play-actin'. It shore looked like a side canon up nigh
th' head-waters of Rapid Creek, big boulders, an' pines, an' cliffs, an'
a fall carryin' as much water as Deadman Creek.
"An' weather! Say, that little ol' the-_a_-ter canon could put up a
worse storm than you or me ever see in the Rockies. She was thunderin'
and lightenin' till I was dead sure we was all in for a water-spout, an'
I reckon one must a come after I left.
"I always thought the-_a_-ters was built to be funny in, but that one
was jest nachally full o' hell's own grief as long as I got to stay in
her. Nothin' doin' but sufferin' an' murderin' meanness.
"Plumb alone, an' lost in th' canon, I reckon, was a pore little gal,
'bout sixteen year old, leanin' on a stump close up to whar I was
settin', an' sobbin' fit to kill herself. She had 'bout next to nothin'
on, an' was that ga'nted up an' lean 'peared like she was nigh starved
to death.
"An' thar she hung an' cried an' cried till it 'peared to me some o' th'
women folks ought to a gone to her; but they-all never noticed none, an'
went right on gassin' with their fellers.
"Finally, when she got so weak I thought she was goin' to drop, out from
behind a boulder slips a great big feller--all hair an' whiskers but his
laigs, for he had on nothin' but a fur huntin'-shirt comin' half-way to
his knees--an' in his hand he carries a long _bilduque_ skelping-knife.
"'Fore I realized he meant trouble, he makes a jump an' grabs th' gal by
th' shoulder an' shakes her scandalous, an' while he's shakin' he's
sorta half-talkin' an' half-singin' to her in some kind of talk so near
like Spanish I thought I could ketch some of it.
"By cripes! but that feller was hot good an' plenty over something he
claimed she'd did.
"An' when, half-sobbin' an' singin', she 'peared to be tellin' him she
hadn't, an' to go off an' let her alone, he shook an' abused her more'n
ever, till it struck me it was about time for neighborin' men folks to
hop in an' take a hand, for it was plumb plain she was a pore,
sweet-faced, innercent little crittur that couldn't done no harm to a
hummin' bird.
[Illustration: "BUT BEFORE HE COULD LITE ON HER WITH HIS KNIFE, I HOPPED
OUT OF MY CLOSE-PEN INTO THE CANON"]
"'Bout that time, Mr. Hairyman he hops back a step or two, stands an'
scowls an' grits his teeth at th' gal for a minute, an' then he raises
his knife, sorta crouches for a jump, an' sings out, near as I could
make it out:
"'_Maudite! Folle! Folle! Say Fini!_'
"But before he could lite on her with his knife, I hopped out of my
close-pen into the canon, jammed my .45 in his ear, an' observes:
"'Mr. Hairyman, you're a liar, an' it's Stonewall Kip, of Concho,
tellin' you!'
"'Little _Maudy_ thar _ain't_ full, an' she don't have to _say_ airy a
thing she don't want to; an' if you don't pull your freight sudden for
th' brush, I'll shore shoot six different kinds of meanness outen your
low-down murderin' carcass!'
"Th' way his whiskers skipped over boulders makin' his getaway was some
active, while th' pore little gal she jest drops off in a dead faint an'
lays thar till some folks comes down the gulch an' carries her off.
"Then I takes th' kink outen th' hammer of my gun, sticks her in my
waist-band, an' climbs back an' gits my hat--havin' had more'n enough of
such blasted Op'ra The-_a_-ters.
"An' while I was driftin' through the chute toward the main gate of th'
big pen, to git out, there was th' blamedest cheerin', yellin', an'
hand-clappin' you ever heard away from a stump-speakin', but whatever
she was all about Stonewall didn't stop to ax."
FOOTNOTE:
[J] Reprinted by special permission from "Reminiscences of a Ranchman."
Copyright, 1910, by George H. Doran Company.
[Illustration]
XI.--The Lie[K]
_By Hermann Hagedorn_
"DID you prepare this lesson, Burton?"
Burton, big, athletic, handsome as a movie hero--hesitated a second
before he answered. He was busy picking up a pad which lay under his
seat.
He deposited the pad on the wide armrest and looked up inquiringly as
though he had not fully comprehended the question. Mr. Beaver, the
algebra teacher, was smiling his friendly and slightly irritating smile.
"I asked you, Burton," he repeated gently, "whether you had prepared.
Did you?"
"Yes, sir," answered Burton.
"Thank you," said Mr. Beaver. He opened a certain terrifying little
black book and made a dot in the lower left-hand corner of a certain
square opposite the name of Burton. "Perhaps," he added, "you had
better go over it again," and smiled the same smile, which would have
been sardonic but for the mildness of his tone.
Burton sank glumly back in his seat.
Mr. Beaver regarded his little book studiously for a moment. Then he
looked up. The smile was gone. The alert face, adequately adorned by a
reddish beard fading into gray, was now solicitous.
"Harrington," he said.
A Fourth Former in the middle row stood up. He was slight and rather
pallid, and it was evident that he should begin shaving without further
delay, for there was already a shadow of fuzz on his cheeks and chin
that made him look unwashed and rather weak. His mother, who was vain,
had insisted that he postpone shaving. She could not bear to think that
she was the mother of a son who was almost a man, she always said. It
made her feel so old.
Harrington, sallow and unshorn, was not an inspiring sight. Mr. Beaver
evidently thought so. His eyes were unquestionably serious.
"Harrington," he said, "it seems that you are another of our weak
brethren this morning. Did you prepare your lesson?"
Again, the second's hesitation. Harrington turned a shade paler, if
possible. Then, with an effort, he spoke.
"No, sir."
"I was afraid not," said Mr. Beaver making another cryptic dot. Then he
smiled. Harrington writhed and the rest of the class, except Burton,
laughed. "Why not?"
"I--I was ill."
Mr. Beaver was at once sympathetic, though serious. "Did you report to
Dr. Stevens?"
"No, sir."
"Why not?"
"I knew he had already gone."
"You were ill after ten o'clock?"
"Yes, sir."
Again Mr. Beaver smiled. "But surely you might have done your algebra
before ten o'clock?"
"I was--busy, sir."
"With other lessons?"
Harrington hesitated.
"With other lessons?" Mr. Beaver repeated.
"No, sir."
"Well?"
"I had a spread."
There was a roar from the other boys.