BUFFALO BILL’S LITTLE JOKE.
“Waugh! Of all ther sky-whoopin’ heifercats, that thar Hide-rack is
ther plumb wust. Ther cantaknerous cuss has nigh shook ther liver clean
outer my ’natomy, er rip snortin’ through ther mud all ther way f’m
Virginy City. Ther pesky critter hain’t been doin’ er thing but layin’
on fat an’ a-storin’ up devilment fer more’n er month, while I been er
cooperatin’ f’m er tumble down ther mounting. I say, Buffler, whar’s
that onery pard, Wild Bill? I’m jest er itchin’ ter git my claw dogs
outer his flipper. Whar’s Hickok?”
Old Nomad, Buffalo Bill’s trapper pard had “lit” after a long lay-off
to nurse the injuries received through an accident. He arrived at
Bozeman the next day after the fire, and lost no time in locating the
scout.
“Nick, old pard, I’ve got bad news for you,” the scout answered. “The
hotel was partly blown up night before last, and the section our room
was in was knocked to splinters. Hickok was in the room asleep at the
time, or at least we left him there, and he has not been seen since.
The ruins have not cooled sufficiently so that we can find the body.”
The bluff and rough old trapper, who loved a fight and feared nothing,
dropped back forlornly, and swept the perspiration from his brow with
rough palm.
“You don’t mean it, Buffler! It jest cain’t be so! No, no, Buffler, our
true-blue pard Hickok warn’t born ter be blowed up by a coward skunk.
No, sir, Buffler, Wild Bill hain’t dead, an’ he hain’t been dead. When
Hickok dies it’ll be a honorable death--er facin’ ther moosic an’ er
gun in ’is fist.”
Old Nomad bounced out of his chair and out of his grief, ready for
business, having convinced himself that his pard still lived.
“I feels it in my bones, Buffler, thet Hickok is er goin’ ter show
up--hat, taps, an’ britches--et jest ther proper minuit ter save some
of our scalps, same’s he allers does.”
“Good for you, Nick! Your confidence renews my hope. Let’s get busy
with the work in hand and be prepared to welcome our Laramie pard
properly when he comes back. I’m prime glad to see you in harness
again, Nick, and I am anxious to introduce our new pard to you.”
“Gut er new pard, Buffler?”
“Yes.”
“What sort of er chap?”
“Oh, a light-complexioned little fellow, who joined us for his health.”
“What’s his name?”
“We call him ‘Skibo.’”
“Waal, you knows yer own bus’ness best, Buffler, but this here outfit
hain’t no horspital corps, nor no reesort for nussin’ babies. I sh’d
think ther place fer er consumptive wuz in er home somewhar, whar ther
smell er powder wouldn’t make ’im faint.”
“He stands hearty victuals first-rate, Nick. I have seen him turn pale
only once, and that was when a dead greaser came swimming down the
river after him.”
“Waal, I’m glad ter know a dead greaser c’n swim, fer I hain’t never
seen er live one what could. Whar is ther new pard--an’ thet thar
redskin papoose?”
“Little Cayuse and Skibo have ridden out to a ranch to see the games
to-day. A chap named Carson is celebrating his wedding, and is giving
the boys a blow-out and a programme of sports. He offers good prizes
for best riding, roping, tying, shooting, jumping, etc.”
“Why didn’t you go, Buffer?”
“I preferred to stay here to see if I couldn’t locate the body of
Hickok.”
“Waal, yer can’t, ’cause he hain’t hyar! Yer mought jest ez well quit
yer mopin’ an’ come erlong.”
“Are you going, Nick?”
“Shore! The’ hain’t goin’ ter be no prizes ter waste thet yer Uncle
Nick can gobble onter. Not noways ef Nick knows hisself, an’ I think he
do.”
“Very well; I’ll go with you.”
At the Carson ranch were gathered about three hundred miners and
cowpunchers to partake of the hospitality of one of their number, swear
allegiance to the new bride, and strive for the prizes in the day’s
contests.
Out of respect for the bride’s request, the courage juice was indulged
in moderately, and Buffalo Bill thought it about as orderly a crowd of
the kind as he had ever seen.
The events were well under way when the scout and old Nomad arrived,
but the latter immediately made inquiries regarding his entry to
the events. They found Cayuse and Skibo, and the colored pard was
introduced to Nomad by Buffalo Bill, who said:
“Nick, I want you to shake hands with our new pard, Skibo. Skibo, this
is old Nomad, of whom you have heard us often speak. Nick, when you
shake his hand, go easy, or you may hurt him.”
The trapper stared in amazement at the huge negro, who had been
described to him as a light-complexioned little weakling.
“Waugh! Little--as er nine-y’ar-old buffler bull!
Light-complexioned--as ther bottom ov er chimney pot!”
This was sort of exclamatory soliloquy, but the trapper was none the
less hearty in greeting the grinning colored man when he got around to
it.
“How are ye, Skibo? Buffler told me ter look fer er consumptive cuss,
an’ you s’prised me. So you turned pale when you saw a dead greaser er
swimmin’?”
“Yar, yar! Dat’s what Ah done. Ah specs Ah was whiter’n you be fer
’bout two whole minutes--an’ dat wa’n’t much of a day for gittin’
white, nohow.”
“Lookahyar! Don’t yer go fer ter hingin’ on my pinkan’-white
complexion, ’cause yo’re so blamed dusky er smut coal would make er
white mark on yore skin.”
“Yar, yar! Mars’ Nick. Yo’ shore is er white-libered, delekit-lookin’
blossom.”
The grinning pair, still shooting nonsense at each other, grasped
hands, and old Nomad, who had a grip like the jaws of a rock crusher,
found his match.
Nick and Skibo were bound to be good friends from that hour. There was
no color line among Buffalo Bill’s pards, and Skibo felt that he was
considered an equal.
Little Cayuse greeted Nomad with usual stoical mien, and remarked with
twinkling eyes:
“Hide-rack heap fool mule; Navi all same pigeon--go like bullet.”
“Huh! Yeow little yaller rascal, Hide-rack will run over yore measly
pinto some day; see if ’e don’t. Hide-rack’s ther best anermile south
o’ ther old Missou, ’cept Bear Paw.”
“Ugh! Heap bones! Stumble much, fall down mountain, break Nomad neck.
Ugh!”
The party stood near the corral watching a pony race as the entries
scored down to the mark and were to sweep away across the plain for
a mile. Forty men were in saddle in the race. Others had galloped far
down the course, and few were left about the ranch.
Buffalo Bill and Carson, the proprietor, were cantering leisurely down
the field, and the new bride had climbed to the seat of a prairie
schooner to watch the contest, rather than to remain longer in the
saddle.
“Tell yer what I’ll do, Piute; I’ll race yer down behind ther crowd ter
see ther run, an’ if yer git thar fust I’ll buy yer ther purtiest young
cannon in Bozeman.”
“Ugh!” acquiesced Cayuse, and the pair mounted and rode away.
Skibo was tired of riding, and disposed his form against the corral
fence in as comfortable position as possible. He heard an uproar among
the cows and horses within, but before he could arise to investigate
there came a terrific crash, and a great Texan bull burst from the
inclosure.
Excited first by the shouting and shooting, and then infuriated by
the glimpse of darting ponies and the cheers of the men as the field
got away, the animal in its frantic plunging had broken loose, dashed
through the herd, and swept the fence away like a row of jackstraws.
The first thing that caught the brute’s eye when he had gained
liberty was a straw stack. He darted at it with lowered head, and
amused himself for a moment by goring it. Then he turned and saw the
white-covered wagon with the frightened young woman upon it, and
dangling from one of the wheels the bright red pontiac of a miner.
The animal had really considered the straw stack a joke, and seemed to
be at play, but that red coat set his passions aflame. With a maddened
roar he pawed the earth and sent the gravel flying high in air.
Several cowpunchers far down the field heard the commotion and
recognized its import at once. They put spurs to their ponies and tore
madly back, yet they knew they could not hope to reach roping or even
shooting distance before the fierce brute would charge the schooner
with its helpless cargo--the fair bride they had come to honor.
The cowboys’ yells had attracted the attention of others, and soon the
course swarmed with excited men and horses, racing toward the scene of
pending tragedy.
The bellowing of the bull rumbled faintly above that of pounding hoofs.
These brave men of the plains, in a mission of life and death, drove
the rowels into the sides of their steeds.
And then the foremost saw the brute charge, in spite of their yells to
turn his attention to them. But even as they looked at the flying bull
they saw a human being bound out from the corral across the path of the
bull.
It was Skibo!
There the giant negro stood, with tense muscles, slightly crouching,
facing the oncoming animal, unarmed.
The bloodshot eyes of the bull caught the new object in its path, and
the brute slowed down for reconnaissance. It came to a dead stop within
ten feet of the human form which disputed its progress.
But the pause was brief, for the colored man darted in like a flash,
and seized the wide-spreadin’, needle-like horns of the bull.
Then began such a struggle for mastery between man and beast as the
West had never seen.
It was not the battle of powder, and lead, and steel against brute
flesh, but the conflict of brawn and brawn.
The animal in a perfect fury tried to hurl its antagonist off, and to
trample, and gore the powerful man, who stooped to no form of torture
to win the mastery.
Forward and back they surged, the negro’s great neck muscles standing
out as he clung to the horns of the bull, and gradually forced the
shaggy head to an acute angle, the nose pointing to one side and the
horns another.
All the giant’s weight and great strength were thrown into this feat,
and, like bands of steel, the muscles of the bare, walnut-colored arms
held every inch gained.
The nose of the brute was now near the earth, and in that unnatural
position both seeing and breathing were difficult. The animal’s breath
came in hoarse, wheezy snorts, and he staggered as he plunged about,
always endeavoring to throw off the foe.
How long could the brave man hold such terrific strain?
The terrified bride, with clasped hands, forgot her own peril in her
anxiety for the safety of her rescuer.
The approaching cowboys dared not shoot for fear of injuring the negro.
With whirling lariat they dashed nearer, but their aid was not needed.
With a superhuman effort Skibo had suddenly wrenched the animal’s nose
upward until the bull lost its equilibrium and plunged sidewise to land
feet up and horns driven into the ground.
Skibo had slipped one hand from horn to nostrils as the animal fell,
and then, standing on the horns, with both hands holding the panting
snout, he had the bull helpless and at his mercy.
In that position the colored man waited for the cowboys to rope the
beast, and then modestly attempted to steal away.
But his escape this time was out of the question. Poor Skibo dearly
paid for his heroism by becoming the object of such hero worship, and
cheers, and slaps, and handshakes that he heartily wished the ground
would open and swallow him up.
And to cap the climax the bride came forward, and, after thanking him
in sweetest way and words, and while tears chased each other down her
cheeks, and admiring miners and cowboys stood with uncovered heads,
she unfastened from her throat a massive gold brooch, and with her own
hands pinned it to Skibo’s trembling shirt front--“to remind you,” she
told him, “of one who will ever and often think gratefully of you.”