CHAPTER I.

WOLFVILLE NIGHTS

by

Alfred Henry Lewis

Author of "Wolfville", "Wolfville Days", "Peggy O'Nea", &c.

1902,

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

DEDICATION

SOME COWBOY FACTS

I. THE DISMISSAL OF SILVER PHIL

II. COLONEL STERETT'S PANTHER HUNT

III. HOW FARO NELL DEALT BANK

IV. HOW THE RAVEN DIED

V. THE QUEERNESS OF DAVE TUTT

VI. WITH THE APACHE'S COMPLIMENTS

VII. THE MILLS OF SAVAGE GODS

VIII. TOM AND JERRY; WHEELERS

IX. THE INFLUENCE OF FARO NELL

X. THE GHOST OF THE BAR-B-8

XI. TUCSON JENNIE'S CORRECTION

XII. BILL CONNORS OF THE OSAGES

XIII. WHEN TUTT FIRST SAW TUCSON

XIV. THE TROUBLES OF DAN BOGGS

XV. BOWLEGS AND MAJOR BEN

XVI. TOAD ALLEN'S ELOPEMENT

XVII. THE CLIENTS OF AARON GREEN

XVIII. COLONEL STERETT'S MARVELS

XIX. THE LUCK OF HARDROBE

XX. LONG AGO ON THE RIO GRANDE

XXI. COLONEL COYOTE CLUBBS

To

William Greene Sterett

this volume is

inscribed.

NEW YORK CITY,

August 1, 1902

MY DEAR STERETT:--

In offering this book to you I might have advantage of the occasion

to express my friendship and declare how high I hold you as a

journalist and a man. Or I might speak of those years at Washington

when in the gallery we worked shoulder to shoulder; I might recall to

you the wit of Hannum, or remind you of the darkling Barrett, the

mighty Decker, the excellent Cohen, the vivid Brown, the imaginative

Miller, the volatile Angus, the epigrammatic Merrick, the quietly

satirical Splain, Rouzer the earnest, Boynton the energetic, Carson

the eminent, and Dunnell, famous for a bitter, frank integrity. I

might remember that day when the gifted Fanciulli, with no more

delicate inspiration than crackers, onions, and cheese, and no more

splendid conservatory than Shoemaker's, wrote, played and consecrated

to you his famous "Lone Star March" wherewith he so disquieted the

public present of the next concert in the White House grounds. Or I

might hark back to the campaign of '92, when together we struggled

against national politics as evinced in the city of New York; I might

repaint that election night when, with one hundred thousand whirling

dervishes of democracy in Madison Square, dancing dances, and singing

songs of victory, we undertook through the hubbub to send from the

"Twenty-third street telegraph office" half-hourly bulletins to our

papers in the West; how you, accompanied of the dignified Richard

Bright, went often to the Fifth Avenue Hotel; and how at last you

dictated your bulletins--a sort of triumphant blank verse, they

were--as Homeric of spirit as lofty of phrase--to me, who caught them

as they came from your lips, losing none of their fire, and so

flashed them all burning into Texas, far away. But of what avail

would be such recount? Distance separates us and time has come

between. Those are the old years, these are the new, with newer

years beyond. Life like a sea is filling from rivers of experience.

Forgetfulness rises as a tide and creeps upward to drown within us

those stories of the days that were. And because this is true, it

comes to me that you as a memory must stand tallest in the midst of

my regard. For of you I find within me no forgetfulness. I have met

others; they came, they tarried, they departed. They came again; and

on this second encounter the recollection of their existences smote

upon me as a surprise. I had forgotten them as though they had not

been. But such is not your tale. Drawn on the plates of memory, as

with a tool of diamond, I carry you both in broadest outline and in

each least of shade; and there hangs no picture in the gallery of

hours gone, to which I turn with more of pleasure and of good. Nor

am I alone in my recollection. Do I pass through the Fifth Avenue

Hotel on my way to the Hoffman, that vandyked dispenser leans

pleasantly across his counter, to ask with deepest interest: "Do you

hear from the Old Man now?" Or am I belated in Shanley's, a beaming

ring of waiters--if it be not an hour overrun of custom--will

half-circle my table, and the boldest, "Pat," will question timidly,

yet with a kindly Galway warmth: "How's the Old Man?" Old Man! That

is your title: at once dignified and affectionate; and by it you come

often to be referred to along Broadway these ten years after its

conference. And when the latest word is uttered what is there more

to fame! I shall hold myself fortunate, indeed, if, departing, I'm

remembered by half so many half so long. But wherefore extend

ourselves regretfully? We may meet again; the game is not played

out. Pending such bright chance, I dedicate this book to you. It is

the most of honour that lies in my lean power. And in so doing, I am

almost moved to say, as said Goldsmith of Johnson in his offering of

_She Stoops to Conquer_: "By inscribing this slight performance to

you, I do not mean to so much compliment you as myself. It may do me

some honour to inform the public that I have lived many years in

intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also to

inform them that the greatest wit may be found in a character without

impairing the most unaffected piety." I repeat, I am all but moved

to write these lines of you. It would tell my case at least; and

while description might limp in so far as you lack somewhat of that

snuffle of "true piety" so often engaging the Johnsonian nose, you

make up the defect with possession of a wider philosophy, a better

humour and a brighter, quicker wit than visited or dwelt beneath the

candle-scorched wig of our old bully lexicographer.

ALFRED HENRY LEWIS.

Some Cowboy Facts.

There are certain truths of a botanical character that are not

generally known. Each year the trees in their occupation creep

further west. There are regions in Missouri--not bottom lands--which

sixty years ago were bald and bare of trees. Today they are heavy

with timber. Westward, beyond the trees, lie the prairies, and

beyond the prairies, the plains; the first are green with long

grasses, the latter bare, brown and with a crisp, scorched, sparse

vesture of vegetation scarce worth the name. As the trees march

slowly westward in conquest of the prairies, so also do the prairies,

in their verdant turn, become aggressors and push westward upon the

plains. These last stretches, extending to the base of that bluff

and sudden bulwark, the Rocky Mountains, can go no further. The

Rockies hold the plains at bay and break, as it were, the teeth of

the desert. As a result of this warfare of vegetations, the plains

are to first disappear in favour of the prairies; and the prairies to

give way before the trees. These mutations all wait on rain; and as

the rain belt goes ever and ever westward, a strip of plains each

year surrenders its aridity, and the prairies and then the trees

press on and take new ground.

These facts should contain some virtue of interest; the more since

with the changes chronicled, come also changes in the character of

both the inhabitants and the employments of these regions. With a

civilised people extending themselves over new lands, cattle form

ever the advance guard. Then come the farms. This is the procession

of a civilised, peaceful invasion; thus is the column marshalled.

First, the pastoral; next, the agricultural; third and last, the

manufacturing;--and per consequence, the big cities, where the

treasure chests of a race are kept. Blood and bone and muscle and

heart are to the front; and the money that steadies and stays and

protects and repays them and their efforts, to the rear.

Forty years ago about all that took place west of the Mississipi of a

money-making character was born of cattle. The cattle were worked in

huge herds and, like the buffalo supplanted by them, roamed in

unnumbered thousands. In a pre-railroad period, cattle were killed

for their hides and tallow, and smart Yankee coasters went constantly

to such ports as Galveston for these cargoes. The beef was left to

the coyotes.

Cattle find a natural theatre of existence on the plains. There,

likewise, flourishes the pastoral man. But cattle herding, confined

to the plains, gives way before the westward creep of agriculture.

Each year beholds more western acres broken by the plough; each year

witnesses a diminution of the cattle ranges and cattle herding. This

need ring no bell of alarm concerning a future barren of a beef

supply. More cattle are the product of the farm-regions than of the

ranges. That ground, once range and now farm, raises more cattle now

than then. Texas is a great cattle State. Ohio, Indiana, Illinois,

Iowa, and Missouri are first States of agriculture. The area of

Texas is about even with the collected area of the other five. Yet

one finds double the number of cattle in Ohio, Indiana, Illinois,

Iowa, and Missouri than in Texas, to say nothing of tenfold the sheep

and hogs. No; one may be calm; one is not to fall a prey to any

hunger of beef.

While the farms in their westward pushing do not diminish the cattle,

they reduce the cattleman and pinch off much that is romantic and

picturesque. Between the farm and the wire fence, the cowboy, as

once he flourished, has been modified, subdued, and made partially to

disappear. In the good old days of the Jones and Plummer trail there

were no wire fences, and the sullen farmer had not yet arrived. Your

cowboy at that time was a person of thrill and consequence. He wore

a broad-brimmed Stetson hat, and all about it a rattlesnake skin by

way of band, retaining head and rattles. This was to be potent

against headaches--a malady, by the way, which swept down no cowboy

save in hours emergent of a spree. In such case the snake cure

didn't cure. The hat was retained in defiance of winds, by a

leathern cord caught about the back of the head, not under the chin.

This cord was beautiful with a garniture of three or four perforated

poker chips, red, yellow, and blue.

There are sundry angles of costume where the dandyism of a cowboy of

spirit and conceit may acquit itself; these are hatband, spurs,

saddle, and leggins. I've seen hatbands made of braided gold and

silver filigree; they were from Santa Fe, and always in the form of a

rattlesnake, with rubies or emeralds or diamonds for eyes. Such

gauds would cost from four hundred to two thousand dollars. Also,

I've encountered a saddle which depleted its proud owner a round

twenty-five hundred dollars. It was of finest Spanish leather,

stamped and spattered with gold bosses. There was gold-capping on

the saddle horn, and again on the circle of the cantle. It was a

dream of a saddle, made at Paso del Norte; and the owner had it

cinched upon a bronco dear at twenty dollars. One couldn't have sold

the pony for a stack of white chips in any faro game of that

neighbourhood (Las Vegas) and they were all crooked games at that.

Your cowboy dandy frequently wears wrought steel spurs, inlaid with

silver and gold; price, anything you please. If he flourish a true

Brummel of the plains his leggins will be fronted from instep to belt

with the thick pelt, hair outside, of a Newfoundland dog. These

"chapps," are meant to protect the cowboy from rain and cold, as well

as plum bushes, wire fences and other obstacles inimical, and against

which he may lunge while riding headlong in the dark. The hair of

the Newfoundland, thick and long and laid the right way, defies the

rains; and your cowboy loathes water.

Save in those four cardinals of vanity enumerated, your cowboy wears

nothing from weakness; the rest of his outfit is legitimate. The

long sharp heels of his boots are there to dig into the ground and

hold fast to his mother earth while roping on foot. His gay pony

when "roped" of a frosty morning would skate him all across and about

the plains if it were not for these heels. The buckskin gloves tied

in one of the saddle strings are used when roping, and to keep the

half-inch manila lariat--or mayhap it's horsehair or rawhide

pleated--from burning his hands. The red silken sash one was wont

aforetime to see knotted about his waist, was used to hogtie and hold

down the big cattle when roped and thrown. The sash--strong, soft

and close--could be tied more tightly, quickly, surely than anything

besides. In these days, with wire pastures and branding pens and the

fine certainty of modern round-ups and a consequent paucity of

mavericks, big cattle are seldom roped; wherefor the sash has been

much cast aside.

The saddle-bags or "war-bags,"--also covered of dogskin to match the

leggins, and worn behind, not forward of the rider--are the cowboy's

official wardrobe wherein he carries his second suit of underclothes,

and his other shirt. His handkerchief, red cotton, is loosely

knotted about the cowboy's neck, knot to the rear. He wipes the

sweat from his brow therewith on those hot Texas days when in a

branding pen he "flanks" calves or feeds the fires or handles the

irons or stands off the horned indignation of the cows, resentful

because of burned and bawling offspring.

It would take two hundred thousand words to tell in half fashion the

story of the cowboy. His religion of fatalism, his courage, his

rides at full swing in midnight darkness to head and turn and hold a

herd stampeded, when a slip on the storm-soaked grass by his unshod

pony, or a misplaced prairie-dog hole, means a tumble, and a tumble

means that a hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth of cattle, with

hoofs like chopping knives, will run over him and make him look and

feel and become as dead as a cancelled postage stamp; his troubles,

his joys, his soberness in camp, his drunkenness in town, and his

feuds and occasional "gun plays" are not to be disposed of in a

preface. One cannot in such cramped space so much as hit the high

places in a cowboy career.

At work on the range and about his camp--for, bar accidents, wherever

you find a cowboy you will find a camp--the cowboy is a youth of

sober quiet dignity. There is a deal of deep politeness and nothing

of epithet, insult or horseplay where everybody wears a gun.

There are no folk inquisitive on the ranges. No one asks your name.

If driven by stress of conversation to something akin to it the

cowboy will say: "What may I call you, sir?" And he's as careful to

add the "sir," as he is to expect it in return.

You are at liberty to select what name you prefer. Where you hail

from? where going? why? are queries never put. To look at the brand

on your pony--you, a stranger--is a dangerous vulgarity to which no

gentleman of the Panhandle or any other region of pure southwestern

politeness would stoop. And if you wish to arouse an instant

combination of hate, suspicion and contempt in the bosom of a cowboy

you have but to stretch forth your artless Eastern hand and ask: "Let

me look at your gun."

Cowboys on the range or in the town are excessively clannish. They

never desert each other, but stay and fight and die and storm a jail

and shoot a sheriff if needs press, to rescue a comrade made captive

in their company. Also they care for each other when sick or

injured, and set one another's bones when broken in the falls and

tumbles of their craft. On the range the cowboy is quiet, just and

peaceable. There are neither women nor cards nor rum about the cow

camps. The ranches and the boys themselves banish the two latter;

and the first won't come. Women, cards and whiskey, the three war

causes of the West, are confined to the towns.

Those occasions when cattle are shipped and the beef-herds, per

consequence, driven to the shipping point become the only times when

the cowboy sees the town. In such hours he blooms and lives fully up

to his opportunity. He has travelled perhaps two hundred miles and

has been twenty days on the trail, for cattle may only be driven

about ten miles a day; he has been up day and night and slept half

the time in the saddle; he has made himself hoarse singing "Sam Bass"

and "The Dying Ranger" to keep the cattle quiet and stave off

stampedes; he has ridden ten ponies to shadows in his twenty days of

driving, wherefore, and naturally, your cowboy feels like relaxing.

There would be as many as ten men with each beef-herd; and the herd

would include about five thousand head. There would be six "riders,"

divided into three watches to stand night guard over the herd and

drive it through the day; there would be two "hoss hustlers," to hold

the eighty or ninety ponies, turn and turn about, and carry them

along with the herd; there would be the cook, with four mules and the

chuck wagon; and lastly there would be the herd-boss, a cow expert

he, and at the head of the business.

Once the herd is off his hands and his mind at the end of the drive,

the cowboy unbuckles and reposes himself from his labours. He

becomes deeply and famously drunk. Hungering for the excitement of

play he collides amiably with faro and monte and what other deadfalls

are rife of the place. Never does he win; for the games aren't

arranged that way. But he enjoys himself; and his losses do not prey

on him.

Sated with faro bank and monte--they can't be called games of chance,

the only games of chance occurring when cowboys engage with each

other at billiards or pool--sated, I say, with faro and Mexican

monte, and exuberant of rum, which last has regular quick renewal,

our cowboy will stagger to his pony, swing into the saddle, and with

gladsome whoops and an occasional outburst from his six shooter

directed toward the heavens, charge up and down the street. This

last amusement appeals mightily to cowboys too drunk to walk. For,

be it known, a gentleman may ride long after he may not walk.

If a theatre be in action and mayhap a troop of "Red Stocking

Blondes," elevating the drama therein, the cowboy is sure to attend.

Also he will arrive with his lariat wound about his body under his

coat; and his place will be the front row. At some engaging crisis,

such as the "March of the Amazons," having first privily unwound and

organised his lariat to that end, he will arise and "rope" an Amazon.

This will produce bad language from the manager of the show, and

compel the lady to sit upon the stage to the detriment of her

wardrobe if no worse, and all to keep from being pulled across the

footlights. Yet the exercise gives the cowboy deepest pleasure.

Having thus distinguished the lady of his admiration, later he will

meet her and escort her to the local dancehall. There, mingling with

their frank companions, the two will drink, and loosen the boards of

the floor with the strenuous dances of our frontier till daylight

does appear.

For the matter of a week, or perchance two--it depends on how fast

his money melts--in these fashions will our gentleman of cows engage

his hours and expand himself. He will make a deal of noise, drink a

deal of whiskey, acquire a deal of what he terms "action"; but he

harms nobody, and, in a town toughened to his racket and which needs

and gets his money, disturbs nobody.

"Let him whoop it up; he's paying for it, ain't he?" will be the

prompt local retort to any inquiry as to why he is thus permitted to

disport.

So long as the cowboy observes the etiquette of the town, he will not

be molested or "called down" by marshal or sheriff or citizen. There

are four things your cowboy must not do. He must not insult a woman;

he must not shoot his pistol in a store or bar-room; he must not ride

his pony into those places of resort; and as a last proposal he must

not ride his pony on the sidewalks. Shooting or riding into

bar-rooms is reckoned as dangerous; riding on the sidewalk comes more

under the head of insult, and is popularly regarded as a taunting

defiance of the town marshal. On such occasions the marshal never

fails to respond, and the cowboy is called upon to surrender. If he

complies, which to the credit of his horse-sense he commonly does, he

is led into brief captivity to be made loose when cooled. Does he

resist arrest, there is an explosive rattle of six shooters, a mad

scattering of the careful citizenry out of lines of fire, and a

cowboy or marshal is added to the host beyond. At the close of the

festival, if the marshal still lives he is congratulated; if the

cowboy survives he is lynched; if both fall, they are buried with the

honours of frontier war; while whatever the event, the communal

ripple is but slight and only of the moment, following which the

currents of Western existence sweep easily and calmly onward as

before.

A. H. L.

WOLFVILLE NIGHTS

CHAPTER I.

The Dismissal of Silver Phil.

"His name, complete, is 'Silver City Philip.' In them social

observances of the Southwest wherein haste is a feacher an' brev'ty the

bull's eye aimed at, said cognomen gets shortened to 'Silver Phil.'"

The Old Cattleman looked thoughtfully into his glass, as if by that

method he collected the scattered elements of a story. There was a

pause; then he lifted the glass to his lips as one who being now evenly

equipped of information, proposed that it arrive hand in hand with the

inspiration which should build a tale from it.

"Shore, this Silver Phil is dead now; an' I never yet crosses up with

the gent who's that sooperfluous as to express regrets. It's Dan Boggs

who dismisses Silver Phil; Dan does it in efforts he puts forth to

faithfully represent the right.

"Doc Peets allers allows this Silver Phil is a 'degen'rate;' leastwise

that's the word Peets uses. An' while I freely concedes I ain't none

too cl'ar as to jest what a degen'rate is, I stands ready to back

Peets' deescription to win. Peets is, bar Colonel William Greene

Sterett, the best eddicated sharp in Arizona; also the wariest as to

expressin' views. Tharfore when Peets puts it up, onflinchin', that

this yere Silver Phil's a degen'rate, you-all can spread your blankets

an' go to sleep on it that a degen'rate he is.

"Silver Phil is a little, dark, ignorant, tousled-ha'red party, none

too neat in costume. He's as black an' small an' evil-seemin' as a

Mexican; still, you sees at a glance he ain't no Greaser neither. An'

with all this yere surface wickedness, Silver Phil has a quick,

hyster'cal way like a woman or a bird; an' that's ever a grin on his

face. You can smell 'bad' off Silver Phil, like smoke in a house, an'

folks who's on the level--an' most folks is--conceives a notion ag'in

him the moment him an' they meets up.

"The first time I observes Silver Phil, he's walkin' down the licker

room of the Red Light. As he goes by the bar, Black Jack--who's

rearrangin' the nosepaint on the shelf so it shows to advantage--gets

careless an' drops a bottle.

"'Crash!' it goes onto the floor.

"With the sound, an' the onexpected suddenness of it stampedin' his

nerves, that a-way, Silver Phil leaps into the air like a cat; an' when

he 'lights, he's frontin' Black Jack an' a gun in each hand.

"'Which I won't be took!' says Silver Phil, all flustered.

"His eyes is gleamin' an' his face is palin' an' his ugly grin gets

even uglier than before. But like a flash, he sees thar's nothin' to

go in the air about--nothin' that means him; an' he puts up his

hardware an' composes himse'f.

"'You-all conducts yourse'f like a sport who has something on his

mind,' says Texas Thompson, who's thar present at the time, an' can't

refrain from commentin' on the start that bottle-smashin' gives Silver

Phil.

"This Silver Phil makes no response, but sort o' grins plenty ghastly,

while his breath comes quick.

"Still, while you-all notes easy that this person's scared, it's plain

he's a killer jest the same. It's frequent that a-way. I'm never much

afraid of one of your cold game gents like Cherokee Hall; you can

gamble the limit they'll never put a six-shooter in play till it's

shorely come their turn. But timid, feverish, locoed people, whose

jedgment is bad an' who's prone to feel themse'fs in peril; they're the

kind who kills. For myse'f I shuns all sech. I won't say them

erratic, quick-to-kill sports don't have courage; only it strikes

me--an' I've rode up on a heap of 'em--it's more like a fear-bit

f'rocity than sand.

"Take Enright or Peets or Cherokee or Tutt or Jack Moore or Boggs or

Texas Thompson; you're plumb safe with sech gents--all or any. An' yet

thar ain't the first glimmer of bein' gun-shy about one of 'em; they're

as clean strain as the eternal granite, an' no more likely to hide out

from danger than a hill. An' while they differs from each other, yet

they're all different from sech folks as Silver Phil. Boggs, goin' to

war, is full of good-humoured grandeur, gala and confident, ready to

start or stop like a good hoss. Cherokee Hall is quiet an' wordless;

he gets pale, but sharp an' deadly; an' his notion is to fight for a

finish. Peets is haughty an' sooperior on the few o'casions when he

onbends in battle, an' comports himse'f like a gent who fights

downhill; the same, ondoubted, bein' doo to them book advantages of

Peets which elevates him an' lifts him above the common herd a whole

lot. Enright who's oldest is of course slowest to embark in blood, an'

pulls his weepons--when he does pull 'em--with sorrowful resignation.

"'Which I'm shorely saddest when I shoots,' says Enright to me, as he

reloads his gun one time.

"These yere humane sentiments, however, don't deter him from shootin'

soon an' aimin' low, which latter habits makes Wolfville's honoured

chief a highly desp'rate game to get ag'inst.

"Jack Moore, bein' as I explains former, the execyootive of the

Stranglers, an' responsible for law an' order, has a heap of shootin'

shoved onto him from time to time. Jack allers transacts these

fireworks with a ca'm, offishul front, the same bein' devoid, equal, of

anger or regrets. Tutt, partic'lar after he weds Tucson Jennie, an'

more partic'lar still when he reaps new honours as the originator of

that blessed infant Enright Peets Tutt, carries on what shootin' comes

his way in a manner a lot dignified an' lofty; while Texas

Thompson--who's mebby morbid about his wife down in Laredo demandin'

she be divorced that time--although he picks up his hand in a fracas,

ready an' irritable an' with no delays, after all is that well-balanced

he's bound to be each time plumb right.

"Which, you observes, son, from these yere settin's forth, that thar's

a mighty sight of difference between gents like them pards of mine an'

degen'rates of the tribe of Silver Phil. It's the difference between

right an' wrong; one works from a impulse of pure jestice, the other is

moved of a sperit of crime; an' thar you be.

"Silver Phil, we learns later--an' it shore jestifies Peets in his

theories about him bein' a degen'rate--has been in plenty of blood.

But allers like a cat; savage, gore-thirsty, yet shy, prideless, an'

ready to fly. It seems he begins to be homicidal in a humble way by

downin' a trooper over near Fort Cummings. That's four years before he

visits us. He's been blazin' away intermittent ever since, and allers

crooel, crafty an' safe. It's got to be a shore thing or Silver Phil

quits an' goes into the water like a mink.

"This yere ondersized miscreant ain't ha'nted about Wolfville more'n

four days before he shows how onnecessary he is to our success. Which

he works a ha'r copper on Cherokee Hall. What's a ha'r copper? I'll

onfold, short and terse, what Silver Phil does, an' then you saveys.

Cherokee's dealin' his game--farobank she is; an' if all them national

banks conducts themse'fs as squar' as that enterprise of Cherokee's,

the fields of finance would be as safely honest as a church.

Cherokee's turnin' his game one evenin'; Faro Nell on the lookout stool

where she belongs. Silver Phil drifts up to the lay-out, an' camps

over back of the king-end. He gets chips, an' goes to takin' chances

alternate on the king, queen, jack, ten; all side an' side they be.

Cherokee bein' squar' himse'f ain't over-prone to expect a devious play

in others. He don't notice this Silver Phil none speshul, an' shoves

the kyards.

"Silver Phil wins three or four bets; it's Nell that catches on to his

racket, an' signs up to Cherokee onder the table with her little foot.

One glance an' Cherokee is loaded with information. This Silver Phil,

it seems, in a sperit of avarice, equips himse'f with a copper--little

wooden checker, is what this copper is--one he's done filched from

Cherokee the day prior. He's fastened a long black hoss-ha'r to it,

an' he ties the other end of the hoss-ha'r to his belt in front. This

ha'r is long enough as he's planted at the table that a-way, so it

reaches nice to them four nearest kyards,--the king, queen, jack, ten.

An' said ha'r is plumb invisible except to eyes as sharp as Faro

Nell's. The deceitful Silver Phil will have a stack on one of 'em,

coppered with this yere ha'r copper. He watches the box. As the turns

is made, if the kyards come his way, well an' good. Silver Phil does

nothin' but garners in results. When the kyards start to show ag'in

him, however, that's different. In sech events Silver Phil draws in

his breath, sort o' takin' in on the hoss-ha'r, an' the copper comes

off the bet. When the turn is made, thar's Silver Phil's bet--by

virchoo of said fraud--open an' triumphant an' waitin' to be paid.

"Cherokee gets posted quick an with a look. As sharp as winkin'

Cherokee has a nine-inch bowie in his hand an' with one slash cuts the

hoss-ha'r clost up by Silver Phil's belt.

"'That's a yoonique invention!" observes Cherokee, an' he's sarcastic

while he menaces with the knife at Silver Phil; 'that contraption is

shorely plenty sagacious! But it don't go here. Shove in your chips.'

Silver Phil obeys: an' he shows furtive, ugly, an' alarmed, an' all of

'em at once. He don't say a word. 'Now pull your freight,' concloods

Cherokee. 'If you ever drifts within ten foot of a game of mine ag'in

I'll throw this knife plumb through you--through an' through.' An'

Cherokee, by way of lustration lets fly the knife across the bar-room.

It comes like a flash.

"'Chuck!'

"Thar's a picture paper pasted onto the wooden wall of the Red Light,

displayin' the liniaments of some party. That bowie pierces the

picture--a shot in the cross it is--an' all with sech fervour that the

p'int of the blade shows a inch an' a half on the other side of that

individyool board.

"'The next time I throws a knife in your presence,' remarks Cherokee to

Silver Phil, an' Cherokee's as cold an' p'isonous as a rattlesnake,

'it'll be la'nched at you.'

"Silver Phil don't say nothin' in retort. He's aware by the lib'ral

way Cherokee sep'rates himse'f from the bowie that said weepon can't

constitoote Cherokee's entire armament. An' as Silver Phil don't pack

the sperit to face no sech flashlight warrior, he acts on Cherokee's

hint to _vamos_, an fades into the street. Shore, Cherokee don't cash

the felon's chips none; he confiscates 'em. Cherokee ain't quite so

tenderly romantic as to make good to a detected robber. Moreover, he

lets this Silver Phil go onharmed when by every roole his skelp is

forfeit. It turns out good for the camp, however, as this yere

experience proves so depressin' to Silver Phil he removes his blankets

to Red Dog. Thar among them purblind tarrapins, its inhabitants, it's

likely he gets prosperous an' ondetected action on that little old ha'r

copper of his.

"It's not only my beliefs, but likewise the opinions of sech joodicial

sports as Enright, Peets, an' Colonel Sterett, that this maverick,

Silver Phil, is all sorts of a crim'nal. An' I wouldn't wonder if he's

a pure rustler that a-way; as ready to stand up a stage as snake a play

at farobank. This idee settles down on the Wolfville intell'gence on

the heels of a vicissitoode wherein Dan Boggs performs, an' which gets

pulled off over in the Bird Cage Op'ry House. Jack Moore ain't thar

none that time. Usual, Jack is a constant deevotee of the dramy.

Jack's not only a first-nighter, he comes mighty clost to bein' a

every-nighter. But this partic'lar evenin' when Boggs performs, Jack's

rummagin' about some'ers else.

"If Jack's thar, it's even money he'd a-had that second shot instead of

Boggs; in which event, the results might have been something graver

than this yere minoote wound which Boggs confers. I'm confident Jack

would have cut in with the second shot for sech is his offishul system.

Jack more'n once proclaims his position.

"'By every roole of law,' says Jack at epocks when he declar's himse'f,

'an' on all o'casions, I, as kettle-tender to the Stranglers, is

entitled to the first shot. When I uses the term 'o'casion,' I would

be onderstood as alloodin' to affairs of a simply social kind, an' not

to robberies, hold-ups, hoss-larcenies, an' other an' sim'lar

transactions in spec'latif crime when every gent defends his own.

Speakin' social, however, I reasserts that by every roole of guidance,

I'm entitled to the first shot. Which a doo regyard for these plain

rights of mine would go far to freein' Wolfville upper circles of the

bullets which occurs from time to time, an' which even the most

onconventional admits is shore a draw-back. All I can add as a

closer,' concloods Jack, 'is that I'll make haste to open on any sport

who transgresses these fiats an' goes to shootin' first. Moreover,

it's likely that said offender finds that when I'm started once, what I

misses in the orig'nal deal I'll make up in the draw, an' I tharfore

trusts that none will prove so sooicidal as to put me to the test.'

"This Bird Cage Op'ry House evenin', however, Jack is absent a heap.

Dan Boggs is present, an' is leanin' back appreciatin' the show an' the

Valley Tan plenty impartial. Dan likes both an' is doin' 'em even

jestice. Over opp'site to Dan is a drunken passel of sports from Red

Dog, said wretched hamlet bein' behind Wolfville in that as in all

things else an' not ownin' no op'ry house.

"As the evenin' proceeds--it's about sixth drink time--a casyooal gun

goes off over among the Red Dog outfit, an' the lead tharfrom bores a

hole in the wall clost to Dan's y'ear. Nacherally Dan don't like it.

The show sort o' comes to a balk, an' takin' advantages of the lull Dan

arises in a listless way an' addresses the Red Dogs.

"'I merely desires to inquire,' says Dan 'whether that shot is

inadvertent; or is it a mark of innocent joobilation an' approval of

the show; or is it meant personal to me?'

"'You can bet your moccasins!' shouts one of the Red Dog delegation,

'thar's no good fellowship with that gun-play. That shot's formal an'

serious an' goes as it lays.'

"'My mind bein' now cl'ar on the subject of motive,' says Dan; 'the

proper course is plain.'"

With this retort Dan slams away gen'ral--shoots into the flock like--at

the picnickers from Red Dog, an' a party who's plenty drunk an' has his

feet piled up on a table goes shy his off big toe.

"As I remarks yeretofore it's as well Jack Moore ain't thar. Jack

would have corralled something more momentous than a toe. Which Jack

would have been shootin' in his capac'ty as marshal, an' couldn't onder

sech circumstances have stooped to toes. But it's different with Dan.

He is present private an' only idlin' 'round; an' he ain't driven to

take high ground. More partic'lar since Dan's playin' a return game in

the nacher of reproofs an' merely to resent the onlicensed liberties

which Red Dog takes with him, Dan, as I says, is free to accept toes if

he so decides.

"When Dan busts this yere inebriate, the victim lams loose a yell

ag'inst which a coyote would protest. That sot thinks he's shore

killed. What with the scare an' the pain an' the nosepaint, an'

regyardin' of himse'f as right then flutterin' about the rim of

eternity, he gets seized with remorse an' allows he's out to confess

his sins before he quits. As thar's no sky pilot to confide in, this

drunkard figgers that Peets 'll do, an' with that he onloads on Peets

how, bein' as he is a stage book-keep over in Red Dog, he's in cahoots

with a outfit of route agents an' gives 'em the word when it's worth

while to stand-up the stage. An' among other crim'nal pards of his

this terrified person names that outlaw Silver Phil. Shore, when he

rounds to an' learns it ain't nothin' but a toe, this party's chagrined

to death.

"This yere confidin' sport's arrested an' taken some'ers--Prescott

mebby--to be tried in a shore-enough co't for the robberies; the Red

Dog Stranglers not bein' game to butt in an' hang him a lot themse'fs.

They surrenders him to the marshal who rides over for him; an' they

would have turned out Silver Phil, too, only that small black outcast

don't wait, but goes squanderin' off to onknown climes the moment he

hears the news. He's vamoosed Red Dog before this penitent bookkeep

ceases yelpin' an' sobbin' over his absent toe.

"It ain't no time, however, before we hears further of Silver Phil;

that is, by way of roomer. It looks like a couple of big cow outfits

some'ers in the San Simon country--they're the 'Three-D' an' the

'K-in-a-box' brands--takes first to stealin' each, other's cattle, an',

final, goes to war. Each side retains bands of murderers an' proceeds

buoyantly to lay for one another. Which Silver Phil enlists with the

'Three-D' an' sneaks an' prowls an' bushwhacks an' shoots himse'f into

more or less bloody an' ignoble prom'nence. At last the main

war-chiefs of the Territory declar's themse'fs in on the riot an'

chases both sides into the hills; an' among other excellent deeds they

makes captive Silver Phil.

"It's a great error they don't string this Silver Phil instanter. But

no; after the procrastinatin' fashion of real law, they permits the

villain--who's no more use on the surface of Arizona that a-way than

one of them hydrophoby polecats whose bite is death--to get a law sharp

to plead an' call for a show-down before a jedge an' jury. It takes

days to try Silver Phil, an' marshals an' sheriff gents is two weeks

squanderin' about gettin' witnesses; an' all to as much trouble an'

loss of time an' dinero as would suffice to round-up the cattle of

Cochise county. Enright an' the Stranglers would have turned the

trick in twenty minutes an' never left the New York Store ontil with

Silver Phil an' a lariat they reepairs to the windmill to put the

finishin' touches on their lucoobrations.

"Still, dooms slow an' shiftless as they shore be, at the wind-up

Silver Phil's found guilty, an' is put in nom'nation by the presidin'

alcade to be hanged; the time bein' set in a crazy-hoss fashion for a

month away. As Silver Phil--which he's that bad an' hard he comes

mighty clost to bein; game--is leavin' the co't-room with the marshal

who's ridin' herd on him, he says:

"'I ain't payin' much attention at the time,'--Silver Phil's talkin' to

that marshal gent,--'bein' I'm thinkin' of something else, but do I

onderstand that old grey sport on the bench to say you-all is to hang

me next month?'

"'That's whatever!' assents this marshal gent, 'an' you can gamble a

bloo stack that hangin' you is a bet we ain't none likely to overlook.

Which we're out to put our whole grateful souls into the dooty.'

"'Now I thinks of it,' observes Silver Phil, 'I'm some averse to bein'

hanged. I reckons, speakin' free an' free as between fellow sports,

that in order for that execootion to be a blindin' success I'll have to

be thar personal?'

"'It's one of the mighty few o'casions,' responds the marshal, 'when

your absence would shorely dash an' damp the gen'ral joy. As you says,

you'll have to be thar a heap personal when said hangin' occurs.'

"'I'm mighty sorry,' says Silver Phil, 'that you-all lays out your game

in a fashion that so much depends on me. The more so, since the longer

I considers this racket, the less likely it is I'll be thar. It's

almost a cinch, with the plans I has, that I'll shore be some'ers else.'

"They corrals Silver Phil in the one big upper room of a two-story

'doby, an' counts off a couple of dep'ty marshals to gyard him. These

gyards, comin' squar' down to cases, ain't no improvement, moral, on

Silver Phil himse'f; an' since they're twice his age--Silver Phil not

bein' more'n twenty--it's safe as a play to say that both of 'em

oughter have been hanged a heap before ever Silver Phil is born. These

two hold-ups, however, turns dep'ty marshals in their old age, an' is

put in to stand watch an' watch an' see that Silver Phil don't work

loose from his hobbles an' go pirootin' off ag'in into parts onknown.

Silver Phil is loaded with fetters,--handcuffs an' laig-locks both--an'

these hold-up sentries is armed to the limit.

"It's the idee of Doc Peets later, when he hears the details, that if

the gyards that time treats Silver Phil with kindness, the little felon

most likely would have remained to be hanged. But they don't: they

abooses Silver Phil; cussin' him out an' herdin' him about like he's

cattle. They're a evil-tempered couple, them dep'ties, an' they don't

give Silver Phil no sort o' peace.

"'As I su'gests yeretofore,' says Doc Peets, when he considers the

case, 'this Silver Phil is a degen'rate. He's like a anamile. He

don't entertain no reg'lar scheme to work free when he waxes sardonic

with the marshal; that's only a bluff. Later, when them gyards takes

to maltreatin' him an' battin' him about, it wakes up the venom in him,

an' his cunnin' gets aroused along with his appetite for revenge.'

"This Silver Phil, who's lean an' slim like I explains at the jump, has

hands no bigger than a cat's paws. It ain't no time when he discovers

that by cuttin' himse'f a bit on the irons, he can shuck the handcuffs

whenever he's disposed. Even then, he don't outline no campaign for

liberty; jest sort o' roominates an' waits.

"It's one partic'lar mornin', some two weeks after Silver Phil's

sentenced that a-way. The marshal gent himse'f ain't about, bein' on

some dooty over to Tucson. Silver Phil is upsta'rs on the top floor of

the 'doby with his gyards. Which he's hotter than a wildcat; the

gyards an' him has been havin' a cussin' match, an' as Silver Phil

outplays 'em talkin', one of 'em's done whacked him over the skelp with

his gun. The blood's tricklin' down Silver Phil's fore'erd as he sits

glowerin'.

"One of the gyards is loadin' a ten-gauge Greener--a whole mouthful of

buckshot in each shell. He's grinnin' at Silver Phil as he shoves the

shells in the gun an' slams her shet.

"'Which I'm loadin' that weepon for you,' says the gyard, contemplatin'

Silver Phil derisive.

"'You be, be you!' replies Silver Phil, his eyes burnin' with rage.

'Which you better look out a whole lot; you-all may get it yourse'f.'

"The gyard laughs ugly an' exasperatin' an' puts the ten-gauge in a

locker along with two or three Winchesters. Then he turns the key on

the firearms an' goes caperin' off to his feed.

"The other gyard, his _compadre_, is settin' on a stool lookin' out a

window. Mebby he's considerin' of his sins. It would be more in his

hand at this time if he thinks of Silver Phil.

"Silver Phil, who's full of wrath at the taunts of the departed gyard,

slips his hands free of the irons. Most of the hide on his wrists

comes with 'em, but Silver Phil don't care. The gyard's back is to him

as that gent sits gazin' out an' off along the dusty trail where it

winds gray an' hot toward Tucson. Silver Phil organises, stealthy an'

cat-cautious; he's out for the gyard's gun as it hangs from his belt,

the butt all temptin' an' su'gestive.

"As Silver Phil makes his first move the laig-locks clanks. It ain't

louder than the jingle of a brace of copper _centouse_ knockin'

together. It's enough, however; it strikes on the y'ear of that

thoughtful gyard like the roar of a '44. He emerges from his reverie

with a start; the play comes cl'ar as noonday to him in a moment.

"The gyard leaps, without even lookin' 'round, to free himse'f from the

clutch of Silver Phil. Which he's the splinter of a second too late.

Silver Phil makes a spring like a mountain lion, laig-locks an' all,

an' grabs the gun. As the gyard goes clatterin' down sta'rs. Silver

Phil pumps two loads into him an' curls him up at the foot. Then

Silver Phil hurls the six-shooter at him with a volley of mal'dictions.

"Without pausin' a moment, Silver Phil grabs the stool an' smashes to

flinders the locker that holds the 10-gauge Greener. He ain't forgot

none; an' he's fair locoed to get that partic'lar weepon for the other

gyard. He rips it from the rack an' shows at the window as his prey

comes runnin' to the rescoo of his pard:

"'Oh, you! Virg Sanders!' yells Silver Phil.

"The second gyard looks up; an' as he does, Silver Phil gives him both

bar'ls. Forty-two buckshot; an' that gyard's so clost he stops 'em

all! As he lays dead, Silver Phil breaks the Greener in two, an'

throws, one after the other, stock an' bar'l at him.

"'Which I'll show you-all what happens when folks loads a gun for me!'

says Silver Phil.

"Nacherally, this artillery practice turns out the entire plaza. The

folks is standin' about the 'doby which confines Silver Phil, wonderin'

whatever that enthoosiast's goin' to do next. No, they don't come

after him, an' I'll tell you why. Shore, thar's twenty gents lookin'

on, any one of whom, so far as personal apprehensions is involved,

would trail Silver Phil single-handed into a wolf's den. Which he'd

feel plumb confident he gets away with Silver Phil an' the wolves

thrown in to even up the odds. Still, no one stretches forth to

capture Silver Phil on this yere voylent o'casion. An' these is the

reasons. Thar's no reg'lar offishul present whose dooty it is to rope

up this Silver Phil. If sech had chanced to be thar, you can put down

a stack he'd come a-runnin', an' him or Silver Phil would have caught

up with the two gyards on their journey into the beyond. But when it

gets down to private people volunteerin' for dooty as marshals, folks

in the Southwest goes some slothful to work. Thar's the friends of the

accoosed--an' as a roole he ain't none friendless--who would mighty

likely resent sech zeal. Also, in the case of Silver Phil, his

captivity grows out of a cattle war. One third the public so far as it

stands about the 'doby where Silver Phil is hived that time is

'Three-D' adherents, mebby another third is 'K-in-a-box' folks, while

the last third is mighty likely nootral. Whichever way it breaks,

however, thar's a tacit stand-off, an' never a sport of 'em lifts a

finger or voice to head off Silver Phil.

"'Which she's the inalien'ble right of Americans onder the

constitootion to escape with every chance they gets,' says one.

"'That's whatever!' coincides his pard; 'an' moreover this ain't our

round-up nohow.'

"It's in that fashion these private citizens adjusts their dooty to the

state while pausin' to look on, in a sperit of cur'osity while Silver

Phil makes his next play.

"They don't wait long. Silver Phil comes out on the roof of a stoop in

front. He's got a Winchester by now, an' promptly throws the muzzle

tharof on a leadin' citizen. Silver Phil allows he'll plug this

dignitary if they don't send up a sport with a file to cut loose the

laig-locks. Tharupon the pop'lace, full of a warm interest by this

time, does better. They gropes about in the war-bags of the Virg

Sanders sharp who stops the buckshot an' gets his keys; a moment after,

Silver Phil is free.

"Still, this ontirin' hold-up goes on menacin' the leadin' citizen as

former. Which now Silver Phil demands a bronco, bridled an' saddled.

He gives the public ten minutes; if the bronco is absent at the end of

ten minutes Silver Phil allows he'll introdooce about a pound of lead

into where that village father does his cogitating. The bronco appears

with six minutes to spar'. As it arrives, the vivacious Silver Phil

jumps off the roof of the stoop--the same bein' low--an' is in the

saddle an' out o' sight while as practised a hand as Huggins is pourin'

out a drink. Where the trail bends 'round a mesa Silver Phil pulls up.

"'Whoop! whoop! whoopee! for Silver Phil,' he shouts.

"Then he waves the Winchester, an' as he spurs 'round the corner of the

hill it's the last that spellbound outfit ever sees of Silver Phil.

"Nacherally now," remarked my old friend, as he refreshed himself with

a mouthful of scotch, "you-all is waitin' an' tryin' to guess wherever

does Dan Boggs get in on this yere deal. An' it won't take no time to

post you; the same bein' a comfort.

"Not one word do we-all wolves of Wolfville hear of the divertin'

adventures of Silver Phil--shootin' up his gyards an' fetchin' himse'f

free--ontil days after. No one in camp has got Silver Phil on his mind

at all; at least if he has he deems him safe an' shore in hock,

a-waitin' to be stretched. Considerin' what follows, I never

experiences trouble in adoptin' Doc Peets' argyments that the eepisodes

wherein this onhappy Silver Phil figgers sort o' aggravates his

intellects ontil he's locoed.

"'Bein' this Silver Phil's a degen'rate,' declar's Peets, explanatory,

'he's easy an' soon to loco. His mind as well as his moral nacher is

onbalanced congenital. Any triflin' jolt, much less than what that

Silver Phil runs up on, an' his fretful wits is shore to leave the

saddle.

"Now that Silver Phil's free, but loonatic like Peets says, an' doubly

vicious by them tantalisin' gyards, it looks like he thinks of nothin'

but wreckin' reprisals on all who's crossed his trail. An' so with

vengeance eatin' at his crim'nal heart he p'ints that bronco's muzzle

straight as a bird flies for Wolfville. Whoever do you-all reckon now

he wants? Cherokee Hall? Son, you've followed off the wrong waggon

track. Silver Phil--imagine the turpitoode of sech a ornery

wretch!--is out for the lovely skelp of Faro Nell who detects him in

his ha'r-copper frauds that time.

"Which the first intimations we has of Silver Phil after that escape,

is one evenin' about fifth drink time--or as you-all says 'four

o'clock.' The sun's still hot an' high over in the west. Thar's no

game goin'; but bein' it's as convenient thar as elsewhere an' some

cooler, Cherokee's settin' back of his layout with Faro Nell as usual

on her lookout perch. Dan Boggs is across the street in the dancehall

door, an' his pet best bronco is waitin' saddled in front. Hot an'

drowsy; the street save for these is deserted.

"It all takes place in a moment. Thar's a clattering rush; an' then,

pony a-muck with sweat an' alkali dust, Silver Phil shows in the

portals of the Red Light. Thar's a flash an' a spit of white smoke as

he fires his six-shooter straight at Faro Nell.

"Silver Phil is quick, but Cherokee is quicker. Cherokee sweeps Faro

Nell from her stool with one motion of his arm an' the bullet that's

searchin' for her lifts Cherokee's ha'r a trifle where he 'most gets

his head in its way.

"Ondoubted, this Silver Phil allows he c'llects on Faro Nell as

planned. He don't shoot twice, an' he don't tarry none, but wheels his

wearied pony, gives a yell, an' goes surgin' off.

"But Silver Phil's got down to the turn of that evil deal of his

existence. He ain't two hundred yards when Dan Boggs is in the saddle

an' ridin' hard. Dan's bronco runs three foot for every one of the

pony of Silver Phil's; which that beaten an' broken cayouse is eighty

miles from his last mouthful of grass.

"As Dan begins to crowd him, Silver Phil turns in the saddle an'

shoots. The lead goes 'way off yonder--wild. Dan, grim an' silent,

rides on without returnin' the fire.

"'Which I wouldn't dishonour them guns of mine,' says Dan, explainin'

later the pheenomenon of him not shootin' none, 'which I wouldn't

dishonour them guns by usin' 'em on varmints like this yere Silver

Phil.'

"As Silver Phil reorganises for a second shot his bronco stumbles.

Silver Phil pitches from the saddle an' strikes the grass to one side.

As he half rises, Dan lowers on him like the swoop of a hawk. It's as

though Dan's goin' to snatch a handkerchief from the ground.

"As Dan flashes by, he swings low from the saddle an' his right hand

takes a troo full grip on that outlaw's shoulder. Dan has the thews

an' muscles of a cinnamon b'ar, an' Silver Phil is only a scrap of a

man. As Dan straightens up in the stirrups, he heaves this Silver Phil

on high to the length of his long arm; an' then he dashes him ag'inst

the flint-hard earth; which the manoover--we-all witnesses it from

mebby a quarter of a mile--which the manoover that a-way is shore

remorseless! This Silver Phil is nothin' but shattered bones an'

bleedin' pulp. He strikes the plains like he's crime from the clouds

an' is dead without a quiver.

"'Bury him? No!' says Old Man Enright to Dave Tutt who asks the

question. 'Let him find his bed where he falls.

"While Enright speaks, an' as Dan rides up to us at the Red Light, a

prompt raven drops down over where this Silver Phil is layin'. Then

another raven an' another--black an' wide of wing--comes floatin' down.

A coyote yells--first with the short, sharp yelp, an' then with that

multiplied patter of laughter like forty wolves at once. That daylight

howl of the coyote alters tells of a death. Shore raven an' wolf is

gatherin'. As Enright says: 'This yere Silver Phil ain't likely to be

lonesome none to-night.'

"'Did you kill him, Dan?' asks Faro Nell.

"'Why, no, Nellie,' replies Dan, as he steps outen the stirrups an'

beams on Faro Nell. She's still a bit onstrung, bein' only a little

girl when all is said. 'Why, no, Nellie; I don't kill him speecific as

Wolfville onderstands the word; but I dismisses him so effectual the

kyard shore falls the same for Silver Phil.'"