As the party entered, every one of the men who had been playing cards
stood up, and it did not require a whispered command from Shoshone Pete
to make them remove their hats.
They all stood in line with their hats in their hands and bowing low
and respectfully as Snakes directed them to the stairway, following
them himself obsequiously, for Muriel’s commanding presence, and Dora’s
touching beauty, completely overpowered him. As they neared the stairs,
Dora turned to the three men standing in a line, asking:
“Have you seen Bennie? He’s been gone away so long. Have any of you
seen him?”
John drew Dora along unresistingly, as she was gentle and obedient, and
they went up the rickety stairs with Duffy.
“Poor little gal!” said Shoshone Pete, with a suspicious moisture
in his eyes. “She is away off. Let’s keep quiet, boys; for even the
Indians hold such as she sacred.”
This was a tense moment for the three men. They silently gathered
up the cards, and were about to leave the place, when there was a
well-known shout, outside, of: “Who-hoo! Hallo!”
“It’s the Angel!” cried Shoshone, while the three began to dust their
boots rapidly with their wide sombreros, and then they all awaited her
arrival.
Helen Pierson it was, who now made her appearance with a lithe and
active bound down from the rocks beyond. She wore a short corduroy
skirt, leather leggings, a wide sombrero, and had around her waist a
cartridge-belt with a pistol, and in her hand she carried a small, but
deadly, repeating-rifle.
How different she was from the poor, besotted wretch whom Morris
Goldberg had taught that it is never too late to mend, and had
sent West to begin life over again. Now her eyes were bright, her
cheeks red, and health spoke in every motion. All the boys stood at
“attention,” smiling broadly, and waiting for her to speak. This she
did, saying, blithely:
“Well; here I am, safe and sound as a dollar. Hello, Shoshone! Howdy,
Dan! Hello, Mike! My! that was a long trip in a short time.”
“Here, here! No fair, Angel, no fair!” cried Snakes Duffy, who had
returned just then.
“Why, what’s wrong, Snakes?” asked Helen.
“You never said ‘Hello’ to me.”
“Oh, excuse me. How are you, Mr. Snakes Duffy?” said Helen, with an
elaborate bow, while all the rest laughed.
“I’m tip-top, Angel. How’s Silver Bill’s folks?”
“All right. Getting along fine,” replied she, waiting a little
maliciously for one of them to ask the question she knew they were
aching to have answered.
“Boys,” said Shoshone, gathering the three all in one group, and
whispering something to them, whereat Dan shook his head, while Snakes
and Mike turned their backs, and Mike said:
“It’s up to you, Shoshone.”
This gentleman then put his sombrero on his head, simply to call
attention by a wide flourish of his arm to the fact that he took it off
to the Angel, and then opened his mouth, to find that words would not
come. Helen smiled at his embarrassment and asked, innocently:
“Well, what is it, Shoshone?”
With a hoarse croak, meant to be a persuasive accent, Shoshone asked,
stammering sheepishly:
“Boy or gal, ma’am?”
“Both!” replied Helen, gravely, while Shoshone slapped his leg with the
hat, shouting:
“By the howlin’ coyote, boys, it’s twins! Now ain’t that Silver Bill
the luckiest cuss! A wife like a mountain-pink, and now twins! Just
think!”
Helen turned to Snakes, saying:
“Snakes, may I have a bite to eat before I go to my shack? I’m too
tired to do anything but go to sleep.”
“_May_ she have a bite to eat, boys? _May_ she? Listen to that!”
“She may. She may have all that’s in the house if she likes, eh, boys?”
said Shoshone, fervently.
“That’s what!” said Dan, emphatically.
“Sure thing!” said Mike, with a clear determination written on every
line of his rugged face, to frighten anyone or anything that might
hinder Helen from having any and everything she wanted.
“I’m going to be waiter,” said Shoshone, starting toward the
dining-room.
“You are going to play hob, you are,” said Mike, laughingly pushing
Shoshone back, while Mike and Snakes engaged in mimic battle for the
privilege of waiting upon “the Angel,” and finally dodged out the
bar-room door to reach the dining-room first. Helen stood for a moment
looking up to the great mountains beyond, with misty eyes, as she
thought, as she did every hour of her life:
“How I thank God that He let me live to find out it is never too late
to mend.”
Then she turned and went into the dining-room, where the four men
pressed her to eat until she declared she should never be hungry again
as long as she lived.
While they were in the dining-room, and Pierson and his party were
upstairs, there came toiling up the street a curious procession,
consisting of a bony horse covered with impedimenta, among which was
seated a slender, pale-faced boy. The horse was partly led, partly
dragged, by Morris Goldberg, himself dusty and unkempt.
His search had been long and wearisome, and it had exhausted nearly all
his funds, but he found a trace of the lost girl, and had followed it
as best he could, bringing with him the little boy, Loney.
Sometimes, when his money was completely gone, he would stop a few days
in a town and go to work mending such shoes as he could get to do, and
in that way they had managed to exist. Now, they had reached this spot,
and here Morris intended to remain while he sought for the mine, the
deed to which was in his possession.
There had been next to no vegetation on the last lap of this lonely
road, and the poor beast was ready to drop.
Morris Goldberg was out of his element in the mines, or, indeed,
anywhere but in a city. He was too credulous and too ignorant of the
way of life, and accepted all that was told him as truth. The cowboys
and miners living so far from refined amusements found a sort of
vicarious solace in “joshing greenhorns,” as they called it, and this
meant that every newcomer was the butt of their rough jokes and rougher
horse-play.
The way to this lonely hamlet was long, and bordered by ranges and
mines, and the men along the route had made him believe that unless
he wished to be killed as a tenderfoot he must dress and act like a
cowboy. At their last stopping-place the boys on a ranch joined in
the fun, and fitted the poor shoemaker out with a pair of long-haired
“chaps,” or leggings, and these they made him put on the wrong way.
This made locomotion difficult and awkward. He was prevailed upon to
wear a wide belt with four pistols. These the boys took good care to
see were loaded with blank cartridges.
Then the unsuspecting man was filled with stories of the dangerous
location toward which he was traveling, and had impressed upon him that
he must be always ready with his gun, and always try to shoot first, if
any trouble arose.
Shrewd and clever as the shoemaker was in a city, dealing with his
customers, here he was nearly as helpless as little Loney. Yet he
had managed to reach thus far. He had seen and heard enough of the
high-sounding talk of the cowboys and miners, as they came into towns,
and promptly began imbibing the fiery liquor handed them, not to have
learned something of it, and he decided to call himself Wild Bill, the
Bull-man. He would not demean himself to call himself a cowboy. Not he.
He hoped to strike terror into the hearts of any vicious characters
with whom he might come in contact.
As the man, boy and horse reached the rail and post set aside for the
convenience of riders to tie their horses, Morris lifted the boy out
from among the pots, pans, tent, and shoemaker’s kit, and stood the
weary little fellow down on his wavering legs. As the horse began to
nose about, looking for some sign of grass or other food, one could see
a sign attached to his tail, the only available place left after all
other things were packed on, to notify everybody that this outfit was
that of “Morris Goldberg, shoemaker.”
There was no one in sight, all the men being in the dining-room with
Helen, and Pierson’s party upstairs. Loney looked about, and read:
“Dead Man’s Gulch Saloon.”
“Vell, it is a goot place to come, Loney. It is Dead Man’s Gulch, and
dot’s me. I am so nearly deat dot I can hartly hear mine own voice.”
“I’m glad we’ve come to some place. I’m awful hungry, and I guess Jake
is hungry, too.”
“Ve vill get somedings soon, Loney. Und dot horse! Vot kint of a horse
are you, anyway? You vant to eat all de time. Don’t I feed you und
now you are not carrying me, und I pull you up de hills. You are vort
nodings. If I vos to sell you, I vould git nodings but de price of de
shoes--for olt iron. But nefer mind, Jake, I vill not see you starf.
Now, here is de last bag of oats. Eat ’em und be happy. You’re a pretty
goot fellow, after all, und if you die I vill make your hide into de
shoes you haf maket me vore out pulling you along. Come away, Loney;
meppe he vill fall ofer on you.”
“Oh, he is only tired, and I guess horses need more oats and grass
than we think. But why do you wear so many pistols, Mr. Goldberg?”
“Hush! Vot dit I told you about calling me dot name? I am Vilt Bill, de
Bull-man, now. Hafen’t I told you dot ve are now in de Vest, among de
bad mens und I must be a bad mans, too? Now, Jake, don’t you eat any
more dust. If you do, und drink vater on top of it, your name vill be
mud.”
“Aren’t you sorry you brought me along to look for Dora, Mr. Gold----,
I mean Wild Bill, the Bull-man? I’m a lot of trouble, ain’t I?”
“Drouble nodings! You are a fool. You are vorking for me, und you don’t
know it. Do you t’ink I vould let you stay dere alone in New York to
starf? No, sir! I vould not let Somolus Levinsky get from me mine
errant-boy. Not since I dit loset mein Dora. I must haf some chilt
arount me, or I shall go grazy. Dere! dere! dake de hoss out dere und
find him some grass or someding. You must vork und earn your vages.”
“All right, Mr. Wild Bill,” said Loney, smiling, for he knew well that
the shoemaker would not starve or overwork man or beast.
While the child was leading the weary horse toward a trough which
received its water from far up the mountains, a tall Indian, in full
chief’s dress--feathers and all--stood on the edge of the path to the
run. The boy, being on the farther side of the horse, did not see the
Indian, who stood with folded arms looking at the child, then at the
poor horse and lastly at the surprising “get-up” of the shoemaker.
The latter looked at his leggings and belt with pardonable pride, then
felt of his four pistols, one by one, and, wishing to keep up the
delusion of his own greatness, he strutted about a little, at the same
time saying:
“I shall see if I can remember de vay to shout. Ee--you! I am de Vilt
Bill, de Bull-man. I am de pest shoemaker--na--na--dot is not it. I am
de rink-tail squealer of de cook-stofe--no, I mean range. I am de----”
Here the “bad man” happened to get a view of Red Eagle, the Indian,
which at first paralyzed him. Then he rallied and drew one of his
pistols and, with the bravery of a “well-heeled” man, he took a step
forward, saying, with growing courage:
“Dot is Hiawatha. Gif me a pack of cigarroots.”
As he said this, Morris held out his hand, whereat the Indian held out
his own hand, saying, in a guttural voice:
“Ugh!”
“Vot’s dot?” asked the bad man.
“Ugh!” repeated the Indian.
“Is dot a man or a cow? Vot for a kind of talk is dot?”
“Ugh, ugh, ugh!” was the Indian’s reply.
“Vere is your pain, mein friend?”
“Got no pain--want firewater,” said the Indian, stolidly.
“Vell, vot do you t’ink of dot?” said Morris aloud, “vanting fire und
vater hot, togedder.”
The noble redman then pointed to the formidable array of pistols and
said, solemnly:
“Ugh! pale-face heap big chief. Give Injun tobac.”
“I vill gif you nodings. Go to your own cigar-store und get it.”
The big Indian must have had a fine sense of humor, as he said,
pointing to the bony horse that was drinking as if he would never stop,
with a majestic wave of his hand:
“Big chief got fast horse.”
“Fast! I dink so. He didn’t eat nodings put dust for two veeks--only a
little oatses, und stickses, vot dey calls crass out here.”
“Chief better tie horse. He run away.”
“Don’t pe afrait. You vant to puy him?”
“Injun no buy horse. Injun got fast ponies. No can beat.”
“Mein horse is fast, too--ven he is tied to de ground.”
“Injun race ponies ’gainst horse for firewater and tobac.”
“No, sir!” said Morris, grandly. “I don’t vant to rob you. Mein horse
is faster as a railroad train--on a siding.”
“Injun race ponies ’gainst horse,” replied the Indian, stolidly.
“Vot kind of a bet you make?” said Morris.
“Bet firewater and tobac.”
“I’ll do it. I bet on your ponies und you bet on mein horse.”
“Injun no bet so. Chief got many pistols. Chief good shot?”
“Am I a goot shoots? I should say I vos a goot shoots. I am de pest
shooter on de stofe--I mean range. Mit dis son of a gun I”--but “Wild
Bill” did not finish that sentence, as the pistol which he held loosely
in his left hand went off unexpectedly, which so startled him that he
jumped backward trembling.
At this stage of the proceedings, the four men with Helen returned to
the bar-room and, seeing the latter part of this affair from the door,
gave Helen a chance to throw a bird that she had shot on her way over
the range, so that it fell at his feet, and then she drew back out of
sight. The shoemaker saw the bird fall at his feet and, picking it up,
said proudly:
“Am I a shootser? Vell, look out for your selluf. Dot tells de story.”
And then he began to strut about grandly.
The men looked out, tiptoeing to the door, Shoshone saying:
“Wait, boys; take a peek first. It may be Rattlesnake Sam shootin’
things up. He’s been on the rampage lately, and he’s ugly when he gets
started, and we don’t want a noise.”
The Indian still stood in the same place, but bowed ironically several
times, saying:
“Big chief, dead shot. Big chief, dead shot.”
As the four men reached the porch, Shoshone saw that they had gotten
hold of another tenderfoot, and promptly they forgot that there was to
be no noise there that day, for Shoshone said:
“Get ready, boys; now, all at once! He’s mine, for I saw him first.”
All the boys, in chorus, gave their ear-splitting salute of “Ee--you!
Zip,” etc., while the frightened shoemaker held up his shaking left
hand, trying feebly to emit a ferocious cowboy yell, at which Shoshone
Pete broke out laughing and said:
“Why, hello, tenderfoot! What do you want to do? Sell me
that?”--pointing at the shaking pistol.
The shoemaker thought, “How can I shoot him now, when he begins to
talk business?” Then to his tormentor he said: “Who told you dot I haf
tender feet? Dot is right, for I haf got plisters on der heels.”
At this naive confession, all present began to laugh and shout. Dan
came forward, saying, as well as his laughter would let him:
“I say, pardner, what might your name be?”
“It’s--I mean, I am de Vilt Bill, de Bull-man. I am de rink-tailed
squealer from Hoboken, New Jersey. I am de rip-snorting vilt man from
de bad lands, und dis is de time to maket de racket. Quack! quack!
quack!”
The poor man was trying to repeat the lesson given him by the “boys” in
the last town where he had stayed a few days. The boys from Hellandgone
simply hugged each other, to keep from falling, in their paroxysms
of laughter, at the preternatural gravity with which the above
announcement of his pretensions came from the scared shoemaker’s lips.
That he was scared is not a sufficiently strong word for his mental
state.
As he ceased his “cowboy” oration, Shoshone Pete recovered breath
enough to say:
“Rope him, Dan! Rope him! He might get away before he is initiated.”
“Oh, I am a Mason, all right, all right. Und a memper of der Sangerfest
Bunt, und I haf no vish to join any more--no--I haf enough.”
Dan threw the lariat so deftly that it settled down over the poor
shoemaker so that when it was drawn taut his arms were tightly pinioned
to his body.
Just then Loney came back to where this scene was taking place, and he
was frightened so that he could scarcely speak. But he threw himself
upon his knees before the men, imploring with his thin little hands
uplifted, saying:
“Don’t hurt him, please. Don’t hurt him--he is all the friend I’ve got.
And he is so good to me.”
“Hello!” said Shoshone, turning, “who are you?”
“Don’t pe afrait, Loney. Dey are yust having deir leedle fun.
Gentlemen, dot is little Sure-de-shot, de calf-boy.”
This caused another shout of wild laughter, and they dragged Morris
into the saloon, and up to the bar; Loney and Red Eagle, the Indian,
followed--the Indian in the hope of firewater, and the child to try and
protect his benefactor.
“Now,” said Shoshone, loudly, “set ’em up, Snakesy. We’re going to
baptize the baby. Make it whiskey straight, and make it strong.”
“Mein frients, I don’t vant to drink viskey. It goes to mein head und
makes me grazy!”
“Whiskey straight, I said, and whiskey straight it will be! What do you
want for a chaser?”
“Do me de favor und chase me,” groaned the unhappy man.
Snakes placed the glasses before the men. Shoshone pulled his pistol
and, placing it at Morris’ temple, said gruffly:
“Down she goes, or off she blows!”
“All right, down she goes!” said Morris. “Do you t’ink I’m a tam fool?
I needet mein head to talk mit.”
This brought a laugh from all, but Shoshone noticed the child standing
there, pale with fright and perhaps hunger, he thought; so he stopped
what they called “the initiation ceremonies,” to send Loney out to
the dining-room for a dinner at his own expense, at the same time
whispering to Loney that he need not be afraid. They would not hurt his
friend. So Loney half-unwillingly went to the table, where such a meal
as he had not had lately was set before him, and to which he did such
justice as only a hungry boy can.
“Set ’em up again, Snakes; the baby likes his milk. Give Red Eagle a
quart, Snakes.”
Red Eagle took the quart-bottle handed him by Snakes and went to one
corner of the room and sat down with his bottle, from which he took
ecstatic sips.
Then it was Mike’s turn to treat, and he, too, gave Morris the
alternative of drinking or dying. The poor shoemaker drank, but
protested:
“I’m afrait I’ll die if I don’t, und I’m afrait I’ll die if I do--so
here she goes!”
Then he clapped his hands to his breast, saying:
“Oh, I know I vill die. Und I’m not insured. Vot vill Loney do?”
“The drinks are on me, gentlemen,” said Snakes, who knew how to make
himself popular by a great display of generosity.
Morris tried to beg off this time, but to no avail. In their idea of
having fun with a tenderfoot they had no mercy, and the same cold
arguments were placed at his head, while Red Eagle looked at the man
who had to be forced to drink.
The unaccustomed liquor began to overcome the poor shoemaker, taken, as
it had been, upon a very empty stomach. He grew reckless and, drawing
two of his pistols, said, somewhat unsteadily:
“Dot’s not so bad, after all. Maype you fellows take von off me, ain’t
it?”
Then he tried, unsteadily, to point the pistols at the heads of the two
nearest him, while all the men laughed noisily.
“Bully boy!” said Shoshone. “He is beginning to wake up. Set ’em up
again.”
“Yes; set ’em up, Snakes,” said Morris, thickly. “I don’t vant snakes
now, but I’ll get ’em soon enough.”
Dan and Mike had now wearied of the nonsense, and went to the table
farthest from the bar and sat down. Shoshone looked at Morris a moment
and said:
“Say, pardner, you can’t fool me. I know you. Don’t come around here
trying to play the innocent on us. You are Alkali Ike from the Bad
Lands.”
“Alcohol Ike--I don’t----”
“Yes, I remember when you killed those six men, shot a Mexican and
stole their horses and cattle!”
“Oh, yes; oh, yes--oh, vot a liar!”
“Yes, you did--you did--you know you did!”
“Oh, yes,” said Morris, seeing that he was expected to agree to
everything the man said; “but don’t say it so loud. Dem oders might
pelief it.”
“And you know you stole that ranchman’s wife and took her to Cheyenne.”
“I--I--stole a man’s vife. Vich von?”
“Great snakes! Do you mean to say there was another--maybe more. Oh,
my--oh, my!”
“Dit I take her on de cars or on a ship?”
“I don’t know that, but you got there, all right, all right. Say,
pardner, I’ve got a little job on. There’s a geezer upstairs just
loaded with gold, so much that it tires him all over to carry it. I’ve
got a hunch that we could get it all without the least trouble. What
say?”
“Do you mean to rob him?”
“That’s about the size of it!”
“Vell, you can count me out.”
“Ah, bah! you are poor, I can see that; and it’s dead easy----”
“It’s deader easier to be honest, and don’t you forget it. Come, you
are a decent feller, dough you don’t treat strangers too goot. I dell
you vot I do: I teach you de telegraphers’ peezness. It don’t make so
much money as teifs do, but it is honest.”
“Telegraphy? You an operator?”
“Sure. I learnt dot, but ven I got marrit I gif it up. But vonce you
know it, you always know it----”
“What’s this?” said Shoshone, tapping upon the edge of the bar with
his glass. Morris immediately answered him in the same code. Shoshone
turned and slapped Morris on the back with such force that it brought
tears to his eyes, while Shoshone called to the others: “Hey, boys, I
lose. He is an operator--and an honest one.”
In the meantime Dan and Mike had been having “fun” with the Indian.
One of them poured alcohol over his moccasined foot and the other
touched a match to it. The Indian jumped when he saw the blaze, but
Snakes turned a seltzer-bottle in that direction, which quenched the
flame. The Indian gave one hair-lifting whoop and, grasping his bottle,
disappeared.
In the meantime Morris was beginning to feel the influence of the vile
liquor he had been forced to take and, all of a sudden, he began with a
rousing “Ee--you! Ee--you! Let it go at dat. I’m de bad shoemaker from
de Bowery, New York, und I’m going to raise der tuyfel. You vill see if
I can shoot de shootses!”
At this, the bewildered man took two of the pistols and began shooting
right and left, bringing down bottles, lamps, deer-heads, and mirror
in fell confusion, yelling like a wild man at the same time.
Every man in the room took to the door and ran up the run, disappearing
behind the rocks. Morris never stopped until he had emptied the
whole of the four pistols. The cartridges, with their load of tiny
quail-shot, would have hurt no one, unless he had happened to hit
someone’s eye, but they sufficed to splinter the glasses and make a
great noise.
As the last cartridge exploded, Morris staggered over to a chair and
sank down upon it, moaning:
“Oh, Dora--Dora! Oh, mein poor head! mein head!”
Loney, hearing his voice, crept into the room, peering through the
smoke, and then he called:
“Oh, Mr. Goldberg--I mean----”
“Nefer mind de Vilt Bill--I’m done mit him. I’m yust meinselluf now,
but oh, mein head!”
“Can I do anything for you?”
“Yes; hellup me outsite, vere de tent vos, und ve see if ve can get it
up, und you take dis dollar und get some dinner.”
“We’ll get the tent up. I had a fine dinner. Did you kill many men?”
“I hope not, Loney, but I feel awful sick, und I must get in bet.”
But it was Shoshone and Dan who set the tent where Morris was laid to
sleep the night of his initiation.