"There _are_ some things I sh'd like to mention," said he. _Red Saunders' Pets and Other Critters

Produced by Al Haines

[Frontispiece: He was a lovely pet (missing from book)]

Red Saunders' Pets

And Other Critters

Henry Wallace Phillips

Author of

Red Saunders and Mr. Scraggs

Illustrated

New York

McClure, Phillips & Co.

Mcmvi

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.

Published, May, 1906

Second Impression

CONTENTS

THE PETS

OSCAR'S CHANCE, PER CHARLEY

BILLY THE BUCK

THE DEMON IN THE CANON

THE LITTLE BEAR WHO GREW

IN THE ABSENCE OF RULES

FOR SALE, THE GOLDEN QUEEN

WHERE THE HORSE IS FATE

AGAMEMNON AND THE FALL OF TROY

A TOUCH OF NATURE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

HE WAS A LOVELY PET . . . . . . Frontispiece (missing from book)

WE NEAR LOST TWO PETS

"I WISHT SOMEBODY'D TELEGRAPH THAT SON-OF-A-GUN FOR ME"

BOB 'UD HOP HIM

HIS STYLE OF RIDING ATTRACTED ATTENTION

SEARCHING HIS SOUL FOR SOUNDS TO TELL HOW SCART HE WAS

GET OFF'N ME!

THE AFFAIR WAS AT PRESENT IN THE FORMAL STATE

"A WISE AND SUBTLE PIECE OF STRATEGY"

"AN ACCOUNT OF MY ADVENTURES"

"'HERE'S--YOUR--DEER--KID,' HE GASPED."

"JIMMY-HIT-THE-BOTTLE"

THE PUNCHERS TO THE RESCUE

"HY" SMITH

HE'D COME AROUND WITH HIS PLANS AND SPECIFICATIONS TWICE A DAY

MIGUEL COULD RUN WHEN HE PUT HIS MIND TO IT

"CLEAN WAS NO NAME FOR HIS PERSONAL APPEARANCE"

"UP GETS FOXY WITH A SHRIEK AND GALLOPS AROUND THE HOUSE"

"OLD WINDY USED TO TALK TO THE PIG AS THOUGH THEY'D

BEEN RAISED TOGETHER"

"HE'D HUMP UP HIS BACK . . . AND RUB AGAINST YOUR LEGS"

"NO. DIDN'T WANT FOOD. HEART WAS BROKE"

"'HUNGH!' SAYS HE, AND BLINKED HIS EYES SHUT"

"THE DOCTOR GOES SAILING INTO THE DRINK"

"A HA HA! CUT IN TWO IN THE MIDDLE"

"THAT WOOLLY, BLAATIN' FOOL OF A SHEEP"

"CHASES HIMSELF OFF TO THE SKY-LINE FOR ANOTHER TRY"

"THE DURNED RAM WAS PRANCIN' AWAY"

"HE WAS KNOCKED GALLEY-WEST"

"THAT PIG LOOKED UP AND SMILED"

"AND HOLLER! I WISHT YOU COULD HAVE HEARD THAT PIG"

"DONE. EVERLASTINGLY DONE"

THROUGH THE GLASS I GOT A BETTER VIEW OF THE

POOR DEVIL ABOUT TO BE STRUNG

WE CALLED TO HIM TO HALT, AND HE STOPPED,

KIND OF GRINNED AT US AND SAYS: "HELLO!"

YES, SIR; THERE HE SAT, AND HE WAS KNITTIN' A PAIR OF SOCKS!

TWENTY-FIVE FOOT OF A DROP, CLEAR, TO ICE-WATER--WOW!

"WHOOP HER UP, COLIN!" I HOLLERS

Red Saunders' Pets And Other Critters

The Pets

"Of all the worlds I ever broke into, this one's the most curious,"

said Red. "And one of the curiousest things in it is that I think it's

queer. Why should I, now? What put it into our heads that affairs

ought to go so and so and so, when they never do anything of the sort?

Take any book you read, or any story a man tells you: it runs along

about how Mr. Smith made up his mind to do this or that, and proceeded

to do it. And that never happened. What Mr. Smith calls making up his

mind is nothing more nor less than Mr. Smith's dodging to cover under

pressure of circumstances. That's straight. Old Lady Luck comes for

Mr. Smith's mind, swinging both hands; she gives it a stem-winder on

the ear; lams it for keeps on the smeller; chugs it one in the short

ribs, drives right and left into its stummick, and Mr. Smith's mind

breaks for cover; then Mr. Smith tells his wife that--he's made up his

mind--_He_, mind you. Wouldn't that stun you?

"Some people would say, 'Mr. Sett and Mr. Burton made up their minds to

start the Big Bend Ranch.' All right; perhaps they did, but let me

give you an inside view of the factory.

"First off, Billy Quinn, Wind-River Smith, and me were putting up hay

at the lake beds. It was a God-forsaken, lonesome job, to say the best

of it, and we took to collecting pets, to make it seem a little more

like home.

"Billy shot a hawk, breaking its wing. That was the first in the

collection. He was a lovely pet. When you gave him a piece of meat he

said 'Cree,' and clawed chunks out of you, but most of the time he sat

in the corner with his chin on his chest, like a broken-down lawyer.

We didn't get the affection we needed out of him. Well, then

Wind-River found a bull-snake asleep and lugged him home, hanging over

his shoulder. We sewed a flannel collar on the snake and picketed him

out until he got used to the place. And around and around and around

squirmed that snake until we near got sick at our stummicks watching

him. All day long, turning and turning and turning.

"'Darn it,' says I, 'I like more variety.' So that day, when I was

cutting close to a timbered slew, out pops an old bob-cat and starts to

open my shirt to see if I am her long-lost brother. By the time I got

her strangled I had parted with most of my complexion. Served me right

for being without a gun. The team run away as soon as I fell off the

seat and I was booked to walk home. I heard a squeal from the bushes,

and here comes a funny little cuss. I liked the look of him from the

jump-off, even if his mother did claw delirious delight out of me. He

balanced himself on his stubby legs and looked me square in the eye,

and he spit and fought as though he weighed a ton when I picked him

up--never had any notion of running away. Well, that was Robert--long

for Bob.

"The style that cat spread on in the matter of growing was simply

astonishing; he grew so's you could notice it overnight. At the end of

two months he was that big he couldn't stand up under our sheet-iron

cook-stove, and this was about the beginning of our family troubles.

Tommy, the snake, was a good deal of a nuisance from the time he

settled down. You'd have a horrible dream in the night--be way down

under something or other, gasping for wind, and, waking up, find Tommy

nicely coiled on your chest. Then you'd slap Tommy on the floor like a

section of large rubber hose. But he bore no malice. Soon's you got

asleep he'd be right back again. When the weather got cool he was

always under foot. He'd roll beneath you and land you on your

scalp-lock, or you'd ketch your toe on him and get a dirty drop. I

don't think I ever laughed more in my life than one day when Billy come

in with an armful of wood, tripped on Tommy, and come down with a

clatter right where Judge Jenkins, the hawk, could reach him. The

Judge fastened one claw in Billy's hair and scratched his whiskers with

the other. Gee! The hair and feathers flew! Bill had a hot temper

and he went for the hawk like it was a man. The first thing he laid

his hand on was Tommy, so he used the poor snake for a club.

Wind-River and me were so weak from laughing that we near lost two pets

before we got strength to interfere."

[Illustration: We near lost two pets]

"But, as I was saying, the cold nights played Keno with our happy home.

Neither Tommy nor Bob dared monkey with the Judge--he was the only

thing on top of the earth the cat was afraid of. Bob used to be very

anxious to sneak a hunk of meat from His Honour at times, yet, when the

Judge stood on one foot, cocked his head sideways, snapped his bill and

said 'Cree,' Robert reconsidered. On the other hand, Tommy and Bob

were forever scrapping. Lively set-tos, I want to tell you. The snake

butted with his head like a young streak of lightning. I've seen him

knock the cat ten foot. And while a cat doesn't grow mouldy in the

process of making a move, yet the snake is there about one

seventeen-hundredth-millionth part of a second sooner. And that's a

good deal where those parties are concerned. Now, on cold nights, they

both liked to get under the stove, where it was warm, and there wasn't

room for more'n one. Hence, trouble; serious trouble. Bob hunted

coyotes on moonlight nights. We threw scraps around the corner of the

house to bait 'em, and Bob would watch there hour on end until one got

within range. It was a dead coyote in ten seconds by the watch, if the

jump landed. If it didn't, Bob had learned there was no use wasting

his young strength trying to ketch him. He used to sit still and gaze

after them flying streaks of hair and bones as though he was thinking

'I wisht somebody'd telegraph that son-of-a-gun for me.'"

[Illustration: "I wisht somebody'd telegraph that son-of-a-gun for me."]

"Well, then he'd be chilly and reckon he'd climb under the stove. But

Thomas 'ud be there.

"'H-h-h-h-hhhh!' says Tom, in a whisper.

"'Er-raow-pht!" says Robert. 'Mmmmm-mm--errrrr--pht!' And so on for

some time, the talk growing louder, then, with a yell that would stand

up every hair on your head, Bob 'ud hop him. Over goes the cook-stove.

Away rolls the hot coals on the floor. Down comes the stove-pipe and

the frying-pans and the rest of the truck, whilst the old Judge in the

corner hollered decisions, heart-broke because he was tied by the leg

and could not get a claw into the dispute.

[Illustration: Bob 'ud hop him.]

"By the time we had 'em separated--Bob headed up in his barrel and Tom

tied up in his sack--put the fire out, and fixed things generally,

there wasn't a great deal left of that night's rest.

"But children will be children. We swore awful, still we wouldn't have

missed their company for a fair-sized farm.

"And now comes in the first little twist of the Big Bend Ranch,

proper--all these things I'm telling you were the eggs. Here's where

the critter pipped.

"'Twas November, and such a November as you don't get outside of Old

Dakota, a regular mint-julep of a month, with a dash of summer, a sprig

of spring, a touch of fall, and a sniff or two of winter to liven you

up. If you'd formed a committee to furnish weather for a month, and

they'd turned out a month like that, not even their best friends would

have kicked. And here we'd been makin' hay, and makin' hay, the ranch

people thanking Providence that prairie grass cures on the stem, while

we cussed, for we were sick of the sight of hay. I got so the rattle

of a mower give me hysterics. We were picked because we were steady

and reliable, but one day we bunched the job. Says I, 'Here; we've cut

grass for four solid months, includin' Sundays and legal holidays,

although the Lord knows where they come in, for I haven't the least

suspicion what day of the month it may be, but anyhow, let's knock off

one round.'

"So we did. I sat outside in the afternoon, while the other two boys

and the rest of the family took a snooze. Here comes a man across the

south flat a-horseback.

"I watched him, much interested: first place, he was the first strange

human animal we'd laid eye on for six weeks; next place, his style of

riding attracted attention. I thought at the time he must have

invented it, him being the kind of man that hated horses, and wanted to

keep as far away from them as possible, yet forced by circumstances to

climb upon their backs."

[Illustration: His style of riding attracted attention.]

"His mount was a big American horse, full sixteen hand high, trotting

in twenty-foot jumps. If I had anything against a person, just short

of killing, I'd tie him on the back of a horse trotting like that.

It's a great gait to sit out. Howsomever, this man didn't sit it out;

what he wanted of a saddle beyond the stirrups was a mystery, for he

never touched it. He stood up on his stirrups, bent forward like he

was going to bite the horse in the ear, soon's the strain got

unendurable.

"Well, here he come, straight for us. I'd a mind to wake the other

boys up, to let 'em see something new in the way of mishandling a

horse, but they snored so peaceful. I refrained.

"'How-de-do?' says he.

"I said I was worrying along, and sized him up, on the quiet. He was a

queer pet. Not a bad set-up man, and rather good looking in the face.

Light yellow hair, little yellow moustache, light blue eyes. And

clean! Say, I never saw anybody that looked so aggravating clean in

all my life. It seemed kind of wrong for him to be outdoors; all the

prairie and the cabin and everything looked mussed up beside him.

"As soon as he opened up, I noticed he had a little habit of speaking

in streaks, that bothered me. I missed the sense of his remarks.

"'Would you mind walking over that trail again?' I asked him. 'I do

most of my thinking at a foot-step and your ideas is over the hill and

far away before I can recognise the cut of their scalp-lock.'

"'Haw!' says he and stared at me. I was just on the point of askin'

him if red hair was a new thing to him, when all of a sudden he begun

to laugh, 'Haw-haw-haw!' says he; 'not bad at all, ye know.'

"'Of course not,' says I. 'Why should it be?'

"This got him going. I saw him figuring away to himself, and then I

had to smile so you could hear it.

"'Well,' says I, better humoured, 'tell us it again--I caught the word

sheep in the hurricane.'

"So he went over it, talking slow. I listened with one ear, for he had

a white bulldog with him; a husky, bandy-legged brute with a black eye,

and he was sniffing, dog fashion, around the door, while I blocked him

out with my legs. Doggy was in a frame of mind, puzzling out

bull-snake trail, and hawk trail, and bob-cat trail. He foresaw much

that was entertaining the other side of the door, and wanted it,

powerful.

"'Here,' says I, 'call your dog. I can't pay attention to both of you.'

"'He won't hurt anything, you know,' says the man.

"'Well, we've got a cat in there that'll hurt _him_,' I says. 'You'd

better whistle him off before old Bob wakes up and scatters him around

the front yard.'

"Gee! That man sat up straight on his horse! Cat hurt that dog?

Nonsense! Of course, he wouldn't let the dog hurt the cat, and as long

as I was afraid----

"I looked into that peaceful cabin. Billy was lying on his back, his

fine manly nose vibrating with melody; Wind-River was cooing in a

gentle, choked-to-death sort of fashion, on the second bunk; Tom was

coiled in the corner, the size of half a barrel; the Judge slept on his

perch; Robert reposed under the cook-stove with just a front paw

sticking out. It was one of them restful scenes our friends the poets

sing about. It did appear wicked to disturb it but----

"'Will you risk your dog?' I asked that man very softly and politely.

"'Certainly!' says he.

"Says I, 'His blood be on your shirtfront,' and I moved my leg.

"Well, sir, Billy landed on the grocery shelf. Wind-River grabbed his

gun and sat up paralysed. It really was a most surprising noise. I've

had hard luck in my life, but all the things that ever happened to me

would seem like a recess to that bulldog. Our domestic difficulties

was forgotten. 'United We Stand,' waved the motto of the lake-bed

cabin. Jerusalem! That dog was snake-bit, and

hawk-scratched-and-bit-and-clawed, and

bobcat-scratched-and-bit-and-clawed, till you could not see a cussed

thing in that cabin but blur. And of all the hissing and squawking and

screeching and yelling and snapping and roaring and growling you or any

other man ever heard, that was the darndest. I took a look at the

visitor. He'd got off his horse and was standing in the doorway with

his hands spread out. His face expressed nothing at all, very

forcible. Meanwhile, things were boilin' for fair; cook-stove,

frying-pans, stools, boxes, saddles, tin cans, bull-snakes, hawks,

bob-cats, and bulldogs simply floated in the air.

"'I wish you'd tell me what has busted loose, Red Saunders!' howls old

Wind-River in an injured tone of voice; 'and whether I shell shoot or

sha'n't I?'

"There come a second's lull. I see Judge Jenkins on the dog's back,

his talents sunk to the hock, whilst he had hold of an ear with his

bill, pullin' manfully. Tommy had swallered the dog's stumpy tail, and

Bob was dragging hair out of the enemy like an Injun dressing hides.

"A bulldog is like an Irishman; he's brave because he don't know any

better, and you can't get any braver than that, but there's a limit,

even to lunk-headedness. It bored through that dog's thick skull that

he had butted into a little bit the darndest hardest streak of

petrified luck that anything on legs could meet with.

"'By-by,' says he to himself. 'Out doors will do for me!' And here he

come! Neither the visitor nor me was expecting him. He blocked the

feet out from under us and sat his master on top. We got up in time to

see a winged bulldog, with a tail ten foot long, bounding merrily over

the turf, searching his soul for sounds to tell how scart he was,

whilst a desperate bob-cat, spitting fire and brimstone, threw dirt

fifty foot in the air trying to lay claws on him."

[Illustration: Searching soul for sounds to tell how scart he was]

"As they disappeared over the first rise I rolls me a cigarette and

lights it slowly.

"'Just by way of curiosity,' says I; 'how much will you take for your

dog?'

"'My Heavens!' says he, recovering the power of speech. 'What kind of

animal was that?'

"'Come in,' says I, 'and take a drink--you need it.'

"So we gathered up the ruins and tidied things some, while the new man

sipped his whiskey.

"'My!' says he, of a sudden. 'I must go after my poor dog.'

"I sort of warmed to him at that. 'Dog's all right,' says I. 'He'll

shake 'em loose and be home in no time. Now you tell me about them

sheep.'

"'Sheep?' says he, putting his hand to his head. 'What was it about

sheep?'

"'Hello in the house!' sings out Billy. 'The children's comin' home!'

"We tumbled out. Sure enough, the warriors was returning. First come

the Judge, tougher than rawhide, half walking and half flying, his

wings spread out, 'cree-ing' to himself about bulldogs and their ways;

next come Bobby, still sputtering and swearing, and behind ambled

Thomas at a lively wriggle, a coy, large smile upon his face.

"'Ur-r-roup! Roup!' sounds from the top of the rise. The family

halted and turned around, expectin' more pleasure, for there on the top

of the hill stood the terrible scart but still faithful bulldog calling

for his master to come away from that place quick, before he got

killed. But he had one eye open for safety, and when the family

stopped, he ducked down behind the hill surprisin'.

"'Well, I must be going,' says the visitor. 'My name's Sett--Algernon

Alfred Sett--and I shall be over next week to talk to you about those

sheep.'

"'Any time,' says I. 'We'll be here till we have to shovel snow to get

at the hay, from the look of things.'

"'Well, I'm very anxious to have a good long talk with you about

sheep,' says he. 'I've been informed that you had a long experience in

that line in--er--Nevverdah----'

"'Nevverdah?' says I. 'Oh!--Nevada. I beg your pardon--I've got in

the habit of pronouncing in that way. It wasn't Nevada, by the way--it

was Texas--but that's only a matter of a Europe or so. Yes, I met a

sheep or two in that country, I'm sorry to say.'

"'I--er--think of engaging in the business, dontcher know,' says he,

relaxing into his first method of speech; 'and should like to consult

you professionally.'

"'All right, sir!' says I. 'I'm one of the easiest men to consult west

of any place east. Can't you stay now and get the load off your mind?'

"'Well--_no_,' he says to me very confidentially. 'You see, that dog

is a great pet of my wife's, and I'm also afraid she will be a little

worried by my long absence, so----'

"'I see, sir--I see,' I answered him. 'Well, come around again and

we'll talk sheep.'

"'Thank you--thank you _so_ much,' says he, and pops up on his horse.

Then again, without any warning, he broke into a haw-haw-haw! as he

threw a glance at the family, who sat around eyeing him. 'You were

quite right about that _cat_, you know,' says he. 'Capital! Capital!

But a _little_ rough on the dog.' And off he goes, bobbity-bob,

bobbity-bob.

"'Where'd you tag that critter, Red?' says Wind-River. 'My mind's

wanderin'.'

"'He comes down the draw much the graceful way he's going up it,' says

I. 'From where, and why how, I dunno. But I kind of like him against

my better instincts, Windy.'

"Windy spit thoughtfully at a fly fifteen foot away. 'I shouldn't have

time to hate him much myself,' says he.

"And there you are. That's how I met Brother Sett, and the Big Bend

Ranch stuck her head out of the shell."

Oscar's Chance, per Charley

"Bhooooooorrr! Bhooooooooooooooorrrrr!" It was the hollow,

melancholy, wild beast-howl of a fog-horn. We were drifting upon a

tragic coast, where the great waves slipped up the cliffs noiselessly,

to disappear upon the other side. At the time, I was talking to a

person who had just been a sort of composite of several of my friends,

but was now a gaunt bay mule. "Isn't it co-o-ld?" I said to him, and

shivered. He looked me sternly in the eye. "Get up!" said he. The

vessel struck a rock and trembled violently. "Get up!" repeated the

mule, and there was a menace in his voice now. "Bhooooooooooorrrrr!"

moaned the fog-horn. This was dreadful. But worse followed. The

waters gathered themselves and rose into a peak, the mule sliding

swiftly to the apex, still holding me with his uncanny eyes. There

came a shock, and Oscar said, "For the Lord's sake, kid! They've been

braying away on that breakfast horn for the last five minutes. Hustle!"

I found myself upon my hands and knees; in a cabin, all right, but the

cabin was on the prairie. I looked around, stupid with sleep. The

familiar sights met my eye--Oscar tiptoeing about, bow-legged, arms

spread like wings, drawing his breath through his teeth, after the

fashion of half-frozen people. Old Charley sat humped up in the

corner, sucking his cob pipe. The stove was giving forth a smell of

hot iron, and no heat, as usual. On it rested a wash-basin, wherein

some snow was melting for the morning ablutions. A candle projected a

sort of palpable yellow gloom into the grey icy morning air. I dressed

rapidly. As I slept in overcoat and cap, this was no great matter. A

pair of German socks and arctics completed my attire. Evidently I had

been put upon the floor by the hand of Oscar. For this, when Oscar

stretched his nether garment tight, in the act of washing his face, I

smote him upon the fulness thereof with a long plug of chewing tobacco.

"Aow!" he yelled, recurving like a bow and putting his hands to his

wound. Promptly we clinched and fell upon old Charley. To the floor

the three went, amid a shower of sparks from the cob pipe. "You dam

pesky kids!" said the angry voice of Charles (the timbre of that voice,

after travelling through four inches of nose, is beyond imitation).

"Get off'n me! Quit now! Stop yer blame foolin'!"

[Illustration: Get off'n me!]

Oscar and I swallowed our giggles and rolled all over Charley.

"_Well_, by Jeeroosha!" came from the bottom of the heap in the tone of

one who has reached the breaking point of astonished fury. "I'm goin'

to do some shootin' when this is over--yes, sir, I won't hold back no

more--ef you boys don't git off'n me this minit, so help me Bob! I'll

bite yer!"

This was a real danger, and we skipped off him briskly. "Why,

Charley," explained Oscar, "you see, we got so excited that we didn't

notice----"

"There's Steve now," interrupted Charley, pointing with a long crooked

forefinger to the doorway. "Well, Steve! I'm glad you come. I just

want you to see the kind of goin's on there is here." Charles cleared

his throat and stuck his thumb in his vest. "F'r instance, this

mornin', I sittin' right there in that corner, not troublin' nobody,

when up gets that splay-footed, sprawlin', lumberin' bull-calf of an

Oscar, an' that mischievious, sawed-off little monkey of a Harry, and

they goes to pullin' and tusslin', and they jes' walks up and down on

me, same's if I was a flight of steps. Now, you know, Steve, I'm a man

of sagassity an' _ex_periunce, an' I ain't goin' to stand fur no such

dograsslin'. I felt like doin' them boys ser'us damage, but they're

young, and life spreads green and promisin' befo' 'em, like a banana

tree; consequently I prefer jus' to tell you my time is handed in."

Charley was proudly erect. His arms stretched aloft. His one yellow

tooth rested on his lower lip; his face, the thickness and texture of a

much-worn leather pocketbook, showed a tinge of colour as the words

went to his head like wine.

Steve looked at the floor. "Too bad, Charley; too bad," he said in

grave sympathy. "But probably we can fix it up. Now, as we have

company, would you mind hitting the breakfast trail?"

"After I've made a few remarks," returned Charles haughtily.

Steve dropped on a stool. "Sick your pup on," he said. Charley leaped

at the opportunity.

"There _are_ some things I sh'd like to mention," said he. We noted

with pleasure that he wore his sarcastic manner. "F'r instance, you

doubtless behold them small piles of snow on the floo', which has come

in through certain an' sundry holes in the wall that orter been chinked

last fall. Is it _my_ place to chink them holes? The oldes' an' mose

_ex_periunced man in the hull cat-hop? I reckon otherwise. Then why

didn't they git chinked? Why is it that the snows and winds of an

outraged and jus'ly indignant Providence is allowed to introdoose

theirselves into this company unrebuked?

"I have heard a' great deal, su', about the deadenin' effeck produced

upon man's vigger by a steady, reliable, so'thern climate. As a

citizen of the State of Texas fo' twenty years I repel the expersion

with scorn and hoomiliation. Nevertheless and notwithstanding,

'lowing' that to be the truth, did you encounter anything in this here

country to produce such an effeck? For Gawd's sake, su', if there's

anything in variety, a man livin' here orter lay holt of the grass

roots, fur fear he'd git so durn strong he couldn't stay on the face of

the yearth. Ef it ain't so sinful cold that yer ears'll drap off at a

touch, it's so hell-fire hot that a man's features melt all over his

face, and ef it ain't so solemn still that you're scart to death, the

wind'll blow the buttonholes outer yer clo's'. I have seen it do a

hull yearful of stunts in twenty-four hours, encludin' hot an' cold

weather, thunderstorms, drought, high water, and a blizzard. That

settles the climate question. Then what is it that has let them holes

go unchinked? I'll tell you, su'; it's nothin' more nor less than the

tinkerin', triflin', pettifoggin' dispersition of them two boys.

That's what makes it that there's mo' out-doors inside this bull-pen

than there is on the top of Chunkey Smith's butte; that's what makes it

I can't get up in the mornin' without having myself turned inter a

three-ringed circus. But I ain't the man to complain. Ef there's

anything that gums up the cards of life, it's a kicker; so jes' as one

man to another, I tells you what's wrong here and leaves you to figger

it out fer yerself."

He glanced around on three grave faces with obvious satisfaction. His

wrath had dissipated in the vapour of words. "Nor they ain't such bad

boys, _as_ boys, nuther," he concluded.

"I will examine this matter carefully, Charles," said Steve.

"I thank you, su'," responded Charley, with a courtly sweep of his hand.

"Not at all," insisted Steve, with a duplicate wave. "I beg that you

won't mention it. And now, if you would travel toward the house----"

"_Cer_tainly!"

And out we went into North Dakota's congealed envelope, with the smoke

from the main-house chimney rising three hundred feet into the air, a

snow-white column straight as a mast, Charley stalking majestically

ahead, while we three floundered weakly behind him.

"Ain't he the corker?" gasped Oscar. "When he gets to jumping sideways

among those four-legged words he separates me from my good intentions."

"'With scorn and hoomiliation,'" quoted Steve, and stopped, overcome.

"'I tells you what's the matter and leaves you to figger it out for

yourself,'" I added. Then Charley heard us. He turned and approached,

an awful frown upon his brow.

"May I inquire what is the reason of this yere merriment?" he asked.

The manner was that of a man who proposed to find out. It sat on

Charley with so ludicrous a parody that we were further undone. Steve

raised his hands in deprecation, and spoke in a muffled voice that

broke at intervals.

"Can't I laugh in my own backyard, Charley?" he said. "By the Lord

Harry, I _will_ laugh inside my stakes! No man shall prevent me. The

Constitution of the United States, the Declaration of Independence, and

the Continental Congress give me the right. Now what have you got to

say?"

"I dunno but what you have me whipsawed there, Steve," replied Charley,

scratching his head. "Ef it's your right by the Constitootion, o'

course I ain't goin' to object."

"Do either of you object?" demanded Steve of Oscar and me in his

deepest bass. No, we didn't object; we fell down in the snow and

crowed like chanticleer.

"Hunh!" snorted Charley. "Hunh! Them boys hain't got brains in their

heads at all--nothin' but doodle-bugs!"

"Well, Charley," continued Steve, "as you don't object, and they don't

object, and I don't object, for God's sake let's have breakfast!"

"I'll go you, Steve," replied Charles seriously, and we entered the

house uproarious.

There in the kitchen was Mrs. Steve and the "company," a pretty little

bright-eyed thing, whose colour went and came at a word--more

particularly if Oscar said the word. The affair was at present in the

formal state--the dawn of realisation that two such wonderful and

magnificent creatures as Oscar and Sally existed. But they were not

Oscar and Sally except in the dear privacy of their souls. Yet how

much that is not obvious to the careless ear can be put into "Will you

have a buckwheat cake, Mr. Kendall?" or "May I give you a helping of

the syrup, Miss Brown?" It took some preparation for each to get out

so simple a remark, and invariably the one addressed started guiltily,

and got crimson. It was the most uncomfortable rapture I ever saw,

However, they received very little plaguing. I can remember but one

hard hit. Oscar was pouring syrup upon Sally's cakes, his eyes fixed

upon a dainty hand, that shook under his gaze like a leaf. He forgot

his business. Steve looked at the inverted, empty syrup-cup for some

moments in silence. Then he said to his wife, "Emma, go and get Sally

a nice cupful of fresh air to put on her cakes; that that Oscar has in

the pitcher is stale by this time."

[Illustration: The affair was at present in the formal state]

Oh, those cakes! And the ham! And the fried eggs and potatoes. We

lived like fighting cocks at Steve's, as happens on most of the small

ranches. The extreme glory of the prairie was not ours. We were

wood-choppers, hay-cutters, and farmers, as well as punchers; but what

we lost in romance, we made up in sustenance. No one ever saw a

biscuit suffering from soda-jaundice on Steve's table. And how, after

a night's sleep in a temperature of forty below zero, I would champ my

teeth on the path to breakfast! Eating was not an appetite in those

days--it was a passion.

Charley and I went forth after breakfast, Oscar lingering a moment,

according to his use, to pass a painful five minutes in making excuses

for staying that time, where no one needed any explanation.

"I wish to gracious Sally and Oscar would just act like people," said

Mrs. Steve once in exasperation. "They get me so nervous stammering at

each other that I drop everything I lay my hands on, and I feel as if

I'd robbed somebody for the rest of the day."

The interview over, Oscar came out, burning with his own embarrassment,

and made a sore mess of everything he did for the next hour. A man

must have his mind about him on a ranch.

Once upon a time Steve came to Charley and me, literally prancing. We

had heard oaths and yells and sounds of a battle royal previously, and

wondered what was going on. When he neared us he moved slowly, his

hands working like machinery. "I would like to know," he began, and

stopped to glare at us and grind his teeth. "I should like to know,"

he continued, in a voice so weak with rage we could hardly hear it,

"who turned the red bull into number three corral."

Charley and I went right on cleaning out the shed. We weren't going to

tell on Oscar.

"So it's him again, heh?" shrieked Steve. "Well, now I propose to show

him something. I'll show him everything!" He was entirely beyond the

influence of reason and grammar. Charley had an ill-advised notion to

play the paternal.

"Now, I'd cool down if I was you, Steve," he admonished.

"You would, would you!" foamed Steve. "Well, who the devil cares what

you'd do, anyhow? And if you tell me to cool down just once more, I'll

drive you into the ground like a tent-pin."

I jumped through the window, and then laughed, while Charley

administered his reproof with appropriate gestures. His long arms flew

in the air as he delivered the inspired address, Steve looking at him,

a bit of shamefacedness and fun showing through his heat.

"An' mo' I tell you, Steven P. Hendricks!" rolled out Charley in

conclusion. "That this citizen of Texas, jus'ly and rightjus'ly called

the Lone Star State, has never yet experienced the feeling of bein'

daunted by face of man. No, su'! By God, su'!" He held the shovel

aloft like a sword. "Let 'em come as they will, male and female after

their kind, from a ninety poun' Jew peddler to Sittin' Bull himself,

and from a pigeon-toed Digger-Injun squaw to a fo'-hundred-weight Dutch

lady, I turn my back on none!"

"You win, Charley," said Steve, and walked off. All Oscar caught out

of it was the request that when he felt like reducing the stock on the

ranch he'd take a rifle.

Poor Oscar! All noble and heroic sentiments struggling within him,

with no outlet but a hesitating advancing of the theory that "if we

didn't get rain before long, the country'd be awful dry." Small wonder

that he burst out in the bull-pen one night with "I wish the Injuns

would jump this ranch!"

"You do?" said Charley. "Well, durn your hide for that wish! What's

got into you to make you wish that?"

"Aw!" said Oscar, twitching around on his stool, "I'm sick and tired of

not being able to say anything. If the Sioux got up, I could do

something."

"Oh, that's it," retorted Charles. "Well, Oscar, far's I can see, if

it's necessary to have a war-party of Injuns whoopin' an' yellin' an'

crow-hoppin' an' makin' fancywork out of people to give you the proper

start afore your gal, it'd be jes' as well for you to stay single the

res' of your days. The results wouldn't justify the trouble."

Afterward Oscar told me in private that Charley was an old stiff, and

he didn't believe he'd make a chest at a grasshopper if the latter

spunked up any. That wronged old Charley. But Oscar must be

excused--he was a singularly unhappy man.

To come back to what happened. Oscar that morning had the care of

Geronimo, a coal-black, man-eating stallion, a brute as utterly devoid

of fear as of docility. A tiger kills to eat, and occasionally for the

fun of it; that horse killed out of ferocity, and hate of every living

thing.

A fearful beast is a bad horse. One really has more chance against a

tiger. Geronimo stood seventeen hands high, and weighed over sixteen

hundred pounds. When he reared on his hind legs and came for you,

screaming, his teeth snapping like bear-traps, his black mane flying, a

man seemed a pigmy. One blow from those front hoofs and your troubles

were over. Once down, he'd trample, bite, and kick until your own

mother would hesitate to claim the pile of rags and jelly left. He had

served two men so; nothing but his matchless beauty saved his life.

Nowhere could one find a better example of hell-beautiful than when he

tore around his corral in a tantrum, as lithe and graceful as a black

panther. His mane stood on end; his eyes and nostrils were of a

colour; the muscles looked to be bursting through the silken gloom of

his coat. His swiftness was something incredible. He caught and most

horribly killed Jim Baxter's hound before the latter could get out of

the corral--and a bear-hound is a pretty agile animal. We had to tie

Jim, or he'd made an end of Geronimo. He left the ranch right after

that. The loss of his dog broke him all up.

We fed and watered Geronimo with a pitchfork, and in terror then, for

his slyness and cunning were on a par with his other pleasant

peculiarities. One of the poor devils he killed entered the stable all

unsuspecting. Geronimo had broken his chains, and stood close against

the wall of his stall in the darkness, waiting. The man came within

reach. Suddenly a black mass of flesh flashed in the air above him,

coming down with all four hoofs--and that's enough of that story.

A nice pet was Geronimo. An excellent decoration for a gentleman's

stable--stuffed.

Well, Oscar turned him out this morning, and then he, Steve, and I went

for hay. As it was toward the last of winter, all the near stacks had

been used up, and we had to haul from Kennedy's bottom, eight miles

away. When we started, the air was still and frozen, with a deep,

biting cold unusual to Dakota; the sort that searches you and steals

all the heat you own. We were numb by the time we reached the stack,

and glad enough to have warm work to do. We fell to it with a rush for

that reason, and because a dull grey blink upon the western skyline

seemed to promise a blizzard. We were tying down the last load, when I

heard the hum of wind coming, and looked up, expecting to see a wall of

flying snow, and continued looking, seeing nothing of the kind. There

I stood, in the air of an ice-house, when a gust of that wind struck

me. A miracle! In a snap of your fingers I was bathed in genial

warmth. All about me rode the scent of spring and flowers! It was as

if the doors of a giant conservatory were thrown open.

"Chinook, boys! Chinook!" I called, casting down my fork. They ran

from the lee of the stack, throwing their coats open, drinking it in

and laughing, for, man! we were weary of winter! First it came in

puffs, at length settling down to a steady breeze, as of the sea. The

sun, that in the early morning was no more than a pale effigy, poured

on us a heart-warming fire. We hustled for home, knowing that the

Chinook would make short work of the snow. In fact, we had not covered

more than half the distance before the prairie began to show brown here

and there, where it lay thin between mountainous drifts. We sang and

howled all the way to the sheds, feeling fine.

Here Steve left us, to go to the house, while Oscar and I unloaded the

sleighs.

Suddenly I felt uncomfortable, for no reason in this world. The land

about us was rejoicing with the booming of that kind, warm wind, yet a

sharp uneasiness stopped me and forced me to raise my head. For

three-quarters of a circle nothing met my eyes but the vanishing

snow-drifts. I reached the house; nothing wrong there. Steve was

walking briskly out toward us, smoking his pipe. Then the corrals--all

right, number one, two, three, four--Lord have mercy!

"Oscar!" I shrieked, and snatched him to his feet. He rose, bewildered

and half angry, then looked to where I pointed.

Through the centre of number four corral tripped Sally, dear little

timid Sally, glad to be out in this lovely air, her eyes and mind on

Oscar doubtless, and in the same corral, shut off from her sight by a

projection of the sheds, stood Geronimo. And he saw her, too, for as

she waved a hand to us, he bared his great teeth and clashed them

together. The earth seemed to rock and sink from me. Every soul on

the ranch was told to keep away from the corral with the two buffalo

skulls over the gates, a warning sufficiently big and gruesome to stop

anyone. What fatal lapse of memory had struck the girl?

She was beyond help. We were all of two hundred yards away, and Steve

still farther; she was not a quarter of that from the brute. If we

shouted, if we moved, we might bring her end upon her--and such an end!

When I thought of that dainty, pretty little woman beneath those hoofs,

I felt a hideous sickness. The man beside me said, "My God! My

mistake!" A corral opened on each side of the box stall in which

Geronimo was confined. One of these was usually empty, a reserve. It

was into this that Oscar had turned the horse. The other was the

corral of the skulls.

Geronimo leaped out. The girl halted, stark, open-mouthed, every sign

of life stricken from her at a blow. Geronimo sprang high and snapped

at nothing, in evil play before the earnest. It was horrible. We

could do neither harm nor good now, so we ran for the spot. It was

down hill from us to them. I doubt that anything on two legs ever

covered distance as we did, for all the despair. Geronimo reared and

stood upon his hind feet, as straight as a man. He advanced, striking,

looming above his victim. "All over," I thought, and tried to take my

eyes away. I could not.

At that instant a white-hatted, gaunt, tall figure rushed from the

stable door, a shovel in its hand, straight between the girl and her

destruction. There he stood, with his partly weapon raised,

unflinching. An oath came to my lips and a hot spot to my throat at

the sight. No eye ever saw a braver thing.

At this, a dip in the ground and the eight-foot fence of the corral

shut out all within. God knows how we got over that fence. I swear I

think we leaped it. I have no memory of climbing, but I do recall

landing on the other side in a swoop.

Geronimo had old Charley in his teeth, shaking him like a rat.

"Steve!" I called, "Steve!" And then Oscar and I charged at the wicked

brute with our pitchforks. All that followed is a tangled, bad dream

of hurry, fear, yells, oaths, and myself stabbing, stabbing, stabbing

with the pitchfork. Then a gun cracked somewhere, a black mass toppled

toward me that knocked me sprawling--and all was still. I sat for a

moment, smiling foolishly and fumbling for my hat. Steve raised me by

the arm. He still had his revolver in his hand, and his glance on the

dead stallion. He asked me if I was hurt, and I said yes. He asked me

where, and I said that made no difference. Then, as I came to a little

more, I said I guessed I wasn't hurt, and looked around. Oscar had

Sally in his arms. The tears were running down his cheeks, and he

moved his head from side to side, like a man in agony. Her head was

buried in his breast, her hands locked around his neck. It was well

with them, evidently. But limp upon the ground, his forehead varnished

red, lay old Charley.

We turned him over tenderly, wiping the blood away. Steve's lips

quivered as he put his hand on the old man's heart. He kept it there a

long time. Then he said huskily, "He's gone!" At the words the sound

eye of the victim popped open with a suddenness that made my heart

throw a somersault. It was as sane, calm, and undisturbed an optic as

ever regarded the world.

"G-a-w-n H--l!" said Charley.

We laughed and wiped our eyes with our coat sleeves, and got the old

boy to his feet.

"Same old Texas," said he, feeling of his head (the hoof had scraped,

instead of smashing), "slightly disfiggered, but still in the ring."

He caught sight of the lovers. "Hello!" he said. "Oscar's made his

ante good at last--bad hawse works as well as Injuns." We started to

lead him by the pair.

"Naw, boys," he commanded. "Take me 'round 't'uther way. That gal

don't want to see me now, all bloody and mussed up like this."

It was useless to attempt making a hero of Charley.

Billy the Buck

I fancy I assume an impregnable position in saying that real poetry is

truth, presented in its most vivid and concise form. If the statement

stands, I request that every line of English verse containing the words

"Timid deer," or referring in any way to a presumed gentle, trusting,

philanthropic disposition in the beast, be at once revised or

expurgated. I shall not except the works of William Shakespeare. When

the melancholy Jaques speaks of one of these ferocious animals, saying,

"The big round tears coursed one another down his innocent nose in

piteous chase," I believe Jaques lied; or, if he lied not, and the

phenomenon occurred as reported, that the tears were tears of rage

because the deer could not get at Jaques, and as an extension, if he

had gotten at Jaques, he would have given said Jaques some cold facts

to be contemplative about. After my experience, if I should see any

misguided person making friendly advances to one of these horned

demons, I should cry, "Whoa!" as Cassandra did to the wood horse of the

Greeks, and probably with the same result. They would not falter until

they had gathered bitter experience with their own hands.

Why? This is why. One day, when I was working on a Dakota ranch, the

boss, a person by the name of Steve, urged me to take an axe, go forth,

and chop a little wood, which I did.

The weather was ideal. A Dakota fall. Air vital with the mingled

pleasant touch of frost and sun, like ice-cream in hot coffee, and

still as silence itself. I had a good breakfast, was in excellent

health and spirits; the boss could by no means approach within a mile

unperceived, and everything pointed to a pleasant day. But, alas! as

the Copper-lined Killelu-bird of the Rockies sings, "Man's hopes rise

with the celerity and vigour of the hind leg of the mule, only to

descend with the velocity of a stout gentleman on a banana peel."

On reaching the grove of cottonwoods I sat down for a smoke and a

speculative view of things in general, having learned at my then early

age that philosophy is never of more value than when one should be

doing something else.

I heard a noise behind me, a peculiar noise, between a snort and a

violent bleat. Turning, I saw a buck deer, and, from the cord and bell

around his neck, recognised him as one Billy, the property of Steve's

eldest boy. He was spoken of as a pet.

This was the touch needed to complete my Arcadia; the injection of

what, at the time, I considered to be poetry into the excellent prose

of open air life. Who could see that graceful, pretty creature, and

remain unmoved? Not I, at all events. I fancied myself as a knight of

old in the royal forest, which gave a touch of the archaic to my

speech. "Come here, thou sweet-eyed forest child!" I cried, and here

he came! At an estimate I should say that he was four axe-handles, or

about twelve feet high, as he upended himself, brandished his antlers,

and jumped me. My axe was at a distance. I moved. I played knight to

king's bishop's eighth, in this case represented by a fork of the

nearest tree. A wise and subtle piece of strategy, as it resulted in a

drawn game.

[Illustration: "A wise and subtle piece of strategy"]

My friend stood erect for a while, making warlike passes with his front

feet (which, by the way, are as formidable weapons as a man would care

to have opposed to him); then, seeing that there was no sporting blood

in me, he devoured my lunch and went away--a course I promptly imitated

as far as I could; I departed.

Hitherto, I had both liked and admired Steve. His enormous strength,

coupled with an unexpected agility and an agreeable way he had of

treating you as if you were quite his own age, endeared him to me.

When I poured out my troubles to him, however, rebuking him for

allowing such a savage beast to be at large, he caused my feelings to

undergo a change. For, instead of sympathising, he fell to uproarious

laughter, slapped his leg, and swore that it was the best thing he'd

ever heard of, and wished he'd been there to see it.

I concluded, judicially, that Steve had virtues, but that he was at the

last merely a very big man of coarse fibre. Perhaps I had been a

little boastful previously concerning my behaviour under trying

circumstances. If so, I was well paid out for it. That night I had

the pleasure of listening to an account of my adventures, spiced with

facetious novelties of Steve's invention, such as that my cries for

help were audible to the house, and only the fact that he couldn't tell

from which direction they came prevented Steve from rushing to my

rescue, and that all the deer wanted was my lunch, anyhow. I wished I

had kept the lunch episode to myself.

[Illustration: "An account of my adventures"]

There are probably no worse teases on earth than the big boys who chase

the cow on the Western prairies. They had "a horse on the kid," and

the poor kid felt nightmare ridden indeed. If I were out with them,

someone would assume an anxious look and carefully scout around a bunch

of grass in the distance, explaining to the rest that there might be a

deer concealed there, and one could not be too careful when there were

wild beasts like that around. Then the giggling rascals would pass the

suspected spot with infinite caution, perhaps breaking into a gallop,

with frightened shrieks of "The deer! The deer!" while I tried to look

as if I liked it, and strove manfully to keep the brine of

mortification from rolling down my cheeks.

I didn't let my emotions take the form of words, because I had wit

enough to know that I could not put a better barrier between myself and

a real danger than those husky lads of the leather breeches and white

hats. For all that, I had a yearning to see one of them encounter the

deer at his worst. I did not wish anyone hurt, and was so confident of

their physical ability that I did not think anyone would be; but I felt

that such an incident would strengthen their understanding.