If I had had the arrangement of details, I could not have planned it
better. Because of my tender years, the light chores of the ranch fell
to my share. One day everyone was off, leaving me to chink up the
"bull-pen," or men's quarters, with mud, against the cold of
approaching winter. Steve had taken his eldest boy on a trip to pick
out some good wood.
Presently arrived the boy, hatless, running as fast as he could tear,
the breath whistling in his lungs. "Come _quick_!" was the message.
It seems the deer had followed the couple, and when the boy fooled with
his old playmate, the deer knocked him down and would have hurt him
badly, but that his father instantly jumped into the fray and grabbed
the animal by the horns, with the intention of twisting his head off.
The head was fastened on more firmly than Steve supposed. What he did
not take at all into account was that the buck was both larger and
stronger than he. Though raised on a bottle, Billy was by long odds
the largest deer I ever saw.
Steve got the surprise of his life. The battle was all against him.
The best he could hope to do was to hold his own until help arrived; so
he sent the boy off hotfoot. Although his power for a short exertion
was great, Steve was in no kind of training, having allowed himself to
fatten up, and being an inordinate user of tobacco. Per contra, the
deer felt freshened and invigorated by exertion. That's the deuce of
it with an animal--_he_ doesn't tire.
I knew that Steve was in plenty trouble, or he wouldn't have sent for
help. The boy's distress denied the joke I suspected; I grabbed a rope
and made for the grove, the boy trailing me. I should have gotten a
gun, but I didn't think of it.
Those were the days when I could run; when it was exhilaration to sail
over the prairie. The importance of my position as rescuer--which
anyone who has been a boy will understand--lent springs to my feet.
It was well for Steve that mine were speedy legs. When I got there his
face was grey and mottled, like an old man's, and his mouth had a weak
droop, very unlike devil-may-care Steve. The two had pawed up the
ground for rods around in the fight; the deer's horns, beneath where
the man gripped them, were wet with the blood of his torn palms.
Steve's knees, arms, and head were trembling as if in an ague fit. He
was all in--physically; but the inner man arose strong above defeat.
"Here's--your--deer--Kid!" he gasped. "I--kept--him--for you!"
[Illustration: "'Here's--your--deer--Kid,' he gasped"]
I yelled to him to hold hard for one second, took a running jump, and
landed on Mr. Buck's flank with both feet. It was something of a
shock. Over went deer, man, and boy. I was on my pins in a jiffy,
snapped the noose over the deer's hind legs, tangled him up anyhow in
the rest of the riata, and snubbed him to the nearest tree. Then Steve
got up and walked away to where he could be ill with comfort. And he
was good and sick.
When he felt better, he arose and opened his knife, swearing that he
would slit that critter's throat from ear to ear; but Steve, junior,
plead so hard for the life of his pet that Big Steve relented, and Mr.
Billy Buck was saved for further mischief.
That afternoon two of us rode out and roped him, "spreading" him
between us as we dragged him home. He fought every step of the way.
My companion, a hot-headed Montana boy, was for killing him a
half-dozen times. However, feeling that the deer had vindicated me, I
had a pride in him, and kept him from a timely end. We turned him
loose in a corral with a blooded bull-calf, some milch cows,
work-steers, and other tame animals. "And I bet you he has 'em all
chewing the rag inside of twenty-four hours," said my companion.
That night Steve made ample amend for his former mirth. Indeed, he
praised my fleetness and promptness of action so highly that I was
seized by an access of modesty as unexpected as it was disorganising.
The next day Steve stood on the roof of the shed at the end of Billy
Buck's corral. Suddenly he straightened up and waved his hat. "Deer
and bull fight!" he called. "Come a-running everybody!" We dropped
our labours and sprinted for the corral, there to sit upon the shed and
watch the combat. Steve didn't know what began the trouble, but when I
got there the young bull was facing the deer, his head down, blowing
the dust in twin clouds before him, hooking the dirt over his back in
regular righting bull fashion, and anon saying, "Bh-ur-ur-ooor!" in an
adolescent basso-profundo, most ridiculously broken by streaks of
soprano. When these shrill notes occurred the little bull rolled his
eyes around, as much as to say "Who did that?" and we, swinging our
legs on the shed roof, laughed gleefully and encouraged him to sail in.
His opponent watched this performance with a carriage of the head
which, for superciliousness, I never have seen equaled in man, woman,
or beast. His war-cry was a tinny bleat: the cry of a soul bursting
with sardonic merriment. It was like the Falstaffian laughter of the
duck, without its ring of honesty.
The bull, having gone through the preliminaries of his code, cocked his
tail straight in the air and charged. The buck waited until he was
within three feet; then he shot sideways, and shot back again, his
antlers beating with a drum-stick sound on the bull's ribs. "Baw-aw!"
said the bull. Probably that hurt. Again bull faced buck. This time
the bovine eye wore a look of troubled wonderment, while one could mark
an evil grin beneath the twitching nose of his antagonist; and his
bleat had changed to a tone which recalled the pointing finger and
unwritable "H'nh-ha!" that greets misfortune in childhood. "I told you
so!" it said. The bull, however, is an animal not easily discouraged.
Once more he lowered his foolish head and braved forth like a
locomotive.
But it would take too long to tell all the things Billy Buck did to
that bull. He simply walked all over him and jabbed and raked and
poked. Away went the bull, his erstwhile proudly erect tail slewed
sideways, in token of struck colours--a sign of surrender disregarded
by his enemy, who thought the giving of signals to cease fighting a
prerogative of his office. Away went the old cows and the work-steers
and the horses, in a thundering circuit of the corral, the horned stock
bawling in terror, and Billy Buck "boosting" every one of them
impartially. We cheered him.
"Gad! I'm glad I didn't slit his windpipe!" said Steve. "He's a
corker!"
Billy drove his circus parade around about six times before his proud
soul was satisfied. Then he took the centre of the ring, and bellowed
a chant of victory in a fuller voice than he had given before, while
the other brutes, gathered by the fence, looked at him in stupefaction.
Only once more did Billy Buck figure in history before he left us for a
larger field in town, and on this occasion, for the first and last time
in his career, he got the worst of it.
A lone Injun came to the ranch--a very tall, grave man, clad in
comic-picture clothes. A battered high hat surmounted his block of
midnight hair, and a cutaway coat, built for a man much smaller around
the chest, held his torso in bondage. As it was warm on the day he
arrived, he had discarded his trousers--a breech-clout was plenty
leg-gear, he thought. He bore a letter of recommendation from a white
friend.
"Plenty good letter--_leela ouashtay ota_," said he, as he handed the
missive over. I read it aloud for the benefit of the assembled ranch.
It ran:
"This is Jimmy-hit-the-bottle, the worst specimen of a bad tribe. He
will steal anything he can lift. If he knew there was such a thing as
a cemetery, he'd walk fifty miles to rob it. Any citizen wishing to do
his country a service will kindly hit him on the head with an axe.
"JACK FORSYTHE."
"Plenty good letter--_ota_!" cried the Injun, his face beaming with
pride.
[Illustration: "Jimmy-hit-the-bottle"]
I coughed, and said it was indeed vigorous; Steve and the boys fled the
scene. Now, we knew that Jimmy was a good Injun, or he wouldn't have
had any letter at all; that great, grave face, coupling the seriousness
of childhood and of philosophy, simply offered an irresistible
temptation to the writer of the letter. There was something pathetic
in the way the gigantic savage folded up his treasure and replaced it
in his coat. I think Forsythe would have weakened had he seen it.
Still, after we laughed, we felt all the better disposed toward Jimmy,
so I don't know but it was a good form of introduction after all.
Jimmy was looking for work, a subject of research not general to the
Injun, but by no means so rare as his detractors would make out. He
got it. The job was to clean out Billy Buck's corral. Steve found
employment for the hands close to home for the day, that no one should
miss the result. It is always business first on the ranch, and a
practical joke takes precedence over other labours. Steve hung around
the corral, where he could peek through the chinks. Hoarse whispers
inquiring "Anything up yet?" were for so long answered in the negative,
that it seemed the day had been in vain. At last the welcome shout
rang out, "Injun and deer fight! Everybody run!" We flew, breathless
with anticipatory chuckles. We landed on top of the shed, to witness
an inspiring scene--one long-legged, six-foot-and-a-half Injun,
suitably attired in a plug hat, cutaway coat, breech-clout, and
mocassins, grappling in mortal combat a large and very angry deer. The
arena and the surrounding prairie were dreaming in a flood of mellow
autumn light. It was a day on which the sun scarce cast a shadow, yet
everything sent back his rays clearly, softened and sweetened, like the
answer of an echo. It was a day for great deeds, such as were enacted
before us; steel-strung frame pitted against steel-strung frame;
bottomless endurance against its equal. And never were such jumpings,
such prancings, such wild wavings of legs beheld by human eyes before.
You cannot beat it into people's heads that the horned critters are the
lords of brute creation; yet it is the fact. A bull chased a lion all
around the ring in the arena in Mexico, finally killing him with one
blow. In Italy they shut a buck deer and a tiger in a cage. There was
a brief skirmish, and the tiger slunk to the corner of the cage,
howling.
Splendid was the exhibition of strength and agility we looked upon,
but, alas! its poetry was ripped up the back by the cutaway coat, the
plug hat, and the unrelated effect of those long, bare red legs
twinkling beneath.
Indirectly it was the plug hat that ended the battle. At first, if
Jimmy-hit-the-bottle felt any emotion, whether joy, resentment, terror,
or anything man can feel, his face did not show it. One of the
strangest features of the show was that immaculately calm face suddenly
appearing through the dust-clouds, unconscious of storm and stress. At
last, however, a yank of the deer's head--Jimmy had him by the
horns--caused the plug hat to snap off, and the next second the deer's
sharp foot went through it. You will remember Achilles did not get
excited until his helmet touched the dust. Well, from what the cold,
pale light of fact shows of the size and prowess of those ancient
swaggerers, Jimmy-hit-the-bottle could have picked Achilles up by his
vulnerable heel and bumped his brains out against a tree, and this
without strain; so when the pride of his life, his precious plug hat,
was thus maltreated, his rage was vast in proportion. His eyes shot
streaks of black lightning; he twisted the deer's head sideways, and
with a leap landed on his back. Once there, he seized an ear between
his strong teeth and shut down. We rose to our feet and yelled. It
was wonderful, but chaotic. I would defy a moving-picture camera to
resolve that tornado into its elements of deer and Injun. We were
conscious of curious illusions, such as a deer with a dozen heads
growing out of all parts of a body as spherical as this, our earth, and
an Injun with legs that vetoed all laws of gravitation and anatomy.
Poor Billy Buck! He outdid the wildest of our pitching horses for a
half minute; but the two hundred and odd pounds he had on his back
told--he couldn't hold the gait. Jimmy wrapped those long legs around
him--the deer's tail in one hand, the horn in the other, and the ear
between his teeth--and waited in grim determination. "Me-ah-a-aaaa!"
said the deer, dropping to his knees.
Jimmy got off him. Billy picked himself up and scampered to the other
end of the corral, shaking his head.
The Injun straightened himself up, making an effort to draw a veil of
modesty over the pride that shone in his eyes.
"H-nh!" he said. "Fool deer tackle Tatonka Sutah!" ("Tatonka-Sutah,"
or Strong Bull, was the more poetic title of Jimmy-hit-the-bottle among
his own kind.)
He then gravely punched his plug hat into some kind of shape and
resumed his work.
We pitched in and bought Jimmy a shiny new plug hat which--which will
lead me far afield if I don't drop the subject.
Well, he was master of Mr. Billy Buck. When he entered the corral, the
deer stepped rapidly up to the farther corner and stayed there.
Now came the broadening of Billy's career. A certain man in our
nearest town kept a hotel near the railroad depot. For the benefit of
the passengers who had to stop there a half-hour for meals and
recreation, this man had a sort of menagerie of the animals natural to
the country. There was a bear, a mountain lion, several coyotes,
swifts, antelope, deer, and a big timber wolf, all in a wire
net-enclosed park.
It so happened that Steve met Mr. D----, the hotel proprietor, on one
of his trips to town, and told him what a splendid deer he had out at
the ranch. Mr. D---- became instantly possessed of a desire to own the
marvel, and a bargain was concluded on the spot. Billy by this time
had shed his horns, and was all that could be wished for in the way of
amiability. We tied his legs together, and shipped him to town in a
waggon.
Steve did not trick Mr. D----. He told him plainly that the deer was a
dangerous customer, and that to be careful was to retain a whole skin;
but the hotel proprietor, a little, fat, pompous man with a big bass
voice--the kind of a man who could have made the world in three days
and rested from the fourth to the seventh, inclusive, had it been
necessary--thought he knew something of the deer character. "That
beautiful creature, with its mild eyes and humble mien, hurt anyone?
Nonsense!" So he had a fine collar made for Billy, with his name on a
silver plate, and then led him around town at the end of a chain, being
a vain little man, who liked to attract attention by any available
means. All worked well until the next fall. Mr. D---- was lulled into
false security by the docility of his pet, and allowed him the freedom
of the city, regardless of protest. Then came the spectacular end of
Billy's easy life. It occurred on another warm autumn day. The
passengers of the noon train from the East were assembled in the hotel
dining-room, putting away supplies as fast as possible, the train being
late. The room was crowded; the darkey waiters rushing; Mr. D----
swelling with importance. Billy entered the room unnoticed in the
general hurry. A negro waiter passed him, holding two loaded trays.
Perhaps he brushed against Billy; perhaps Billy didn't even need a
provocation; at any rate, as the waiter started down the room, Billy
smote him from behind, and dinner was served!
When the two tray-loads of hot coffee, potatoes, soup, chicken, and the
rest of the bill of fare landed all over the nearest table of guests,
there was a commotion. Men leaped to their feet with words that showed
they were no gentlemen, making frantic efforts to wipe away the
scalding liquids trickling over them. The ladies shrieked and were
tearful over the ruin of their pretty gowns. Mr. D----, on the spot
instantly, quieted his guests as best he could on the one hand, and
berated the waiter for a clumsy, club-footed baboon on the other.
Explanation was difficult, if not impossible. Arms flew, hard words
flew; the male guests were not backward in adding their say. Then,
even as I had been before, the coloured man was vindicated. Suddenly
two women and a man sprang on top of the table and yelled for help.
Mr. D---- looked upon them open-mouthed. The three on top of the table
clutched one another, and howled in unison. Mr. D----'s eye fell on
Billy, crest up, war-like in demeanour, and also on a well-dressed man
backing rapidly under the table.
A flash of understanding illumined Mr. D----. The deer, evidently,
felt a little playful; but it would never do, under the circumstances.
"Come here, sir!" he commanded. Billy only lived to obey such a
command, as I have shown. But this time Mr. D---- recognised a
difference, and went about like a crack yacht. He had intentions of
reaching the door. Billy cut off retreat. Mr. D---- thought of the
well-dressed man, and dived under the table. Those who had stood
uncertain, seeing this line of action taken by one who knew the customs
of the country, promptly imitated him. The passengers of the Eastern
express were ensconced under the tables, with the exception of a
handful who had preferred getting on top of them.
Outside, three cow punchers, who chanced to be riding by, were
perfectly astonished by the noises that came from that hotel. They
dismounted and investigated. When they saw the feet projecting from
beneath the cloths, and the groups in statuesque poses above, they
concluded not to interfere, although strongly urged by the victims.
"You are cowards!" cried the man with the two women. The punchers
joyfully acquiesced, and said, "Sick 'em, boy!" to the deer.
Meanwhile, the express and the United States mail were waiting. The
conductor, watch in hand, strode up and down the platform.
"What do you suppose they're doing over there?" he asked his brakeman.
The brakeman shrugged his shoulders. "Ask them punchers," he replied.
The conductor lifted his voice. "What's the matter?" he called.
"Oh, come and see! Come and see!" said the punchers. "It's too good
to tell.'"
The conductor shut his watch with a snap.
"Five minutes late," he said. "Pete, go and hustle them people over
here. I start in three minutes by the watch."
"Sure," said Pete, and slouched across. Pete was surprised at the
sight that met his gaze, but orders were orders. He walked up and
kicked Billy, at the same time shouting "All aboard for the West! Git
a wiggle on yer!"
The man owed his life to the fact that the deer could get no foothold
on the slippery hardwood floor. As it was, Billy tried to push, and
his feet shot out; man and deer came to the floor together, the
brakeman holding hard. The passengers boiled out of the hotel like a
mountain torrent. The punchers, thinking the brakeman in danger,
sprang through the window and tied the deer. Pete gasped his thanks
and hustled out. No one was left but Billy, the punchers, the darkey
waiters, and Mr. D----.
[Illustration: The punchers to the rescue]
"This your deer?" inquired the punchers of the latter.
"It is," said Mr. D----. "Take him out and hang him--don't shoot
him--hang him!"
"All right," replied the punchers. They took Billy out and turned him
loose in the deer-pen.
"Reckon the old man'll feel better about it to-morrow," they said.
And it came to pass that the old man did feel better; so Billy was
spared. Perhaps if you have travelled to the West you have seen him--a
noble representative of his kind. Well, this is his private history
which his looks belie.
The Demon in the Canon
"_I know not where the truth may be;
I tell the tale as 'twas told to me._"
(Probable misquotation of old couplet.)
There was once an earnest missionary who went to the trouble of
learning the Sioux language, in order to be of more use in his chosen
field. He spoke it with a strong Boston accent. One day he laboured
with a big Uncapapa brave long and eagerly. The Injun listened to all
he had to say. When at great length silence fell, the Redman spoke.
"Have you any tobacco?" said he.
"Why, no!" returned the missionary.
"Hungh! So long!" said the Injun, and rode away on a trot.
Now, there may be those who will object that the plain, unvarnished
tale of my friend "Hy" Smith, which follows, is lacking in the robust
qualities that truth alone can bring; to them I recommend the attitude
of the Injun. But I must add this: Heaven forbid that I should have to
stand good for any of Hy's stories! Still, some of what I considered
his most outrageous lies afterward received strong and unexpected
confirmation. For instance, the manner in which he earned his
sobriquet of "Hydraulic" Smith I thought was pure fable, but no less a
man than his former employer said that it was fact in every essential.
Smith got his front name while working in a big hydraulic camp in
Idaho. He was nozzleman. One day in an unusually merry mood he turned
the monitor loose on a crowd of Chinamen who were working over tailings.
[Illustration: "Hy" Smith]
"And if ever you saw felt shoes and pigtails flying in the air 'twas
then," said Hy. "It looked for all the world like Old Faithful had
spouted in a poll-parrot cage. I don't know why I done it, no more
than the man in the moon--it was one of them idees that takes hold of
you, and gets put through before you can more'n realise you're thinking
of it--but it was the greatest success of its kind I ever see. We had
a two-hundred-foot head of water and a six-inch stream, and I might say
that there was a yaller haze of Chinamen in the atmosphere for the next
ten seconds. I piped one Charley-boy right over the top of a
tool-shed. Well, our boss was a mighty kind-hearted man, and when that
crowd of spitting, foaming, gargling, gobbling Chinamen went to him,
and begun to pour out their troubles like several packs of
fire-crackers going off to oncet, waving all the arms and legs I hadn't
knocked out of commission, he was het up considerable. He never waited
to hear my side of the story, but just rolled up his pants and waded
into me up to the hocks; he read me my pedigree from Adam's wife's
sister down to now, and there wasn't a respectable person in it,
according to him.
"I didn't like it, and I made a swipe for him with a shovel, but he was
too soople for me, and of all the lickings I ever got, that is the one
I don't want to remember the most: he did a sort of double-shuffle
fandango on my back, while he brought my legs into the argument with a
sluice rake.
"When he asked me if I had had enough, I told him I thought it would do
for the present, because, as a matter of fact, if all I had more than
enough was money in the bank, I wouldn't have done no more work for the
rest of my days.
"So then he calls me up and gives me my time, and I must say he treated
me square when he said good-bye.
"'You're the best darn man on a monitor lever that I ever did see,'
says he, 'but anywheres else you're the foolest combine of small boy
and dare-devil, and some other queer thing that I don't seem to be able
to find a name for, that ever cumbered this earth. Now, get the ----
out of this, and good luck to you.'
"I didn't feel a bit sorry for them Chinamen--they're only hairless
monkeys that don't even know enough to wear their tails in the right
place. Their arithmetic proves that. It's regular monkey figgering.
They haven't any numbers that look like numbers at all. Suppose you
want to multipy twenty-five by thirty-six, Chinee system? First you
put down a rooster's foot-track; that's twenty-five. Underneath that
goes the ground-plan of a small house; that's thirty-six. Then you
take an hour off, and work out the sum with a lot of little balls on
wires; then you put down the answer, and what do you think it is? Why,
it's a map of Chicago after the fire! Shucks! And they call
themselves men. I'd go old Job three boils to his one rather than have
any Chinks around me.
"Well, the boys labelled me Hydraulic Smith from that on, and I went
prospecting. Took up with a feller named Agamemnon G. Jones. Aggy was
a big, fine-looking man, with a chest like a dry-goods box, and a set
of whiskers that would start him in business anywhere. They were the
upstandingest, noblest, straightforwardest outfit of whiskers I most
ever saw, and how they come to grow on Ag is a mystery; but they stood
him in many a dollar, now, I tell you that!