bear prepared to cause it, after the manner of his kind. Occasionally,
when a blood-curdling screech from his antagonist rang upon his
eardrums, the cub would stop a moment and gaze pensively through and
beyond the end of the wood shed, as if, indeed, from far off, a certain
sound, made filmy and infinitesimal by distance, had reached him. Then
he would smile deprecatingly to himself, as if to say, "How easily I am
deceived!"
Excellent as was the feigned indifference of Mr. Bear, it must be borne
in mind that he was opposed to an animal of parts. Our friend, the
cat, was not a whit taken in by the comedy. When the time came for her
to leap she was ready, to the last hair of her chimney-cleaner tail.
She had been making most elaborate preparations all the while,
stretching and retracting her claws, squirming her whalebone body
flatter and flatter, her tail assuming majestic proportions, while her
ears disappeared in inverse ratio.
Nearer and nearer came the chunk of coal and the slouching little bear,
a touch of caution in each pretended careless action. Awful and more
awful grew Grimalkin's battle plaint--her eyes blazed demoniacally.
By some subtle assurance, we humans were made aware that, on the floor
of the wood shed, an imaginary deadline had been drawn by Mrs. Cat,
and, when Ursus Minor advanced so much as the length of a claw beyond
that in his orbit, an incident would mark his career. You may believe
me or not, but the little bear understood not only this much, but he
also knew where that line lay. Fully a minute he tantalised us by
coquetting with it. He would advance recklessly, and we would say to
ourselves, "Now!" when, lo! he would turn at the fatal point, to lie on
his side and amuse himself by clawing at the chunk of coal.
Suddenly he boldly stepped across. An instant of numbing silence fell.
A swish! A cat on a small bear's back. A scene impossible! A hairy
tornado, rolling, twisting, flopping, yelling, screeching, roaring, and
howling, tore, bit, scratched, clawed, and walloped all over the place.
An epileptic nebula; a maelstrom that revolved in every way known to
man at the same instant; a prodigy of tooth and claw. If that fight
were magnified a hundred times, a glimpse of it would kill; as it was,
myself and the clothing store boy clung weakly to the wall and wept.
The cat's tough hide easily turned the bear's claws, and his teeth were
too tiny to work mischief; while his thick, shaggy coat made pussy's
keener weapons ineffectual. As a consequence, the storm raged with
unbridled ferocity, the motion of the foemen being so swift none could
tell who was getting the better of it. There was energy in that small
action and a bitterness of sound altogether indescribable, the mews of
the astounded kittens quavering shrilly and loudly through the general
frenzy.
At length, in spite of his antagonist's agility, the bear managed to
get his "holt," and puss, wrapped in his strong arms, was practically
whipped; not without protest--she was a "last-ditch" warrior. The bear
settled back as grim and stolid as General Grant might have done, while
the chivalry of the wood shed applied her hind claws to his waistcoat.
However, the bear could do a little in this line himself. The effect
was that each tried unsuccessfully to walk up the other.
The "strangle hold" began to tell. Never shall I forget the
desperation in that cat's face as it appeared between the squeezing
arms of the bear. Their attitude had such a resemblance to the
"Huguenot Lovers" I have not been able since to look at that celebrated
picture with proper countenance.
At this point, my companion and I came to the rescue. Finding all
attempts at separating them by hand resulted in the usual wages of the
peacemaker, we grabbed the chain and hauled the war to the pump. The
pump was only a short distance way, yet it took us several minutes to
make the trip, as every time we turned and gazed at them, their rigid
adherence to their relative positions, no matter what condition as a
whole this mode of locomotion caused them to assume, and the leering,
bourgeois complacency of the victorious bear, contrasting with the
patrician despair of the vanquished, caused such a weakness to come
over us that we had to sit upon the ground for a while.
Water is the universal solvent. About half a minute under the pump
formed the solution of this problem. A wet and skinny-looking cat, her
elegance departed, streaked back to the wood shed and her offspring,
while a sober and bedraggled little bear trotted behind his captors to
Mr. D----'s menagerie.
This was my introduction to this bear. We called him "Cat-thumper,"
after the Indian fashion of christening a child from some marked
exploit or incident in his career. This became contracted to
"Thumper," an appropriate title, for, with the fat pickings of the
restaurant, his bearship grew with a rapidity that made it a puzzle how
his hide contained him.
Under these genial conditions Thumper developed humour. It became
possible for one to romp with him, and in the play he was careful not
to use his strength. So exemplary became his conduct that his owner, a
man who never could learn from experience, or even from Billy Buck,
decided to take him on Main Street. Mr. D----'s novelties were a
standing menace to the security of the town and his own person as well.
The amount of vanity that fat little man possessed would have supplied
a theatrical company. One of his first acts, on entering a town, was
to purchase the fiercest white hat, and the most aboriginal buck-skin
suit to be obtained, and then don them. Almost the next act on the
part of his fellow-townsmen was to hire a large and ferocious looking
"cow-puncher" to recognise in Mr. D---- an ancient enemy, and make a
vicious attack upon him with blank cartridges and much pomp and
circumstance. Still it had no permanent effect on Mr. D----. Badinage
could not wither him nor cussing stale his infinite variety. With all
his exasperating traits, he had an impassable child-like faith in his
doings and a soothing influence that made one smile when one wanted to
cry.
The passage up street was made with no happening worthy of note except,
of course, that other travellers gave him a wide berth (to Mr. D----'s
extreme gratification) until they came to the butcher shop. Here
Thumper's first move was to steal a fine tenderloin from the block, and
swallow it whole.
"Ye're!" yelled the proprietor, an ex-Indian scout, "whatcher doin'
there? Take that critter out of here!"
"I'm willing to pay for the meat," replied Mr. D----, with dignity.
"That's all right, too," retorted the proprietor, "but I promised it to
Mr. Smith, and it's the only one I've got. How are you going to square
that? What do you mean by toting a brute like that around, anyhow?" he
wound up with increasing choler.
"I cannot see but what I have a perfect right to take with me any
animal or animals I choose!" said Mr. D----.
"Not into this shop, by Jingo!" said the proprietor, reaching under the
counter. "Now you sneak him out of here, quick, or I'll shoot him."
"Very well," said Mr. D----, bowing, but red, "very well. Come,
Thumper!"
Thumper was in no mind to move. He liked the situation. Mr. D----
pulled on the chain, and Thumper overlooked it. A small crowd gathered
in front of the door and encouraged Mr. D---- by calling, "Pull hard,
the man says!" "Now, altogether, yee-hoooo!" and similar remarks. I
have always felt that a bear enjoys a joke. In this case I am sure of
it. Showing no bad temper, he simply refused to budge, and, by this
time, when he had made up his mind, the decision was final, as far as
any one man was concerned. Mr. D----'s temper went by the board; it
was an embarrassing situation. "Come out of that!" he cried, with a
sharp jerk at the chain.
The look of irritation vanished from the proprietor's face. "Why don't
some of you fellers help the gentleman out with his bear?" he asked.
Thereupon the spectators took a hand and Thumper was dragged into the
street. Evidently he thought this one of the usual frolics to which we
boys had accustomed him; for, once upon the sidewalk, he began to
prance and gambol in the graceful fashion of his kind. It so happened
that the nurse-girl of the mayor of the town, a huge Swede woman as
broad as she was long (which is almost hyperbole), came trundling her
charge up the board walk at the precise moment that Thumper bowled over
a gentleman in front and came plainly to her view.
One Norwegian war-whoop and away she galloped, the perambulator before
her, as it was not in the mind of the Vikingess to desert her duty.
Screeching, she tore up the walk, the carriage bouncing and rattling,
and the baby crowing with delight. An Indian stepped out of a store
directly in front of her. Him Telka rammed with such fury that he
landed on his neck in the road, with his feet in the air. But, as he
regained his balance, resentment was drowned in unbounded amazement.
"Wakstashoneee!" he said, "wakstashoneeeee!" which is the limit in the
Sioux tongue. Never had the Dakota warrior expected to see the day
when he would be made to bite the earth by a Swede woman and a baby
carriage. Around the corner for home whirled Telka, making the turn
like a circus horse. Arriving at the house, she placed one fairy foot
against the door with such spirit that the lock-socket hit the opposite
wall, picked up carriage and baby and went upstairs with them three
rises to a leap. At the top she burst into a wild oratory of "tanks"
and "Eenyens" and "beejjeerens" and "yoomps," scaring her mistress into
the belief that the Sioux had attacked the town in force--an event she
had long anticipated.
Thumper was led back to his pole in the park, and fastened with an
ox-chain, this step being taken at the request of an informal committee
of citizens. "Chained bear or dead bear" was their ultimatum, for,
while they enjoyed Telka's performance, they didn't propose to make it
a custom to obtain their fun from frightened women. So Thumper's
freedom of the city lasted but a day. To make amends for this, we boys
used to go in and tussle with him more often than before. The play was
the bright spot in the life of the captive. He would begin his double
shuffle of joy whenever a group of boys made their appearance. At
first, this went well enough. As I have said, the bear's nature
revealed its better side, under the benign influence of plenty to eat,
and I cannot remember that he once took advantage of his vast and
growing strength. Mr. D---- encouraged the performances, as the
menagerie's purpose was to attract the attention of travellers who had
a half-hour's wait at the station, and thus to spread the fame of his
railroad eating-house. But misfortune came, through the applause of
the passengers. Several young men of the town embraced the opportunity
to show off. One of these, a brawny young six-foot Irishman named Jim,
used to punch old Thumper pretty roughly, when he had a large audience.
Jim was neither a bad-hearted nor cruel fellow; he simply had a body
too large for his disposition. In the phrase of the West, he was
"staggering with strength," and in Thumper he found a chance to work
off his superfluous nervous energy--also to occupy the centre of our
local stage for the brief time of train-stop. If it is love that makes
the world go round, certainly vanity first put it into motion. "All is
vanity," said the Preacher. From the devoted astronomer's austere
lifework to the twinkle of a fairy's glittering tinsel; from the
glories of the first man up the battle-swept hill to the infamous
assassin, all is vanity. Such a universal attribute must necessarily
be good, except in abnormal growth. Jim showed his overdevelopment of
the faculty, while the abused Thumper modestly sat still and grew. And
still he grew, and still he grew--with a quiet energy that made the
fact that he had passed from a large bear to a very large bear go by
unnoticed.
Several times, when Jim was showing more skill than Thumper, the memory
of a mauled cat came to my mind. The ursine look shot at Jim now and
then recalled it. I even went to the length of remonstrating, but it
was without effect. It was on a Sunday morning that Nemesis attended
to Jim's case. Circumstances were propitious. An excursion train,
crowded with passengers, pulled up at the station. Jim had a new suit
of black broadcloth, due to a temporary aberration of our local Solomon
who ran the clothing store. Because of this victory, Jim was in an
extraordinarily expansive mood as he swaggered down the platform.
"I guess I'll try a fall out of the bear," he announced to his
companions, in a tone that informed all of his intention. Gaily he
swung his long legs over the fence and advanced upon Thumper, who, by a
strange coincidence, was poised on the end of his spine, with his feet
in the air and his tongue lolling humorously out of his mouth, as when
I first made his acquaintance. The bear noted the approach from the
corner of his eye, stretched out his paws, examined them critically,
seemed satisfied with the inspection, shook himself thoroughly, and
resigned affairs to Fate.
Jim, stimulated by the remarks of the passengers and their eager
interest in his doings, marched up to Thumper, struck a sparring
attitude, and shuffled around, making sundry little passes and jabs
which the bear ignored.
"Punch him!" cried a voice in the crowd. Jim lunged; the bear ducked,
lazily, but effectually, and the crowd laughed. Jim drove right and
left at his antagonist; the bear parried, ducked, and got away, until
the crowd shrieked with merriment and the Irishman was furious. He
lived to punch that bear, and, at length, he succeeded--square on the
end of Thumper's snout. The bear sneezed, dropped his head, and stared
fixedly at Jim.
"Run!" I yelled--alack! too late. Up rose Thumper to a paralysing
height, higher still went his trusty paw, and down it came, with a
swinging, sidewise blow on the Irishman's neck.
I will maintain, by oath, affirmation, or combat, that Mr. Jim made six
complete revolutions, like a button on a barn door, before he struck
mother earth with the dullest of thuds.
Ten to one that the town was out one Irishman would have seemed a good
business proposition, and, to clinch the assurance, the bear began to
walk on Jim. While the bear kneaded him like a batch of dough, some of
us woke and rushed to the scene of action.
I do not remember clearly how we got out of it. Some pulled at the
bear's chain, and some grabbed Jim by whatever offered a hold. At
length James was rescued, alive and weeping, though three-quarters of
the new suit, including the most useful portion of the nether garments,
remained in Bruin's paws as the spoils of victory. The crowd on the
platform was charmed. This was precisely the thing it had travelled
miles to see.
Poor Jim! He was a spectacle. Tears, scratches, and dust robbed his
face of all humanity; the scant remnants of the Sunday suit fluttered
in the breeze; his shaking knees barely supported him. We gave him a
stimulant, a blanket, and some good advice. Mr. D----, for once in his
life on the right side of the question, was especially forward in
furnishing the last necessity. So passed Jim from the field of his
glories, and, barring some scratches, bruises, and a stiff neck (not to
mention the Sunday suit, as that loss really fell upon Solomon), he was
as well as ever inside of a few days. The only lasting result of the
encounter for him was that, when the small boy of the town thirsted for
excitement, there would arise a cry of "Hey, Jim! bin down ter pet cher
bear?" and then . . .
When the train departed, and the crowd had disappeared, I went down and
looked at Thumper. He seemed unchanged. I offered him a cracker; he
stretched out the back of his paw, having learned that people shrank
from the sight of his five-inch claws, in acceptance. This gobbled, he
eyed me, as he leaned back against his pole, like an absurd fat man.
Humour shone on the outside of him, but I fancied that, deep in his
eyes, I could see a dull red glow, Indian style. "Now," said I to
myself, "from the pangs of Jim I shall extract a moral lesson.
Whenever I feel like showing off at somebody's expense, let me use
caution not to select a grizzly bear."
What Thumper thought no man can tell.
In the Absence of Rules
We had a pig when we was down on the little Chantay Seeche. The Doctor
begged him off a rancher, to eat up the scraps around camp. A neat
person was the Doctor and a durned good cook.
We called him the Doctor because he wore specs--that's as good a claim
as many has to the title. His idee was that when the pig got fat he
would sell him for lots of money, but long before Foxey Bill (which was
piggy) had reached the market stage money couldn't buy him. He was a
great pig. My notion of hogs, previous to my acquaintance with him,
was that they were dirty, stupid critters, without any respectable
feelings. Perhaps it's because animals get man-like, when you
associate with 'em a great deal, or perhaps Foxey Bill was an unusual
proposition; but, anyhow, he was the funniest, smartest brute I ever
see, and we thought a slew of him.
Clean was no name for his personal appearance. Every Sunday the Doctor
took a scrub-brush and piggy down to the creek and combined 'em with
the kind assistance of a cake of soap. Then Foxey just shone white as
ivory, and he'd trot around in front of us, gruntin' to attract our
attention, till everybody'd said, "What a beautiful, clean pig--ain't
he just right?" Then he'd grunt his thanks to the company and retire
behind the shack for a nap. We used to fair kill ourselves laughing at
that darned pig. He had the most wheedlin' squeal, so soft and
pleadin'; and he'd look up at you with them skim-milk eyes of his so
pitiful, when he wanted a chunk of sugar, that you couldn't refuse him.
[Illustration: "Clean was no name for his personal appearance."]
And knowing! Honest, he knew more'n some men. One day old Wind River
was tellin' some things (that _might_ have happened to him) in his
usual way, bein' most careful to get the dates and all dead right, you
know--"Now, _was_ his name Peter, after all? Comes to my mind it was
Willyam--Willyam Perkins--Well--But, anyhow, him and me, we saw that
Injun," and so forth. This was a Sunday, and the gang of us sittin' in
a circle, fixing leathers and one thing and another and misstatin'
history faster than a horse could trot, with Foxey Bill in the middle,
cocking his head from one speaker to another, takin' it all in.
At last Wind River wound up the most startlin' and unlikely collections
of facts he'd favoured us with for some time. Up gets Foxey with a
shriek and gallops around the house. Any man with the rudiments of
intelligence would know he was hollerin': "Well, that's just too much
for me; ta-ra-rum!"
[Illustration: "Up gets Foxy with a shriek and gallops around the
house"]
Wind River looked scart. "Say!" says he. "Say! Thet hawg knows I'm
er-lyin' jes' 's well 's I do!" After that old Windy used to talk to
the pig as though they'd been raised together.
[Illustration: "Old Windy used to talk to the pig as though they'd been
raised together"]
Foxey Bill made one miscalculation. He thought he was a small pet,
like a cat. This didn't jibe with the five hundred pounds of meat he
toted. And, like a cat, one of his principal amusements was to have
his back scratched. If you didn't pay attention to him, when he
squealed so pretty for you to please curry him with a board, he'd hump
up his back, like a cat, and rub against your legs. You instantly
landed on your scalp-lock and waved the aforesaid legs in the air. Of
course, when the other fellers saw this comin', they didn't feel it
restin' on their conscience to call your attention to it--in fact, we
sometimes busied one another talkin' to give Foxey a fair field. So
Foxey had things his own way around the diggin's for some time.
[Illustration: "He'd hump up his back . . . and rub against your legs"]
Then comes bow-legged Hastings, our boss, with a ram tied hard and fast
in the bottom of the waggon. He explains to us that the ram is
valuable, but that he's butted merry Halifax out of everything down to
home, and he don't want to shut him up, so will we please take care of
him? And we said No--Wanitchee heap--we guessed not--never.
Then Hastings got mad and talked to us, flyin' his hands. Such a
disobligin', stubborn, sour outfit he never saw, he said. What was the
use of his bein' boss, when we just laid awake nights thinkin' up
disagreeable things to do to him? Was there ever a time that he'd
asked us to do this or that, that every man in reach didn't r'ar up and
jump down his throat? He said he'd rather be a nigger rooster on a
condemned government steamboat than bear the title of boss of such a
rag-chewin' hide-bound set of mules; kick, kick, kick--nothin' but
kick, and life wasn't worth livin'.
So then he went behind the shack and pouted. Well, we liked Hastings,
and this made us feel bad--that's the way he worked us.
The Doctor, he fried up a dish of all-sorts in his happiest manner and
took it around in a cheerful voice. No. Didn't want food. Heart was
broke. So then we all went and apologised and agreed to keep the ram.
Then Hastings recovered, and we had that cussed sheep on our hands and
feet and all over us.
[Illustration: "No. Didn't want food. Heart was broke."]
Well, it was like the devil enterin' a happy home. As for Foxey, he
just took one long look at the brute, curlin' and uncurlin' his little
tail; then "Hungh!" says he, and blinked his eyes shut, walkin' away
from there. I've seen times when I'd liked to been able to use the
English of that grunt, to thoroughly acquaint some gentleman of how
little I thought of him, but I ain't got the gift of speech. It was an
awful call-down--but the sheep, he didn't care. If there was such a
thing as a foolish Sheeny, that's what a sheep would remind me of.
[Illustration: "'Hungh!' says he, and blinked his eyes shut"]
But the rest of us run into practical and applied trouble in its
various branches. There's one night, the Doctor starts for the cabin
with a mess of flap-jacks in his hands, and the sheep comes up and
pushes him in the pistol pocket so that the Doctor goes sailing into
the drink with a stack of brown checks hoverin' all around him.
[Illustration: "The Doctor goes sailing into the drink"]
Then Wind River shows his one tooth and rocks on his heels, hollerin'
and laughin', and the sheep rises up and smites him on the hip and
thigh so he flew after the Doctor like a grey-whiskered sky-rocket,
with a ha-ha! cut in two in the middle. "Woosh!" says old Windy as he
comes up. "Hi, there cooky! I'll beat you ashore!" He was a
handy-witted old Orahanna, that Windy, and you didn't put the kybosh on
him easy. So it went with all of us. That ram come out of
no-where-at-all another night and patted me on the stummick so I pretty
near fainted. I tried to twist his cussed head off his shoulders, but
he'd knocked the wind out of me so it was like fightin' an army in a
nightmare. I was glad when the boys come out and pried me loose. Oh,
oh! How we hated that woolly, blaatin' fool of a sheep!
[Illustration: "A ha ha! cut in two in the middle"]
"Well," says Windy, "I'm layin' fur th' day he snaggles himself up with
Foxey Bill. You're goin' to see a nice quiet sheep after that happens."
[Illustration: "That woolly, blaatin' fool of a sheep"]
The rest of us had lots of faith in Billy, but we couldn't see where he
stood a show to win.
"Shucks!" says Steve. "The sheep'll knock the bacon out of him. The
Lord knows I don't want to see it, but that's what's got to happen.
Poor Bill ain't onto his style of fightin' at all. You know how pigs
make war--standin' side by side, tryin' to hook each other in the
flank, gruntin' and circlin' around with little quick steps--how's that
goin' to apply to this son-of-a-gun that hits you a welt like a
domestic cannon and then chases himself off to the sky-line for another
try?"
[Illustration: "Chases himself off to the sky-line for another try"]
"Well," cuts in the Doctor. "I ain't a-sayin' _how_--but Bill _does_
him, all the same--bet your life."